Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  Secret Society

  Killers Incorporated, Book 1

  By Stuart R. West

  Amazon Print ISBN 978-1-77299-653-1

  Copyright 2015 by Stuart R. West

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Dedication

  I’d like to thank Jeff Chapman, Patricia McQueen, Gail Roughton, Meradeth Houston and Penny Ehrenkranz for their invaluable contributions to the Like-Minded Individuals saga.

  Also, I’d like to dedicate this book to abuse victims everywhere. Don’t take it, there are options out there for you. Above all, don’t blame yourself, the worse possible self-abuse.

  Finally, and as always, this book goes out to Cydney, my swan, and Sarah, my cygnet.

  Chapter One

  When Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. calls, it’s serious: snap to attention, drop everything serious. Since Leon relocated to Kansas, he hadn’t received one message from them. LMI doesn’t exactly send out birthday greetings. But after his LMI sanctioned cell phone buzzed last night, he found himself doing something he loathed—visiting the mall during the holidays.

  Strange place for a LMI meeting. Even stranger text message. Mandatory meeting at Barton Mall for SX-6209. Be on the bench in front of Dottie’s Dogs tomorrow at noon. No indication what the meeting regarded. It couldn’t be about a transfer. He had six months left on his Kansas stint.

  As Leon sat on the bench, the hair prickled on his neck. He recognized the warning sign—his survival instincts kicked in, sending him an internal beware “text.”

  Experience, another old friend, taught him to always scope out a rendezvous early. He looked for odd details that didn’t belong: shoppers without bags, dawdling people going nowhere, a mumbling man with a hand placed over an ear. Knowing how to spot the little things kept one out of prison. And alive.

  On this unseasonably warm Monday, he wore a sports jacket, tie, and light tan khakis. Nothing announcing, “I kill people who deserve to die.”

  Sunlight burning through the windows baked him. Sweat blossomed under his arms and he considered ditching the jacket. “Santa Baby” blared over the loudspeakers, an endless loop worming into his mind.

  A woman, pushing a stroller, sat on the bench next to Leon. She let out a weary shopper’s sigh, one demanding acknowledgment. Unlikely she was the one he was supposed to meet, however. After several encounters with fellow LMI clientele, though, Leon never discounted anyone.

  “What a beautiful baby,” said Leon. “Boy or girl?”

  “A girl. Four months old.”

  “Beautiful. Just beautiful.” Leon leaned over, his hand wavering above the baby. “Do you mind?”

  She frowned, blinked at him, finally smiled. The familiar trajectory. First distrust, then curiosity, and eventually, acceptance. Simply because he was handsome. At least he’d been told so in the past. He didn’t buy it, not for a minute. Whenever Leon looked in the mirror, all he saw were faults. His asymmetrical visage, the crooked nose. Over time he learned to use others’ barometer of his appearance to his advantage. People trust attractiveness more than ugliness, simple human nature.

  “Ah, no. Go right ahead,” she replied.

  Leon tickled the baby’s belly. As if telling him to stop, the baby latched onto his finger. “Quite a grip she’s got there.”

  “Yep, she’s my strong little gal.”

  Leon lifted a flap of the blanket, checked the baby’s legs for signs of bruises, burns, or cuts. Old habits die hard. The nature of his work. Satisfied, Leon smiled. “You must be very proud of her.”

  “I am. We are.” Maybe the woman had survival instincts of her own. Suddenly she jumped to her feet. “Have a nice day. It’s gorgeous outside.” She scurried off, wheeling her daughter away, but not before tossing him one last glance.

  A raucous group of teenagers gathered in front of Dottie’s Dogs. Two girls, basic chic skin and bones, stood idly while the boys attempted to one-up each other with loud bravado. Definitely not whom he was there to meet. “Like-minded individuals” tended to work alone. Except, of course, for the Missouri representatives. A chill rippled across his skin, ants on parade, as he remembered that encounter.

