Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  Downstairs, the neighbor pounded on the ceiling. “Fuck you, yo,” replied Cody. Rolling onto his back, pieces of glass sliced into him. He welcomed the physical pain, a nice respite from his mental anguish.

  His mother. He never wanted to hear her name again. Didn’t want to think about her, didn’t want to remember what she did to him. She hurt him, took away the only thing he ever cared about. She sent him packing, abandoning him to be brought up by a bunch of uncaring shit-heels in one foster home after another. Ultimately, he paid the price for his mother’s crimes, not her.

  And the old man—Gribble—brought it all careening back. Horrible memories he tried to block out. Cody brought his knees up to his chest and held on tight, afraid to let go.

  The old man’s gonna pay for this. No longer fun and games. Gribble crossed the line.

  Cody scowled at the damage in his living room. Shit. Time for a new TV. Maybe LMI would hook him up. Sorta’ their fault anyway. He climbed to his feet and snagged the phone from his hoodie pocket.

  “Hello, Mr. Spangler,” hummed Wyngarden. “I understand you’ve been having more, ah, issues with our mutual friend.”

  “Yeah, Wyngarden, ‘issues.’” His hands shook like an old man’s, deep in the throes of Parkinson’s disease.

  “Let’s relax for a moment, shall we? Now, Mr. Gribble is simply playing mind games with you. He’s not going to contact your mother again.”

  “But he did! That son-of-a—”

  “Yes. Let’s do please curtail the language.”

  Cody rolled his eyes, thought about blasting Wyngarden with some real choice language. “This ain’t cool, Wyngarden. What he did. It ain’t right.”

  “Mr. Spangler, you, of all people, should realize life is decidedly not fair.”

  “He’s decidedly dead!”

  “Let’s not fly off the handle.” Cody paced back and forth, his feet crunching over the broken glass. “Now, take a deep breath and calm down. There. Better, are we?”

  “Whatever, yeah, we’re better.”

  “We’re fully aware what Mr. Gribble did. He did, indeed, phone your mother; however, I can absolutely guarantee nothing was said to incriminate you of any, ah, wrongdoing. Nor did Mr. Gribble find out about your past. It’s a sham on Mr. Gribble’s behalf.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s not important. You’ll just have to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you, Mr. Spangler?” Wyngarden’s delivery sounded wet and rhythmic, footsteps through slush.

  “I guess so.”

  “And I can also absolutely guarantee Mr. Gribble will not contact your mother again.”

  “How the fuck…um, hell…can you guarantee it, Wyngarden?”

  “Yes, well. Mr. Gribble does not want to be caught either. He’s a, ah, stickler when it comes to his own safety. And he intends on honoring our contract. By no means is he going to jeopardize himself—or our rather, ah, tenuous relationship—at this point. Trust me. This will go no further on his part.” Wyngarden sucked in a long breath. “Mr. Spangler, let’s just forget about your photograph for the time being. It’s not enough to put Mr. Gribble away. It could possibly raise more questions as to who took the photograph and why the photographer was down by the river in the first place. We certainly don’t want you implicated in any, ah, questionable activities, now do we?”

  “How do you know about my photo?”

  “Just leave the photograph alone. As I said, Mr. Gribble is an honorable man who intends on adhering to our contract. He won’t be contacting your mother again.”

  “Yeah, whatever. But if he’s such a standup guy, why you wanna’ get rid of him so bad?”

  “We have our reasons. Now!” Cody heard a muffled clap. “Please tell me you have something in mind—a little more subtle, perhaps—of disposing of, ah, our little problem?”

  “I got a plan.”

  “Oh, please do tell. I’m on the edge of my seat here.”

  It was a good thing they weren’t in the same room at the moment. Cody wanted to bitch slap Wyngarden for treating him like a huge dumbass. “Give me the name of Gribble’s last, um, ‘project.’”

  Wyngarden responded in a giddily shrill voice. “Well, now, this does sound promising. I see you’re finally using your head.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Give me the info.” In spite of his dislike for Wyngarden, Cody smiled. He felt like he received a pat on the head from a previously disapproving parent.

