Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  Leon sat, his nerves suddenly on edge. “No…I haven’t. They found a head in the Missouri River?” He’d been so wrapped up with his problems lately he hadn’t been keeping up with the news. It had to be Cody’s victim. And if the police found the woman’s head, Smeltzer’s body might be next.

  “It was the missing woman. The one who vanished from the Barton Mall several days ago.” She embraced her shoulders, shuddering as if cold.

  “Okay. I’ll be on the lookout for psychos.”

  “Just be careful, Owen… You never know about people.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” He wanted to tell her just how right. This time when he kissed her, he did so tentatively, a sense of melancholy overtaking him.

  * * *

  Leon trudged up the sidewalk, checked the tape above his door, and entered his apartment. Too late to go back to bed and too early to go into work. He felt tense, needing to do something to take the edge off.

  He found the box on the closet’s top shelf and blew the dust off. When he bought the GPS bug sweeper several years back, he put it away without using it. Having aligned with LMI, he thought it redundant. Ironic how things change.

  Leon replaced the batteries and tested the power. A high-pitched shriek emanated from the device. Quite a flawed design, actually, as anyone listening in would hear it. While moving about his bedroom, he held the sweeper at arm’s length. In the living room, he found what he suspected, yet hoped he wouldn’t. He dismantled the lamp. A very small cylindrical object—no larger than a pencil’s eraser—fell out of the base. The sweeper’s incessant beeping left no doubt it was a bug. He rolled it between his fingers, contemplated throwing it down the toilet, and then reconsidered. No sense in destroying it. LMI would just replace it. And maybe he could use it to his advantage.

  Leon felt violated. His life—such as he knew it—had irrevocably changed, and LMI orchestrated it.

  * * *

  “What do you mean he’s in a meeting?” Cody stalked through his apartment, ready to climb the walls. “Did you tell him it’s Cody Spangler calling?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Spangler, he’s in a meeting and left word he’s not to be disturbed.” The secretary grew increasingly snippy. Obviously she had no clue how important he was to LMI.

  “Listen up, yo. Just go in there and tell him Cody Spangler’s on the phone. Wyngarden’s always got time for me.” In the last twenty-four hours, Wyngarden had been in a meeting twice when Cody called. Surprising he got anything done. “Just tell him!”

  “Mr. Spangler, I’m sure you believe your business with Mr. Wyngarden is of the utmost importance; however, I’ve been left explicit instructions he’s not to be disturbed.”

  “Goddamn it! Just get his ass on the line. Now!” After the receptionist responded with silence, Cody issued a hasty apology. “All right, sorry, whatever. Just have him call me? Immediately? Tell him I got the Garber issue under control.”

  “Are you finished with your message, Mr. Spangler?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” He slapped the phone off—not nearly as satisfying as slamming a rotary phone down—and tossed it onto the sofa. “Shit!”

  He wanted to shove his plan in Wyngarden’s face, show Wyngarden he was a helluva’ lot smarter than he gave him credit for. But now Wyngarden wouldn’t take his calls. What’s up with that?

  Cody hopped over the arm of the sofa, landing on his back.

  The incident with the dog still bugged him. There weren’t any cameras at the animal hospital, none that he saw, at least, and he kept his hoodie up. Of course he shouldn’t have got all up in the doc’s face. The doc could identify him. But he couldn’t have left the dog at the house either, just couldn’t do it. The dog would’ve died. No, he did the right thing. The only thing he could have possibly done.

  * * *

  “Mr. Spangler called again, sir.”

  Wyngarden didn’t realize he’d been stroking the flask’s neck until he saw Ms. Strugatt’s disapproving snooty look. At least the flask gave him something tangible to latch onto. Unlike the increasingly out-of-control mind-games playing out half the country away in Godforsaken Barton, Kansas. “Hm? Oh. Thank you, Ms. Strugatt.”

  “Are my orders still as is, sir?”

  “Indeed. Mr. Spangler is now persona non grata. We will no longer accept either his, or Mr. Garber’s, phone calls.”

