Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  “Let’s just keep that option open,” Joe had advised.

  And now they were about to put everything into play.

  Joe approached the desk and opened the red duffel bag on the dresser. He took out a Kimber 1911 .45 and two loaded clips. He placed the gun and a clip in his front right pocket and the other clips in the left pocket. Then he reached inside the duffel bag and took out a Sig Sauer 9mm handgun. He held the gun for a moment, liking the weight of it in his hands, then placed it in the inner left-hand pocket of his jacket. A pair of clips for the Sig Sauer went into the right inner-coat pocket. He put the jacket on and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked presentable for tonight’s dinner. Two handguns and seventy or so rounds of ammunition should be plenty. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to use them.

  But if he did...

  Joe Taylor contemplated what it would take to get his daughter back. To learn the truth of what happened to her. And he wondered, if the truth was not to his liking, and Earl Sanders, Wayne Sanders, and others among Bent Creek’s Board was responsible, if he would be able to restrain himself from committing mass slaughter in revenge.

  CHAPTER 34

  Four Days Ago

  Joe was packing when Dean Campbell called. Joe put the call on speaker and ignored the intensity in Dean’s tone as he rummaged in his closet, looking for one of his suit coats. “You really aren’t going, are you?” Dean asked.

  “I’m going,” Joe confirmed.

  “Goddammit, Joe, we talked about this! Whatever it is Wayne Sanders is involved in is big and—”

  “And I’ve gone through all of this—the separate identity, meeting Spector and Lansdale and the other guys associated with Bent Creek—for the purpose of learning who Bill Richards is so I can find out what happened to Carla. You found out that Bill Richards was an alias used by Earl Sanders. I still don’t know what happened to her. Earl is going to be at this fancy shindig being catered by Chef Munchel, and I intend to be there.”

  “I don’t feel good about this,” Dean said. “If there was only some way you could have arranged to bring me—”

  “You know I made inquiries,” Joe said. “And you know how it turned out. Every time I arranged for one of them to even hint at the possibility of outside guests, either Munchel or Spector would clam up and get evasive.”

  Dean was silent. In the past six months as Joe worked his new business deal with Spector and his company, he’d taken in many private dinners prepared by Chef Munchel. He’d become rather tight with both men. As time went by and he became more friendly with them, he learned that Spector and Munchel seemed even tighter than the usual client-vendor relationship. And as those months passed, and Joe worked his way into their inner circle through his financial wizardry on the market, and through lavish private trips at various soirees, Joe began to hear about Bent Creek Country Club and Resorts more. Furthermore, he learned that George Spector and Earl Sanders were members, and that Chef Munchel was the head chef. He’d researched the country club on the internet and, like The Pinnacle, Chef Munchel’s restaurants, Bent Creek’s website and all the information he found about them was very bland, very corporate-speak. Joe had read through the website anyway, wondering how the resort fit in with all this. By all accounts, Bent Creek was a very typical high-end resort for high rollers. Joe had stayed at such a place exactly once—Woodview Ridge, in the Hamptons—at the urging of a friend and business acquaintance at his old mutual fund firm. All of Joe’s expenses were paid by the firm, but he remembered thinking at the time that if he had to be stuck in another establishment full of stuffy, pretentious blowhards again—

  “Getting Munchel to invite me was a big deal,” Joe said. “I earned his trust. I had to keep it. Even mentioning that I was thinking of bringing a friend would have been too risky.”

  Dean sighed. “I guess you’re right.”