  “A Mr. John Smeltzer of Overland Park, Kansas. I’m certain you can read about his disappearance in the local papers.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard about him. He went missing yesterday. Huh. So he was one of Gribble’s, huh?”

  “Indeed, Mr. Spangler. Good luck to you. I believe our conversation has come to an end.” Cody suffered through a rustling sound—almost like airplane turbulence—before Wyngarden came back on. “Oh, Mr. Spangler?”

  “Yeah?”

  “One last thing I believe might prove to be helpful to your, ah, future endeavors…”

  “What?”

  “Owen Gribble’s true name is Leon Garber.” A few extra clicks crossed the line before Wyngarden hung up. Probably his damn dentures falling out, Cody thought. He grinned at the image, and it felt good to grin about anything.

  Back to business. He was a professional, after all.

  Garber was going down once and for all. Dick.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Yo, Mrs. Smeltzer?” Cody couldn’t think of a good reason to disguise his voice. Besides, he liked his voice.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Don’t matter. I’m calling to let you know what happened to your husband.”

  “Oh my God! Is he all right? Where is he?” Her voice hiked up several notches from her initial lethargy.

  “I don’t know where he is now, but the police need to talk to a guy named Owen Gribble.”

  “Owen Gribble. Is he…a friend of John’s?”

  “How the hell should I know? I know he was the last one hangin’ with your hubs. Drinking with him.”

  “Who is this? Where’s my husband?”

  “Look, lady, I’m telling you everything you need to know. Call the cops; tell them he was drinking with Owen Gribble. At Vraney’s, yo?”

  More babbling before she pulled her act together. “How do you know this?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Please, oh God, please. Tell me he’s all right. Tell me he’s okay.”

  “Write this down, lady. Owen Gribble.” He recited Garber’s address. “Got it?”

  “Owen…Gribble.”

  Cody snapped the phone off, kicked his feet up on the coffee table. Sometimes even his own cleverness blew him away.

  Kansas is mine, and I’m here to stay. Get used to it.

  * * *

  Frankly, Sidarski wished he could go back to being bored. Two missing people filled his days and reports. And people like them usually didn’t go missing. Every year, dozens of children and teenagers vanish, a lot of them runaways, some of them abducted by estranged parents. Tragic, but a fact of life every cop learns to accept. On the other hand, when a suburban soccer mom and a white-collar businessman suddenly disappear, the hot button is pushed. The local media didn’t help matters either, exploiting the situation by conjecturing the cases as linked. One damned newscaster went so far as to brand the two missing people an “epidemic.” “Bad journalism” was the only epidemic Sidarski detected.

  With a hand as heavy as his heart, he knocked on Bonnie Smeltzer’s door, his second visit there today.

  “Detective.” She sounded and looked wrung out, her motions slower than bureaucracy. Sidarski suspected intense medication. Not unusual under these circumstances.

  “Hello again, Mrs. Smeltzer. May I come in?” Sidarski stepped in with little patience for her delayed reactions. “Are your kids in bed?”

  “They…they’re at my sister’s.”

  “Probably a good idea. At
least until we find your husband.” When John Smeltzer first went missing, Sidarski dove deep into his background. Several abuse incidents regarding Smeltzer’s children were meticulously detailed, so thorough as to leave no doubt regarding the creep’s guilt. For the life of him, Sidarski couldn’t understand why Mrs. Smeltzer appeared so anxious to have “Mr. Wonderful” back home.

  “Is there any news, Detective?”

  “I’m afraid not, but please tell me about this phone call you received.”

  “It’s like I told the policeman on the phone. He didn’t say much. It was…strange.” She grabbed a piece of paper off a coffee table. “He said John was with this man at Vraney’s last night. Said he was drinking with John.”

  Sidarski blinked at the name several times until it registered. Goddamn! In his hands, he held proof Owen Gribble was somehow involved with his missing people. Or it’s the world’s biggest coincidence. And coincidences rank right up there with Santa Claus and honest politicians. “You’re certain this is the name the caller gave you, Mrs. Smeltzer?”

  “I’m sure. He made me repeat it back to him several times.”

  “What did the caller sound like?”

