Retreat

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Anna King was waiting for them, still trussed up but not looking a bit uncomfortable. To Paul she looked like a completely different person now than the one he’d originally met three months ago when the season first started. That Anna had been somewhat clueless—she’d reminded Paul of one of those dopey reality TV stars with a shoe-size IQ that always got into fights with people; a Snookie or a Real Housewife or a Bridezilla, and then became either enraged when they were forced to face the consequences of their actions or became shocked. This Anna was a completely different person. She was cunning, manipulative, and completely without moral compass. Paul now saw that the previous impression he’d gotten from Anna had been an act. She’d been playing them the entire time.

  How much money has she been stealing? Paul Westcott thought.

  “So, Chef Munchel just told me you’re responsible for some pretty brazen thefts,” Paul began. “You’ve copped to the theft of much of the Johnson’s money. Is that true?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Anna said.

  “What about the other thefts we’ve experienced at Bent Creek over the past three months? Was that you as well?”

  Anna smiled. “I throw myself at the mercy of the court, your honor.”

  “Do you realize that your boss, Rick Nicholson, was our main suspect in these thefts?”

  “I did not know that.”

  “Did you know that Rick is dead now because of your thefts?”

  “This is the first time I’ve heard of it.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  Anna looked at Paul, her gaze not wavering. “Are you asking me if I care that Rick’s dead?”

  “Are you?”

  “No. It’s not my problem he was blamed.”

  Paul took a breath and switched tactics. Anna’s complete disregard for Rick’s death threw him for a loop. “We found half a million dollars in cash under his bed. It was in his briefcase. He claims he didn’t know how it got there. We have that money now.”

  “Good for you,” Anna said. Her hazel eyes didn’t break their gaze from Paul.

  The pieces fell together for Paul instantly. Anna had planted that money in Rick Nicholson’s briefcase. How she did it...how she managed to get in his suite, much less sneak the money inside and transfer it to the briefcase, was a logistical problem Paul couldn’t fathom right now, but it was obvious to him that Anna had planted this money in the event Rick’s suite and belongings were searched in order to throw suspicion off herself. She’d succeeded admirably. If she hadn’t confessed to the thefts prior to Jim murdering her for this weekend’s feast, they never would have learned who the thief was, and the Johnson’s money would have been unrecoverable.

  “So you stole the cash from the Westlake’s and Mr. Goode,” Paul reiterated. “Another one of our members, Carl White, also had money stolen, although this theft was done electronically, out of his bank account. He didn’t file a report with me, but he did mention it to me in passing. He was concerned. At the time, I thought that was an isolated incident. Some type of bank fraud or outside hacker activity. That happens. It seems that, in light of this recent confession regarding the Johnson’s funds, you’re responsible for the theft of Carl White’s money as well.”

  “Haven’t we already gone over this?”

  “You did this all by yourself?”

  “I’m a smart girl.” Anna turned to Mitch Johnson. “Told you I was an Alpha in disguise.”

  Mitch Johnson could only glower in anger.

  Paul’s mind was racing. With this brazen a theft, it was imperative that the stolen money be recovered as quickly as possible before account managers were notified. “Are there any other victims?” he asked. “Any other guests whose financial accounts you may have looted?”

  Anna grinned. “There is. Pity that Mr. Sanders isn’t here now. I’m sure he’d love you all to hear what kind of shenanigans he’s been up to.”

  At the mention of Wayne Sanders, Paul’s blood went cold. Good God, did she get into Wayne’s accounts too? And if she did...if she got into any of the Bent Creek corporate accounts and somebody finds out...

  Jim Munchel must have noticed the look of shock on Paul’s face. “I hope you can understand the delicacy of this situation,” he said to Paul.

  “Yes,” Paul said, his voice low, not breaking his gaze with Anna, who glared at him. “Yes, I do.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Mitch seethed.

  “Mr. Johnson, shut up,” Paul told Mitch. He kept his gaze on Anna. “So,” he said, “we have the quarter of a million in cash that you stole from Parker Goode. You have the Johnson’s money. And I presume all the other funds from our other guests. Correct?”