  Of course Joe was right. Over the past month, as Joe learned about Bent Creek and its expansive grounds, its riding stables, its squash court, its spacious suites and how the wait staff was selected from the best of the best, it was apparent to him that Munchel was feeling him out. Joe had been intrigued about attending Bent Creek ever since he learned of it by way of the mention of Bill Richards name at Earl Saunder’s home in Aliso Viejo, where it was revealed Munchel catered some sort of private event every year. Knowing that was just one way to get a chance to meet Bill Richards and perhaps learn more about Carla, Joe had started cozying up more to Chef Munchel. He’d braved his palate and partaken in many strange and exotic dishes Munchel prepared over the next few months—broiled and pickled pigs feet, veal made from calf embryos, scrambled eggs and sausage made from Platypus eggs and meat, among other dishes Joe didn’t have the stomach to think about anymore. He’d summoned up his inner courage and partaken in these strange dishes to not only impress Chef Munchel, but perhaps make him a good candidate for an invitation. After all, Munchel did mention during one of their many conversations that he had invited select clients to the Bent Creek affair from time to time. “But they have to be true connoisseurs,” Munchel had said. They’d been at a mansion in Connecticut, at the home of a wealthy banker who was having a party. The banker was an acquaintance of Joe’s who was hip to the Bob Garrison alias, and when he heard Munchel was catering the event, he’d made himself available. Neither Spector, Lansdale, or Earl Saunders were in the banker’s circle of friends or colleagues, so they weren’t present. “You are a rarity, Mr. Garrison,” Munchel continued. “It’s not every day I run across somebody who isn’t afraid to sample the exotic or seeks it out. It’s even rarer to meet somebody who has admitted to partaking in black market dishes. I must say I enjoy our conversations over dinner.”

  “As do I,” Joe had said. He’d raised a glass of wine to Jim. “To you and your fine culinary skills. May I continue to know them and be enriched by them!”

  “Once Munchel extended the invitation to me, I accepted and I knew there was no turning back,” Joe continued. “I’d overheard enough anecdotes from George that the private event Munchel catered was really Wayne Sanders’s thing. Well, Wayne’s and the board of directors that run the place. And over the next several months it was through very carefully orchestrated questions about the event that told me that once you were invited, you were in. You weren’t allowed to bring a significant other or a relative or friend unless they were in, too. As in, already in the circle.”

  “And they all had to be approved by Chef Munchel,” Dean said.

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause. Joe continued packing. “Do this for me then,” Dean said. “Stay put. I’m heading to your place now. I have some things that’ll help you.”

  “Make it quick.”

  Dean had been at the house forty minutes later. He carried a thick briefcase with him, which he opened in the kitchen. Once Joe saw what was inside the briefcase, his admiration for Dean grew even more.

  Dean instructed him on the placement and operation of the surveillance equipment. He also handed over the Sig Sauer and the Kimber, along with the ammunition and clips. Dean knew Joe was familiar with firearms from past conversations and a few trips to a local firing range. “The weapons aren’t registered and there’s no serial numbers on them. That’s why you’re using these. As for communication, we’re going to use these.” Dean handed Joe a cell phone and held up a second one that was identical. “The one I just handed you has one number programmed into speed dial that links with this one, and vice-versa. Both phones have apps that are designed to block wireless monitoring and intrusion, but just in case, we’re going to be really vague about what we talk about when you have to call me. I’m going to run a few catch phrases to you that are code. We’ll use these phrases to relay key information to each other. Okay?”

  Joe nodded. For the next thirty minutes, Dean made Joe memorize the phrases. They ranged from the nonsensical (“The day is hot, but it’s going to rain”) to the downright ridiculous (“The rat is running away with the cheese”). �
�Christ, Dean, these sound like something out of some cheesy spy movie!”

  “Hey, they work, okay? You hired me for this shit. You listen to what the fuck I have to tell you.”

  Once Joe had the phrases and their meanings memorized and his bags were packed—including the surveillance equipment and weapons—he and Dean exited the house. Joe locked up and Dean walked him over to his car. “Are you sure you don’t want to reconsider this?”

  “I’m sure.” He stood at the driver’s side of his black Mercedes. He’d stashed his bags in the back seat and put his sunglasses on. “I have to do this, Dean. Not just for Carla, but for Nina. And myself. I have to know.”

  Dean regarded him for a moment, saying nothing. Then he nodded. “Okay,” he said.