  Her ankles cracked like knuckles when she sat down. “I don’t know. Young, I guess. He…said ‘yo’ a lot.”

  The desk jockey who took the other Owen Gribble related phone call had said the same thing about his anonymous caller. “Is there anything else you can recall?”

  “I’ve…no.”

  “Mrs. Smeltzer, have you ever heard of this man? Owen Gribble? Do you know him? Did your husband?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t think so. John…he usually only drank with a couple of the same people. Other pharm reps.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “Please find him, Detective.”

  “I’ll try, Mrs. Smeltzer.” He knew his response sounded lackluster, but it was always best—or at least, realistic—to prepare families for the worst. And he had a bad feeling about this case.

  * * *

  Leon wished he could take a second crack at the last hour of his life, one of those crucial game-changing moments. He screwed up, should’ve known better. What did he expect? The young, sociopathic blowhard would roll over and say, “Well played”? Instead, he stoked Cody’s fire higher, igniting him into a murderous rage. And the fire lapped at Leon, forcing him to take a proactive role to avoid the heat. Time to put out the flames by finding answers. He had one last resource to play, a long shot at best.

  Few things frightened Leon. He’d witnessed—and lived through—a lot of ugliness, but the thought of visiting the two Missouri affiliates again filled him with a sickening dead pit in his stomach.

  Chapter Eight

  When Leon first relocated to Kansas, he explored the city, fell in love with the Missouri River for obvious reasons. He also found out a Missouri affiliate lived close by the Kansas City metropolitan area. Years of corporate experience taught Leon to be up front with professional peers before they became enemies. He certainly didn’t want to begin his Kansas tenure by stepping on toes, so he put a call into LMI.

  “Mr. Garber, I hope you’re adjusting well to your new environment,” Mr. Wyngarden had said. “We don’t have a problem already, do we?”

  “No, no problems. Well, there could be a potential problem.”

  Leon practically heard Wyngarden’s smile slip away. “Explain, please.”

  “The Missouri River. It’s perfect for my work. I’d like to check with the Missouri affiliate before I utilize his state’s resources.”

  “I see. To be quite honest, Mr. Garber, we at LMI generally frown upon fraternization amongst our members. Except for exit interviews, an unfortunate necessity.”

  “I understand.” Although Leon didn’t understand, not really.

  “However, since I don’t want to see any territorial feuding, I’ll make an exception. This one time.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wyngarden. I’ve always thought it best to be above board with people in the same line of work.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “Do you have contact information?”

  “No! No, no. Mr. Garber, our Missouri affiliates are…a very different kind of, ah, breed. They’re not the most social of people.” Leon should’ve listened to the giant warning bell clanging in his head. Plus Wyngarden indicated there were several Missouri affiliates. Very unusual. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Mr. Garber. Let me contact them. If they’re amenable to the idea, I’ll have them get in touch with you.”

  “Sounds fair. Thank you.”

  “Why, it’s part of our services. We at LMI strive to please our customers.”

  Wyngarden called back the next morning. The Missouri affiliates had extended a dinner invitation to Leon. He hadn’t expected anything so formal, particularly since Wyngarden said they weren’t social, but he couldn’t exactly decline the offer. After giving Leon their home address, Wyngarden left him with a warning to “prepare” himself.

  In the past, Leon had met a few of the other affiliates when they handed their turf over to him. The “exit interview” generally consisted of the current affiliate’s view of the local police force, suggestions for good depositing grounds, and basic strategies. Not all of the affiliates chose to do exit interviews. The few Leon had met were strange, introverted men. He thought himself well equipped to meet the Missouri representatives. He thought wrong.

  After a forty-minute drive, Leon’s GPS system guided him to the affluent section of Independence, Missouri.

  Leon pulled into the winding driveway, checking the address to make certain he had the right house. Lit up like a sunny day, the triple-story home glowed in the black of night. Two long windows flanked the front doors, greeting him with vacant, curtain free eyes. It hardly seemed like the home of someone in his line of business. Particularly someone wishing to keep a low profile. Perhaps they adhered to the motto best to hide in plain sight.