  “That is correct,” Anna said.

  “I think it is also safe to assume that you will not return it.”

  “You must have been a straight A student in college.”

  Paul ignored the quip. “And you won’t tell us how to get it back.”

  “Nope.”

  “I can have my security team analyze your laptop computer,” Paul said. “I’m sure they’ll have passwords and log in information and will be able to reverse whatever computer hacking you may have—”

  Anna started to laugh, which produced a finger of fear down Paul’s spine. “That’s funny,” Anna said, trying to control her laughter. “Me, a computer hacker? That’s good, but...um...no. You can try to look for passwords to people’s accounts on that laptop, but you’re not going to find them, even if you do get through my encryption.”

  “Encryption?”

  “Yes. Encryption.” Anna cocked her head. “It’s the highest available, too. Good luck trying to crack it.”

  Paul sighed. He could tell that he wasn’t going to get very far with Anna tonight. He might have success with her later if given the opportunity, but for now he had to deal with the current situation: Mitch and Theresa Johnson and their arrangement with Chef Munchel and Bent Creek. Closely tied to that was protecting the members of this little event. Killing Anna King now would silence her, but if she was working with somebody else, they would find out something happened to her. And Paul was convinced that Anna had a partner despite her denial. If Anna disappeared, that partner could be trouble for them, especially considering the funds pilfered from the accounts and the players involved. If financial regulators and the government stepped in, started snooping around, it could lead the investigation right to Bent Creek, to the board members, to Wayne—

  —to me!

  Paul turned to the Johnsons and Chef Munchel. “It seems we have quite the dilemma here,” he said. “It’s a good thing Chef Munchel didn’t cash your check yet.” He turned to Chef Munchel. “I take it you are still in possession of the Johnson’s personal check?”

  “It’s at my office,” Jim said quietly.

  “Very good,” Paul said. He turned to the Johnson’s, who had been watching the exchange with bated breath. “I’m afraid I have no choice but to instruct Chef Munchel to return your check with our regrets and apologies.”

  Mitch Johnson’s face crumbled. “Wh-what?”

  “And then I’m going to have to escort you to your suite, wait while you collect your belongings, and escort you off the property,” Paul finished.

  “You can’t be serious!” Mitch screeched. He traded a shocked look with Theresa, then turned to Paul. “You can’t do this!”

  “It’s in the contract, Mr. Johnson,” Paul said.

  Chef Munchel sighed. “He’s right, Mitch. I’m sorry.”

  “But I paid for her!” Mitch howled.

  “Your intentions were good and noble,” Paul said. “But I have a situation to deal with. Miss King is an asset to Bent Creek at this moment. She’s no longer yours.” He traded a glance with Chef Munchel, silently conveying to the Chef that this incident with Anna King and the thefts were only the tip of a very large iceberg. Chef Munchel picked up on it and became solemn. Paul turned to the Johnson’s, letting his professional side tak
e over. He held his hand toward the door that led to the main kitchen, ushering them out. “Come, if you’ll just step this way—”

  “Can’t you just torture the little bitch?” Mitch said, glaring at Anna. “I’m sure she’ll spill all her dirty little secrets if you turn the heat up on her.”

  “Torture me all you want,” Anna said. “You won’t learn a goddamn thing about your money.”

  Paul Westcott gently took Theresa Johnson by the elbow and started to escort the couple out of the kitchen’s back entrance. A heavy feeling of dread was settling over him and it turned into a solid weight as he ushered the Johnsons through. He turned to Chef Munchel and Anna King, intending to tell them he would be right back.

  And then he heard a noise coming from the pantry where Rick Nicholson’s mutilated corpse lay.

  CHAPTER 40

  Dinner service during opening night of the private event always started early.

