Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  “Can I help you, sir?” A young clerk gawked at him, suspicion coloring her face. “Ah, no thank you.” Her gaze traveled south before wrinkling her nose up. Without realizing it, Leon had buried his hands in a lingerie sale bin when he looked out the window. He plucked out a brassiere, showed it to the clerk. “Um…for my wife.” His nervous hiccup of a chuckle didn’t help matters. The clerk left without a word, occasionally glancing back at Leon, public enemy #1.

  Leon looked out into the mall again. His eyes locked directly onto Cody’s. With a small yelp, Leon hopped behind a lingerie-clad mannequin. The mannequin wobbled, threatening to drop. Leon steadied it, his hands wrapped around its impossibly thin waist.

  Cody’s expression had been blank, nothing new, really. Surely he hadn’t seen him, but Leon couldn’t assume anything when it came to the kid

  An older employee approached Leon. “Are you interested in buying something or not, sir?” she snipped.

  “Fine.” Leon thrust a handful of brassieres at her. “Ring them up.”

  The clerk nodded and waddled to the register. Leon risked another glance out the window. No Cody. No woman. Flustered, Leon grabbed his wallet and yelled, “How much?”

  The clerk narrowed her already small eyes. “I’ll let you know in one moment, sir.”

  Leon ran to the counter. “Here. Sixty dollars should cover it.” He tossed several bills down and bolted out of the store, foregoing his merchandise.

  He spotted Cody stepping outside. Leon raced toward the exit, full-on sprinting by the time he reached the doors.

  Already in the middle of the parking lot, the woman walked in a hurry. Cody followed, closing the distance between them. He tightened his hood like an executioner’s mask.

  Leon ran into the lot and dropped behind a car. Poking his head up, he looked through the car’s windshield. Cody had one hand raised. Under the lamplight, something glinted in his fist.

  Leon had to make a choice. Either save the woman’s life or call 911. No time for both.

  His decision made, Leon jumped to his feet. He took in a deep breath, preparing to scream. Sudden, yet muffled, music edged its way into the night. His warning shout froze in his chest.

  Cody halted. He dropped his cupped hand to his side. The woman whirled, startled to see Cody so close behind her. She took a few small steps back. Her hand flipped up, keys splayed like claws between her fingers. Cody tossed her a frustrated backhanded wave as if to excuse her. She ran to her car, her footsteps receding into the distance.

  The music stopped once Cody answered his phone. “What? Where?” He snapped the phone off.

  Leon braved another look. This time Leon had no doubt Cody saw him. A menacing smile stretched across Cody’s face. He stabbed two fingers from his eyes toward Leon. “I see you, old man. I know you’re there.”

  Cody stalked forward, muscles coiled, his eyes seething.

  Leon shot up. He turned to his left, bumping into a car’s fender. An ear-shattering alarm triggered. Car lights flashed. In a panic, Leon lost his balance and rolled off a car’s trunk, tumbling to the ground. On all fours, he crawled. His feet slipped over the pavement, unable to gain traction. At last, his toes dug in, gripping earth. Lifting off his knees, he sprang to his feet. He twisted around. Cody had once again vanished.

  An engine revved. The van came to an abrupt, screeching halt in front of Leon. “Looks like you’ll live to see another day, old man,” Cody called out. He tore out onto Ward Parkway, leaving a trail of rubber and smoke in his wake.

  As Leon passed the growing crowd of onlookers, his heart beat triple time. He pulled his fedora lower.

  * * *

  Pumped up on adrenaline, Cody pounded the roof of the van. Before long, his half-hearted anger lapsed into laughter.

  Goddam! How in the hell did Wyngarden know Garber was watching him? Without Wyngarden’s call, Garber woulda’ probably called the cops or something.

  Things just got fun.

  Too bad about the woman. There’ll be others, though. The world’s full of them—his own apple tree, the fruit ripe for his plucking. But there was only one full-on, balls-to-the-wall adversary playing in his court.

