Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  He’d frame Garber as the Denver Decapitator. Chop the head off two birds with one stone. Or something like that.

  First thing tomorrow, he’d call in sick at work. “Work.” What a joke. His real work started tomorrow by following Garber. He knew where Garber lived, where he worked—just a matter of waiting for opportunity to come knock-knock-knocking his way.

  Chapter Twelve

  The rap at Leon’s car window startled him. Frankly, he didn’t know why. With all the unexpected visitors he’d received lately, he should be used to it.

  Rachel stood outside, the wind stirring her hair and dress. She clenched her teeth together, warding off the chill.

  Leon turned down the window and rolled out a smile. He felt idiotic, as out of control as a schoolboy in love, all emotions on autopilot. It couldn’t be helped.

  “Well, here.” Her closed fist pushed in and opened. A white blossom of paper parachuted down to his lap.

  “What’s this?”

  “My address. Just in case, you know, you want to come over for a cup of coffee. Or whatever.”

  Leon pocketed the paper. “I just might take you up on your offer sometime.”

  “Sometime?”

  “Sometime.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long.” She looked in both directions, over-acting with “spy eyes,” before planting a warm kiss on Leon’s lips. “A reminder not to forget.”

  He heard her giggle, just once as she ran toward her car.

  Falling in line behind the rush hour traffic, Leon turned on the radio. An improvisational jazz trio deconstructed a world of cacophony, the discordant drumming beating inside his head. He snapped it off, listening only to the lulling hum of the car heater.

  In spite of his pounding headache—and everything causing it—his thoughts lingered on Rachel.

  He was kidding himself, though. It’d be absolutely impossible to live a normal life with Rachel. Not now. He’d have to give up his work, something he didn’t know how to do. Afraid to do, as long as he was being honest. Or trying to be honest.

  A relationship wouldn’t be fair to Rachel. They’d be living a life of lies. She didn’t even know his real name. She didn’t know him at all.

  Idly, he drummed his fingers across the steering wheel, watching the other cars inching toward their homes—the bliss-filled homes of “John Nine-To-Five” stocked with wives, children, and dogs.

  Sudden self-awareness—aided by an unhealthy dose of self-loathing—spiked Leon’s headache. His stomach kicked him. He lurched over the steering wheel, nearly tapping the car in front of him. One scrawny whimper emanated deep from within his chest. He locked his lips together, afraid of what might come out. Afraid of losing control completely.

  He wondered why he’d been deprived a “normal” life. The realization he arrived at hurt. Badly. Simply put, he didn’t deserve happiness. Cruel inhuman monsters are punished for their sins. Hell on Earth. He merited every bit of his punishment, too; the same way abuse victims feel they deserve their horrific path in life.

  Yet…yet, why should he be denied the pleasures the rest of the world thrived on? He tried to make a difference by righting wrongs, granted by his own admittedly unorthodox methods. Was he truly that horrific? He didn’t choose to be that way. And he couldn’t help what he did. No more than a heroin addict can deny a fix dangled in front of him.

  Maybe a healthy relationship would supplant his drive to do what he does. A relationship with Rachel.

  Rachel…

  Leon needed to pull it together. He had work to do. His thoughts chased around in circles, going nowhere. Just like his current drive through the western section of Corporate Woods.

  Following the curving, labyrinthine streets in the office park, he searched for the address. After finding the building, he parked in the center of the lot. And waited.

  He tapped out four ibuprofen tablets and washed them down with bottled water. For good measure, he splashed some water on his face. He patted his face dry, probably harsher than was necessary.

  Travis Bergenstein needed to be dealt with. Permanently. Yet Leon knew if Travis came to a violent end, Rachel would be mortified, even given everything Travis had done to her. And, of course, if Rachel suspected Leon had something to do with Travis’s demise, she’d never forgive him. He wouldn’t allow it to happen.

  Flying directly against his rules, Leon chartered a different course with Travis. Reasoning. Sounded simple, should be, probably wouldn’t be. Animals don’t listen to reason. But for Rachel’s sake, he had to try. And maybe—just, maybe—a small part of Leon wanted to do it for himself. Call it testing the waters for the humanity he coveted.