  CHAPTER 35

  When Anna King came to consciousness, the first thing she was aware of was the smell.

  It was heavy, coppery, and wet.

  The second thing that hit her was her vision. It was blurry, then began to slowly gain focus. It felt like she was lying trussed up on a metal table of some sort, her wrists tied behind her back, her ankles lashed together. She was still wearing her waitress uniform from this morning. The last thing she remembered was somebody grabbing her from behind, pressure around her throat, then darkness. Her assailant must have utilized a pressure point to render her unconscious.

  The next thing she was aware of was sound. It was steady and unmistakable. It sounded like a heavy knife chopping through chunks of meat, like one would hear at a butcher shop.

  Thuck! Whap! Then the tearing sound as tendons snapped and cartilage parted from bone. The sound of a slab of meat being set down on the butcher’s block.

  She sensed she wasn’t alone in the room.

  Anna couldn’t see everything through her half-slitted eyes, but she could tell she was somewhere in the bowels of the kitchen. The prep room, maybe. She recognized the metal shelving that lined the wall and she identified several large mixers on the high shelf, placed there for storage by one of the cooks before the season ended. Chef Munchel’s voice shattered her thoughts. “I know you’re awake, Miss King. No sense playing possum.”

  Whack! Thuck!

  Anna slowly turned her head toward Chef Munchel’s voice. Her vision swam into focus and her heart almost stopped at what she saw.

  Chef Jim Munchel was standing at a large table dressed in his cook’s whites. His outfit was stained with fresh blood. He looked at her from across the table, that sly smile playing across his lips. He was holding a very large, very heavy, butcher knife. He looked down at the carcass on the table, sized up his next surgical slice, and brought the blade down again. Whack! Anna watched with dumbfounded shock and horror as Chef Munchel ground the blade down between upper thigh and pelvis, cutting expertly through cartilage. He gripped the upper thigh with bloodstained fingers and pulled. It was like watching somebody pull the thigh bone off a turkey. There was a loud crack and the limb was wrenched out of its socket. Chef Munchel grunted and moved the limb aside.

  What the fuck? Is that a human body?

  “Don’t panic,” Jim said casually. “I didn’t think you’d come around so quickly. Just sit tight. You might not want to watch the rest of this, either.”

  Anna could feel her heart racing; her limbs felt tingly as her blood was infused with adrenaline. Her eyes roamed down the table Chef Munchel was working at, taking in the carcass he was dissecting. She made out two human thighs, lower legs (minus the feet), dismembered arms and hands, and the torso. A head sat at the far end, but she couldn’t make out who it was. Then her eyes focused on another table directly behind Jim and her heart stopped. There was a second chopped-up body lying on that table and this time the head was facing her. She recognized the second victim easily.

  Jackie Daniels.

  Heart beating rapidly, Anna felt herself begin to panic. She tried to move her arms. No go. They were bound tightly behind her. She tried to move her legs. They were tightly bound, too. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  Anna looked at Jim, who wasn’t paying attention to her. He seemed too pre-absorbed in dismembering what she assumed was Shane Daniels. The decapitated head sitting at the end of the table bore a slight resemblance to Shane—it had short graying hair cut in the style Shane usually favored, but the head was lying on its side, its back facing her, so she couldn’t see the face.

  The door to the room opened and Anna swung her gaze toward the sound.

  Mitch Johnson walked in, smiling greedily at her. He was still dressed in the outfit he was wearing this morning at breakfast. He didn’t pay any attention to Jim as he slowly approached the table Anna was tied up on.

  “What’s up, Mitch?” Jim asked casually. He pulled another large knife from what appeared to be a collection of them from a metal tray. He moved Shane’s torso, inspecting it quizzically, as if debating on where to cut next.

  “Just want to talk to her, Jim,” Mitch said. He didn’t even look at the chef. His eyes were focused directly on her.

