The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club

by Duncan Whitehead

  He told her how it had been presented to him in the trenches of France and how it had saved his life on more than one occasion. He told her that in the future, should anything happen to him, she should use it to extract her revenge. The whole table had laughed loud and long, including her uncle, at his own joke. Maybe it hadn’t been a joke; maybe it had been a veiled warning to those seated around the table that should anything ever happen to him, he had a successor prepared to take his place, who would avenge him from beyond the Atlantic. Heidi often wondered what her uncle had meant by his comment, and she had, on more than one occasion, filled the pistol with bullets and aimed it through the window that let the sunlight into room—the window that overlooked the garden next door, the garden of Elliott Miller.

  The gun wasn’t the only reminder Heidi had of her uncle. Adorning the walls of the room were portraits of him, photographs and paintings. There were drawings and art he had produced himself, which he had secretly sent her after she had arrived in Savannah, as well as other memorabilia, such as medals, newspaper clippings, and copies of his famous speeches. The old lady made her way to the projector that sat just off the center of the room and switched it on. She pulled the drapes of the windows closed, blocking out the fading sunlight of dusk. The countdown numbers that told her the film was about to commence flashed on the screen that took up the entire west wall of the room. She had painted the wall white so she could watch the old movie reels she had acquired years before. The old eight-millimeter film wheeled its way through the projector, and black-and-white images appeared on the wall.

  There was no sound on the film, but the images sufficed. They were images replayed the world over, footage of Heidi’s uncle being driven in the back of an open-top Mercedes, images of her uncle addressing a large crowd, being cheered wildly by his countrymen. Heidi marveled at the images, as she always did. She moved slowly over to the window, gently adjusted the drapes, and gazed out at the large white house.

  This was the reason why she had wanted this house in the first place. Why she had insisted that Oliver purchase not just a house in Gordonston, but this house in particular. She had wanted to be within reach, to be able to watch him, to be able to see what he was like. The thief, the fraud, the liar. She turned her attention back to the three books on the table. The anger inside her welled up again. It hadn’t taken long to find him. A few enquiries here and there; a private detective and a little money went a long way in America. She had contacts, friends of her uncle, in high places, who were all gone now, though there had been a time when men of influence had been of the same mind. When she found out where Elliott lived, her heart had nearly stopped. He was so close and always had been. Who could have known?

  She hated him. There was no other way of describing the way Heidi felt about Elliott Miller, for along with the Luger, portraits, films, and medals, she had one other memory of her uncle. The most special memory of all. The stories he used to tell her, the stories he made up, especially for her, of wizards, magical forests, unicorns, and little boys lost in the woods. When she had read the new author’s books for the first time, all those years ago, she’d nearly collapsed. They were the same stories her uncle had written for her, and some fraud named Elliott Miller had passed them off as his own. He was a thief. Not only had he stolen the stories, he had prevented the world from knowing what a truly remarkable man her uncle actually was. Not only was he a great leader, he was a great writer, a writer of stories for children. Over the years, Heidi had read many things about her beloved uncle that she just knew were simply lies and propaganda perpetrated by the shameless Zionists. He was a hero to millions, and he had come close to achieving his goals. She was certain that if the world had known about these wonderful tales and the mind that created them, history would not have been so cruel to his memory. The world would know that the man who had produced these fantasies couldn’t have been responsible for the things they claimed he’d done. And what if they were right, anyway? She despised those people. They were parasites, just like he had taught her. They were locusts and the scourge of the earth.

  The stories, though, would have cast doubt, she was sure, on the reports of a so-called holocaust. Elliott Miller had ruined that. How he had gotten hold of the stories, Heidi didn’t know. All she knew was that Elliott Miller had profited from her uncle’s work and prevented the world from knowing the true writer of the works. Some critics had called them the greatest stories for children ever told. She gripped the Luger tightly. Those stories had been especially written for her, and somehow the Zionists had profited from them. Elliott Miller—she despised the man and had waited for this day for what seemed an eternity.

  Her call to Stephen the previous day had come as a surprise to her son. When she told him what she wanted, he had at first thought she was joking. Nevertheless, her voice on the phone sounded angry, almost frenzied, and he knew he had no choice. It wasn’t that he was afraid of his mother. She just had a way of getting her point across, something that, as she often told him, ran in the family.

  Stephen made the calls and organized everything. With his contacts it wasn’t difficult. There was a whole network out there. Of course, he had been curious as to why his mother would want to have somebody killed. She told him that it was personal and that the less he knew about his family history, the better it would be for him. Stephen accepted this; he was used to that sort of talk in his business, especially with the clients he dealt with. The less you knew, the better. So he had done his mother’s bidding.

  Heidi screwed up her face as she took the three books in her hand and carried them over to the corner of the room. She had prepared the small metal trashcan earlier that morning and had doused the inside with sufficient fluid. She dropped the books into the trashcan and lit a match. It didn’t take long for the fuel she had placed in the can to burn the old books. Flames shot up and then, after a time, began to die out. A red glow reflected in the darkened room, as the images continued to play on the white wall. Heidi reached into her pocket and produced an armband. She kissed the insignia that ornamented it and placed it on her arm.

