Crossroads: An Anthology

by LaShaun, Elizabeth

  He raised his hand like a gun, aiming at his two targets. “Bang, bang,” he sounded out.

  “What was that?” the voice asked.

  The bald man grimaced; he’d been talking aloud again. “We have a new hitch,” he said.

  “And that would be?” the voice was shrilled with impatience.

  “Reeb and Holman are headed to The Erikson Group.”

  A long silence and then the voice said, “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Maybe it’s time to terminate them.”

  “No,” the voice ordered. “The target is the priority. Their visiting The Erikson Group is only a hiccup. They will learn nothing.”

  The bald man bit his bottom lip. He was ready to perform act III with Pretty Pamela Reeb. Act III was the best part of his masterpiece. “Fine, I’ll keep watching them for the time being. But I have to be honest. This is getting boring.”

  “Then you’re going to have to find a way to entertain yourself until the target has been dealt with. Understand?”

  “Sure, whatever.” In the back of the bald man’s mind, a nagging memory was fighting to the forefront of his thoughts. But he couldn’t exactly place his finger on what that memory was. The one thing he had known was that Reeb’s and Holman’s going to The Erikson Group was a very bad idea.

  Pam

  “My God, did they find Yolanda?” Tony was frantic. He dropped his Pepsi and grabbed both my arms. “What did your father say about Yolanda?”

  “Nothing. They only found her car,” I explained. “They’re not sure how the car ended up in the river, but they can’t take a chance that foul play was involved.”

  “We need to go there now!”

  “You’re not thinking straight, Tony. The police would arrest you the moment you showed your face. Daddy wants me to talk you into turning yourself in.”

  Realization sank in. He let go of my arms, his hand dropped to his side. “Why is this happening?”

  Taking his hand, I said, “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. We can’t go and see about the car. We need to head to The Erikson Group. Our answers are there. I can feel it.”

  “Do answers even matter if she’s dead?”

  “You have to believe she’s not.”

  He looked at the ground. “Two years in a relationship and I’m finding I don’t know anything about her.”

  “Don’t give up on me now, Tony. This isn’t only about you. She’s been my best friend for over two years too. I need answers. Don’t you?”

  His gaze came up to mine. “It’s really that important to you?”

  “It is.”

  My heart pounded in my chest waiting for him to respond. Would he abandon finding Yolanda just like that? I wondered if I would be able to continue without Tony.

  “I guess I can’t go on without knowing the truth. Besides, knowing you Pam, you will just go on to The Erikson Group without me.”

  I grinned. “You know I will.”

  With that settled, we headed to the Mountaineer. I glance over a shoulder back to the lobby. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there were cracks in the glass. The guard hadn’t returned either. Maybe the university was being vandalized. I pushed anymore thoughts of the school out of my head. I needed to focus on the task ahead of us. Once I was behind the wheel, Tony gave me a sidelong glance. “You know once your father finds out I was with you all this time, he’s going to kill you.”

  Turning the key in the ignition, I said, “Let’s not go there, okay?”

  During the hour long drive to The Erikson Group building, Daddy called me four times asking about Tony. Mama called me eight times to talk about nothing. Tony was smart enough to have turned off his phone and pulled out the battery to guarantee police couldn’t track him through his cellular signal. Unless Daddy got a subpoena to track mine, which I doubt he’d ever do, because Mama would kill him, I thought we were under everyone’s radar. So why was it I felt like we were being watched?

  The Erikson Group’s site was built like a prison. The complex took up nearly four football fields. Its sterile gray color and blocky configuration seemed out of place in the green scenery that encircled it. Large twenty foot walls surrounding the building sat in the center of the property. At the front gate, a guard built like a linebacker greeted us.

  “Ma’am, sir,” he said with military curtness.

  “Hi,” I responded pleasantly. “I’d like to speak to someone in the HR department if that’s possible.”

  The guard stared at a clipboard, frowned and then looked back at me. “Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”

  “No. But this is really important. I do need to talk with someone here.”

  “What’s this regarding ma’am?”

  “A former employee that used to work here.”

  The guard’s stoic expression was nerve wrecking. “Employee’s name, please.”

  I turned to look at Tony not sure if I should say.

  Tony shrugged his shoulders and said, “Can’t hurt.”

  Turning back to the guard, I answered, “Yolanda Blakely.”

  The guard disappeared into the security booth. Long seconds dragged on. I thought for sure he would be sending us away. Instead, he stepped out and waved us inside. He had me stop when I drove up beside him.

  He pointed toward the facility. “There’s a parking structure subbasement just down the road. You are to enter Lot B and take the elevator to the main lobby where someone will meet you, ma’am.”

  Pulling into the visitor’s underground parking facility. The Mountaineer was the only vehicle in the entire structure. Our footfalls echoed off the concrete floors. We followed a line of arrows to a bank of elevators taking one up to the lobby.

  The interior wasn’t what I expected. Modern paintings hung on the walls, the marble floors glistened as if recently polished, contemporary jazz played softly in the background. The room felt more like a lobby for a five star hotel than a place of business. There wasn’t a receptionist. The only place to sit was oversized beanbag style chairs that looked to be filled with some kind of weird liquid gel. Tony was braver than me and collapsed backwards into one.