  “Yes sir.” A sadistic smile twisted up on Ms. Strugatt’s lips, a smile Wyngarden despised. The only time Ms. Strugatt displayed anything other than mild indifference was when misfortune struck others. And she relished the hot spot he found himself in now; he absolutely knew it. She gave one firm nod, her hair rigid in a tight bun. Wyngarden watched her strut down the hallway, hating everything about her from her stiff as a board, curve-free form to her haughty sniffs that spoke volumes. He’d worked with Ms. Strugatt for nearly twenty years, and his intense dislike grew over the decades. Efficient and loyal to a fault, just not to him. She’d throw him under a bus if it meant furthering her LMI career. He knew better than to trust her, at times even suspecting her of spying on him. Not such a wild theory; LMI had spies everywhere.

  Wyngarden surrendered the battle over the bottle, opened the flask, and poured himself a shot of Scotch. He doubled it, swallowing it in several gulps. Here’s looking at you, Los Angeles.

  Beneath the smog-lathered skies, the businessmen below appeared small and inconsequential, yet now he envied their safe, dull lives. Not too long ago, he enjoyed his office view. Now those days were long gone. Just as the smog covered the blue skies in a haze, increasing paranoia smothered his mind with uncertainty. He’d be a fool to disregard his paranoia. LMI’s reach extended far, and the methods they used to gain what they desired were effective and extremely frightening.

  He jumped when the phone rang, not that it was unexpected. “This is Mr. Wyngarden.”

  “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think, Mr. Wyngarden?”

  Wyngarden quietly set the glass onto his desk. He wondered where—and for how long—the cameras were hidden. “Yes, sir, Mr. Rasmussen. It won’t happen again.”

  “Mr. Wyngarden, the Kansas initiative has become entirely unmanageable.”

  “Sir, if you’d give me just a little more time, I—”

  “Too late. You’ve been given ample opportunities and time. The liabilities in Kansas—and Missouri, for that matter—are piling up. Your little social experiment has been rendered mission critical.”

  Wyngarden closed his eyes tight. He knew what came next. “Yes, sir.”

  “We need to develop an immediate exit strategy while maintaining complete management invisibility.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have no other recourse. I’m calling in our best business process outsourcing team. Do you know how much I dislike doing that, Mr. Wyngarden?” His not-so-veiled threats sounded thick as syrup, not nearly as sweet.

  “Yes, sir, I do. Do you want me to set it up?”

  “No, Mr. Wyngarden, I do not. You’ve done quite enough…quite enough.”

  “I, ah, understand, sir.” Wyngarden felt cast out from Heaven, his wings clipped, his once shiny halo tarnished. He hoped he’d be allowed to continue an earthly existence.

  “Apparently I’m the only one I can truly count on. You are not to do anything else regarding the Kansas situation, Mr. Wyngarden. I will contact our business process outsourcers. In the meantime, our two Kansas affiliates are now both black marked. Expect an immediate exit strategy.”

  Rasmussen rattled like a radiator then hung up. Wyngarden opened the bottom desk drawer and stared at the contents. He set the gun down in front of him, gently caressing the cold steel.

  He contemplated his life over the next several hours in this manner.

  * * *

  When Leon arrived at work, Matt Scherlinger stood hovering over Rachel’s desk. “Whoa. What happened to you, Gribble?” His good-natured, good morning smile traded out for shock as he gave Leon a thorough o
nce-over.

  Leon tossed his hands into the air. “Slipped in the shower. What can I say?” The ice pack helped reduce the swelling, but the bandage underneath his eye screamed out for scrutiny. Rachel winced as if experiencing Leon’s pain.

  “Little too much of the good stuff, huh?” Matt dumped an invisible bottle toward his mouth.

  “Afraid not. Nothing that interesting. Just clumsy.” Leon turned toward Rachel, fighting the urge to throw caution to the wind and embrace her. “Any messages for me, Rachel?”