  Besides, if Travis wouldn’t listen to reason, he always had the option of revisiting Travis at a later date. Thinking this way was getting ahead of the game, though.

  Boisterous voices filled the lot around him. The business men of suburbia filed out of matching buildings, content in surviving another day in corporate hell, even if just temporarily so. Backs were slapped, insults and boasts traded before they separated to their cars. And still no sign of Travis.

  Leon contemplated going up to Travis’s office, but he would be squarely on Travis’s battleground. He’d be at a large disadvantage. A prosperous law firm probably packed some serious security heat. Better to meet him on neutral ground.

  The crowd continued to pour out, the steady stream slowing to a trickle. At nearly six o’clock, Travis exited the building, striding across the lot. Leon took in a deep breath and abandoned the safety of his car.

  “Travis.”

  Travis stopped and dropped his briefcase at his feet. “You! What do you want?” He sneered, torturing his gum with fervor.

  “I’d like a minute of your time, and then I’ll leave.” Leon stood four feet in front of him, out of arm’s reach.

  Travis stalked forward, his fists bunched up. “I’ve got nothing to say to you. No. You have nothing to say to me.”

  “Listen to me, Travis. You need to leave Rachel alone. I know you beat her. She wants nothing to do with you anymore.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? How is this your business?” He stepped closer. “Did she tell you I beat her?”

  “She didn’t need to. I saw the wounds you left on her. Takes a big man to beat up a woman.”

  “Are you doing her? Is that it? You screwing my girlfriend?” Travis’s hands jutted out, thumping Leon’s chest. Leon stumbled back and quickly regained his footing. “Is that what this is about? I knew it. Bitch!”

  “First of all, she’s no longer your girlfriend. Secondly, what she does now is none of your business.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Travis lunged. Leon ducked, barely dodging Travis’s swinging arm. Leon jumped up, grabbed Travis’s arm and shoved. Clang. Travis’s face banged into a car door with a satisfying crunch.

  Yuppies gathered, a mob in tailored suits. “Travis, what the hell?”

  Travis clambered up, seething. “This son of a bitch is screwing Rachel!” A red-headed man tensed, looking ready to pounce. “Now he’s coming here and slandering me.”

  Leon tossed his hands up as a peace offering. “Look, that isn’t true. Your friend’s abusing Rachel. He’s beating her…choking her!”

  “Yeah, right, whatever,” said the red-haired man. “What do you say, Travis? You need help taking the trash out?”

  “I got this, Bill.” Travis leaped, taking them both down. Leon’s head met the pavement with a wet-sounding crack. Pinpoints of light dotted his vision. Shadows fell over him as the lawyer posse corralled. Straddling Leon, Travis pulled his hand back, slapped him hard. “This is for the lies!” His fist hammered Leon’s face. “This is for screwing my girlfriend!”

  He tasted blood, salty and bitter. His right eye felt numb, his head a lead dead weight. The migraine peaked, sharing the pain indiscriminately and sparing no parts.

  Half lucid, Leon saw one of the men attempting to pull Travis off. “Tr
avis, come on. Cool it! He’s had enough.”

  Travis howled to the sky while rising to his feet. Then he left Leon with a parting kick to the ribs. “Dick! Asshole!”

  “Come on, Travis, let’s go.” The men retreated, congratulating Travis on a job well done. Just another day at the men’s club.

  The sky swelled into a black cloud. Parking lot lamps bent like rubber. Leon lay there for several minutes, unable to move. Too terrified to move. His chest throbbed, patting out a steady tap-tap-tap. Something strange sounded from far away, drowning out the buzzing in his head. The distant—but not so distant—sound came from him. Croaking sad laughter.

  His mission of peace went further than south, took a shortcut straight to Hell. He hadn’t anticipated Travis’s backup bullies. Pressing charges was out of the question. It’d be his word against four lawyers, Leon the odd man out. Cuts and bruises, a possible black eye, maybe even a cracked rib were his humanitarian trophies.