  So, Elliott Miller was running for mayor. Over her dead body! She had liked Thelma and was sure that she had had no part in the theft of her uncle’s work. She had deliberately waited until after her friend’s death to execute her plan. The pain Elliott was feeling at his wife’s passing was a bonus for Heidi. She was happy to watch him suffer, and his misery was her delight. Maybe it was part of Elliott’s penance, watching his wife die. Now, though, she was gone, and he was going to be mayor, and as far as Heidi was concerned, that was her sign, her signal to put into place what she had been planning for years: the murder of Elliott Miller.

  She walked once again to the center of the room and turned to face the flag that hung on the north wall, taking up the whole expanse. Its red background stood in stark contrast to the whiteness of the walls, and the white circle in the center of the flag seemed to complement it, as if the cloth and surface formed a mosaic of black on red and white. However, it was the image in the center, black and proud, that made the hairs on Heidi’s neck stand on end, as they did every time she saw it. It was the same image she wore on her armband, the same image that had adorned her uncle’s homes and castles, the same image that she worshipped, the same image she and the rest of the world knew so very well, the same image that had struck fear into the hearts of millions: the swastika of the Nazis.

  Heidi stared at the flag and brought her old frail body to attention, as if suddenly the years had been rubbed away, and she were once again a brown-clad schoolgirl leading her troop, carrying the flag and proud to be a member of her uncle’s Youth Movement. She had been the first one ordained into the movement, and she was proud that she remembered the marches and the speeches in Berlin, Nuremburg, and Munich. The flames flickered, the remnants of Elliott’s book turning to ash in the old metal bin in the corner, and the projected images still playing on the wall. Heidi raised
her right hand into the air, angled in front of her face at forty-five degrees. Her voice was crisp, sharp, and harsh, her Austrian accent suddenly to the fore. “Zieg Heil!” she cried, her voice echoing not just in the room but throughout the whole house, “Zieg Heil!” she cried again, as if in a frenzied trance. Fuchsl crouched down in fear; he had never known that his mistress possessed such a voice. Heidi was now moving her right hand back and forth in the rigid wave and angled movement that had struck fear into those who had first witnessed the styled salute. “Zeig Heil!” she cried again, her voice now reaching a pitched crescendo, filling the whole house, its echo amplifying the old woman’s almost hysterical cry. “Zieg Heil! Zieg Heil! Zieg Heil!”

  Chapter 13

  “What time does his flight arrive?” asked Kelly, smiling broadly as she hugged her husband’s bare torso.

  “In a couple of hours, apparently—according to Cindy, anyway. He had a six-hour layover in Atlanta.” Tom smiled as his wife gently rubbed his chest, her left hand playfully caressing his right nipple.

  “Well,” she said as she leaned over in their bed, the bed she hadn’t slept in for five nights. “I think that was a really nice thing for you to volunteer to pick him up.”

  Tom shrugged. “It was the least I could do. The poor guy’s been working his ass off over in India. He’s only coming back so he can make enough money to buy medicine and supplies for the kids he’s helping take care of.”

  Kelly hugged her husband hard. “Still, two airport trips in one day, I have to say that a lot of people would have made up some lame excuse. You’re great. I am so lucky to have you.” She kissed her husband’s chest and thanked God that she was indeed lucky enough to have found and married Tom.

  Kelly had literally run into Tom’s outstretched arms several hours earlier, when her connecting flight from New York touched down in Savannah. Anyone witnessing her arrival would have thought she had been away for five years, not five days, the way she hugged and kissed her husband. After they loaded her luggage into Tom’s SUV and drove the short distance to Gordonston, Tom finally asked her how her trip had been. Kelly smiled and told him that although she’d had a good time in Paris, it had been overshadowed by the fact that she was missing him. She had seen all the sites she wanted to see, eaten delicious food, and soaked in the Parisian atmosphere, but she still regretted that Tom had not been with her to enjoy it.

  Tom asked Kelly if she’d met anyone interesting on her trip or managed to maybe tag along with anybody for company. Kelly shook her head; she’d spent the whole trip on her own, she said. The only people she had really spoken to were Henri, the concierge, and Naomi, the pretty receptionist, who, she suspected, were probably lovers. She told Tom that although the hotel was fantastic and the amenities excellent, it had meant nothing without her husband by her side to share it all. She vowed never to leave him at home again.

  Kelly was relieved that Tom didn’t quiz her further. She had already put her experiences in Paris well and truly behind her and was determined to spend the rest of her life making her husband as happy as she could. What happened in Paris had been a mistake, and as far as she was concerned, there was no need for her to dwell on it. It was done, finished, over and forgotten. As Tom lifted the sheets off the bed, making his way to the bathroom so he could shower and prepare for his next airport pickup, Kelly thanked her lucky stars for such a wonderful husband. Not only was he good-looking, with the body of an athlete, he was also kind and considerate. As well as volunteering to drive back out to the airport to pick up Billy Malphrus, Tom had spent the previous day preparing the house for Kelly’s arrival back to Gordonston.