  He looked as if swallowed by quicksand, but after a few seconds, the chair seemed to mode into a comfortable shape for hi s body. “I am in love with this chair,” he said, closing his eyes looking totally carefree.

  “I’m glad you like it,” a man’s voice said startling us. Wearing a black two-piece suit that looked to be custom fitted, he seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “My name is Albert Milroy. And you are?”

  I offered my hand. “Pamela Reeb.”

  He gave me a weak shake. “Charmed.”

  Tony was struggling to get out of the chair, but he kept slipping back. I helped him out. Looking royally embarrassed, Tony stuck out his hand toward Milroy. “Sorry about that. I’m Anthony Holman.”

  Milroy laughed. “I can’t tell you how many times I needed help out of one of those chairs. They are very comfortable to sit in, but require the limpness of youth to get out.” He gestured for us to follow him. “I’m told that you are here to inquire about a former employee. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Yolanda Blakely,” I told him.

  He nodded and led us into a plush office, with a huge oak desk. He circled the monster of a desk and indicated for us to take a seat opposite of him. “Do you mind telling me what your relationship is to Ms. Blakely?”

  “She’s my fiancé,” Tony answered.

  Milroy cocked an eyebrow, intrigued. “Fiancé you say? Interesting.” He turned to me. “And your relationship to her?”

  “Yolanda is my best friend.” On his desk, a name plate sat on the front edge. Albert Milroy. Seeing it in print, brought back the memory of the prescription slip Tony and I found under the keyboard. “Are you some kind of doctor?”

  Shock flitted across his face, but quickly subsided. “Yes, I am. Has something about me given that fact away?”

  I said nothing.

&n
bsp; Thankfully Tony chimed in with his own question. “Your website says you’re a consulting company. What type of services do you actually offer?”

  Milroy smiled, look thoughtful and then asked, “What exactly can I do for you two?”

  “Yolanda is missing,” Tony blurted out. “We think she might be in some kind of trouble.”

  “Oh dear,” Milroy said, looking generally concerned. “Did the trouble happen shortly after you asked her to marry you?”

  Tony leaned forward in his chair eyes narrowed with suspicion. “The day after as a matter of fact.”

  Milroy rubbed his chin, lost in thought and then looked as if coming to a decision. Reaching into one of his desk drawers, he pulled out two identical sheets of paper, passing one to me and the other to Tony.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  Milroy’s gaze swiveled between the two of us. “Confidentiality agreement forms. Before we discuss this further, you have to sign that document. Nothing we say goes beyond this room.”

  After reading through the document, we signed our names at the bottom. Sliding the paperwork back into front of him, I asked, “What is this place, really?”

  Milroy grinned. “You are sitting in the most sought after psychiatric hospital in the world.”

  “A mental hospital?” Tony asked jumping to his feet. “But your website said consulting firm.”

  Milroy gestured for Tony to sit and waited for him to comply before speaking. “Not only are we the most sought after, but also the most secretive. Our elite clientele require confidentiality. They range from highly placed politicians to spoiled actors. We have a success rate of ninety-eight percent. So yes, we place some false information on our website, in case someone becomes curious about us.”

  “Did Yolanda work here?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  I wagged a finger at him. “But when she started working at my company, she listed The Erikson Group as her previous employer.”

  Letting out an exhausted sigh, Milroy said, “We strongly suggest that some clients, especially those that have been long time patients, rejoin the world by seeking work. You see, some never worked a day in their lives, while others started from nothing and built an empire. Those that want to seek work are encouraged to use The Erikson Group as a reference. We comply when employers are doing background checks or such.”

  Tony gripped the edges of his chair. “You’re saying Yolanda was patient here?”

  “I’m saying no such thing. I’m not allowed to talk about our clients. I’m only telling you about some of the services we offer at The Erikson Group,” Milroy explained.

  “I get the impression that your clientele are very rich,” I said.

  Milroy shook his head. “That’s not necessarily true. Sometimes our less fiscal responsible clients are sponsored by outside benefactors. But as for the rest of them, they’re filthily rich if I may be so bold.”

  “Yolanda is barely scraping by on her salary,” Tony said throwing up his hands in disgusted resignation.

  Milroy leaned across his desk. “Hypothetically speaking, certain clients are so repulsed by their fortunes that they abandon everything they own just to etch out a life they would deem normal.”

  Tony pointed a finger toward Milroy. “You’re telling me, Yolanda is rich?”

  Milroy leaned back in his chair, his face scrunched into a deep frown. He looked to be debating something in his head. Coming to a decision, he said, “Let me be blunt. Again, I must insist that what I say stays in this room. I will deny otherwise, if I am ever question about this.”

  “Go for it,” I said encouragingly.

  “The only reason I speaking with you, is because your lives may be in mortal danger.” Milroy pointed to Tony. “You most of all, Mr. Holman, because you asked her to marry you.”