  Shoppers, paper bags straining in their fists, hurried through the crowded mall. Holiday stress wrinkled their faces. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  At forty minutes past noon, Leon’s party still hadn’t shown. Maybe LMI canceled the meeting. Some red-tape snafu. As Leon stood to leave, he spotted a young man in a dark blue hoodie swaggering toward him.

  He stopped in front of Leon, jutting out his soul-patched chin. “Yo, you Owen Gribble?” Even though his eyes blazed blue and alert, his heavy eyelids suggested arrogance. Long, blond locks spilled from his knit cap. A small ponytail secured his hair in the back, nothing more than a knot. Thick biceps anchored his broad shoulders. If the kid cleaned up, he’d probably look half decent.

  “I’m Owen Gribble.” Of course Owen Gribble wasn’t his real name. “Gribble” was the alias LMI supplied Leon for his Kansas term. The irony hadn’t escaped him how “Owen Gribble” was dangerously similar to Leon Garber. Sometimes Leon suspected LMI had a puckish sense of humor.

  As a general rule, Leon avoided unnecessary physical contact. He extended his hand anyway. A necessary evil he learned to barely tolerate during his years in the corporate sector. “And you are?”

  Ignoring Leon’s gesture, the kid slumped onto the bench. “Call me Cody.”

  “Okay, Cody. So, what’s this meeting about?” Leon sat back down.

  “It’s time for you to go, Gribble.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said it’s time for you to go!”

  “I don’t understand what—”

  “What? You don’t talk English?”

  “Yes, I ‘speak’ English. I’m beginning to wonder if you do.”

  “Don’t jack with me!” Cody’s brow arched high, his eyes wide and unreadable.

  “I’m not ‘jacking’ with you. I just don’t understand why this meeting is taking place.”

  “Look, LMI told me Kansas is now my turf, and you need to start packin’.”

  “This has to be a mistake.” A fist took hold of Leon’s stomach and squeezed, letting him know there’d been no mistake. In Leon’s five-plus-year association with LMI, they’d never made a mistake. Efficient, careful, and very thorough—LMI were true professionals.

  “I know what I know, what I was told. You’re supposed to bounce.”

  “Cody, please keep your voice down. Who told you this?”

  “Who the fuck you think? Wyngarden!”

  Wyngarden. Although Leon had never met the man, he’d spoken with Wyngarden over the phone numerous times. He assigned Leon his projects and new identities. If Wyngarden wasn’t the CEO of Like-Minded Individuals, Inc., he certainly met top brass criteria.

  “Fine, tell me exactly what Mr. Wyngarden said.”

  Cody rolled his eyes, a petulant child. “He said, ‘Yo, Cody, tell Owen Gribble you’re taking over Kansas now. He’s out, you’re in.’ Wyngarden said he’d set up our meeting. Here we are. How many times I gotta’ ‘splain it to you?”

  “I’ve only been in Kansas for a year. It’s not time for me to leave. I like Kansas.” Leon never lost control, prided himself on the fact. Yet now anger stirred, prompting him into arguing with a ridiculous, overgrown kid in a mall. Dangerous. Leon paused, took a deep b
reath, and lowered his voice. “Okay. I know you’re just the messenger. I don’t doubt your integrity or question your intent.” Cody squinted, obviously puzzled. Leon dummied down. “Um…I believe what you’re saying. Just please try and understand my position. I’ve followed all the dictates…” Another bewildered look from Cody. “…all the rules LMI put in place. To the letter. I’m supposed to have another six months left in Kansas. Did Mr. Wyngarden happen to give you a reason why this sudden change of heart?”

  “You’re not hearing me, old man! I tol’ you everything I know.”

  “I’m not old. I’m forty…barely middle aged.”

  Cody rocked his head back and snorted. “It’s like I said, old man, you’re old. You’re older than the Mayflower!”

  Leon knew he shouldn’t rise to the challenge. Definitely not the best way to defuse the situation. Even a saint’s patience would be tested by this kid, though. “I’m going to ignore the fact I’m shocked you even know about the Mayflower. You’re a young, inexperienced, ignorant kid. How old are you? Fresh out of high school? Twenty-three, maybe? And you think you’ve got the world by the tail.”