  The house had been spotless when Kelly walked through the door. Tom had cleaned not only the house but the dog too. Shmitty smelled like summer roses when he jumped up on Kelly as she arrived home. The Labrador’s tail wagged so hard that Kelly thought it was going to fly off his body. There was even a casserole simmering in the oven. Kelly lay on the bed and relaxed. What had happened was in the past. Tom suspected nothing, and he would never find out. Kelly truly believed she was the luckiest woman in the world.

  The office was filled with high-tech gadgetry and equipment. Photocopier, printer, fax machine, and several telephones connected to separate lines were placed around the room. However, the main feature of the office, as in all high-powered and important men’s offices, was the desk and the chair behind it. It was a big desk, made of old mahogany and so highly polished that the occupant could see his own face reflected whenever he took his position behind the impressive workstation. The chair was leather, plush, and designed for comfort. There was no doubt that this was the office of a very important and influential man.

  The view from the only window was stunning; the occupant of the office could see for at least half a mile, the building being the tallest in the area, and his office on the top floor.

  The Director switched on his computer, which sat on the center of the mahogany desk. The level of technology was state of the art, so the computer immediately came to life, and within seconds he received the information he’d been informed would be headed his way.

  The Director read the contents of the two files that appeared on his screen. Interesting, he thought. Very interesting. He rubbed his chin. A remarkable coincidence: two contracts in the same town, but even more remarkable, the very same neighborhood. He wondered (as always, out of habit) why people would resort to murder to settle their differences, what their reasons were, and why they felt that contacting the Organization was the only way to resolve their problems. He dismissed the thoughts as quickly as they entered his head. He was a businessman, and this was a business. He didn’t have time to dwell on the reasons or motives of his clients. He had a job to do.

  They called it “the Organization,” but it had been known by many different names over the years—Murder Incorporated and The Assassination Squad were just two that had been bandied about from time to time by the press and the television media. Most people thought the Organization was a myth, that it was just a figment of the media’s vivid imagination. How on earth could there be a global network of highly skilled assassins linked together via encoded communications, secret bank transfers, and clandestine contracts?

  But there was. And the director was at the center of it. He wasn’t in charge—he was merely a cog in a large machine. His role was to vet the potential contracts that were propositioned from every corner of the planet. He would make the final analysis as to whether the contract would be profitable—or even viable—for the Organization, and he would make his recommendations to the “board,” whoever and wherever they were. Once they agreed or disagreed with his recommendations, they would ask him to select a contractor, from his vast list of resources, to complete the job. They, the board, would deal with the financial side of the contract, ensuring payment was received from the client and that contractors were paid.

  Once a price had been negotiated and the contract agreed to, the contractor would be paid, but only after the Director had confirmation that the contract had been fulfilled. Obviously, the contractor received the largest percentage of the contract price. The Organization was a business, though, and they had overheads as well as the need to turn a decent profit. They took their generous brokerage commission, which included paying for the Director’s comfortable salary.

  The Director dealt with many potential contracts each day; he himself was a former contractor, and he knew how hard it was to find decent people to work these days. He re-read the files. Savannah was an obscure little town. He doubted he had anyone locally who could do the job, or jobs, for him. He wasn’t going to select both contracts for approval at the same time, in any case. He would keep the other on file, in reserve, dependent on how the one he selected first went. The golden rule was only one contract at a time. He certainly didn’t want to attract undue attention to the Organization—one murder was enough, especially in such a small area. He reached ov
er from his desk and took a file from the four-drawer cabinet behind him. It was his list of available contractors, and he began to thumb through it, searching for a suitable man or woman who, he felt, could complete either of the recently proposed contracts.

  Elliott looked around the house. It was spotless. She had done a fantastic job. Since Thelma’s death, he hadn’t had the time to clean and vacuum or do all the things she had done. In fact, since Thelma had become bedridden a few months earlier, the house had begun to fall into slight disarray. When she had offered to clean for him, he was delighted—he had been meaning to get some help for months but had just not had the time. She had definitely outdone herself.

  Elliott sat at the recently cleaned table in his spotless kitchen. He had made himself a sandwich and was enjoying being able to eat in such a clean environment for the first time in weeks. He had been doing a lot of thinking recently, and as he took a bite of his cheese sandwich, he reflected again on his most pressing tasks at hand. First of all, there was the problem of the books. He often wondered why he had never come clean in the first place, why he had passed the stories off as his own. He had told friends—and of course, Thelma—about the old man and who he actually was—or who Elliott had later suspected he was—but no one had ever believed him. They’d just assumed Elliott had purchased the copy of Mein Kampf at some auction or other and made up the whole “kind old man story” as an interesting after-dinner anecdote.