  And Rachel...dear God, what will she think?

  He buried his delirious laughter with one last small sob.

  Is this what normal life feels like?

  * * *

  So, Garber’s got himself a girlfriend. A little old for Cody’s tastes, still pretty damn hot. He imagined those long legs wrapped around him, how wild she’d be in the bedroom. But as a professional, he cleared his mind, preparing for the job ahead.

  For the last hour, Cody’d been watching Garber’s car from across the street. He cranked up the death-metal, anything to relieve his boredom. After a few moments, he’d had enough. Whoever said patience is a virtue is full of crap.

  Finally, Garber left work.

  As Cody followed Garber, his anticipation grew, excitement tickling the back of his neck. He couldn’t understand why Garber was hanging out at another yuppie company, though. He had Garber pegged as a nine-to-five drone; punch the clock, home in his lounger by six, glass of expensive wine in his hand, pinky finger extended. Maybe he’s stalking his next victim. Cody’d never vicariously experienced another man’s kill before. Could be a kick.

  Garber parked and sat in his car. The way Cody liked to do it—watch and wait for the perfect opportunity. Cody pulled alongside a line of trees and kept the engine running. After adjusting the camera lens, he captured Garber in his sights.

  Soon, Garber left his car and approached a beefy-looking businessman. Rather than make a move as Cody thought he would, Garber just talked to the guy. Until the fists started flying.

  “Whoa!” Cody roared, jealous he couldn’t be in on the action. The businessman pummeled Garber, the way Cody’d imagined doing so many times. Too much. Just too friggin’ much!

  Even better, he heard opportunity knocking again. Garber just handed the cops a motive for murder, complete with a pack of suited witnesses. A win-win situation waiting to be exploited.

  He punched the gas pedal, over-gunning the van out of exhilaration. When his back tires screeched, he broke into a giggling fit. Restraining himself, he carefully moved out into traffic, following the large businessman.

  * * *

  As the night grew longer, Sidarski still hadn’t eaten, caffeine his only fuel. His stomach gurgled, empty unless you count burning acid. With the image of the woman’s head imprinted into his brain, food just didn’t sound good at all. Maybe tomorrow.

  Sidarski had been through every available Barton Police Department database. If the admittedly outdated databases could be relied upon, Owen Gribble never existed before Barton—a phantom presence with no ties, information, affiliates, education, or previous work history. Interesting. Very interesting.

  Obviously, something about Gribble was off. Even Sherman, of all cops, thought so. Gribble’s solitary life seemed peculiar. Handsome, moderately successful, a bright career ahead of him, still young enough to settle down with a family, but the man lived in a cave. An occasional solo movie outing, maybe the gym, not much more. Absolutely no past life and no current life to speak of.

  Sidarski considered asking the Feds—who’d swarmed down upon Barton like a red-taped bureaucratic plague—to run Gribble’s name through their privileged databases. Kind of stupid, really, how the big boys wouldn’t share their toys; it should be about justice regardless of government pecking order.

  Yet hesitation held him back. He had nothing concrete other than several suspicious phone calls about Garber. If Sidarski presented anything less than damning evidence to the Bureau, they’d simply pat him on the back, tell him to go and tend to domestic disturbances. And it was his case, anyway.

  There was more at play than just his bruised ego. In the past, the Feds earned his distrust when they botched a case he’d been working. Three years ago, someone merrily stabbed his way through the homes of Wyandotte County. Sidarski had a very good suspect. By the time the Bureau’s paperwork was signed, dotted, and notarized, his suspect had taken a flyer. Still out there somewhere, too. The thoroughness and professionalism the Bureau prided themselves on led to a likely killer escaping. No amount of ass-covering paperwork could ever make up for good, instinctual police work.

  No, for now, Sidarski would remain invisible to the men in black, as invisible as Gribble wanted to be.

  Sidarski typed in another name. Toby Grainger.

  “Goddamn it.” Again, no information on the Grainger kid. Two ghosts in one day, quite the haunting. Sure, the kid had youth on his side and might not have a record, but there had to be something. Nowadays, every kid had an Internet presence. Seemed highly unlikely Grainger didn’t.

