by Turner, Lori
“Sir—the D.A. says, if Fawn signs the document, the official paperwork for the order will be erased. In other words, Judd will live his life, believing that Fawn stayed away because of a restraining order that doesn’t actually exist. That is the reason the D.A. wants the letter signed—just in case…”
Winston didn’t have to finish his sentence. Amanda wanted it just in case Fawn slipped; and there were no shortage of ways to make good use of damning evidence. Morpheus didn’t want to ponder on this problem any longer.
He stared at his daughter, then he spoke loud enough to wake the dead.
“Fawn!!! Sign the gotdamn thing. Sign it now—then get the hell out of my sight.”
Fawn shook, but she wouldn’t cower. She wasn’t a fool and she knew to fear her father, but her stubbornness wouldn’t allow her fear to show. She watched Winston as he approached her. She hadn’t even seen the documents on a desk nearby where he’d been standing. He lifted the documents, then he approached her, handing her the papers on a clipboard along with a pen. She took it, and while she signed next to yellow arrowed stickies, pointing at the lines where her signature was to be penned, she heard her father when he said…
“I will say this once…and I will not repeat myself. Take this as your final warning. Stay the hell away from Judd Marko. Stay away from that man, and stay away from any art gallery that might be displaying his work. Today is the last day that I want to hear any mention of this man. Do not disappoint me Fawn-because if you do, you will not like the consequences.”
Morpheus watched his attorney gathering the papers after Fawn had signed the last one. Winston nodded, and then he silently left the room. He didn’t look back because he was grateful for this outcome. Fawn stared at a wall of books, refusing to face her father. And when he left the room, she would swear on a stack of bibles that his anger leapt across the divide, shaming, then branding her with his mandate.
**********
Morpheus stepped off his chopper, exchanging one air transport for another. One of his private aircraft sat on the tarmac, fueled with its engine humming. In his head, there was a clashing struggle, and each worry vied for his attention. All around him, there was motion, yet these people went completely unnoticed. His hand picked crew were all busy preparing for the flight. Morpheus boarded the plane, and he didn’t even hear their greetings. He’d moved passed them, then took his usual window seat. He heard his assistant giving last minute instructions, telling the attendant that he’d not eaten any lunch and to be sure to encourage this. Morpheus didn’t give a damn about his stomach because for months, he’d dreaded this day. He asked himself, if a tree falls in the woods, does it create a sound? When asked this question, his answer would always be yes, because he envisioned being their to witness the event. But this thought twister wouldn’t help him when it came to his problems. For his worries, he considered the butterfly-effect. A phenomenon whereby one seemingly inconsequential change creates a larger effect on the entire waterworks. In his case, there had been two seemingly inconsequential events. Tollin Pettier and Andrew Wilcox. Tollin had been Eliza’s screw-up; but he’d decided to take the blame for Andrew Wilcox. He wouldn’t relive Eliza’s nightmare because at the time, she had not known the importance of her role. She had not known—and she should have—so he blamed himself for that. When he considered Andrew; Morpheus recalled the farce of a trial in the that one shotgun town that he lived in. He should have seen the signs. Andrew had been beyond himself, consumed by his grief; but he’d persuaded Morpheus, by saying that he would survive. Morpheus had wanted to believe him—so he did. Weeks had passed, and he’d believed him but Morpheus had been wrong to do so. Believing Andrew had been a bad call on his part because Andrew had sought to level the scales of justice. The governor had taken matters into his own hands. Morpheus still didn’t know how he’d done it, but he’d gotten the name of Joplin Paddox, and he’d made one simple request.
“Take care of Tollin Pettier. I don’t want him bothering my sister anymore.”
And that had been it, but Andrew had no idea how damning his words had been. Morpheus grit his teeth because in his line of work, he knew that there was always a price to pay, whenever men flexed their muscles, exerting false bravado. There was a price to pay when words held duel meanings. To Andrew’s mind, the request had been a simple one; but the governor had not known who he’d been talking to. When Joplin dealt with people, generally, they didn’t walk away, and he didn’t leave witnesses behind to tell their side of the story. Not long after Tollin’s death, the truth began to slowly unfold. Eliza had grilled Andrew until he’d finally confessed, confirming that he’d discussed his frustrations with a man named Joplin Paddox and that he’d enlisted his help. Weeks had passed, and Morpheus still couldn’t believe that out of all the people in the world, Andrew had stumbled upon Joplin Paddox; and Morpheus didn’t believe in coincidences. Joplin Paddox. The name scrolled in his brain. He thought about his brother Raal…and Kyle, his lover. Before meeting Kyle, Raal had never been without a lover—and at one time, his interest had been women. His brother had more children than he could count, and many of these women had never bothered naming him as the father on the birth certificates. Morpheus recalled the dinner at his home, and when he looked at his brother and Kyle, the two men appeared to be so happy. He thought about that night…then his thought’s went to his love—Mikita; then his brain jumped back to his brother. What a fucking mess. His brain drummed up the image. Joplin—the name haunted him mainly because Joplin was Raal’s illegitimate son. The son that his brother had never known—yet, Morpheus had known about Joplin for the past eleven years, and he’d never bothered to divulge this fact to his brother.
