“‘Individuals such as myself?’ You mean accountants? I already belong to several organizations.”
Summers’s lips curled up, not quite a smile. “Mr. Garber, we’ve done our research. We know you’re a very successful accountant. Accounting’s not what we’re interested in.”
“Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”
“Yes, well…” He coughed into a cupped fist, shuffling a round-robin glance at the other coffee house patrons. “We know of your—shall we say—proclivity for unusual hobbies.”
Leon’s heart spiked, knock-knock-knocking at his chest’s door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Garber.” One of Summers’s eyebrows raised, pointing toward his bald pate. “You…handle abusers. You dispose of them.”
“This is insane. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you with the police? The FBI?” Deniability is always a safe, if passive, option. Maybe Leon’s only option. “If so, you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else. I think we’re done—”
“Mr. Garber, I’m quite used to this reaction whenever we attempt to indoctrinate a new client. Please take a moment to let this all sink in. And no, I am in no way affiliated with any law enforcement agency, lawyers…or relatives of your past victims.”
The waitress dropped off Leon’s cappuccino. “What can I get for you?” she asked Summers.
“Nothing, thank you.” Without affording her a glance, he dismissed her with a wave. His hand slapped back onto the briefcase with nervous speed. “Now. Since I’ve absolved myself from any potentially damaging affiliations, would you like to hear more?”
A claustrophobic box dropped over Leon, caging him. Tightening. He wanted to leave—needed to leave. He didn’t. Against his better instincts, curiosity won the battle. “Okay, talk to me.”
“Very good.” Like a magician, Summers’s hand vanished into the briefcase and produced a brochure. “This is what Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. is all about.” He scooted it across the table with his fingertips, inch by inch, slowly tempting Leon with his forbidden fruit.
The pamphlet rattled in Leon’s hands. Much to Summers’s apparent amusement, Leon set it down for steadier reading. The verbiage read like typical corporate propaganda—all vague goals and hollow promises. A photo of a round man, beaming like a waxy car salesman and stuffed into a suit, dominated the first page. The caption below read, Arnold Wyngarden, CEO of LMI, Inc. His mission statement heralded his dedication to aiding “Like-Minded individuals” strive for excellence in their undertakings. Leon shoved the brochure back toward Summers. “This isn’t applicable to me.”
Summers chuckled. “Yes, well. They make me present this brochure to all prospective clients.” He slipped it back into his case. “Not really sure why.” He tapped his lips three times, taking his sweet time. “It isn’t really applicable; I agree with you.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Summers.” What at first seemed like a life-threatening situation had now unraveled into a surrealistic exercise in futility.
“Mr. Garber, for a yearly fee—an admittedly steep one—we can deliver what you need.”
“What do you think I need?”
“For starters, how about a list of potential, ah, ‘projects’?” Immediately, Leon liked the term “projects.” Much more palatable than “victims.” “We will procure you a guaranteed list of abusive adults—those who perpetrate their heinous crimes against humanity.”
With great restraint, Leon maintained a solemn face. His underlying excitement bubbled to a fast boil. Sometimes he worried about making mistakes in his work. Even though he researched carefully, very thorough in his homework, the margin for error was higher than he wished. Nagging doubts persisted like an itch in an unreachable place. Finding proven abusers had been tough. Summers’s offer sounded ludicrous…and too fantastic to be true. “I’m listening.”
“Yes, that aspect is usually appealing to our clients. We also offer a certain amount of protection—”
“Protection?”
