The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Billie? What’s the matter, honey?”

  “Justine,” she said and he turned. Justine’s shoulders began to shake.

  “What is it, princess?” Mark said rising. “What’s wrong?”

  Justine’s response was to cry harder. Mark scooped her out of the chair and held her in his arms.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Billie cried.

  “Justine, honey. What’s wrong? You can tell us. Come on, honey. Don’t be afraid. Do you have a pain someplace?” Justine shook her head, glancing quickly at Bernard who was leaning over the table now and gaping up at her, his arms and hands completely hidden. “Then what is it, honey?”

  “Justine?” Billie said, touching her arm. “Something frighten you?” Justine nodded.

  “What, honey? What’s making you afraid?” Mark asked. Justine hesitated and then looked at Bernard. “Mr. Lyle? He’s frightening you?” Justine nodded. “Oh, you shouldn’t be afraid of Mr. Lyle. He’s a nice man who just came here to see that you’re okay.” Justine remained skeptical, her tears continuing to flow freely, her body still trembling.

  “Why is she afraid of you, Mr. Lyle?” Billie asked. Bernard smiled.

  “I think,” he said nodding softly, “that she remembers me. Is that it, Justine? You remember me?”

  Justine nodded.

  “I don’t understand,” Billie said. “Remembers you from where? Doctor Goodfellow’s house?”

  “No. She remembers me from her own house and the car ride, don’t you, Justine?” Bernard asked. His tone of voice was still quite soft, pleasant. Justine had no compunction about replying truthfully and no reason to think she should lie. She nodded again.

  “What does that mean, Bernard?” Mark asked with more concern. “Her house? Why would she remember you from her house?”

  “We had to go get her,” Bernard explained.

  “Go get her? But I thought…” Mark looked at Billie. Her hands were pressed against her bosom, her face crimson with fear. “We thought…her parents were dead and she was in a temporary home.”

  “They are dead, in a sense,” Bernard said.

  “In a sense? Now wait a minute,” Mark said. He lowered Justine to the floor. Instantly, she turned and ran out of the room.

  “Justine!” Billie cried.

  “Let her go,” Bernard said.

  “What?” Mark said.

  The eggs began to sizzle in the pan.

  “There’s no point in her being here for this,” Bernard said and brought his hand up from under the table. Clutched in it was his .357 Magnum.

  “What the hell is this?” Mark demanded. He put his arm around Billie, who gasped and brought her small right fist to her mouth.

  “Mop up,” Bernard replied. He stood up.

  “You’re not from Doctor Goodfellow, are you?”

  “I came from Doctor Goodfellow’s house,” Bernard said, “but Doctor Goodfellow didn’t send me.”

  “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m rapidly becoming an executive type,” Bernard explained. “And I told you, I want to mop up.”

  “Mop up? What is that supposed to mean? What do you want?” Mark demanded more forcefully.

  “Let go of her and turn around,” Bernard ordered. “Do it quickly,” he said, raising the pistol and pointing it at Billie.

  “Jesus.”

  Billie started to cry.

  “Do it!” Bernard ordered. He pulled back the hammer on the pistol and the click reverberated like thunder in Mark’s ears. Reluctantly, he released Billie and turned around.

  “Face the wall. Go on, put your nose up against that wall and be quick about it.”

  “What is this?” Mark asked. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Against the wall,” Bernard ordered and jabbed him in the back. Mark moved forward. Billie, clutching herself, was sobbing as quietly as she could. Bernard stepped back and poked her in the shoulder. She gasped.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Mark cried and turned around.

  “Against that wall or you’ll see her brains splattered,” Bernard threatened and brought the barrel of the gun to Billie’s head. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lip. Mark swallowed and then turned around again. Bernard lifted Billie’s chin and held it firmly between his stubby thumb and forefinger so she would be unable to turn away.

