The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  “A right,” the shorter man corrected. “He said South Western. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, then that’s a right.”

  “So it’s a right,” the taller man said. “Western’s still three blocks up.”

  “Thanks,” Parker said. He pulled away. “I wonder if we’ll be like that when we’re their age.”

  “Who says we’ll be their age? Neither looked a day under ninety,” Foto remarked. Parker made the right turn and they headed south on Western. The numbers jumped quickly and then, suddenly, there were no houses for almost a quarter of a mile. When the next house appeared, it was 1100 South Western.

  “Getting close, I suppose,” Parker said.

  Scott’s stomach churned nervously. How would Justine greet him? Would she be angry? Did she blame him for all that happened? Deep in his heart he felt that somehow the child would sense he was at fault, the child would understand that his behavior had brought all this misery to the family and she would resent him, maybe even hate him. How devastating it would be to have come all this way, go through all this, only to have his own daughter glare wrathfully at him. The first words out of her mouth were sure to be, “I want Mommy.”

  Well, he couldn’t blame her.

  Faye Elliot sensed his anxiety. She took his hand into hers and squeezed it reassuringly.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she promised. “It will be all over soon.”

  He nodded, but he felt as if somehow his stomach had been removed and in its place had been inserted a vacuum cleaner, the hose of which was directed at his heart. It sucked every beat down into his guts.

  “That’s it,” Foto announced.

  A whip of fire lashed across Scott’s chest and he leaned forward to look at the house.

  “Looks like someone’s preparing to go somewhere or is bringing something inside,” Parker said, seeing Bernard Lyle’s car backed in with the trunk open.

  “Unloading groceries, I bet,” Foto said. Parker nodded and they turned into the driveway.

  “Now just stay calm, Mr. Lester,” Parker advised. “Foto and I will do all the talking. We’re not sure about these people and there still might be some danger. Keep back, understand?”

  Scott nodded.

  “Here we go,” Foto said and opened his door. Scott, Faye, and Lt. Parker did the same and everyone stepped out.

  “Finally, the end of a nightmare,” Scott muttered as Faye came up beside him. She smiled.

  “Front door?” Lt. Parker asked.

  “Let’s go through the garage. Can’t hurt to have a little surprise on our side,” Foto replied. Parker liked it and nodded. Then the four started toward the open garage door.

  Inside the house, Bernard Lyle was fuming. The child had been smart enough to leave her room. She could be anywhere in the house, hiding. It would take him longer than he intended and he hated it when something interfered with or in any way complicated his plans. With the body bag folded under his arm, he turned to leave Justine’s room, but instead, through the window, caught a glimpse of the puppy waddling out the door of the dog house and Justine reaching out quickly to pull him back in.

  Bernard laughed.

  “Kids,” he muttered.

  He quickly found the rear door and went out, the body bag still under his arm.

  Inside the garage, Lt. Parker rapped on the door. There was no response so he rapped again, harder. Again, there was no response. Foto slipped his pistol out of its holster and then they turned to Scott and Faye.

  “Stay back,” Lt. Parker ordered. Faye and Scott retreated a few steps. Then Lt. Parker nodded at Foto and he opened the door. Scott and Faye watched them charge in, guns drawn. There were no sounds, no gunshots, no words. Scott and Faye took a few steps closer to the door, but Lt. Parker stepped in the doorway and gazed back.

  “Stay right here,” he commanded. “Don’t move, don’t make a sound.”

  “Wha…”

  “Not a sound,” Lt. Parker repeated and went back into the house.

  Bernard Lyle strolled casually to the dog house. Memories of his own childhood returned. He had been brought up in a semi-rural region, not so unlike this one. He remembered when his next door neighbor, Howard Taylor, had his cousin visiting from Philadelphia. His cousin was a few years older than they were, but not too old to play with cap guns. They staged a cowboys and Indians scenario in which Howard’s dog, Homer, had been harnessed with a clothesline and tied to the front of its dog house. Then he and Howard straddled the dog house and pretended it was a wagon and Homer was a horse. Howard’s cousin was the Indian laying in ambush.