  Emily Wharton arrived at the dining room ten minutes before the official start time, as always. After the quick meeting with the other guests thirty minutes ago, Chef would be getting Rick Nicholson ready for overnight storage, continuing his prep work for tonight, and would shortly begin preparing tonight’s meal. Emily would probably assist Chef by serving the wine. But for the most part, opening night was Chef’s show.

  Chris and Barbara Shear arrived, dressed in evening wear, looking like they were ready for a night on the town. They smiled and nodded at Emily as they entered the dining room. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Shear,” Emily said. “Nice to see you.”

  “You too, Ms. Wharton,” Chris said.

  One by one, the other guests and board members trickled in. Gail Scott, Harry Rowe, Alan Vath, George Spector, Carl White. All were dressed to the nines in sport coats, clean-pressed dress shirts and ties, dark slacks and shoes, the women dressed in evening-wear that would set their husbands back in the low five figure range; chicken-feed, really. Emily nodded at each one as they passed. The Johnsons would still be in the kitchen, probably savoring Anna’s demise by now. They were the only club members that liked to personally witness the slaughter, something Emily wasn’t into, the way most people didn’t like to watch beef cattle get that hole punched between their eyes while being led down the chute to their demise. She glanced around the dining room; the dozen or so tables that had been set for the event were centered in the middle of the area, each one laid out with the finest silverware and white linen napkins. One of Paul Westcott’s security guys—Pete Atkins—showed up for his evening duty at the door to the dining area and Emily acknowledged him with a nod. “About time you showed up,” she said. “Where’s your boss?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” Pete asked.

  “Tell me what?”

  “He called me ten minutes ago,” Pete said. “Said Chef Munchel called him to the kitchen. Said they had a situation.”

  “Well, yes, I do know about that,” Emily said. “That would be Rick Nicholson. I was there late last night. Remember?”

  “This is something else.”

  Emily felt a flush of dread bordering on relief. “Did they get Brian?”

  “No, it’s not that either.” Pete looked frustrated.

  Wayne Sanders appeared suddenly, as if materializing like a ghost. He was wearing a tan suit. His bald head gleamed like a pool cue. For a small, thin man, Emily knew he was incredibly strong and he had a commanding sense about him that belied his physical stature. He nodded at Emily and Pete. “Good evening, Ms. Wharton.”

  Emily smiled. “Wayne!” She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “So good to see you as always!”

  “Ah, it’s always good to see all of you!” Wayne Sanders stood at the threshold to the dining room, surveying the guests already assembled. A few other board members squeezed past them—Leon Jenkins, Neal Hartley, Earl Sanders. They murmured greetings and weaved their way to their tables. “We’re going to have a fine dining season, yes?”

  “As always,” Emily said.

  “I understand you are responsible for arranging an additional menu item this week?” Wayne asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “You heard correctly.”

  “Rick Nicholson? The man I hired as Director of Operations?”

  Emily nodded. “Yes.”

  “Very good. It’s a pity that went so wrong. I’m glad we were able to recover from that so quickly, though. I understand Gail bought a piece of him. I might have a sample as well. I was observing him a few weeks ago. Man had a nice body.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Wayne looked at Pete. “And how are you this evening, Mr. Atkins?”

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Very good. Someday maybe you’ll join us, yes?”

  Pete shrugged. “Why not? You people pay me good money to cover your back. You’re good people. I respect that. I’d be honored, sir.”

  Wayne Sanders beamed. “Good! Perhaps tomorrow, then?”

  “If it’s okay with Paul, sir.”

  “I’ll speak to Paul. It’s about time he joined our little club as well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Where is Paul, by the way?”

  “Pete says he’s with Chef Munchel, sir, back in the kitchen,” Emily said.

  “Ah, I see.” Wayne Sanders surveyed the assembled guests in the dining room. “It appears everybody’s here. Shall we get started?”

  “Absolutely,” Emily said. “I’m famished.”

  “As am I!”

  Wayne held his arm out and Emily took it. As they stepped into the dining room, Pete called out to her. “Um, Ms. Wharton?”

  Emily and Wayne stopped. Emily turned to Pete. “Yes?”

