Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  Loud static blared from the policeman’s shoulder radio. Cody shot up in shock, banging his head against the van’s roof. A woman’s voice spouted several incomprehensible numbers and words. The officer responded, keeping his flashlight glued on Cody.

  “It’s your lucky day, Mr. Grainger.” He approached Cody, holding out his license and registration. Cody hustled to meet him halfway before he reached the canister. “I’ve got an emergency.” The cop leapt out of the van and ran to his car. “Get those taillights fixed now!”

  Cody waved at the cop, who already had his car in reverse, and said, “Yeah, eat shit.”

  After locking himself inside the van, Cody sat in silence. Once his initial fear subsided, rage rushed in like a tsunami. He squeezed the steering wheel, ratcheting himself back and forth. His growl started low, built into a scream. Seconds later, hysterical laughter overtook him, tears bleeding from his eyes.

  He felt wildly alive, nowhere close to using up a cat’s nine lives. Nothing could penetrate his invulnerability.

  “Goddamn!”

  Okay, so the old man’s a player. It’s on. It is so on.

  The phone rocked him in his seat. “Jesus!” Unavailable, it read. As always. “Yo!”

  “Yes, hello, Mr. Spangler, this is—”

  Cody cut him off. “What can I do ya’ for?” He couldn’t stand Wyngarden’s voice; he sounded like two alley cats screwing.

  “Mr. Spangler, it’s come to my attention you haven’t, ah, taken care of the Owen Gribble problem yet.” Cody envisioned Wyngarden sitting in a garden, sipping—sipping, for God’s sake—some fruity cocktail with an umbrella sticking out of it.

  “Dude, give me time. I tried, but the guy’s a playah!”

  “Yes, we’re very aware of what has transpired.” Wyngarden cleared his throat. “I must say we’re very concerned with your methods. What you did was extremely sloppy and potentially dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Yes, well, take care of it in a more…discreet manner, please. Do you know what ‘discreet’ means, Mr. Spangler?”

  “Yeah, I know what ‘discreet’ means. I’m not stupid, yo.”

  “Yes, hm, well. Take care of it and keep a low profile while doing so.”

  “You don’t gotta’ worry about me, Wyngarden. I’m always—what did you say?—‘discreet.’”

  Wyngarden sighed like a hissing teakettle. “Your little game with the, ah, let’s call it ‘special bundle’ was anything but discreet.”

  “How you know ‘bout that?”

  “We make it our business to know our clientele’s business, Mr. Spangler. So, we would appreciate a modicum of composure and caution on your end while we hold up our end.”

  “Okay, yeah, got it, whatever.”

  “Oh, and Mr. Spangler?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You need to get your taillights fixed immediately and do get rid of your ‘special bundle.’”

  “Seriously…how do you know all this?”

  “Mr. Spangler, you don’t think the officer who just questioned you was called away by coincidence or the hand of God, do you?”

  “You guys had…something to do with the cop leaving?”

  “We’re holding up our end of the contract. Do please tend to your end.” Cody held the phone to his ear long after the line had gone dead.

  Those guys were spooky and apparently everywhere. Kinda scary, really. And kind of comforting knowing he had guardian angels watching his back.

  Chapter Five

  Leon lived life by his rules; they’d worked out pretty well for him so far. While wrangling Smeltzer’s wrapped body from his storage unit to his car, he considered adding a new rule: don’t target abusers larger than himself. A behemoth of a man, Smeltzer wasn’t easy to transport.

  Leon’s first rule, of course, was never get involved with any of his projects or their victims. Really, don’t get involved with anyone. Just the thought of Rachel made him realize how close he was to tipping over the rule’s edge. He couldn’t shake her crooked grin, her piercing green eyes.

  The second rule, practically his mantra: only target abusers. He had reasons; reasons he’d never shared with anyone. Plus, if he sought out innocents, he’d be no better than Cody or any other psychotic killer. A tenuous line, to be sure but a line he wouldn’t cross.