  Howard’s cousin sent a rubber arrow their way and they began firing their cap guns. Homer, excited by the noise, began to bark. Bernard grabbed the thin branch Howard had as a make-believe whip and began smacking Homer on the back until the dog’s barking turned into yelps and Howard’s mother came running out of the house to chastise them for torturing the poor animal. He recalled feeling like turning the whip on her.

  Those memories put him into a playful mood, however, and he straddled the dog house as if he were straddling a horse.

  “Giddy up,” he cried.

  Inside, Justine had fallen into the deepest pit of terror imaginable. Why would a grown man, an adult, crawl onto the dog house and make these sounds? Her little heart pounded and she began to sob. Above her and behind her, Bernard Lyle began to kick and pound on the dog house. Each rap sent a clap of thunder through her body and she began to scream. She lost her hold on Little Bit and the puppy charged out of the house, terrified itself. She reached after it too late and recoiled in horror. Its small, warm body had given her some comfort and now that was gone, too. Bernard Lyle pounded harder. It sounded as if he were coming through the sides of the dog house.

  Above it, Bernard moved forward the moment he saw the puppy emerge. He reached inside his coat pocket and brought out the old-fashioned, straight-edge razor in a pearl handle. It was an antique; it had been his father’s, but Bernard had kept it in good shape, shiny and sharp. The blade unfolded swiftly. He put the body bag aside and positioned himself so he was leaning over the front. Then he kicked and kicked at the sides of the dog house. Finally, Justine’s head appeared. He let her get just far enough out so he could get a good grasp on her hair, and then he reached down, grasped a handful of strands at the top and front and tugged upward. Her sweet little neck was fully exposed. She screamed and he started to bring the razor down to make one swift slice when the bullet crashed into his right temple.

  For a moment he did look like a rodeo cowboy straddled on a bucking bronco. His body jerked back and forward, he released his hold on Justine and his arms flailed wildly. Then he fell forward and to the side as if thrown from his wild horse. Justine, freed, crawled ahead, scampering quickly away from the dog house. She paused when she saw Foto at the back door rise slowly from a crouched position from which he had taken aim.

  She turned to look back and saw the bad man all twisted and scrunched beside the dog house, a line of blood streaming down his cheek. She seemed out of sound. Nothing came when she opened and closed her mouth, but she was sure she was screaming. Her whole body shook with the effort, yet her ears heard nothing. The man with the gun was moving very, very slowly toward her and another man with a gun emerged from behind him, also moving in slow motion.

  Then, like a miracle, like the dollar that was under her pillow the morning after she had lost her first tooth, like “The World of Disney” magic on television, her daddy appeared. His body filled the back door of the house. She lifted her body from the grass and at last, when she screamed, she heard her own voice.

  “Daddy!”

  It seemed he could fly, for that was how fast he had her in his arms and held her to him. That was how fast his lips were smothering her with kisses and that was how fast she felt safe and warm again. He held her so tightly she could hardly move, but she didn’t complain. She didn’t want him to ever let go a
nd she didn’t want him to stop kissing her, either.

  “Take her to the car,” Lt. Parker ordered. “Don’t go through the house. Go around the side there.”

  Scott nodded and started away, but Justine turned in his arms and reached out for the little black and white puppy that squatted fearfully in the grass.

  “Little Bit,” she cried. Faye Elliot came around quickly and picked up the dog. She brought him to Justine, who immediately embraced him. Then Scott continued to carry them both away.

  Afterward, he would say he couldn’t feel his legs. He felt he was floating. In a true sense, he had lost contact with his body and with everything that surrounded him. He didn’t remember much about the return trip either, except for when they stopped to feed Justine.