  “Say what?” Tony asked

  “Being as non-technical as possible, Ms. Blakely had suffered from what is most commonly known as multiple personality disorder. Three in fact. One, of course being Yolanda, the second being her factious brother DeShaun. The third and most dangerous being an assassin with no name. Under the latter personality, Ms. Blakely had nearly killed two innocent people. Both former lovers.”

  “We’ve known her for more than two years. We never saw any evidence of this,” I said.

  “I had hoped that I’d cured her. She was placed on a strict medication to assist in controlling her personality disorder.”

  I pulled out the crumpled paper from my purse and showed it to Milroy.

  He recognized it immediately. “It would take weeks of her not taking the medication for her to slip back into her previous condition.” He swiveled in his chair to a computer and began typing. After several minutes, he faced us again. “It seems that Ms. Blakely has not refilled her prescription in nearly a month.”

  “This can’t be happening,” Tony said his face pensive. “We were supposed to be getting married.”

  “Has Ms. Blakely been behaving strangely?” Milroy asked.

  “She killed Wanabe,” Tony said, clasping his chin.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We think she might have killed her cat,” I explained. “We thought at first someone else had done it, but after this, well, I just don’t know anymore.”

  “Anything else?” Milroy pressed.

  Hesitantly, I said, “She might have had pictures doctored of Tony and me sleeping together.”

  Milroy shook his head sadly. “That’s not good for either of you. It seems she made you two the target of her wrath. Killing the cat would indicate the Assassin personality, though it strikes me as odd that she hasn’t outright attacked you. With the previous boyfriends, she came at them with knives, but she now appears to have become more creative. And I haven’t known her to involve women before in her fantasies.”

  “You don’t sound very hopeful,” Tony said lifting his face out of his hands. “What are you getting at?”

  “Without examining her, all I can do is offer a speculation. After containing her multiple personalities for so long, it’s possible that she might have created others. This may or may not be a good thing, but count yourselves lucky thus far. If I were you, I would stay away from your home and workplace until Ms. Blakely is returned to medical care.”

  “It may not matter anyway,” Tony said looking sick to his stomach. “Police found her car in the river. Yolanda may be dead.”

  “Was a body found?” Milroy asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  Standing Milroy leaned forward and rested his knuckles on the desk. “Then I would assume she’s very much alive. If she has accessed her vast fortune, she’s quite capable of faking a great many things, especially her death.”

  Milroy escorted us out, reminded us repeatedly about the confidentiality forms we’d signed. At the elevator he added, “The Erikson Group guarantees success for its clients. When they do not succeed, we do not succeed. Rest assured my staff will be working diligently in finding Ms. Blakely before she does any serious harm to herself or anyone else.”

  After we got back to the car, I asked, “Do you think Milroy was a little too forthright with us? I mean for a business that promises secrecy, he told us a hell of a lot.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Tony said. “I also got the impression he was scared. He covered it up well, but it was there.”

  “And if he’s afraid, should we be?” I asked more to myself.

  Part Four

  The Bald Man

  While he’d been waiting, the bald man had been listening to news reports of Yolanda’s car being retrieved from the river on the radio. Divers were in the water searching for her body. He knew they wouldn’t find Yolanda. It was all a ploy in hopes of throwing off the bald man’s search for her. His leg throbbed from the old wound she had given him years before. He considered all the ways he was going to make her pay for injuring him.

  Yolanda’s apparent death also gave her some autonomy to move with r
elative ease through the city without detection. If police were spending their time dredging for her body in the river, less time would be spent looking for her. Even without finding a body, it would no longer be a simple missing person’s case. In one brilliantly bold stroke it would become a homicide, casting even more suspicion regarding Holman’s guilt; meaning the troubles for Holman would increase ten-fold.

  That was unfortunate. Holman was his primary link to the target. If he was to be arrested, she may not come out of hiding. Her revenge on who she’d believed to be the cheating boyfriend would be satisfied. Still, there was pretty Pamela Reeb. No doubt, Yolanda would have something equally devious planned for her. After all, the bald man went through a lot of trouble to guarantee that Yolanda think Reeb was that other woman. That was another unfortunate mess. The bald man had his own plans for pretty Pamela Reeb for his third act and he didn’t want anything to interrupt that fun.

  His thoughts were interrupted when the front gate opened at the facility. Watching the pair drive off The Erikson Group complex, the bald man wondered what bologna cover story Milroy had supplied. Milroy was an idiot with his smug, high and mighty way of thinking. His approach was to give information seekers half-truths and insinuations for misdirection.

  What kind of false trail has Milroy sent you to follow?.

  Anthony

  We rode back to the city in relative silence. I knew that was mostly my fault. Pam had been trying to have a conversation, but I wasn’t in the mood. Too much was floating in my mind, most prominent not knowing whether Yolanda was still alive or somewhere beneath the river. I thought back to Pam’s apartment when I caught the image on the television screen; then about what Milroy said, “Then I would assume she’s very much alive. If she has accessed her vast fortune, she’s quite capable of faking a great many things, especially her death.”