  “Take that bread knife out of the holder there,” he ordered and nodded toward the dark oak knife caddie that held bread knives, fruit knives, and steak knives. Gingerly, she lifted the bread knife. As soon as she had, Bernard Lyle placed his right hand over hers and squeezed hard, clamping her fingers around the knife handle firmly. Then he shoved her toward Mark and, before Mark could react, jerked her hand forward, driving the knife into Mark’s side, slicing up effectively while pressing the blade deeply.

  Billie screamed and Mark screamed and started to turn. Blood spurted over Billie’s hand and wrist, as well as Bernard’s. She tried to pull back, but Bernard’s hold was unbreakable and his body was pressed firmly against hers, preventing any sort of retreat.

  Mark finally pulled forward and spun around, but Bernard, still holding his hand around Billie’s, drove the knife into his stomach. This time, he released his hold and permitted Billie to fall back. She fell to her knees, sobbing, hysterical. Mark clutched the knife in his stomach, looked up at Bernard, and then sunk to his knees. His eyelids fluttered and then he fell back on his right side. Like a fish out of water, his mouth opened and closed without producing any sound and then stopped. His eyes remained open, glaring up, locked in position by death.

  Billie screamed and screamed until Bernard clutched her face in his big hand and muffled her. He leaned over her, forcing her to bend toward the floor and gaze closely at Mark’s corpse.

  “You’re a murderer, Mrs. Madison. You’ve killed your husband,” Bernard said. “How can you live with yourself after doing something like this?” He slid his hand down her arm and over her hand again. Then he dropped his left arm around her waist and lifted her enough to drag her right beside Mark’s body. “Look at what you’ve done,” he said.

  Billie shook her head and started to scream again. Her eyes went back in her head and, suddenly, she fainted.

  “Well,” Bernard said. “How cooperative. Do it cleanly, I was told, and here you are helping. Everyone helps. It’s so nice.”

  He took Billie’s right hand, his hand over it, and squeezed the fingers closed over the handle of the bread knife once more. Then he tugged it out of Mark’s body. Dripping blood, the knife hovered for a moment between Billie and Mark.

  “So looking at what you’ve done, you’ve decided you can’t live with yourself anymore,” Bernard recited and turned her wrist until the knife pointed at her own heart. Then, fixing his grip securely, he shoved it forward, again with a professional expertise, and sliced into her heart.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t act sooner,” Scott said angrily. He and Faye Elliot sat in the rear of the police car. After Foto had seen to Michael Fein, and they had grabbed some coffee and buns, they drove out of Barstow and headed east on Route 40.

  “We weren’t sure how involved you were with the Solomon Organization, Mr. Lester. Despite what was happening to you, you didn’t come forward with any information about it. My partner here,” Lt. Parker said, nodding toward Foto, “was convinced you weren’t going to ever say anything about it. He thought you were just going to come up with some defense or you had been promised a fix in court by these people. We’ve seen it happen before. Your wife would be out of the way and you would retrieve your daughter and live happily ever after.”

  “But your wife survived the attack,” Foto said.

  “Which complicated things. We assumed you were caught between a rock and a hard place and you were expecting the organization to get you off the hook.”

  “Initially, you did go to them for help, didn’t you?” Foto demanded.

  “I got sucked in, yes, but I never i
ntended any physical harm to Meg. I know how stupid I sound,” he said, glancing at Faye Elliot, “but…I guess I was doing a lot of stupid things then.”

  “You guess right,” Foto said.

  “So you’ve been investigating this clandestine organization for a while?” Faye asked.

  “Yes, but they’ve been very sharp, very good, very efficient, and they do have friends in high places. This was our first opportunity to cash in on mistakes, so we kept a close eye on Mr. Lester and after you guys hired Henry Dyce, we went to see him and…if you’ll pardon my corniness…made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

  “Dyce was working with you?” Scott asked incredulously.

  “Who do you think his so-called friends in important places were? We filled him in on the alarm system at Beezly Enterprises. He called in his information to us just before he was killed,” Foto said.

