by Bobby Adair
“What the hell are you talking about?” Workman yelled.
Goose flinched back in his chair.
“I asked you a simple goddamned question. Answer me.”
It’s just yelling. He’ll burn through it pretty quick.
Goose answered, “You said it couldn’t look like nobody here at Blue Bean Farms or the work camp could have anythin’ to do with it. That’s what you told me.”
In a voice coming back down in volume, Workman said, “And you told me she was sneaking away from her cottage at night and that you followed her, and you had an idea to scare her off without getting our hands dirty.”
“I did.” Goose nodded.
“How many times to do I have to ask you for the goddamn details?” Workman raised his voice again. “You want me to ship you out to Lubbock? Is that what you want? You want to see what the rest of your life in a real hellhole looks like?”
“She was followin’ a handful of d-gens,” Goose blurted, “off the property where they was meetin’ up with other d-gens. Out there in the woods about a mile east of the fence, they had themselves some kind of temple made of rings of old broken-down appliances and such. They built a big fire and danced around it a coupla times a week, cookin’ raccoons, and possums and such.”
“And Galloway was participating in this?” Workman asked, disgust on his face.
“Just watchin’ at first,” said Goose. “Mostly, I guess. Eventually, she did strip down, get all covered in blood and dance ‘round the fire with them.”
“Human sacrifice?” Workman asked.
“None that I saw, but I figured they’d either done it before or would do it soon.”
“And?”
It was time for a lie to get some credit he hadn’t earned. “I called it in. Told the police I saw the bodies of the kids they was killin’.”
“And there weren’t any kids?” Workman asked.
Goose shook his head.
“And the phone you used?”
“I ain’t completely stupid,” said Goose. “Can’t be traced back to me.”
“But the call had to go out from Blue Bean’s network. There’s no public cellular network out this far.”
Goose shrugged, hoping Workman wouldn’t berate him on that implication of his lie. “Can’t avoid some things.”
“So you called it in. Then what?” asked Workman.
“I figured some Regulators would show up, see all the dancin’ and the blood, and just shoot everybody.”
“Which they did,” said Workman. “Would have been nice if one of them would have accidentally shot her.”
Goose shook his head. “I figured it’d be enough to run her off, if not permanent, then maybe fer a week or two.”
“No,” said Workman, “because you screwed up. Once the shooting started, you should have taken a shot, winged her, or maybe one in the leg.” Workman rubbed his hands over his weathered old face and exhaled as he thought about how the weight of his responsibilities was wearing him down. “Maybe you should have just shot her in the head. Maybe we need to stop pussyfooting around this and do what needs to be done.”
Goose gulped. In the past, Workman had implied dozens of times that Goose should break the law, but Workman had never explicitly told Goose to do something illegal, especially not when a drone might get a video recording of the whole thing. “Yessir. You’re right about that.”
“From here on out,” said Workman, “I’m in on every detail of everything you do to fix this mess. You need some help with that. It’s obvious to me. Is it obvious to you, Goose?”
“Yessir.”
Workman tilted his head in a curt nod. “Now, what about these Regulators on the farm? Why are they here?”
“I can’t say it’s both of them,” said Goose. “So far we’ve only seen one in the SUV. Maybe the other one skedaddled down to Mexico. Anyways, we got one of ‘em. Sure of that.
“How can you be sure of that?” Workman drawled. His accent always went back to natural country boy when he got riled up. “You either got ‘em or you don’t.”
“The woods that starts up over there on the other side of the trainin’ compound,” Goose started, “we trapped ‘im over there.”
“Trapped?”
“We run him off the road,” said Goose. “He drove that Mercedes right into the trees.” Goose figured he’d embellish. “Prolly got hurt in the crash. He hit them trees awful hard.”
“He ran into a tree?” Workman asked.
“Mostly branches and such.” Goose rushed to the next part so as not to get caught in an exaggeration that Workman would call a lie. “You know them woods is bordered on the east with the Brazos River. Down south, we got nothing but acre an’ acre of soybean fields. There ain’t that far to go in them woods.”
“Across the river?” Workman asked. “He didn’t go that way? Plenty of places to wade it.”
“Not now.” Goose shook his head emphatically. “When was the last time you was down to the river? All that floodin’ up by Waco washed this way. The river ain’t much to look at most times but right now, it’ll drown you and wash you right down to Freeport ‘fore you know what hit ya.”
“What are you saying?” Workman asked. “He drowned in the river?”
“Exactly,” said Goose. “We cornered him in them woods. Had near fifty men in there lookin’ fer ‘im. If he’d a been in there, we’d a caught ‘im. Only way out was in the water, and we was onto that right off the bat, the buzz bikes running up and down the river, men patrollin’ the banks the whole time. A coupla guys heard a big splash.” Time for more embellishment. “One saw him jump off the bank. Never come up for air.” Time for certainty. “Got caught in that current and drown. Sure as Christmas.”
“Did you find the body?”
“Lookin’ for it.” A new lie.
“No idea, then?” Workman asked.
None. But Goose wasn’t about to admit that, now that Workman seemed to be past yelling for the moment.