“We’ve discovered an excellent business model. It truly works. We have—shall we say—‘representatives’ in many states across this great country of ours. We set them up with new identities, place them in jobs, supply transportation complete with valid tags and registration. We provide storage facilities for, ah, ‘work spaces.’ And I’m sure you’ve come across situations before where much needed, ah, chemicals or tools are hard to come by. We arrange for you to receive those. We provide top-notch technical and computer support from some of the finest talent in the world. We even have cleanup crews if so required.” Summers pulled out a pair of wire-framed glasses and cleaned them with a cloth. “Although—for some inexplicable reason—we’ve found most of our clients prefer to do their own, ah, ‘cleaning up.’ Don’t really understand why myself. Anyway, the model I spoke of earlier…we’ve found it very effective to move our representatives to different states after a year-and-a-half’s time. This throws a wrench into local authorities’ knowledge of any, ah—shall we say—‘serial play’ occurring in their states. It also confuses the FBI and other interested organizations. Now, I do realize this makes it hard for one to set down roots, but it’s been our experience, by nature, you like-minded individuals are loner sorts. So it hasn’t been an insurmountable problem for our clients in the past.”
“Mr. Summers, what you’re saying sounds preposterous—”
“Yes, it does sound like an excellent opportunity, doesn’t it, Mr. Garber?”
“If—and I stress if—I am who you say I am—”
“Oh, you most definitely are.”
“If you believe I have done…certain things, might I ask how you came by this information?”
Summers grinned, very pleased with himself. “Mr. Garber, although we certainly admire the caution and precision you utilize in your, ah, undertakings, we, at LMI, Inc. make it our business to know our potential clientele. As I said, we have some of the finest computer minds in the world working for our organization. You’d be surprised what they’re able to uncover.”
A chill ran down Leon’s spine. If this mysterious organization uncovered Leon’s hobby, could the FBI be far behind? “I’ve been very careful.”
“Yes, you have, which is one of the reasons why we’ve chosen you to join us. Our clientele is made up of only the most discreet and cautious like-minded individuals. We don’t go after every cannibalistic hillbilly working the field.” Sudden laughter spilled out in an uncharacteristically high-pitched tone. “We also pursue only the most affluent like-minded individuals. And from the looks of your portfolio—” He tapped his briefcase. Leon wondered just how much damaging information Summers carried around with him. “You shouldn’t have any problem at all keeping up with our yearly dues. As I said…it is costly.”
“How do I know this is on the level? Not some sort of scam?”
“Mr. Garber, there’s obviously a certain amount of risk we assume, as well. Consider us the world’s finest, most cautious insurance agency. I can assure you our organization is quite lucrative, and we have no desire to see it end. It’s in our best interests to see you flourish.” He dashed a hand into his briefcase again. “Here’s a contract. We expect every client to sign it.” He handed the thick document to Leon.
Leon flipped through the pages and placed it face down on the table. “A contract?”
“Yes. We’re very thorough, and we have some fine legal minds tending to our needs. In this contract, you’ll find a very strict agreement of confidentiality.” Summers’s smile slowly diminished. He placed his glasses on his hawk-like nose, pressing them up with a finger. “We fully expect this to adhere to both parties. We keep your secrets quiet and confidential. In the case you should be caught—knock on wood…” he rapped the plastic tabletop several times, “you will be bound by this contract to remain silent regarding us.”
“This is unbelievable. Your organization has lawyers who can enforce this contract? What am
I supposed to do? I can’t exactly take it to my lawyer and say, ‘Hey, can you look this over’?”
“Mr. Garber, the wording in the contract is very…discreet.” Discreet. Summers’s favorite catch-phase. “It will pass the scrutiny of any lawyer. Yet, at the same time, it is a binding contract. It will hold up in court.” He sighed, a hissing radiator. “We’ve not yet had a need for a messy court battle, and we intend on the status quo remaining so.” Summers patted Leon’s hand several times. Startled, Leon wrenched his hand away. “Trust me, Mr. Garber; it’s necessary to insure our mutual safety.”
“I need some time to think about this.”
“Quite understandable. Our clients generally need some time to process our offer.” He stared at his briefcase, as if contemplating what other treasures his “Pandora’s Box” contained. “It’s hard to find willing clients—but we have a few, available upon request—who you may contact for a reference, if so necessary.”
“Not now. Maybe later.” He had absolutely no desire to meet others “like” him. Especially since they were not like him.
