The Society

by Michael Palmer

  It’s not going to happen, jerk. Face it. She’s as good as dead and so are you. Gold and Halliday had been several steps ahead of everyone throughout this nightmare. They were not likely to leave any loose ends just because they promised they would.

  To Will’s right, he could hear Watkins fumbling for something in his jacket pocket. A moment later he dialed a cell phone with a single touch. The check-in call. They were fifteen minutes out, not twenty.

  “Mr. Gold, Wat here. Just reporting in. No problems so far. . . . He’s doing just fine, sir, just fine, but he doesn’t like being on the floor. . . . Okay, Mr. Gold, I’ll tell him. I’ll speak to you in fifteen minutes. We should be in Roxbury before too much longer. . . . Yes, sir. Whatever you say is the way it’s going to be.” He returned the phone to his pocket. “Mr. Gold says for you to get used to it down there.”

  “Isn’t he just a sweetie.”

  “Shut up.”

  “What did he say to you, Watkins? What’s the ‘way it’s going to be’ mean?”

  “Shut up or I swear I’m gonna do some work on those fingers. I bandaged them and I can just as easily unbandage them.”

  “You’re a real prize.”

  Will sank down on the seat, mulling over what Gold might have said. The possibilities he came up with were unsettling. Several of the electrical burns on his body had been itching mercilessly. He asked for permission to scratch and got the predictable response. They were making the frequent turns and stops of city driving now. Watkins had made his second check-in call, this one much briefer than the first, then drove on in silence for maybe ten minutes more. Almost there.

  “Okay,” Watkins said, slowing down, “we’re near where you met Lionel. You can untie that pillowcase and take it off. There’s a bow in the twine right under your chin.”

  “Bless you.”

  “Now, slowly, push yourself up onto the seat and turn around.”

  “What about these handcuffs?”

  “Just keep your hands in your lap.”

  “How will I fasten my seat belt?” Will waited in vain for Watkins to respond to the humor. “Okay,” he said once he was upright and had worked the stiffness from his shoulders and a painful cramp from his hip. “That’s where I stopped Lionel to ask directions, right over there, but I think it’s too early for his evening walk.”

  “Mr. Gold wants us to check in some stores. He says if this Lionel is the way you described him, someone will know who he is.”

  “Smart man.”

  “You’re going to come with me, but you’re going to keep your mouth shut unless I ask you to speak. Try anything, and Mr. Gold has instructed me to shoot you and whoever we’re talking to. You know I’ll do that, right?”

  “Right, chief.”

  “Wiseass.”

  Half a block down, Watkins found space by a meter and skillfully maneuvered the boatlike Lincoln into the spot. Then he lumbered around to Will’s door, undid the manacle on Will’s left wrist, and clicked it onto his own.

  “What direction was this man coming from when you stopped him for directions?” he asked.

  “From there.”

  Will pointed across the street at a row of modest stores. The late afternoon was gray and breezy but not all that cold. Still, there was little foot traffic along the block. Watkins nodded toward a florist’s on the corner—Bethany’s Flowers.

  The woman behind the counter of the fragrant shop was in her late thirties with a neat figure, black-framed spectacles, and pleasant eyes. She glanced minutely at the handcuffs joining the two men, then back to their faces, clearly unsure as to which of them was the alpha male. Will expected she would be both surprised and pleased to realize that for once in such situations, it was the black one.

  “My name is Joe Dunn,” Watkins said, flipping open his billfold to reveal a bogus ID. “I’m a private investigator and part-time bounty hunter. This man is my prisoner.”

  “Carol. Pleased to meet you,” the woman said without fear, her expression now one of respect.

  “Before I take him in and waste everyone’s time, I need help in identifying for certain that he’s the one I’ve been after. People have told me that an older man named Lionel can do that and that he lives around here. There’s a hundred-dollar bill in it for anyone who can point me to him.”

  “Lionel’s his first name?” she asked, carefully avoiding any eye contact with Will.

  “Yes, ma’am. I don’t know his last. Here’s the hundred.”