Workman sat back, intertwined his fingers and scratched his lips up and down with his thumbnails. He was thinking.
Goose didn’t interrupt. He waited.
Finally, Workman asked, “Did you see the video on the Internet and on the news about those Regulators killin’ our degenerates?”
“You know we ain’t allowed to have none of that kinda—”
Workman stopped Goose with a raised hand. “Don’t lie about something that’s so easy to check. I know you boys have TVs in the trustee dorm.”
Embarrassed, Goose admitted, “I seen it.”
“You notice anything odd about it?”
Goose shook his head. “I ain’t no expert in that kinda stuff, but no.”
“You notice how fast it happened?”
“Yeah,” said Goose. “Now that you mention it.”
“You were there,” said Workman. “Did it seem fast to you?”
“I was a couple hundred yards away across a cornfield,” said Goose, “watchin’ through some binoculars. It was foggy, so I couldn’t always see, but once the shootin’ started, it was like somebody set off a string of firecrackers and just like that, it was done. The fat one took some shots to clean up the wounded, but that skinny one, he just killed ‘em like roaches. Damndest thing.”
“Looked like a goddamn science fiction movie robot to me,” said Workman. “First time I saw it I figured it was sped up like they do on that show, Bash—you know, making the kills look funny?”
Goose chuckled a little. It was his favorite show.
“It bothered me, though, because it didn’t look right,” said Workman, “so I had one of my IT boys do some research. That video wasn’t sped up.”
Goose nodded. “I ‘spose not.”
“You know why that was?” Workman asked.
“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”
“My IT guy did some more research,” said Workman. “That video was spot on. My IT boy did some measurements and made himself up a nu
mber he called the kill rate.”
“Kill rate?” Goose asked.
“You ain’t got to look too far to find video of Regulators killing degenerates,” said Workman. “Most of them do it slow and methodical, but lots of degenerates run off when the Regulators go slow. The flip side is if they go fast, they miss, maybe wound some.”
Goose nodded but didn’t interrupt.
“How fast the Regulators kill the degenerates, how accurate they are when they shoot,” said Workman, “that’s what my IT boy called the kill rate. The higher the number the better, for the Regulator anyways.”
“That skinny Regulator did most of the shootin’,” said Goose. “How does he compare?”
“Ain’t nobody close to that skinny one,” answered Workman. “That boy’s a killer. My IT guy can’t find anything about his past, thinks he might be an assassin out of Mexico, maybe some kind of spy or something.”
Goose’s voice squeaked up an octave before he could catch it. “What’s he want with us, comin’ back here to the farm?”
“Can’t say.” Workman shook his head. “But one thing I do want, is you to get seven or eight of your trustees—your best shots—and put them on guard around me until we find his body in the river.”
“You think he’s here to kill you?” Goose asked. “Why?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out,” said Workman. “I’m out of ideas on this one. I’m just not taking chances.”
Chapter 54
“The last thing we’ve got to take care of,” said Workman.
“Yessir. What’s that?”
“Dr. Galloway.”
“I got no problem with it,” said Goose, seeing a chance to redeem himself in Workman’s eyes. “I’ll do it myself.”
“It can’t be you,” said Workman. “Not now. There’ll be state scrutiny of this mess with that bastard Doggett onsite. He knows what opportunity looks like. He’ll call in the Texas Rangers to investigate, and they won’t leave until he squeezes enough money out of me to buy himself another mansion in Dallas with a new whore to keep the bed warm.” Workman’s anger came to a quick head and he pounded a fist on the desk. After snorting a few times, his voice returned to sinister calm. “I need to make sure Galloway’s….” Workman took a moment to firm his resolve, “…death doesn’t have anybody’s fingerprints on it.”
Goose was disappointed, he wanted very badly to take Sienna Galloway out in the woods, find an abandoned house to keep her in, and put her to good use. The thought of those defiant blue eyes turning to tears, getting his hands on those perky tits, squeezing that ass was just too much. Goose could smell her sweaty fear. He could taste her on his lips. He could—
“Goose! Goose!” Workman snapped his fingers to get Goose’s attention. “Stay with me. Sometimes you drift off. You make me worry.”
“Sorry, Boss Man. Just tired. You know.”
“You’ve got a criminal mind, Goose. Have you got any ideas on how to solve our Galloway problem?”
Goose sprawled in the chair, scratched his neck, and put on a show of dredging his imagination but he already had an idea. He just didn’t want to make it look easy. “This morning, when I was getting them signatures you asked for…” Goose paused, fishing for some gratitude along the way.
Workman nodded slightly and said, “Good job with that.”
“I took that big Bully Boy, Toby. Told her I was gonna let him do things if she didn’t sign.”
Workman nodded as if he hadn’t heard this story.
“Thing is,” said Goose, “I think if I left Toby in that cottage alone with her, I think he’d take care of her all on his own. He ain’t right in the head, not by a long shot. I think he might tear her up.”
Workman grimaced.
“He’s sweet on her in ‘is way, if ya know what I mean,” said Goose, “but I think we won’t find nuthin’ but pieces when he’s done.”