“Fuck”
He said…because in truth, he’d done a disservice to Joplin, and his brother. There was only one clear way out of this. When the plane slowed to a stop, Morpheus felt as if he’d just wakened from a nightmare. Although he had not slept one wink during the entire flight, his thoughts had busied his mind. What to do—what to do; that had been the question that circled like a merry-go-round. Yet all the while, one word tramped through his brain. A word that would put the horde of them in their proper places if they defied him. Fuck you. That would be his response, and he gotdamn well would mean it.
“Your coat sir.”
The attendant held open his woolen coat like a valet. After flying partway across the country, at this destination, the temperature had dropped by twenty degrees. He had a mind to wave off the gesture, but he thought it best to dress for the weather. He fit his arms in the sleeves while saying…
“How many…”
He didn’t need to say more. This crew had traveled here with him on countless occasions, and they knew the drill. How many, meant, who was here, and who wasn’t.
Olga spoke in her Swedish accent…
“They are all here sir… Everyone except for one—and I am not privy to that identity.”
Of course you aren’t my dear, was his thought. This group of people were known only to those who completed the circle. Morpheus inclined his head, then he passed her while exiting the main cabin. When he passed the cockpit, he nodded at his pilot, but they didn’t exchange any words. The man was busy, and soon he would be occupied as well. He walked down the steps of the plane, then he strolled over to a much larger plane, capable of transatlantic flights.
He had landed in the middle of nowhere. Basically, this landing field wasn’t on any maps per-say, and the land had been owned by his family for as far back as he could remember. Morpheus climbed sharply ascending stairs, then he entered a large cabin that looked like a board room. Seated at a table were five people that he knew very well. And now that he was here; his presence made six. Six—but one person was missing. Morpheus took his usual seat, then he acknowledged the rooms other players. Berta Volker; billionaires and heir to the Volker Chemical Industrial Corporation. George Stockton; media magnet, and owner of Triton Global Communications. Woodrow Fist; retired
Director of the CIA, owner of P.A.T. Pharmaceuticals, and Global Realties. Maxwell Evans; CEO of Global International Banking Systems with a net worth off the scales and one of the richest men on the planet. Vincent Tyne; CEO of Global Satellites Communication.
He didn’t have to ask, and his question had been answered by Vincent….
“She’s running late. She called about an hour ago, and she should arrive any minute now.”
Morpheus scanned the room, making note of their faces. These people were some of the most powerful people in the world. Collectively, they controlled over half the worlds assets and for over one hundred years their families had worked in secret, restructuring the global economy to suit their purposes. For the past fifty years this group had set their sights on politics and governments; and ways to manipulate entire countries from the inside out. Whenever decisions were made, their voices were one collective chorus; kind of an all for one, and one for all mentality. If the crap hit the fan, they didn’t point fingers because every vote must be an unanimous one. In spite of this chummy chummy mentality, people were human. Flawed in more ways than one. Morpheus knew this better than anyone else in this room because he carried a heavier burden. This secret organization had been formed by one of his ancestors and he had a duty that went far beyond himself or his desires.
He was deep in thought when Berta said…
“How much longer are we going to wait?”
“As long as it takes.” George pointedly stated. Berta had been the second to the last to join the group, and Morpheus despised her. She looked like she hadn’t been fucked a day in her life, and maybe if she had a good turn, she could dislodge the stick that wedged the hole on her backside.
“Morpheus…how can you sit there behaving so calm!”
Berta was a wildcard; always led by her emotions. He ignored her. He lifted his arm, maneuvering his wrist until his timepiece could be seen. He wasn’t ready to start the game of petty squabbles. In fact—he’d decided before coming that he wouldn’t play at all; he would resolve this problem in his own way. He’d not fully decided on a course of action, but after this meeting he would land firmly on one side of his choices, and he will have dismissed his uncertainty.
Berta cleared her throat, and before anyone could say one word, the doors to the cabin opened, and Eliza Pendleton joined them, hurrying as she made her way inside. She didn’t make eye contact with any of them. Instead, she took her seat. Her smile was tight when she said…
“Sorry for my tardiness.”
Woodrow said…
“No apologies necessary. Rest—slow down…catch your breath.”
Woodrow was well into his nineties; rest, and moving slow were probably the only speeds his body responded to.
Berta excessively sighed. Breaking with protocol, she spoke, and her English accent grated their ears so badly that Morpheus wanted her to stop talking—but she didn’t.
“Tardy again. We are here for a common good. I flew halfway around the world yet, I arrived hours before you. This meeting is important—but you don’t seem to understand that.”
Morpheus could not abide self important people and neither did Woodrow. For all intense and purposes, Eliza was a nobody. She didn’t own a global anything and her financial wealth couldn’t fund a country or pay off its national debt. Eliza was here seated at this table because Morpheus had insisted. During the past two years, their political plans had been spiraling down the crapper and Eliza had been employed to plug the hole. And it had worked for a while, but their crisis manager couldn’t adequately do her job because she had not been in the know, therefore she’d been working with one free hand while her other hand had been tied behind her back. Morpheus had expressed how valuable she would be to them, mainly because even though Eliza didn’t bring a certain brand of status to the table, she did have something that most of them didn’t have. Secrets; and in this circle, that made her just as valuable as any of them.