  Although technically not a rule, Leon allowed himself one conceit. For every completed project, he took a photograph of the abused victims from the perpetrator’s wallet, a trophy. In Smeltzer’s case, he took two photos—one of a young boy, the other of his little sister. Certainly risky keeping the photos on hand; yet extremely well worth it. He’d study the keepsakes, reaffirming how many children and spouses he’d saved from further abuse. Lately, though, technology made it harder. Wallet photos were a relic of the past, cell phones the memory carriers of today. Leon begrudgingly accepted this innovation, although nothing could compare to the tactile sensation of actually holding a photograph. Still, he had to keep up with changing times. Sometimes he felt the world moving below his feet while he stood still, the law of physics forsaking him.

  Leon’s third rule was simple: no blood. Absolutely no blood. Didn’t have the stomach for it. Again, he had his reasons. The primary reason why he drugged his projects first before suffocating them. A humane form of punishment.

  Finally—and perhaps, most importantly—never leave evidence. No DNA, no weapon, not a drop of sweat. Simple equation: no body, no murder. To the best of his knowledge, none of his projects had ever been discovered. Missing flyers, posted on telephone poles and hanging in post offices, acted as his projects’ secret tombstones.

  The Missouri River provided the best solution for project disposal. Twenty minutes away and just over the state line into Missouri, he’d successfully used the river for every Kansas venture.

  A small, rarely traveled bridge—ridden with potholes and in dire need of restoration— crossed the Missouri River into North Kansas City, surely a hubcap collector’s dream spot. Sometimes Leon could feel the ancient bridge swaying in the wind. Most drivers wisely chose the newer six-lane alternate route a couple of miles to the East, but Leon loved the old bridge. Sometimes too much, a heartbreaking sort of love.

  A little before midnight, he drove onto the bridge’s shoulder. He opened the car’s back door, stoking himself for the strenuous task ahead. Wrapped in dark brown sheets and tied with rope, Smeltzer’s body resembled a giant sausage stuffed into a casing. A damn heavy sausage, one that would provide the fish with massive heartburn. Grabbing Smeltzer by the ankles, Leon dragged him to the railing, stopping to catch his breath several times.

  An airplane roared by overhead, the resultant backlash shaking the unsteady bridge. The full moon shined brightly over the river’s surface; ripples of light shimmered, broke, and distorted like a funhouse mirror. A train whistle cried out from across the river, a lonely greeting on this chilly evening.

  Leon hoisted the body up onto the bridge’s railing. Smeltzer’s torso dipped over, his bound feet stubbornly planted on the pavement. Center stuck. Hard to imagine how much heavier the bundle would’ve been if Leon had used his cinder blocks. As heavy as Smeltzer was, though, Leon considered the blocks unnecessary. Then again, fat floats. Hell of a time for a science experiment.

  Leon bent, grabbed Smeltzer’s ankles, and wrenched up. The body slid, gravity finishing what Leon started. Smeltzer’s feet kissed the railing goodbye. The package rolled through the sky, twisting head over feet. The formidable splash shattered the moon’s reflection. The water calmed and settled. Leon waited a few minutes to ensure Smeltzer didn’t come bob-bob-bobbin’ back up.

  Satisfied he’d seen the last of Smeltzer, Leon remembered a silly—yet appropriate—childhood song and started humming it. “When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbin’—”

  “Hey! What’re you doin’?”

  Leon’s heart jumped. Cold panic froze him. He turned, squint
ing into the darkness. A haggard looking man stepped forward. His down coat had seen better days, white tuft insulation spilling out like clumps of snow. The fingers on his gloves were worn, exposing red fingertips. A scarf—more like a blanket remnant—draped loosely around his neck. Gray, curly hair poked out underneath his knit cap.

  “I saw you throw somethin’ into the river.” The man’s mouth fell open, a black hole dotted with rotting teeth.

  Leon opened his hands in a friendly gesture. “Okay, sir, you got me. I was throwing away some trash. I know I shouldn’t do it…but I’m sure you’d agree times are tough.”

  “Yes, sir. You don’t have to tell me about the economy.” The man grasped the railing and leaned over, peering into the dark water. “Didn’t look much like trash. Looked…heavy.”

  “I don’t know what you think you saw…” Leon’s hand wavered over the man’s back. One push is all it’d take. One simple push…

  Leon stuffed his hands into his pockets, ashamed—and more than a little frightened—he’d even considered disposing of the homeless man. He wasn’t an abuser, at least as far as Leon knew. Unless you counted self-abuse. Still, something had to be done about him.