“I didn’t realize he was that bad.”
Goose showed Workman the Taser he kept on his belt. “I got to urge ‘im a lot, to keep ‘im in line, you know.” Goose patted the pistol in its holster. “I figure he won’t be ‘round more than another month or two anyway before the Brisbane eats what’s left of his brain. I’ll have to put ‘im down.”
Workman understood and moved back to the question at hand. “What if she gets away?”
“All I got to do is get ‘em in the same room, same house, don’t matter,” said Goose. “Toby’s awful fast for a big boy and ever’ bit as strong as he looks. She won’t be goin’ nowhere.”
Workman gave it some thought. “Get it done, as soon as you can.”
“I’ll git Toby over there right away.”
Chapter 55
After she’d loosed the degenerates, the satisfaction she’d felt from her rebellion had lasted about fifteen minutes. Now she felt disheartened over the futility of it as she sat in a chair staring at the door on the far end of the occupational therapy room. Through that door sat her desk in the office she shared with her staff.
Despite the apparent unassailability of her employment status, she didn’t want to go back there. She didn’t want to have to face what was probably waiting for her—a summons from Keith Workman, an email or a message on her phone.
In whatever form that message came, it would formalize the escalation in the war between them.
She’d be required to go to his office for a meeting. He’d yell and stomp like a gorilla defending its territory, all the while making sure she knew just what a physically powerful man he was. He’d make sure she understood how close he teetered on the verge of losing control.
The threat of violence would be perfectly clear but completely unprovable.
The worst of it was that she didn’t know if the tantrums were an act. If not, then she knew a day would come when he’d cross a line in his mind, and he’d harm somebody, likely her.
Do I want to risk my life for this job?
She knew she was sacrificing her health already. She wasn’t sleeping well at night. She hated getting out of bed to face her days. When she looked at herself in the mirror in the morning, she saw a woman who was aging past her years.
Her eyes wandered over the brightly colored walls painted in murals of simple, happy people working the fields, tending farm animals, hauling the harvest. It was Soviet-era propaganda art with degenerates in the place of proletarians.
In her hands, she fidgeted with a simple puzzle toy, one of hundreds in the room used for assessing and training degenerates with rudimentary skills.
When was the right time to admit defeat and quit?
Maybe in releasing the doomed degenerates, she’d already decided, but hadn’t admitted it to herself.
She looked again at the door on the back wall of the occupational therapy room. Her computer waited for her back there.
Maybe her best path forward was to go to her desk and put together the exposé she’d been fantasizing about for months. She could write a compelling piece—complete with supporting documents, pictures, and video she’d surreptitiously collected—that would show everyone the truth about the abuses in the corporate farm system, Blue Bean in particular.
Chapter 56
From where Goose stood under the tree facing Toby, he was able to see the training compound nearly a half-mile away. The gate was still open, and from what he’d been told by Workman—whose IT guy had triangulated the position of her cell phone—Sienna Galloway was in there, probably sitting at her desk. Goose had one of his trustees sneak around the training compound to confirm. Except for a few d-gens too stupid to leave the compound, not a single trustee or employee was anywhere near.
It was like she was begging for it.
Hell, maybe she knew Workman’s revenge was coming and she’d given up.
It was possible.
Goose had seen women break before, seen them stop fighting, seen the last speck of hope drain from their eyes. You could do most anything to a woman once she ran out of h
ope.
But that moment when the hope faded…Goose savored it.
He sighed. Big, stupid Toby was going to have all the fun with Galloway. He’d be there the moment the hope blipped away from those bitchy blue eyes, and he was too stupid to appreciate it. The worst part—Goose would only get to see the mess afterward.
“Ya see them buildin’s over there?” Goose pointed at the training compound.
Toby looked in that direction, drool dribbling down his chin.
“Close yer mouth,” Goose ordered.
Toby turned back to Goose and did as told.
“You see that open gate?” Goose pointed again.
Toby looked.
“Nod if you understand.”
Toby nodded.
“See that buildin’ right there by the gate, the white one?”
Toby nodded.
“You know how to open a door?” Goose wasn’t sure. A door handle, sure, you pull or push and the door opens. With a knob, it needs to be turned, and then pulled or pushed. Connecting an action that seems to produce no result with the action you want takes a small degree of abstract thought. Most d-gens couldn’t make the leap. But Toby was a few grades up from your standard dumbass degenerate.
Toby didn’t give Goose any indication he understood.
Goose reached up and slapped Toby on the cheek. “Listen boy! A door.” Goose pantomimed turning a knob and opening a door. “You understand? Can you open one?”
Toby looked at Goose for a few long moments with nothing but confusion on his face until a sudden spark flickered somewhere behind his eyes. He nodded.
“Good, good.” Goose laughed. He pointed again. “There’s a door on that white building inside the fence. You walk down there and go through it. You understand?”
Toby nodded.
“You go inside and go to the back of the room. There’s another door back there. You gittin’ what I’m sayin’?”
No response.
“You understand what I’m tellin’ you, boy?”
Toby nodded, and when his head pitched forward a gob of drool spilled over his lip and ran down his chin.