“Okay, fine.” With a skeletal grin, Summers scooted a new document across the table. “As a show of good faith, here’s a freebie,” he purred. “See if it pans out. I can assure you it will. This person meets your criteria. All pertinent information is here.”
Leon lifted up a corner of the page. A photograph of a middle-aged man smiled back at him. He pulled it to his lap and gave it a quick read. Thomas Harding. Age: 43. Beats his wife, Dolores Harding, on a regular basis. Everything typed out, a man’s life reduced to a single piece of paper—his address, phone number, education, friends, place of work, hobbies, where he enjoyed going after work. And his heinous crimes. “Impressive. If it’s true. What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I think you know, Mr. Garber.”
“And…if I like what I find?”
“Well.” Mr. Summers stood, his briefcase glued to his chest. “If you like it, we’ll talk. Here’s a card.” He handed Leon a plain-looking business card containing only the name of Arnold Wyngarden, LMI, Inc., and a phone number. “If our gift is to your liking, call Mr. Wyngarden. He’ll take care of matters from there.”
“Wait, money hasn’t been discussed yet—”
Summers tilted his head in a condescending manner and spoke as if talking to a child. “Mr. Garber, how can you put a price on happiness? Mr. Wyngarden will discuss details with you.” He stuck his hand out.
Leon ignored it and asked, “Why do you do it, Mr. Summers? I mean…why does this organization even exist?”
He sat back down with a sigh. “Mr. Garber…I suppose the easy answer is it has been a very, very profitable enterprise. None of us are hurting for cash intake. However the more honest answer would be the corporate structure of America is constantly shifting, changing…evolving. Moneymaking ventures of the past are no longer doing the trick. True visionaries need to shift with the times and create new ways of making money. To succeed, there has to be a need. Or at the very least, a perceived need from the people. At LMI, Inc., we’ve found there is a need for an organization such as ours. There’s a need, and we’re fulfilling it. To answer your question, Mr. Garber…there’s a need for us.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “I must be off, Mr. Garber. Good day.” Ever the magician, Summers vanished out the door, leaving Leon behind to ponder his economics lesson.
* * *
Three days later, Leon sat in his glass cage, brooding over his future. The lead Mr. Summers supplied him turned out to be accurate. Leon conducted his own research on Thomas Harding, auto mechanic. There were several reports of domestic violence at the Harding household, yet no charges were ever brought by his wife. He called several of Harding’s neighbors, posing as a social worker, and ferreted out corroboration.
He sealed the deal and enjoyed it immensely.
The contract posed a problem, though. Leon had a rudimentary understanding of business contracts, having waded through his fair share of them at the office. Still, all the legalese proved daunting. As far as he could tell, the contract was sound and, true to Mr. Summers’s words, very cautiously written. “Services rendered” appeared frequently, always in a nondescript fashion. Most of the pages reiterated the mutual discretion clause to the point of overkill. Leon got it. He wouldn’t talk. They wouldn’t talk.
Decisions. Financially, Los Angeles had been good to him. Years ago, he’d juggled his days at Harvard with several menial jobs until he miraculously landed a job at the first accounting firm he visited. He dug a hole at the bottom, planted his ladder, and sprouted his way to the top. When he reached the top rung, he became one of the chief accountants of Filber, Jennings and Associates. For his dedication and hard work, his bosses rewarded him with his own office, secretary, and an excessive apartment. He owned several cars (one just for show). The paycheck was astronomical, more money than he could possibly spend in a lifetime. He donated a hefty part of it to charity—mostly shelters for abuse victims.
Boredom had set in. Time for a change in his life. Opportunity knocked, and he’d be a fool not to answer the door.
And, of course, abuse wasn’t a geographical-specific disease.
Leon called Arnold Wyngarden.
“LMI, Inc.,” answered the receptionist, “how may I direct your call?”
“Arnold Wyngarden, please.”
“Certainly. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Leon Garber.”
“One moment, please.”
Seconds later, he was patched through. “I’ve been expecting your phone call, Mr. Garber.” His voice was shrill, two pitches too high for a man.