  “There’s still one more guest on the way. A Mr. Bob Garrison.”

  “I’m sure he’ll show up soon, Pete.”

  “Yes, Ms. Wharton.” Pete looked hesitant, as if he were worried about something.

  “Pete, don’t look so worried. You’re doing fine. Paul’s meeting with Chef, Glenn is manning the security room until midnight, and then Scott takes over until noon tomorrow, and you’re here. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Pete smiled, as if her little pep talk had put him at ease. “Yes, Ms. Wharton, you’re right. You and Mr. Sanders have a great time tonight.”

  “We will, Master Atkins,” Wayne Sanders said. He grinned, like a wolf anticipating a meal of freshly slaughtered sheep.

  Wayne Sanders and Emily Wharton stepped into the dining room to begin this year’s festivities.

  * * *

  They entered the storeroom through the rear outside entrance. Had they been there thirty minutes earlier, they would have been in danger of crossing paths with almost the entire board of directors and their guests. The board and the guests had retreated to their suites immediately upon making the decision on how to divide Rick Nicholson’s body among the diners and were now making their way to the dining room via the main dining room hall.

  Brian Gaiman eased the door to the storeroom open as Joe Taylor covered them, keeping a watchful eye out over the rear of the building.

  Brian stepped inside and motioned for Joe to follow him.

  When Joe stepped inside he let the door shut softly behind him. There was a large fluorescent light on, bathing the room in yellow light. He saw the corpse on the floor the same time Brian gasped in shock.

  “Oh my God, it’s Rick,” Brian said.

  Joe held the weapon out in front of him, doing a sweep of the room. He wasn’t a trained law enforcement officer by any means, but he knew how to handle a firearm. He cast aside all feelings of self-doubt as he quickly checked the room and found it empty of the living.

  “Holy fuck,” Brian said, his voice quavering.

  Joe took a quick look at the body. Rick Nicholson’s arms were tied behind his back, his ankles lashed together. He was lying on his left side, his head tilted slightly back, gagged mouth opened in a silent scream, eyes wide and bulging with fright. His throat had been opened up with a deep, gaping wound.
There was a large puddle of blood beneath him. Rick’s murder had happened just a moment ago, maybe within the past thirty minutes.

  Joe noticed a door opposite the one they’d entered through. “Where’s that door lead?” he asked Brian, speaking softly.

  “Main pantry,” Brian said. He stepped back gingerly from the pool of blood. His face was growing pale. His eyes were wide with shock.

  Joe turned toward the two walk-in steel freezers that sat flush against the far wall. There was a noticeable purr of an engine; one of the freezers was operating. He motioned toward the freezers. “Those the freezers you were talking about?”

  Brian nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Which one were you kept in?”

  “That one.” Brian pointed to the one on the left.

  Joe approached the freezers and reached out with his left hand. He gripped the handle of the freezer and opened it.

  A waft of cold freezing air billowed out. Brian stepped back and Joe stepped forward, trying to see through the fog of condensation at what lay inside.

  The freezer was huge—the size of a small walk-in closet. Meat hooks dangled from the ceiling. Metal shelves lined the walls. Stacked on the shelves on both sides were slabs of meat that were distinctly recognizable as human. Joe made out a forearm, a lower leg, a foot. Several large slabs of meat that were virtually unidentifiable lay wrapped in what appeared to be Saran wrap. To the uninitiated they could be large cuts of beef or maybe pork. But Joe knew better. They were human. Cuts from the hips, the lower torso, the chest perhaps.

  Joe stepped back and closed the door to the freezer. He’d seen enough.

  “Now what are we going to do?” Brian asked.

  Joe was about to answer him when a woman yelled out from the pantry. “Watch out!”

  And that’s when the other door burst open and a man stepped through. Joe recognized him as Paul Westcott, head of Security. Directly behind him was Chef Munchel. Joe locked eyes with Chef Munchel, who was momentarily taken aback in shock. “Bob,” Chef Munchel said.