  In Barstow, they got into Faye Elliot’s car and then drove back to Los Angeles. Late in the afternoon, they pulled into the parking lot at the hospital. Scott had done his best to explain why Meg was there and had tried to prepare Justine for the sight of her mother in a hospital bed with all the equipment, I.V. tubes, etc., around her. He assured her Meg would soon be better and be home with her. But the child had gone from one terrifying experience to another. This one, because it promised her mother would be part of it, seemed the most manageable.

  Justine saw her Aunt Abby waiting in the corridor outside the ICU. She broke down in tears at the sight of Justine and hugged her dearly until Scott tapped her gently on the shoulder and nodded toward the door of the ICU. Abby rose and took Justine’s hand.

  “Abby,” Scott said softly. “I’d like to be the one who takes her in. Please.”

  His sister-in-law nodded and wiped away her tears. Then she released Justine’s hand. Scott took it into his and walked his daughter in to see her mother.

  If he had ever felt guilty before, if he had ever felt remorse, it was nothing compared to what he felt when Justine was once again in Meg’s arms. Tears of joy were no lighter than tears of pain. All of the nurses stopped their work and watched, their eyes as wet.

  “My baby, my baby,” Meg chanted. Scott waited, his head down. When he lifted his eyes, he saw Meg had closed hers. He knew she was thanking God for answering her prayers. She opened her eyes and looked at him and then at Justine, who clung to her desperately.

  “She’s been through hell and back,” Scott said. “But she’s okay physically.”

  “Thank God,” Meg said.

  “Abby’s going to look after her until you’re well enough,” he said. “I’ve got to go back and talk to the police and get as much of that straightened out as I can.”

  Meg nodded.

  “It doesn’t do any good to keep saying I’m sorry. In fact, it sounds stupid after a while,” he said.

  “Not to me,” she replied. He smiled.

  “Thanks. Well, I’ll…I’ll stop by every day just in case there’s something I can do for you. I wish…” He choked on his words.

  “It’s going to take time, Scott,” Meg said. “There’s a lot of healing to be done.” He nodded. “Afterward, let’s see if we can understand why and where it went wrong.”

  He smiled through his tears.

  “All right.” He started to turn away.

  “Where are you going, Daddy?” Justine cried.

  “Not far,” he said. “I won’t be far away from you again. That’s a promise.”

  Justine smiled.

  “Mommy,” she said excitedly. “I’ve got a puppy and his name’s Little Bit.”

  “Really?” Meg looked at Scott.

  “We brought another victim home with us.”

  Meg laughed. To Scott it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He took a deep breath and walked out of the ICU. His steps grew stronger and more determined as his slumping shoulders rose.

  He felt reborn.

  Epilogue

  Sam Williams had his head down so long he looked like he had fallen asleep. The truth was he couldn’t stand watching and listening to the way his wife’s attorney described him and promised to substantiate every claim, every damning fact. His own attorney looked bored, distracted, and certainly not very involved.

  Whenever Sam did lift his head and gaze at his wife across the way, he found her glaring at him with such hate and loathing, he couldn’t look at her long. He felt like he had withered in his seat anyway. The things his wife’s attorney were saying about him shrunk him. How he wished the man was talking about someone else, for he would condemn such a man himself if he had heard these allegations.

  “That’s a lie,” he muttered once, but his attorney shook his head and indicated he should keep himself contained and quiet. Contained and quiet? How do you do that? he wanted to ask. It’s easy for you to say keep your mouth shut. He ain’t talking about you; he’s talking about me.

  They weren’t just going to win custody of the children; they were going to destroy him, ruin his reputation and make it impossible for him to keep his job, the respect of his friends, and certainly the esteem of his superiors.

  “This is a lynching,” he groaned. His wife’s attorney had solicited the testimony of psychologists; he had dug up people from the past whom Sam had forgotten; he had acquired Sam’s medical records. His bouts with alcohol would be exposed, all his indiscretions would be openly paraded. He felt like a man who had lost his pants and was wearing underwear with holes in it. There wasn’t anything thought sacred, nothing too private.