“I believe I’m interested in joining LMI, Inc.”
“Splendid.”
Leon discussed details with Mr. Wyngarden—such as they were. Wyngarden refrained from mentioning anything specific and kept deferring to another meeting with Mr. Summers for the “nitty-gritty.” The details of his first “assignment” would be finalized later.
In another forty-five minutes, Leon handed in his letter of resignation, forever shuttering his once-promising corporate America career.
* * *
Leon had been assigned four different geographical locations, identities, and jobs—everything ran like clockwork. It reinvigorated him. He killed his way across America, taking in the sights, reinventing himself every year-and-a-half. The happiest time of his life.
Now, after five-and-a-half years of successful association with LMI, Inc., the rules had inexplicably changed.
Chapter Three
Only three days into his new LMI sanctioned job and Cody seriously contemplated walking out. Eight hours a day he strapped on a mask at the Kansas City, Kansas, paint manufacturing plant. Bundled in coveralls, he stood in front of a paint dispersal machine, basically just watching the damn thing. The conveyor belt endlessly rotated, going nowhere, just like his life. Top the can off, lift, whack the lid down, repeat. By far the worst job he ever had. A job a monkey could do, a total waste of the Denver Decapitator’s talents.
The buzzer rattled, sounding like an old man clearing his throat (ack, ack, ack…), signaling the afternoon break. Cody slipped his card into the time clock and stepped outdoors for a smoke. At least the weather didn’t suck for December.
His coworkers, a bunch of tools who only cared about their next meth fix, were camped out at a picnic table. Cigarettes trembled in their paint spotted hands.
A particularly slack jawed buffoon called out, “Hey, Toby!” For the life of him, Cody couldn’t remember the guy’s name, just knew him by sight. Be hard to forget his huge-assed mullet. “How’s the job treating ya? Livin’ the dream?”
“It sucks, yo. How you even get through the day?”
The mullet fished out a joint, eyed it, and popped it between his lips. “Gotta’ have juice. You wanna’ smoke?”
“No, man.” Cody didn’t need some random stoner up in his business. He brushed by the crowd, found an isolated corner, and fir
ed up a cigarette.
This shitty, demeaning job. He didn’t even really need a job. The money he pocketed off his Denver conquests kept him pretty flush. Summers insisted he needed a job, though. Something about cops being suspicious of unemployed people.
Not too long ago he held the entire city of Denver in his thrall. People were afraid to go to malls—his favorite prey-grounds. The Denver Decapitator ruled over his kingdom. Cody Spangler. And now he was lifting heavy paint canisters, making sure the tubes hit their marks, unable to escape the lingering, harsh odor of paint even when he was home. Just hanging out with mullets in Kansas.
Truth be told, though, things were getting a little too hot for him in Denver. Investigating detectives filled the newscasts, bragging about closing in on a suspect. Cody saw it as bullshit, meant to shake him up. Yet it troubled him enough to consider a change of venue. Start over elsewhere.
And, like a damn genie, Summers popped up on his doorstep one night to grant his wish. Of course, Cody’s first impulse was to jam his hunting knife into Summers’s throat. Dude knew too much. But the more Summers blathered on—with his big words and holier-than-thou attitude—the more sense he made. The kicker came when he admitted how much he admired Cody’s work. He called Cody an artist. Damn straight, yo!
And for everything Summers promised, Cody couldn’t believe the low price.
But he nearly pulled out when Summers said he’d have to relocate to Kansas. Kansas. Corn, cows, and munchkins. Summers assured him he’d be working in a Kansas City suburb—no backwoods small town. Cody played hard ball, demanded relocation money. They wanted him, they needed to give him respect, what an artist deserved.
The buzzer jarred him out of his reverie.
“Time to get back to it,” said the mullet while stabbing a cigarette out against the building.
“Shit.” Cody trudged inside, his shoulders straining at the coveralls. The rinky-dink outfit couldn’t even give him a uniform his size.
Secret Society Page 2