  Still, the old bastard taunted him about his mother. A shitty thing to do. Uncool. While Cody enjoyed playing the game, he looked forward to Garber’s demise even more.

  If the bum didn’t call the cops, Cody’d take care of Garber himself. No more pussy-footing around. Wyngarden wouldn’t like it. Too bad. It was time to dirty his hands.

  And maybe he’d drag it out for as long as possible.

  * * *

  Arnold Wyngarden hung up the phone with a weary sigh. Although overweight, he felt small and insignificant within the bountiful folds of his over-sized chair. LMI, Inc. did everything to excess because they could afford to, the chair being no exception.

  When he attempted to blink the opposite wall into focus, a murky blur rewarded him. Even though his eyesight had worsened with age, he prided himself on his sharp mind. Still at the top of his game.

  So why was this Kansas initiative such a drain on him? Because it was the first time one of his “experiments” didn’t proceed like Swiss clockwork. Over the course of his lengthy service to LMI, Wyngarden had masterminded numerous experiments, taking care of liabilities in his own manner while always keeping in mind LMI’s number one edict: Be Discreet. The top brass recognized his successes. They showered him with money. However his true pleasure came from manipulating people—very special people—to do his bidding. A perk he took upon himself. Something to keep his job entertaining. He considered it the ultimate chess game. Not once had he even broke a sweat.

  Until now. The Kansas operation had the potential to go belly up. He felt pressure from Mr. Rasmussen—so far just a small anvil, but he saw it dangling above his head. LMI loved their assets when an operation lived up to its potential, but if one thing went wrong, that was when Wyngarden really heard about it.

  The damned Spangler kid. At first Wyngarden found it uproarious when his field operatives uncovered this rude, arrogant child as the Denver Decapitator. For his own amusement, Wyngarden offered Spangler a bogus LMI opportunity at a ridiculously low entry fee if he, in turn, took care of the Leon Garber problem. He had no doubt Spangler would inevitably self-implode leaving LMI’s hands clean. What he didn’t foresee was Spangler’s out-of-control cowboy act. Unmanageable to a point, Spangler insisted on doing things his way. In hindsight, Wyndgarden should’ve known better. Instead, he let his joy of playing the game blind him to LMI’s true goals—market expansion, and above all else, non-existent visibility.

  He supposed the game could still be won. His two players were on the board, waiting to cancel each other. But as it stood, two fairly prominent Kansas citizens were “missing,” police interest was piqued, just a matter of time before the FBI started circling Barton, Kansas. LMI needed to be protected at all costs. No matter what it took.

  When the phone rang, Wyngarden’s sour mood worsened. Only one person had access to his direct line.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rasmussen.”

  “Mr. Wyngarden.” Rasmussen’s typical greeting—an agitated declaration, no time for social niceties. “I see our Kansas operation is still unresolved.”

  “Yes, sir. Please allow me more time, and I will quietly and satisfactorily resolve the situation.” Wyngarden pushed his squat body up in the chair before he started sinking into the upholstery again.

  “Mr. Wyngarden, this is a serious situation.” Disdain filled the old man’s voice, a tone only money and power entitled. “With the previous Kansas affiliate, we were in the black. Now we’re nearly in the red. We simply can’t allow this to happen.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m on it.”

  “Mr. Wyngarden…do we need to take you off this situation?”

  “No, sir!” Wyngarden wondered if a black mark might be in his future. “I made a vow to LMI to take care of the situation, and I fully intend on keeping that vow.”

/>   “LMI now has market penetration into thirty-eight of our states, Mr. Wyngarden. LMI’s ultimate goal is to blanket our fine country and expand our interests abroad. Right now, the problem in Kansas is providing quite an obstacle.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “The return on investment on Mr. Garber was quite fruitful in the past, but he’s now become a liability to our projected growth. He’s made the outcome of this hiccup into a mission critical. The two Kansas affiliates must be downsized immediately.” Rasmussen issued a long musical wheeze, a chorus of sound. “If you’re unable to take care of our pending issues, Mr. Wyngarden, do you know what our next step will be?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It means we have to go to business process outsourcing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know this is our last case scenario. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have you been with LMI, Mr. Wyngarden?”