  Sidarski tapped his phone, entertained second thoughts, and then made the call.

  “Denver, Colorado Police Department,” answered a bored voice.

  “Hello, this is Detective Brian Sidarski with the Barton, Kansas P.D. I need information—whatever you can find—about a former resident of Denver.”

  When the on-duty detective inquired as to why, Sidarski brushed him off with a “potential person of interest.” The Denver detective turned snippy, all small talk comparing Kansas and Colorado weather coming to an abrupt end. With a sigh, he told Sidarski he’d get back to him in the next day or so.

  Sidarski had no reason to suspect the kid of anything. Not really. However, he distinctly heard him say “yo.” A lot of kids say “yo” today, treating it like punctuation and a pejorative. Grasping high, probably swinging low, but the best way to seek out connections was to take some leaps. The Grainger kid said “yo” just as the mystery phone caller had. Several times. Quite a coincidence.

  Sidarski put as much faith in coincidences as he did the Feds’ abilities.

  * * *

  The blue BMW shined brightly beneath the southern Johnson County streetlights, making it easy to follow. The neighborhood homes stood tall and pompous, just like the yuppies who lived in them. Newly planted trees, tethered by rope and spikes, anchored every yard. Cody despised the suburbs. Wealth built the homes; class arrogance supplied the foundation.

  He also hated how closely the houses sat together. His work could sometimes be noisy.

  The BMW turned into a driveway. The electric garage door grinded up, extended out like a taunting tongue, and then folded back inside. The man drove in, closing the door behind him. All lights in the house were off, a pretty good indication he lived by himself. If he had a wife or, even worse, kids, it could be a problem. Not insurmountable, but a pain nonetheless.

  For having such a large body count to his name, Cody marveled he’d never killed a dude before. Not that he was afraid to kill a man or anything. He’d just never had a reason to do so. Not until now. Trepidation filled him. He doubted he’d get off on this like his other kills. Probably not, but, whatever, business was business. And art was art.

  Cody watched the house’s lights come to life as the man traveled through his home. The curtain-free windows told him a woman hadn’t yet forced her castrating touch to the décor. It also meant he’d have to be extra-cautious where he made his kill.

  He recalled Garber’s
beat-down with a smile. What the hell did Garber do to deserve it? No doubt Garber had it coming, but once Cody saw the aggressor, he knew he didn’t like him either. The way he strutted about in the parking lot, just another typical, cocky jackass who looked down his nose at anyone not in a high-paying, fancy-ass job. Stuck-up douche-bag. He gripped the steering wheel and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. Maybe he’d enjoy the kill after all.

  Cody placed his coveralls and power saw into a plain, brown box. He tossed his mask and gloves in beside them and sealed the box with a large roll of packaging tape courtesy of Royale Paint. Digging into his tool box, he found his rarely used deliveryman shirt. He flapped it out onto the floor, attempting to straighten the wrinkles. Realizing how futile his efforts were, he made a mental note to buy an iron in the future. He hadn’t needed the shirt for several years, but was glad he kept it. A surge of nostalgia swept over him, made him miss his old Denver delivery job. The shirt had been the only keepsake he took from the job—well, he took quite a few lives as well—and it’d proven to be useful. People liked having packages delivered to their door, their greed making it easy to gain their trust.

  When he slipped into the shirt, the buttons pulled, threatening to snap apart. He’d put on a lot of muscle since his Denver days. Not much to do in Kansas except work out. The tranquillizer gun slid easily, felt like a comforting back slap, between his shirt and belt.

  Another quick check of the time confirmed his suspicions; time had stopped. Only seven minutes had passed while he made preparations. He chipped away at dried paint (today’s color “Floral Yellow”) on his fingernails with the edge of a key. Counting identical houses proved to be a boring, short-lived game. Kansas radio provided nothing except for talk and country.

  The hell with it. Let’s get this show on the road.

  Besides people don’t open their doors to midnight deliverymen.