  Watkins slid the bill out just far enough for Carol to confirm the denomination. Still, she shook her head.

  “I guess he doesn’t buy flowers,” she said.

  “Well, thank you very much, anyway,” the huge killer said, as civil and composed as a diplomat.

  It seemed to Will that some connection had formed between Watkins and the slender florist.

  “Wait,” she called out as they approached the door. “Let me call my mother. She’s Bethany. This used to be her shop. She knows almost everyone in this neighborhood.”

  She took the phone out from under the counter and dialed.

  “You’re doing fine,” Watkins whispered harshly. “Just keep it that way.”

  “You know, you’re really quite charming when you set your mind to it,” Will replied, winking at Watkins conspiratorially. “I think she digs you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I told you my mother would know,” Carol called out from behind the counter. “She thinks the man you want is Lionel Henderson. He’s a widower. Very dapper dresser, Mother says. Goes to her church, but not too often.”

  “That sounds like him,” Watkins said. “Find out if she knows where he lives.”

  Carol asked her mother, then hung up and searched through a low, two-drawer file cabinet.

  “Mother says he’s bought flowers here. If he has, she probably has him on file. She kept incredibly accurate records for promotions or Christmas cards or whatever. I’m not doing nearly as well at that as she—wait, here he is. Lionel Henderson, two-thirteen Spruce Street, apartment six. Just down the street that way.”

  She wrote down the name and address and handed it to Watkins. Will read the attraction in her face but still had trouble understanding it. Perhaps nearing forty she had pared down her requirements. Perhaps his knowing that the behemoth killed people for a living had something to do with his underappreciating the man’s desirability.

  “Here you go,” Watkins said, taking the card and handing over the Ben Franklin.

  “Don’t you want to wait and see if it’s the right man before paying me?”

  “If it’s not him, you can still keep the money for being so . . . helpful.”

  “That’s my card. The number of the shop is on the other side.”

  Oh, enough already!

  Will twisted his wrist to stop the manacle from chafing, and his captor shot him a sideward warning glance.

  “Perhaps we’ll see each other again,” Watkins said, continuing the dance.

  “That would be very nice.”

  The florist and the thug, Will thought savagely as they headed out to the street. The walrus and the carpenter may no longer be the most bizarre pairing ever. They paused long enough for another check-in call to Gold and then headed down Spruce.

  Number 213 was a deteriorating four-story brick tenement, absolutely nondescript except for three cement gargoyles jutting out from just below the roof. In the gloom of approaching dusk, it was impossible to appreciate the detail of the sculptures, but from what Will could tell, they were as unique as they were incongruous. He wondered briefly about the building in its earlier days, proudly displaying its unusual art. Then he pictured himself in his earlier days, poised beside the operating table, ready to lead a team of technicians, nurses, and physicians into battle.

  The foyer of the building was surprisingly clean, with mailboxes that were locked and a row of a dozen or so bells, identified by black plastic labels. The inside oak door was also secure.


  “L. Henderson,” Watkins said. “Here it is. Apartment six, just like the nice lady said.” He undid the handcuffs. “Don’t do or say anything stupid. Just follow my lead. I don’t want to have to kill you, but if I do have to shoot, it will be to your spine first, then your knee, then your balls. Got that?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, assuring himself, it seemed, that his gun was positioned just the way he wanted it to be.

  “Watkins, just remember,” Will said, “your boss promised you wouldn’t hurt this guy. He’s an old man and he doesn’t have any idea what this is all about. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Watkins mumbled, pressing the bell.

  Don’t be home, Lionel! Will screamed silently. Don’t be home! He knew it made little difference. Sooner or later, the dapper little man would return, and Watkins would be waiting. Still, Gold wanted the X-rays ASAP, and that was more than enough to root for any delay.

  Watkins pressed the bell again. Nothing.

  “I guess we’ll just have to—”

  There were sounds from inside the door, and moments later Lionel opened it. His gaze was drawn first to the huge black man, but quickly he fixed on Will. Recognition took only a second.

  “Well, if it isn’t the mystery man.”

  “Will. My name is Will.”