  Rachel wagged her head; her half-cocked smile loaded and flirtatious. “Just one. Your ten o’clock cancelled.” She held a note out to Leon. When he grabbed it, his hand lingered over hers.

  “Good, good. Maybe I can get more work done today. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Matt appeared puzzled and for once, at a loss for words. Leon scooted by him, seeking solitude in his cubicle.

  “Gribble. Owen!” Matt followed closely on Leon’s heels. He lowered his voice and peeked at Rachel over the cubicle wall. “Are you…tapping that?” He jerked his chin toward Rachel as if speaking her name would ruin his wildest fantasies.

  “No, Matt, I’m not ‘tapping that.’”

  “Come on, man. I saw the way you two were all…you know…” Words failing him, Matt flapped his hands about and batted his eyes instead, never the most eloquent of accountants. “You can tell me.”

  “I’m not sleeping with Rachel. Besides—if I were—I wouldn’t say anything about it.”

  Matt belted out a whoop before stifling it. “I knew it! Man. Man. How is she?”

  “Matt…” Leon swung his chair around to face his computer, hoping Matt would take the hint. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, whatever!”

  Leon stood. “I’ve got to take care of something.” He stepped around Matt and made his way to the IT offices.

  “Morning, Bernie.”

  “Owen, hey. Um, we need to talk.” Bernie looked outside his office and pulled the door shut.

  Immediately, Leon sensed something off. Bernie thrived on nervous energy, but, today, he appeared more fidgety than usual.

  He shook his head solemnly as they both sat. “Okay, okay. I couldn’t find anything, Owen. So I got my boy on the job. The Fox called me last night. He said it took some doing. Said these guys—these LMI guys—are good. Damn good! They don’t exist. Or they don’t want people to know they exist. The Fox tracked the signals halfway around the world and back. They’ve got relays bouncing their source everywhere. It’s crazy, but they’re not as good as my boy, the Silver Fox.” Bernie beamed with pride before lapsing back into restlessness. He slipped Leon a folded piece of paper. “Here’s an address. Their corporate headquarters.”

  Leon recognized the address—downtown business district, Los Angeles. Hiding in plain sight. “Thanks, Bernie. I appreciate it.” He reached for his wallet. “Now, how much do I owe ‘Mr. Fox’?”

  “No, dude, forget it. The Silver Fox said he doesn’t want your cash.”

  “No, a deal’s a deal.”

  “Dude! Just put your cash away!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Bernie slapped his hands down onto his desk. “Something weird happened, Owen. I’ve never seen the Fox so…freaked before.”

  “What happened?”

  “After the Fox finally found the address, he got a call. Dude! The Fox is unlisted from everyone. This caller…he used a voice modulator and everything. He told the Fox to stop looking into LMI. I guess he…sorta’ threatened him if he didn’t quit. It spooked my boy. He told me to give you this, but…” Bernie cleared his throat for a long time, as if afraid to complete his thought, “he doesn’t want your money. And you have to swear to keep quiet about his involvement. He’s pretty freaked.”

  “Tell the Fox I’ve never heard of him. And thank him for me, would you?”

  Bernie shook his head. “I think…he never wants to hear your name again, Owen. Seriously, this might be—” His voice lowered to a whisper, “Just who are these guys, anyway? What are you really involved in?”

  “It’s like I told you, they owe me some cash for services non-rendered. Nothing more.”

  “Whatever you say, Owen. I’d be careful if I were you. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  * * *

  “Rachel, my ten o’clock changed his mind. He wants to meet with me after all.” Leon had one arm through his overcoat, one foot out the door. As much as he wanted to talk to Rachel, he had little time to make it to the payphone.

  Flummoxed, Rachel waved a piece of paper as proof of his client’s cancellation. “Owen, are you sure? He told me he was going out of town on a business trip.”

  Leon shrugged, averting his eyes. He hated lying to Rachel. Even though everything she knew about him was more-or-less a lie. “He postponed his trip. If Capshaw comes looking for me, tell him I got called into a meeting.”