  “You don’t know me.” Cody bolted up and pivoted on his heels. Like a vicious dog, he hung his head, shoulders up, and growled. “You know who I am, old man? Do you? I’m the Denver Decapitator. I ripped Denver a new ass. I got twelve kills to my name! I’m nationwide.”

  Everyone knew about the Denver Decapitator, of course. Last year, national headlines immortalized the Denver murders of seven people, all of them beheaded by power saw. The victims’ heads were left behind as a macabre calling card, the bodies never found. The murders were crass, sloppy, and bloody. Definitely not Leon’s style. Due to the amateur method of the murders, it surprised Leon the Denver Decapitator had never been caught. Having now met him, it seemed an unbelievable miracle. If the kid truly was the Denver Decapitator.

  “Cody, calm down. People are watching us. Do you want to get caught?” Leon’s pacifying words blew over the kid’s head. Cody seethed, a furious jack-in-the-box ready to spring. Maybe an appeal to his ego would quiet him. “Cody, I have heard of your work. Now, sit down.”

  Grinning, Cody fell back onto the bench. “So, old man, you’ve heard of me, huh? Whaddaya’ think? Wicked, right?”

  “Cody, I think you need refinement. You’re too volatile—”

  “I don’t need nothin’, old man!”

  “Shh. I’m just trying to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help! You don’t got nothin’ for me. What have you done?”

  “I’m a private person. I prefer to keep my work as quiet as possible.”

  Cody ripped out violent laughter. A woman walking a child on a leash distracted Leon. Hard to believe people still used child leashes; they seemed tantamount to abuse. Leon forced himself to focus. One matter at a time.

  “Just as I thought, old man, you’re nothin’. I should be teaching you a thing or two. I mean, just look at you! You’re wearing khakis…and a sports jacket. What is this? Like, the nineties?”

  Leon waited a beat, weighing his words carefully before letting them fly. But sometimes his inner censor had a mind of its own. “And you’re dressed like some desperate high school kid who never grew up. What’s wrong, Cody? Trying to live out your failed high school dreams? I’ll bet you even drive a white van…with no windows.”

  When Cody’s smile faded, Leon knew he hit the sweet spot. Got you.

  “It’s green. So, what, yo? My ride’s a tricked out killer van.”

  “What a cliché. You may as well have ‘serial killer’ painted on the side of your van.”

  “What do you drive? A Beemer?”

  “No.” But the kid wasn’t far from the truth. “What I drive is none of your—”

  Fast as a rattlesnake, with a bite nearly as bad, Cody snapped a fist into Leon’s gut. Leon doubled over, coughing into his lap.

  “I’m done with you, old man. You’re out. I’m in. Kansas is mine. If you don’t go now…well, let’s just say, it’s on. It’s on, old man!”

  By the time Leon straightened, Cody had reached the mall exit. Leon scrambled off the bench, following at a safe distance. Standing within the double-door exit, he watched Cody cross the parking lot to his van. His tires screamed across the pavement, leaving black exclamation marks announcing his hotheaded departure.

  Fool, Leon thought. Probably the only way he drives.

  He raced outside. The van jagged into the adjoining street, but not before Leon committed the license plate number to memory.

  The kid rattled Leon, uncomfortably so. Even though Cody seemed less than bright, he appeared to possess a dangerous strong-willed tenacity, a mad dog surviving on the streets through primal rage and instinct. If Cody truly was the Denver Decapitator and responsible for twelve murders, he might be a big problem.

  Like-Minded Individuals’ involvement posed an even larger problem, though. As far as Leon could tell, he’d done nothing to fall out of favor with them. Maybe Cody lied just so he could strong-arm his way into Kansas. A sick feeling in Leon’s gut—a familiar feeling—told him otherwise.

  Worst of all, Cody called him old.

  Unacceptable.