  “Nearly thirty-five years, sir.”

  “Thirty-five years, Mr. Wyngarden. Quite a long run with us, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “And in that time, you’ve seen how LMI started. And what we’ve become. And what we intend to become. Is this correct, Mr. Wyngarden?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Through the years, we’ve created an entire new way of conducting business…a true paradigm shift, if you will. We are the future of this country—the world—in the way business is conducted. We’re staying ahead of the curve. We’re molding the future. It’s crucial we keep complete management invisibility. It would be a…true shame if we let two nominal affiliates stand in the way of our future. Is this understood, Mr. Wyngarden?”

  “It is, Mr. Rasmussen.”

  “I suggest you take care of our situation once and for all. Otherwise…we may have to devise an exit strategy.”

  The line went dead, leaving Wyngarden to ponder for whom Rasmussen’s proposed “exit strategy” might be intended.

  Chapter Ten

  A lone candle’s flame flickered over the mantle. Blues riffs flowed out of the speakers, another tale of lost love. To Leon, the music seemed tantamount to torture. Leon always listened to the blues while feeling adrift, even if it wasn’t the most healing music. He wondered if he suffered a streak of masochism, another troubling character flaw to add to his ever-growing list.

  A tentative knock at the door brought him out of his inner inventory. Immediately, he disqualified Detective Sidarski. He’d buck at the door like an agitated bull. And, of course, Cody would bypass the door completely. No, he’d barrel in, fists pumping, demanding satisfaction. Still, Leon couldn’t be too careful. He grabbed a chef’s knife from the kitchen.

  Squinting through the peephole, he saw Rachel making a hasty retreat down the sidewalk. He slipped the knife onto the mantle, flipped on the living room light, and opened the door.

  “Rachel?”

  Rachel turned and gave Leon her half smile. “Um, hi, Owen. I know it’s kind of late—”

  “It’s fine. I was up.”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.” Leon swung his door wide. “I was just listening to music.”

  She stepped inside and said, “You have a nice place.”

  “Thank you. Let me get your coat.” While Rachel shimmied her coat off, Leon noticed the scarf still bundled around her neck. “Have a seat.”

  Leon turned the music low and sat next to her on the sofa. “What can I do for you?”

  “First, sorry I was a bitch today.”

  “You weren’t. No worries. Can I get you something to drink? My options are fairly limited, a bottle of water, maybe?”

  “I’m fine.” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, a procrastination technique Leon recognized. “I just thought I owed you an explanation about what happened last night. With Travis, I mean. I didn’t want to say anything at work. You know how people talk.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Anyway, last night, I told Travis it was over, and I didn’t want to see him again. He asked me if there was another guy. He asked if I was seeing you. I told him he was being stupid. Can you believe his arrogance, Owen? I mean, he thought the only reason I’d dump him is because of another guy. Not for one minute did it ever cross his…Cro-Magnon brain it might be because of something he did. I told the bastard it was over. Because he hits me!” She choked as if the physical embodiment of her words battered her. “Sorry, sorry…”

  “I’ll be right back.” When Leon returned with a handkerchief, Rachel was composed, her hands folded in her lap.

  “In case you need this.”

  She took the handkerchief, wringing it in her hands, far from her eyes.

  “Thanks. Owen, at first he denied beating me…” She wagged her head in disbelief. Yet Leon considered this an encouraging step. She appeared ready to make a move, feet firmly planted in the acceptance stage. “Jackass denied beating me. Can you believe it?”

  “They’re wired that way. Abusers. They’re sick.”

  “Whatever.” She threw her hands up, the handkerchief trailing like a kite-tail. “I told him to get out. He said he wasn’t going until he got a real answer. Things turned ugly fast.” She picked at the knot on her scarf. The scarf fell away, revealing symmetrical red marks on her neck. Finger impressions. “He choked me, Owen. The bastard choked me!”