  “We were set to take action when we received the call about Jerome Beezly,” Parker added. “A preliminary investigation led us to suspect you might have done it. You were running around like a loose cannon at this point. You hadn’t returned to your apartment. We thought you might screw up the investigation.”

  “Why did you call Michael Fein if you were looking for him? Why didn’t you call me?” Faye asked.

  Foto turned around.

  “To be truthful, Miss Elliot, we weren’t sure you weren’t part of this operation.”

  “But why call Fein?”

  “We didn’t. His own people did and led him to believe Scott committed the murder. The truth about what was done was on a need-to-know basis, I guess, and Michael Fein wasn’t as high up in the organization as he assumed. He still doesn’t believe the organization killed Beezly and tried to erase all the evidence in Goodfellow’s office. But in their sick minds, everyone’s replaceable and everyone outlives his use, I suppose,” Foto said.

  “Anyway, we left the A.P.B. on Scott in L.A. and headed out to Barstow. We almost got here too late,” Parker said.

  “What do you mean, almost? Weren’t you here after the fire had gotten underway?” Scott asked.

  “Yes. And after the killer shot the old lady. Apparently, he didn’t shoot Goodfellow. He left him for dead, and out of some devotion to his work or whatever he rescued some of the files and nearly made it out of the house.”

  “The smoke got him and he died near the rear door. His body was found over the files, some of which were still legible,” Foto said.

  “And either out of pure luck or his desire to keep track of your daughter, her file was one of them,” Parker explained. “And that’s how we know where she is.”

  “Thank God,” Scott said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Foto said nodding. “Who’s to say why you have a guardian angel watching over you and your family right now?”

  Scott nodded and buried his face in his hands for a moment. He thought about Meg and how small and fragile she looked in that hospital bed. He remembered how beautiful she looked in a different hospital bed at a different time—Justine’s birth, and how happy they had been then. It seemed we live more than one life, he thought. One life dies or we destroy it and another starts. And no matter how much you wanted to go back, you couldn’t. It was all…all a downward motion, a descent into the grave.

  He didn’t deserve a guardian angel, but maybe the angel wasn’t there for him; maybe the angel was there for Justine and Meg only.

  “How much longer?” he asked.

  “Not much. Relax. There’s nothing left to do but collect her and take her home,” Parker said.

  Scott sat back. Faye Elliot put her hand on his and smiled.

  “Just think about holding her in your arms and bringing her back to your wife.”

  “And then crawling away,” Foto said. He shoved a piece of gum into his mouth. Forgiveness wasn’t a part of the job. He left that for social workers and bleeding hearts.

  Scott swallowed hard. He had no grounds on which to build a defense. Foto was right. Afterward, he would crawl away.

  Bernard Lyle stood up and surveyed his work. Mark Madison lay on his back and Billie lay on her stomach, her torso over her husband’s legs. He didn’t like the way her rear end jutted up, so he pulled her legs out and brushed down her skirt. He thought a moment and then placed her right arm over his legs and turned her hand in so that it looked like she was trying to embrace him.

  “Like Romeo and Juliet,” Bernard muttered. In his distorted mind, where thoughts were twisted and tangled like so much loose wire, he felt a sense of pride in what lay before him. It was artistic; he had sculpted his own version of death and imbued it with his own particular sense of drama. He wished he had brought along a camera so he could record it and paste it in an album entitled, THE WORKS OF BERNARD LYLE.

  After another moment, he sighed and then remembered the job was only half completed.

  “Justine,” he called. “Where are you, sweetheart?”

  The puppy had either fled or followed Justine out of the kitchen and down the corridor toward her room. Bernard Lyle saw it sniffing the carpeting. It paused and then spread its legs to tinkle.

  “Now look at that,” Bernard muttered. “Why anyone would want an animal is beyond me. Go on with you,” he snapped and kicked the dog out of his way. It yelped and hurried down the hallway to the safety of another room. Bernard turned into Justine’s room and gazed around. She wasn’t in sight.