  “Is everything okay? You look a little—I don’t know—pale. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No. Thanks, anyway.” Leon swept his gaze around the office, saw everyone hunkered down behind their cubicle walls. He darted in for a quick kiss. “Thanks. I mean it,” he whispered into her ear.

  She smiled, her teeth whiter than snow. One eyebrow lifted provocatively, a silent promise of many more nights of magic.

  In the elevator, he lingered on the tantalizing image of Rachel. He wished he’d studied it longer. He’d never see it again.

  * * *

  Leon sat in the car, clacking a couple quarters together in his hand like a pair of dice. The young man on the payphone looked heavy into a heated conversation, his free arm chopping out argumentative points. With only four minutes remaining within his time window, Leon left his car.

  It had to be important news if Skeeter risked contacting him again. Something beyond crucial. He lingered next to the caller, belaboring his watch with a sigh. The kid continued rambling, explaining how his car broke down at Kwik-Shop, running through incoherent directions.

  “May I?” Leon grabbed the receiver before the kid could answer.

  “Hey, man, what’re you doing?”

  Leon turned toward the brick wall, hunching his shoulders up against the young man’s protests. “Where are you now?” After the person on the other end of the line gave his address, Leon hurried through directions then hung up. Turning toward the kid, Leon said, “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Leon raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to get a clue.

  “Shit…” The kid shuffled off, kicking his high-tops across the sidewalk.

  “Telephone,” answered Skeeter.

  “It’s me.”

  “Dude! I didn’t think you were gonna’ make it.”

  “Yeah, well, I had an issue to take care of here. What’s going on, Skeeter?”

  “No names.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Dude, the shit’s really hit the fan.”

  Leon bit down on his lower lip, wondering how things could possibly be any worse. “Talk to me.”

  “Okay, this Spangler kid?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, he’s been black marked, too.”

  “You know why?”

  “No, man. Just…whatever’s going on in Kansas there, it’s apparently a real cluster of crap. And, sorry…that’s not the worst of it.”

  Leon leaned against the brick wall. He felt the initial pangs of another migraine forming, the first he’d suffered since the night he spent with Rachel. “Go on.”

  “Okay, I don’t get a lot of this, but, from what I know, they’ve placed an exit strategy on you two.”

  “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  “Yeah, dude, think it does. They’re coming for you now.”

  Goddamn it. Goddamn it! Leon closed his eyes, mentally bidding adieu to his newfound happiness as it slowly circled the drain. “Okay. Who’s comi
ng for me?”

  “Dude, I don’t know. But…I’ve heard stories. Stories about some guys they call ‘business process outsourcers.’ From what I understand, they’re real, um, professionals. And they’re supposed to be scary sons of bitches.”

  A thought occurred to Leon. Something he’d filed away in his mind some time ago. Because, at the time, the project had bugged him like a nasty itch. “You don’t think…all of this might have something to do with the Van Deusen…um, project, do you?

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! TMI. I know nothing, hear nothing, see nothing.”

  “Fine. Do you know anything else? Anything at all?”

  “No, sorry, dude. That’s it. Just be careful who you trust. It could be anyone. And, man, watch your back, ‘kay?”

  Before Leon could thank him, Skeeter hung up. He stumbled toward his car, his vision weakening from the growing migraine. Barely making it into the driver’s seat, he slumped down, considering what options he had left. If any.

  * * *

  The worry lines book-ending Rachel’s eyes hadn’t been there before. Leon braced himself for more trouble, the only constant in his life these days. “Owen, thank God you’re back.” She hugged Leon, burying her face in his chest.

  “Rachel, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s…Travis. He’s missing!”

  Leon staggered back a step, dragging Rachel with him. His mind reeled from the implications, none of them good. “What are you talking about?”

  “The police are here. They want to talk to you. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Leon grabbed her hand, led her through the cubicle maze and into the lunchroom. “Here, sit down.” She complied, never loosening her grasp on Leon’s arm. “Now. Tell me what’s going on.”