  Although Leon suspected as much, sudden rage burned through him. His vision blurred. Darkness swam at the periphery of his eyes. Quick horrid flashes of his life—his past life—raced through his mind. Dizziness overcame him, a psychedelic miasma snatched from Hell’s palette of colors. Pain impregnated his brain, evolving into a migraine headache.

  Sounding miles away, Rachel said, “Owen? Owen, are you okay? Your pupils are dilated…”

  Leon struggled to form words, his voice craggy, drowsy. “I’ll be okay…” He stood up, teetered, and fell back to the sofa. Hanging his head in his hands, he silently counted to ten.

  “Owen?” Rachel’s hand caressed his back.

  “I’m…okay. Must’ve been something I ate. I’m okay now.”

  She daubed his forehead with the handkerchief. “I think you need this more than I do. You’re soaking wet.”

  He managed a feeble grin. “I’m fine now. Really.” He meant to grab the handkerchief, but he missed. Instead, his hand found hers.

  “Owen, are you sure you’re okay? It looked like you were having a…seizure or something.”

  “No, really, I’m fine. Weird. It was like…a sudden blast of dizziness, but it’s gone now. Sorry. We’re here about you…not me.”

  Rachel tilted her head, suspicion in her eyes.

  “Okay, what happened after Travis choked you?”

  “I kicked him in the balls, then he let go. I don’t know, Owen, I was in kind of a haze. I was freaked out. I just remember him screaming, making threats, howling! I threatened him with a restraining order. He laughed, called me names, said he’d be back. He left, but…” her hands flew to her face as if seeking shelter, “what am I going to do, Owen?”

  Draping an arm around her shoulders, Leon pulled her closer. “You’re going to do what you said you’d do. You’re going to get a restraining order.”

  “What if it doesn’t work? He’ll come back! I just know it.”

  No he won’t, thought Leon, not if I have anything to do about it. “Let the police do their job. Get the restraining order. I’ll go with you if you want me to.”

  She pushed him away. To Leon, it felt like a symbolic gesture of her emotionally distancing herself as well. “No. Thanks, but…no. This is something I have to do myself.”

  “I understand. Just please—for your own safety—please follow through. Okay?”

  She nodded. Then she gave him a heartbreaking smile, the kind usually reserved for high school breakups. “I like this music. Who is it?”

  “John Lee Hooker. King of the blues.”

  “It’s
good.”

  “Yep.”

  Rachel shuddered out a deep breath, a cleansing ritual after a good cry. “You must think I’m a mess. I’m sorry to burden you with this.”

  When she stood, Leon followed. “Rachel, you’re not a burden. And you’re definitely not a mess.” He placed his hand on her cheek, stroking it. “You’re beautiful.”

  Glimmers of hope sparked in her eyes. Maybe something more? She hugged him. Her body felt warm and full of life—alien attributes to Leon. Her lips brushed his cheek with a small kiss, one of promise. Leon cupped her face. Staring into the green wells of her eyes, he looked for a sign. He saw it, followed it. His lips pressed and played over hers; her tongue darted and explored. Hands roved, touching areas previously wondered about. Finally, she broke the embrace.

  Rachel glanced down to the floor, embarrassed. “I’ve, ah, got to go.” Without lifting her gaze, she dashed for the door.

  Leon wanted to go after her. He didn’t. Couldn’t. “Rachel, I’m sorry if I took liberties I shouldn’t have.”

  She stopped at the door, her shoulders bunched up as if she’d just stepped into an arctic wind. When she turned around, she smiled. Her beautiful, crazy, half-mouthed smile. “No liberties were taken that weren’t enjoyed, but I do need to go.”

  She left, leaving Leon more shaken than before her visit.

  * * *

  Leon awoke disoriented, the bed sheets soaked with sweat. His dream had been vivid, real to the point he thought he was a ten-year-old back in his childhood home again. During the years he used to naively consider happy ones. Since he was sixteen, those years hadn’t crossed his mind. By choice. He’d done everything he could to exorcise those memories through sheer willpower. And many years of childhood therapy.