  “You sure did have a hard time with your trash. Yes, sir.” He ran his hand along the side of Leon’s car. “Nice Volvo. I had me one of ‘em once, you know. How ‘bout helpin’ a brother out?”

  “I’ll give you some money for a hotel room and a hot meal. I’ll even…buy you something to drink.”

  A gleam brightened the man’s dull eyes. Leon arrowed his bull’s-eye. “That right?”

  “Sure. Get in the car.” The man obliged.

  * * *

  The longer Cody dwelled on it, the more pissed he got. He fixed his taillights in the auto parts store parking lot. Wasted almost all of his partying money, too. And now he had to get rid of the head, shuttering his evening out.

  Maybe he could still hit the bars for a couple hours. The hotties would be good and toasted later in the night anyway. A short detour to the Missouri River, heave the head in, be at the bars by twelve-thirty. A good plan.

  The River Quay area proved to be a bitch to navigate, though, damn near impossible finding the riverfront. The one-way streets corralled him into endless dead ends like a rat in a maze. He drove in circles, his temper rising. Finally, he stumbled upon a small brick road crossing over a railroad track and dumping him by the river.

  He hopped out of the van, the canister under his arm. A bed of rocks butted up against the river, tricky to step across. At the river’s edge, he took one final, fond look at the head before filling the canister with water. Twisting around to gain momentum, he hurled the can into the river with an Olympic athlete’s grunt.

  * * *

  The man smelled like a trash bin and rattled on non-stop. Leon breathed through his mouth, hoping to quell the stench.

  “What’s your name?” he asked Leon.

  “Ah…Robert.”

  “I’ll be dipped in shit. That’s my name, too.” He shook his hands about, running his fingers over the car’s interior like an inquisitive child. “What’s the likelihood of that happenin’?”

  “Huh. Small world.” Leon despised his plan, uncertain of its viability. Desperate times, though. Robert could describe Leon and his car to the police. However, if Robert drank enough, he might black out the night. Enabling Robert’s vices seemed a better outcome than the alternative.

  Green neon lights announced the liquor store’s open status, the only one Leon had found in the area. “What’s your drink of choice, Robert?”

  He cocked one eyebrow up. Without hesitation, he blurted out, “Whiskey.”

  “Okay, stay in the car. I’ll be right back.”

  Leon grabbed two bottles and paid the cashier, keeping his gaze locked on the counter. When he stepped outside, he saw Robert standing behind the car studying the license plate. Leon waved the bag at him, luring him back into the passenger seat. “I told you to stay in the car.”

  Robert lunged for the liquor sack. Peeking at the treasures inside, he smacked his lips. “My, my. Mother’s milk.”

  “Drink up.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Before Leon started the car, Robert broke the seal and tilted the bottle up. Gump, gump, gump…“Ahhhh.” He dragged a tattered sleeve across his mouth and turned to face Leon. “So, tell me something…how come you lied about your name?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I looked at your registration…in there.” He tipped the bottle toward the glove box. “Says you’re…Owen Gribble.”

  Goddamn it. “Not that it’s any of your business, Robert, but I just bought the car. Owen Gribble must’ve been the previous owner’s name. I haven’t registered the car yet. Go ahead…drink up.” Robert took another long gulp, followed by an ecstatic sigh. “Besides, I think you got the name wrong.”

  “No sir, I did not! I may not be what I used to be…” he tapped his temple, “but I’ve got a memory like a steel trap.”

  Great. A drunk with the world’s greatest memory held Leon’s freedom in his grubby hands. “No, I think you’re mistaken.”

  Robert lurched forward, reaching for the glove box release. “Let’s just see.”

  Leon struck out, slapping Robert’s hand away. “Let’s not. This is my property. Please respect it as such.”

  He glowered at Leon, surly distrust in his eyes. “Fine.”

  “Drink your whiskey. How about if I drop you at a hotel?”

  Robert released the bottle from his lips with a flat thump. “No, my stuff’s down by the river. You can just give me some money for a motel, and I’ll find my way there.”

  Leon drove over the railroad tracks and stopped on the narrow dirt road running parallel to the river. “Where to, Robert?”