  Chapter Two

  Leon swiped a finger over the piece of adhesive tape secured at the top of his apartment door. Unbroken. One could never be too careful with the crime rate so high these days.

  This particular apartment offered many benefits for a man in Leon’s profession. The outdoor entryway meant fewer doors to maneuver through should he ever have to leave in a hurry. The alley next to his apartment supplied another potential escape route.

  Although already late returning to his day job, the call couldn’t wait. And he didn’t dare make the call at the accounting office with his cubicle cohorts listening in. Leon punched the speed dial number, the only one programmed into the cellophane wrapped phone.

  “LMI, Inc.,” answered the woman. “How may I direct your call?”

  “SX-6209, Kansas, for Mr. Wyngarden, please.”

  A brief pause felt uncomfortably longer. “One moment, sir.”

  The song Happy Together crackled through the phone, an appropriate choice for Leon’s mutually beneficial alliance with Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. He wholeheartedly wanted it to stay beneficial.

  “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Wyngarden is in a meeting right now. May I take a message?”

  “Please have Mr. Wyngarden call SX-6209.” Another pause. “Did you hear me? SX-6209.”

  “Yes, sir. SX-6209.”

  “Please tell him it’s urgent. I believe there’s been a mix-up.” The woman hung up midway through his sentence.

  The receptionist’s chilly response went beyond the cold shoulder treatment. It felt like a new Ice Age, and he was the last of the dinosaurs, struggling to survive and come in from the cold.

  Leon cracked his neck and stretched out on his bed, wondering where he went wrong…

  * * *

  Five and a half years ago, Leon worked as a full-fledged member of corporate America in one of Los Angeles’s finest accounting firms. One day—a typically mind-numbing, number-crunching day—a strange email blinked onto his screen, an unexpected harbinger for some drastic life changes.

  No title in the subject line, however the anonymous writer had plenty to say in the email’s body.

  We know who you are, and we know what you do. We would like to make you a satisfying offer. Please understand this is in no way a threat, merely a business proposition. If you are curious, meet our representative at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon at the Royal House Coffee Shop. After hearing what we have to offer you, you may either accept our conditions or walk away, no strings attached.

  Leon fired off a follow-up. Who is this? What do you want? Seconds later, the message bounced back as “undeliverable.”

  The implications staggered Leon. Someone knew about his extracurricular activities. Impossible. He’d been discreet in his work, taking pai
nstaking care to hide the bodies. He avoided being caught on camera and always wore gloves. As far as he knew, he’d never had a witness to his projects. How could someone possibly know about his work? Only one way to find out. No choice. For the first time since Leon began his mission, he felt extremely vulnerable.

  * * *

  The Royal House Coffee Shop (“regal coffee for royal occasions”), a quaint little café, was located within walking distance from Leon’s office.

  Arriving before the lunch crowd, Leon snagged a table in the back, keeping his gaze locked on the front door. Every time someone entered, he lowered his magazine to study the person’s actions.

  Promptly at one o’clock, the bell above the door tinkled. A tall, gaunt man wearing a black tailored suit entered. He carried his briefcase in front of his chest like a shield and wound his way between the close-set tables toward Leon.

  “Mr. Garber,” he said, proffering his hand. “I am Mr. Summers of LMI, Inc.”

  Leon stood and shook his hand before returning to his seat. “What’s this about, Mr. Summers?” “Summers” seemed such an inappropriate name. Flesh under the man’s eyes sagged, weighed down by seriousness. Bushy eyebrows overcompensated for his bald scalp. His long nose jutted over his mouth, a buzzard’s beak. Leon had met funeral directors with more vitality.

  Mr. Summers swept his hand over the table. “May I?” Leon nodded. Mr. Summers edged out the chair and sat down. With the briefcase wedged just below his chin, he spoke in a hushed tone. “Mr. Garber, I represent Like-Minded Individuals, Incorporated. We are a—shall we say—extremely exclusive and discreet nationwide organization dedicated to providing individuals such as yourself…services.”