  His wife’s attorney completed his remarks and sat down. Why was it her attorney looked more involved, more determined, and more dedicated to her position than his attorney looked dedicated to his position? His attorney wasn’t some cut-rate hack; he had been recommended as one of the top divorce attorneys in Manhattan. The lawyers would drain them both before this was over, but his wife would come out on top. He felt it in his heart and it made him sink in his seat, shrivel in his clothes, and sweat profusely.

  “What? What’s happening?” Sam asked quickly when he heard the judge’s gavel.

  “We’re taking a recess. Lunch,” his lawyer responded. “I gotta go make some phone calls,” he added and got up quickly to hurry away.

  “Huh?” Sam looked about stupidly. His wife looked so cheerful, actually invigorated by all this. Was he going mad?

  He rose from his seat slowly, the effort seeming to take all his strength. He looked after his attorney disdainfully.

  Lunch, he thought. His lawyer could eat, but how could he eat? He had been eating his heart out all morning. He turned anyway and started up the aisle, not noticing the handsome gentleman step out in his path until he was practically on top of him.

  “Oh, sorry,” Sam said stepping back.

  “Not at all. I was waiting to talk to you.”

  Sam looked up at the nearly six-feet-tall, distinguished-looking man in a dark blue pin-striped suit. His gray eyes sparkled.

  “Oh?”

  “I was passing through the courthouse and just had to stop in to see another poor fish get gutted.”

  “That’s it; that’s the way I feel exactly,” Sam said, nodding and then realized all he had said. “What’dya mean, another? You here for a divorce, too?”

  “I was, and like you, I was crucified on a cross of exaggerations, accusations constructed by my wife’s skillful and, I must confess, very talented attorney.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sam said.

  “The women always get the better lawyers because everything’s weighted on their side and the lawyers would rather back winners. Makes them look better.”

  “I bet.” Sam nodded again. The guy made sense.

  “One hand feeds the other. You look like you could use a drink. Care to join me for a cocktail and some lunch? I know a great little Italian place just a block from the courthouse.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Sam said. It was the first time all morning that he felt any enthusiasm for anything, but this man seemed very sharp and very clever, as well as very sympathetic to his position. “I’m Sam Williams,” he said e
xtending his hand.

  “Philip Dante,” the distinguished gentleman said. “Pleased to meet you, Sam. Relax,” Dante added, putting his arm around him. “Things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “No,” Dante said and smiled with such confidence and self-assurance, Sam Williams had to question his own despondency.

  Maybe there was some hope after all.

  More from Andrew Neiderman

  After Life

  Once she was blind, now she can see.

  A car accident claims Jessie’s vision, leaving the young woman in the dark, struggling to piece her life back together. One year later, she has made progress, and Jessie and her husband, Lee, move to the peaceful village of Gardner Town. Once there, though, Jessie's blindness heightens her awareness of the strange and terrible things going on in the community. Only Jessie can hear the beckoning voices from the cemetery. Only Jessie thinks there's something terribly wrong with her husband's new boss.

  And then a local woman makes a chilling, desperate request: "When your husband dies, don't let them bring him back."

  This masterful novel of suspense gives readers chills with each page, and the final chapters will be read without blinking.

  Child's Play

  They were four perfect little children. Alex had taught them well. They helped with the house, set the table for meals, and went straight upstairs after dinner to do their homework. They did as they were told—that is, as Alex told.

  Sharon didn't miss the glances that passed between her husband and the foster children. From the day they arrived, they had looked up to Alex, worshiped him. Why, it even seemed they were beginning to act like Alex—right down to the icy sarcasm, the terrifying smile, the evil gleam in their eyes when they looked at her.

  Oh yes, they'd do anything to please Alex. Anything at all...

  Deadly Verdict

  In this dizzying novel of speculative fiction, the legal system is picked apart for all the fault lines upon which justice quakes. Imagine a system wherein a pool of professional jurors are trained to judge evidence objectively. It’s clean, it’s fair, it’s infallible. But when a professional jury foreman goes missing, the FBI puts agents Holland Byron and new recruit Wyatt Ert on the case.