Woodrow liked Eliza, and he smartly smiled at her, giving her a slow nod of his approval.
In a weak voice, he brought their meeting to order.
“Now that we are all in attendance, I would like to suggest that we discuss our most urgent topic without delay.”
Woodrow didn’t have to name the topic he’d been referring to because they all knew and they noticed that his eyes steered clear of Morpheus. Woodrow said…
“The floor is open for discussion of the matter concerning Tollin Pettier and Governor Andrew Wilcox. As you all know, besides those of us seated here, there are only a handful of people who are aware of the governors political goals—and even though these people are being led to believe that these aspirations are the governor’s and the governor’s alone; this is by design, and they will never know that we in fact are the embodiment of that aspiration. In due time—and after we have set the stage, the governor will reveal to the rest of the country that he is placing his bid to run in the next presidential election. Now…we all know that there are many things that must occur, here as well as abroad. The stabilization of the global market, crude oil production and then there is the European bank issue to consider. In every endeavor, secrecy is the key—and that brings me to the purpose of this meeting. Tollin Pettier’s death is gaining momentum in the Press as are the deaths of Alicia Holly Bradford and Dashiell Wrightly. At this time—we do not need nor do we want Governor Andrew Wilcox, or his family in the media. This problem has been compounded by three untimely murders and the fact that one of the victims just so happened to have mowed down the niece of Governor Wilcox. The connection is weak, but even though up to now, Andrew has not been named in the murders; his association is thinly veiled. Until now, we have done what we could using our influences to keep Andrew from becoming a suspect—but we need the media circus to die down. We need the TV news to stop repeating their names. George—where do we stand on that issue?”
The question had been put to George due to his media contacts. George shook his head while saying…
“The major networks have tried to push the story to the back burners, but the bloggers won’t let it rest. When the independent buzz gets out of hand, I don’t have many options; and believe me when I say that these bloggers are getting their message out. They’ve been relentless—and not all the buzz concerns Tollin. Some of the sites are talking about gun violence and the murder of the call girl—Holly. There’s also a little chatter about Amy’s mother and her generous donation to an inner city charity sponsored by a Samaritan woman. Not much is being said about Dash—on that front, we’ve pretty much got that covered. But I can’t say the same about Marisela Pettier; she’s talking to whomever will listen to her. And so far, that amounts to every national TV news network, cable networks and the radio outlets as well. So—at this point, suppressing the story will only make matters worse. This story has taken on a life of its own, and at this point these families and the bloggers have forced my hand.”
Woodrow looked at Vincent, the owner of Global Satellites, when he said…
“Vincent…were you able to do anything on your end?”
“Very little. When we shut down one site, within hours, they were up and running, using another IP address. This is a cat and mouse game—and right now, they seem to be winning. The only answer is to shut down the entire grid—and I can’t do that.”
“I agree” Woodrow said… “That’s sure to feed the conspiracy nuts.”
Morpheus smirked because most times the conspiracy theories weren’t theories at all; except for a few missing details, these people came close to knowing the entire truth.
Berta gesticulated, pointing her finger when she said…
“Now that she’s here—let’s ask her what she thinks, given that Morpheus insisted we invite her to join our group.”
Woodrow was the oldest of them, and whenever a member spoke out of turn, he felt that it was his duty to renew order.
He shifted in his seat, turning to face Berta.
“Friend…let us
begin again. But this time, we will proceed in an orderly manner.”
While pointing at Berta, he said….
“Berta…you may have the floor.”
Without hesitating, Berta went for the jugular…
“Andrew Wilcox’s nomination is in jeopardy.” She pointed her finger at Eliza while saying… “And she is partly to blame. I may not live in this country but as you all have said…there is a bigger picture, and your next president will be in that portrait. Well…I agree, but I do not see any way out of this. Nearly everyday your newspapers or your TV news is talking about the sister of Andrew Wilcox and the mysterious way that Tollin Pettier took his life. They are talking about Andrew for all the wrong reasons and soon, they will make the connection, and where will we be then? Eliza was supposed to fix this—and she hasn’t. I’ve said my peace and now I want to change my vote. I vote no confidence.”
George sat as still as a statue, when he echoed her refrain…
“As for Andrew Wilcox—I too change my vote. I vote, no confidence.”
Vincent said…
“Are you serious? Do you know how long it took to find Andrew? Do you know how long it took to vet him and to ensure that he’d be willing to fully participate—without question?”
Woodrow said…
“Calm, calm my friends. We are evolved beings; far above any government. We see the world as it truly is. Our vantage point gives us a clearer view than most.”
He looked at the two recanters when he said…
“Now is not the time for doubt. We have chosen our man—and we will stand by him—until the decision is no longer a prudent consideration.”
“But why not consider ending our association now? How can we move forward with Andrew?” George directed his question at Woodrow.
The older man said…
“We will do it because we can.”
Berta shouted…
“But we didn’t agree to this.”
Berta had been referring to the murders. She continued.