  “Justine?” He smiled and knelt down to look under the bed, but she wasn’t there either. “Come on, sweetheart. We have to go. I can’t leave you here. I’m taking you home. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He stood up, and with his hands on his hips, gazed at the bed and dresser and then focused on the closet. The door was slightly ajar and through the crack, he could see the child sitting under her hanging garments. He smiled.

  “I wonder where Justine’s gone,” he said. “If she doesn’t come out soon, I’m going to have to leave without her and she won’t see her real mommy and daddy ever again.”

  He waited. The child didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. It brought a chuckle to his lips. Then he grew serious and considered the best way to go about this. The child’s body certainly couldn’t be left here. The operative word was cleanly, and that was the way he intended to complete the job: cleanly. Fortunately, he always came prepared. That’s why he was so good at his work; that’s why he was appreciated, and that was why he would be promoted and rewarded handsomely.

  She wasn’t going anywhere, he thought and walked out of the room, through the kitchen, whistling as he passed the bodies and went to a door that he imagined opened to the garage. He imagined correctly. Just inside the door was the button to lift the garage door. He pressed it and watched it go up. Then he went out the garage to open the trunk of his car to get the body bag in which to put Justine’s corpse.

  Back in her room, Justine heard Little Bit whimper. She had heard the bad man kick the puppy, but she had been too terrified to rescue her dog. Now that the man had left, she thought she could do something. She opened the closet door wider, saw he was completely gone, and hurried out to get Little Bit. She found the puppy sitting and whimpering in the hallway. After she lifted the dog into her arms, she gazed through the kitchen entrance and saw her new mommy and daddy sprawled on the floor.

  What were they doing? she wondered and inched forward. It took just one glance at Billie’s face, her eyes closed, but her mouth twisted and ugly, to send the coldest chill through her small body. It was as if she had fallen into a puddle of ice water. Almost too numb to move, she backed up a few inches. Then she heard the door to the garage open. Without hesitation, she spun around and ran through the house, toward the rear door. Still clutching Little Bit, she opened the door and slipped out as quickly and as quietly as she could. She skipped down the small steps and ran frantically into the back yard. Then she stopped and spun around, wondering where to go, where to hide.

  Her eyes settled on Little Bit’s dog house. She glanced behind herself once
and saw that the bad man had not come after her yet. She ran to the house, and, holding her puppy as closely to her chest as she could, crept through the opening and folded her body as tightly as possible within the small confines. It was uncomfortable and she felt horrid spider webs over her neck and arms, but she swallowed down her fear and drowned her screams deep inside herself.

  There, in the dog house, she waited, afraid that the sound of her own breathing would give her away. She held her breath for as long as she could and then had to gasp for air. Little Bit struggled to get more motion, but she kept the puppy tightly against her body. It whimpered and even yelped once before she clamped its mouth shut and pleaded with it, whispering and begging the dog to understand the danger they were in. Its eyes widened as it struggled against such restraint. Finally, Justine was forced to put it down and just keep it from leaving the safety of the dog house. For the moment it seemed contented and for the moment, she felt safe.

  Lt. Parker slowed down and pulled up to the corner where two elderly gentlemen were having a conversation. They both turned with interest.

  “Excuse us,” Parker said. “We’re looking for Western Avenue.”

  “What number?” the taller of the two asked. Parker checked his notes.

  “1240 South Western.”

  The two gazed at each other for a moment.

  “The numbers go that high on Western?” the shorter man asked the taller. He shrugged.

  “Those numbers make no sense. I don’t know who the hell decides on street numbers. My number’s 213 and the house directly across from me is 276.”

  Parker laughed.

  “Maybe the post office decides,” he suggested. The two senior citizens liked that.

  “That’s why it takes as long as it took the Pony Express to get my mail anywhere,” the taller man said.

  “He looks like he might really remember the Pony Express,” Foto quipped. Parker nodded.

  “Anyway, Western Ave?”

  “Western…Western…you go up three blocks to the hardware store on the corner and make a left.”