  “Down ways, a yonder,” he said, pointing in more directions than one.

  Leon slowly made his way down the strip until his headlights lit upon a vehicle parked underneath an overpass. “Ah, how about you get out here?”

  “It’s a chilly night. Just a little bit further. Go on.” He tapped the windshield. “Go on.”

  As Leon crept closer to the vehicle, his skin tightened at what he saw. A dark green van. The type Cody drives. He braked and said, “Get out here.”

  “What? I told you just a little bit farther.”

  “Get out now!” Leon leaned across Robert and shoved the door open. The dome light flashed on, pitching everything outside into darkness. “Get out!” Leon fumbled for his wallet. After ripping out three twenty-dollar bills, he tossed them outside. “There’s your money! Get out!”

  Robert snatched the sack of whiskey and tumbled out onto the ground. A breeze picked up one of the bills, sailing it down toward the railroad tracks. On all fours, Robert crawled after it.

  Leon slammed the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  An engine revved, growling like a mechanical dinosaur. Bright headlights snapped on. Tires screamed, an animal in a trap. The van barreled toward him.

  Leon slammed the gear into reverse. Cranking the steering wheel, he floored the gas pedal. The back tires hesitated, spun, unable to grasp solid ground in the mud. The tires caught, knocking him back against the seat.

  The van raced toward him, thirty feet away. Moonlight exposed the van’s cabin. Cody sat behind the wheel, eyes wide, laughing. Crazed.

  Shifting into drive, Leon pulled left and punched it. The back tires lurched, the tail end snaking a wicked trail. The Volvo flew down the dirt road, sixty miles per hour, seventy, climbing. Not fast enough. Cody’s headlights blinded Leon in the rearview mirror, growing brighter. So bright he thought he felt the light’s heat.

  An abandoned factory stood straight ahead, tall gates barring his way. Out of options. As he bore down on the gates, Leon waited, ticking seconds off in his head. The gates loomed, deadly black steel pipes puncturing the sky. At the last possible moment, he yanked the steering wheel right, leaning int
o it. Behind him, Cody swerved into a tailspin.

  Leon bounced over a set of railroad tracks at full speed, his head banging into the roof. He sped alongside the river’s waterline, praying it would lead somewhere. Anywhere. The right tires ate at the rock bed, spitting up pebbles and raining them down with a clatter. Beneath his left tires, dirt turned into mud. The car tugged right then slid back as if changing its mind. A quick glimpse in the mirror showed Cody struggling as well; a giant, green turtle lumbering through the mud.

  A train’s whistle shrieked. The engine chugged, coming on strong, shattering the night.

  Leon’s car crawled to a stop, his heart threatening to do the same. He thrust his weight against the steering wheel hoping for the smallest kick start. Cody’s lights blazed and flared like lightning behind him. The van slowed, tapping Leon’s bumper. His tires spun with an asthmatic wheeze, turning, going nowhere. Mud flipped onto his back window.

  The train’s horn snarled louder, boasting of its impending, unstoppable arrival.

  Suddenly the van’s headlights diminished.

  Leon dared to hope Cody had given up, but he knew better. The kid didn’t quit.

  He hated being right.

  Cody’d backed up, now buzzing his motor like a chainsaw. The back end of the van whipped. The tires found traction. Lights flooded Leon’s mirror. He braced himself for impact, gripping the steering wheel tight. The van crashed into him, popping his car forward. Taking advantage of the jump start, Leon punched the gas pedal. His tires scrabbled before gripping earth, the momentum propelling him up the slight incline. Ten feet away, the train rocketed along the tracks, whistle screaming. Leon stomped the gas pedal. Slanted on the incline, he felt one blown tire away from rolling over. He pulled ahead of the train’s engine, not far enough. Faster. Ninety miles per hour. One hundred. Had to be now. Locking his arms, he twisted the wheel all the way. His front tires ratcheted over the railroad tracks. The train flew toward him, closer, 240 tons of unforgiving, metallic death on wheels. The horn bellowed. His windows rattled like bones. The back tires popped behind him, thrusting him the last few feet to clear the tracks. As he slid into an abrupt halt on the dirt landing, the train snarled by him.