  Leon grabbed the bottle of chardonnay and approached the front door. A young girl opened the door before he knocked. Solid black ringed her eyes, her lips painted a pale shade of purple. Leon placed her in her early twenties, yet with her raven black hair pulled into two pigtails, she may’ve been younger. Hard to tell decipher through her age obscuring make-up. She wore a sleeveless vest over a t-shirt tucked into a leather miniskirt. Dark sheer stockings with a spider-web design flowed down her legs, secured into high top tennis shoes. A knowing smile curled at the corners of her mouth. She leaned against the door, yanking at one of her dangling pigtails.

  “Ah, good evening. I was expected for dinner? I hope I have the right house.” Leon knew he did. He stepped back anyway to read the numbers next to the door. “Is…your father home?”

  The girl tittered, pressing black painted fingernails to her lips. “Silly, Mr. Garber. My father doesn’t live here. I killed him a long time ago.” Yeah, he had the right house. She stepped back, swaying her hand inward like a dog’s wagging tail. “Come in. We’ve been expecting you.”

  The multitude of lights and lamps blazing through the house blinded him. A chandelier overhead glistened, composed of hundreds of hanging crystal prisms. European-styled furniture filled the rooms, most of it whiter than snow, all of it looking very uncomfortable. A spiral staircase, with wood carved railings, wound up toward a landing. Large paintings of pastoral countryside vistas hung upstairs, small lanterns lighting them like museum displays.

  Leon gripped the bottle of wine, uncertain if he should hand it over to the girl.

  She called upstairs, “Gustav, Mr. Garber’s here.” She turned back toward Leon, giving him a head-to-toe once-over.

  Leon stuck his hand out. “Hi. You know who I am, I guess. Leon Garber.”

  She smacked her hand against her skirt, wiped it, and grabbed Leon’s hand. She firmly shook it once. “You can call me Delilah.” She called up the stairwell again. “Gustav.”

  A door whined open on the landing. A shadow bobbed across the w
all and grew. Leon squinted to see the figure, his eyes still dazzled by the spectrum of lights. “Hello, Mr. Garber. Welcome to our home.” The voice sounded high-pitched, squeaky as inhaled helium. “I’m Gustav.” Leon saw no one. He lowered his gaze to below the railing. From between the wooden slats, a short man—a little person, no more than three feet and a few inches tall—peered down at him. With his fists curled around the slats, he looked like an infant imprisoned in a crib. He bounded down the stairs at lightning speed and stepped into the light.

  Looking dapper in a tailored suit, his blond hair was styled with too much product, a whole lotta style, and parted to the side. A miniature version of old world nobility. His blue eyes twinkled as he proffered his hand. Leon shook it, restraining his usual strong grip. He needn’t have bothered. Although Gustav’s hand was small, his clench felt anything but.

  Leon kept a solemn face, or at least tried to. Not what he expected. “Hello, Gustav. Please, call me Leon.”

  Gustav laughed. “It’s fine, Leon. Most people are usually taken aback by our appearance.” A slight European accent—German, perhaps—hinted at his background. “It’s part of our allure, wouldn’t you say, Delilah?”

  With an earbud in one ear, Delilah swayed back and forth to unheard music. She smiled vaguely, looking rather bored.

  “I brought a bottle of wine.”

  On tiptoes, Gustav read the label. “Ah, Cullen’s 2002. An extraordinary wine from Australia. You show refined taste.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a shame Delilah can’t partake. Not yet, at least.” He swiveled toward Delilah, his leather shoes squeaking upon the hardwood floor. Crow’s feet materialized around his eyes when he grinned. “She’s more of a ‘power drink’ kind of person.” Delilah nodded, still shimmying. “Please...to the dining room.” Gustav swept his hand toward another well-lit room.

  Leon sat down at a long, polished wooden table. He caught his reflection over the table’s surface, pale as chalk. Gustav walked toward the other end, while Delilah vanished into what Leon assumed to be the kitchen. “Please excuse Delilah. It’s our arrangement I prepare the food, she does the serving.” Gustav grabbed a cloth napkin and, with a flourish, snapped it into his lap. “I certainly hope you’re not a vegetarian, Leon.”