  I was right, Anna thought. Well, at least partially right. Mitch wanted me again, but not the way I thought. He wants to torture me, cut me up, and Chef Munchel’s going to let him do it. Hell, Munchel’s probably a part of it, the sick—

  “Why you feel the need to talk to your meals before they’re prepared escapes me,” Jim remarked casually. He placed the tip of the butcher knife below Shane’s sternum and shoved it in with a grunt.

  Anna felt her breath hitch. Meals? They’re going to eat me? She cast a wide-eyed look at Mitch, who started laughing.

  “I think you scared her, Jim,” Mitch said.

  Chef Munchel sliced Shane Daniel’s abdomen open. “Good! That’ll get those endorphins pumping through her blood. Make her taste that much better.”

  Anna somehow found her voice. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Mitch grinned down at her. “Not a bruise on her too.” He addressed Anna. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to have you for dinner. Remember that?”

  Anna didn’t reply. She remembered. Recalling that night now brought a sense of revulsion through her.

  Mitch was grinning. “You seem shocked.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Mitch appeared to consider this. He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His smile cracked wider. Anna felt another wave of revulsion at the memory of going to bed with Mitch and his wife, Theresa; they’d been so eager to extend the invitation, had been so willing to be intimate with her, that they’d seemed to let down their guard completely. That was the sole reason Anna had followed up on their invitation. Only now she wasn’t looking into the face of a handsome, rich man, one who she thought had been too eager to let his guard down completely. She was looking into the face of a complete psychopath. “Theresa’s really going to love you.”

  Anna’s mind was racing. She had to get out of this, and now was not the time to panic. “You’re in this with your wife, then?”

  “Of course, my darling,” Mitch said. “We paid for you.”

  A sickening smell began to waft toward them. Anna grimaced as she realized where the smell was coming from—Shane Daniels’s gastrointestinal tract was being scooped out of his abdominal cavity by Chef Munchel. He was inspecting it the way a butcher inspects prime cuts...which is what it was to these people.

  “I don’t understand,” Anna said, turning to Mitch and trying to ignore the stench. “You paid to have me killed and eaten? Who did you pay?”

  Mitch turned to Jim. “Should I tell her?”

  Jim looked at Mitch and shrugged. “What can it hurt? It’s not like she’s in the position to go running to the police.”

  Mitch let out a loud, cackling laugh. “You’re right!” He turned to Anna, leering at her. “Let’s just say that we have a little fine dining club here. We’re all connoisseurs of fine dining and we enjoy the strange and exotic. About once a year we gather here at Bent Creek for a private banquet exclusively catered by Chef Munchel. It’s more a coopera
tive, really.”

  “A cooperative?”

  “Yes. We buy in to rent these facilities from Wayne Sanders and his board. In return, Wayne diverts those funds to employ his resources in obtaining the finest ingredients for our little soiree.” Mitch chuckled. “Chef Munchel is really working for us this week, but I must say that part of our little club really started with him.”

  Anna was breathing hard and fast. “So you pay Wayne Sanders? Is he a cannibal freak too?”

  Mitch tilted his head back and laughed heartily. Jim Munchel smiled a little, then stepped back from his work at the table.

  “Actually, my dear, we all are.” Chef Munchel set the butcher knife down and hunted around for another. “Wayne and I actually started this club many years ago. It’s a long story, but here’s the short version: we knew each other on the food circuit and on the underground hardcore scene in Philadelphia and New York. Wayne was one of my restaurant clients and when we kept running into each other at various dungeons, he asked me if I would be interested in a private job—to prepare long pig for some people he was involved with who had a cannibalism fetish.”

  “Cannibalism fetish? You mean like sex?”

  “Yes.” Chef Munchel found the knife he was looking for. He casually flipped Shane Daniels’s torso over and began hunting for another section to cut. “The money was good, and I’m always open to new recipes, so I gave it a try. My first dish was a success!”

  Despite the shocking allegations, Anna couldn’t help but want to learn more. “How did...how did Wayne...I mean...how...”