  “You all right? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine, Lionel.”

  “I never thought you’d get away from those Cobras. I’ll bet they tried some sort of double cross, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s just like them. Well, at first I didn’t know how you’d find me, then I remembered telling you my name. Ain’t too many Lionels around here.”

  “My name’s Dunn,” the killer cut in, “Joe Dunn. You have a reward comin’ to you for keeping that envelope safe.” He smiled his most disarming Buddha smile. “You do have it, right?”

  “Oh, I have it, all right.”

  “Well, then, may we please come up and do some business?”

  Lionel looked from one of them to the other, then erroneously decided they were no threat. He led them up a flight and into a little apartment that was as fastidiously kept as the man himself. The living room—an overstuffed sofa and easy chair set in front of an ancient console TV—was decorated mostly with framed photographs of various permutations of a large family. The dapper groom in the handsome wedding photo gracing the top of the TV was clearly Lionel, his arm around the waist of a lovely young woman who exuded charm and dignity. To one end of the living room was a closed door that almost certainly led to the bedroom. To the right was a neat, surprisingly large eat-in kitchen.

  “Why don’t we go into the kitchen?” Lionel said. “I can make you both some tea if you like.”

  “That would be f—”

  “We’d really love to stay for tea, Mr. Henderson,” Watkins cut in, “but we have a doctor waiting to see those X-rays.”

  “Is that what’s in that envelope? X-rays? I thought about bringing it to the police, but they haven’t been much help to folks from this neighborhood, and the Cobras have a way of finding things out, so I decided that—”

  “Please, sir,” Watkins pleaded, “the envelope?”

  Will wondered why Watkins wasn’t speeding things up by flashing the reward money the way he had in the florist’s shop. The only explanation he could come up with was disturbing—very disturbing. The big man needed to play the reward card to get through the door, but now that they were inside, there was no longer any need. The moment they had the envelope, the moment Watkins was sure the films were there, Lionel was a dead man—and quite possibly, Will was, too.

  It was at that moment Will noticed the knife resting on the counter—a large carving knife, it appeared, although it was mostly obscured behind a plump tomato, a head of lettuce, and an as yet empty salad bowl. There was no sign that Watkins had seen it. Will felt his pulse accelerate as he forced his eyes away from the weapon and moved a nonchalant six inches to his right, cutting down Watkins’s angle of sight.

  “Like I told you, Mr. Dunn, I’ve got it,” Lionel was saying. He turned to Will. “You sure this is okay? You really don’t look so good.”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Really I am. Ol’ Joe here is my friend. The reason I don’t look so good is that I’ve had like the flu. I haven’t been sleeping too well lately.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, you two just wait here.”

  He headed over and opened the bedroom door.

  “You’re doin’ fine,” Watkins whispered to Will, “just fine.”

  “Watkins, don’t you hurt him.”

  This time the giant didn’t even bother to respond. Will risked a glance at the counter, gauging the best approach to the knife. If he even got the chance, it would be only fleeting. He was going to have to take it and move decisively. There was little doubt that both his and Lionel’s lives were at stake.

  “Here you go,” Lionel sang cheerfully. “I hid it under my mattress in case the Cobras came callin’.”

  “You did good,” Will said. Then he added, stalling as he tried to create even a momentary advantage, “Joe, my friend, it’s not that I don’t trust Lionel, but you never know. One thing I do know is how angry our pal Mr. Gold can get when things aren’t exactly the way he wants them. I think you’d be making a big mistake if you didn’t let me examine the contents of that envelope to ensure that everything that’s supposed to be inside is there.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Lionel said. “You can trust me. I never even looked to see what was inside that envelope.”

  “It’s not just you, Lionel. The Cobras could have messed with it, too. I know exactly what should be in there.”

  Clearly nonplussed, Watkins hesitated, then decided that of his two choices, more trouble could result for him by not checking inside the envelope and bringing Gold a sheaf of cardboard. He gave Will a good look at the way his hand was thrust into his jacket pocket.

  “Quickly,” he growled. “We don’t have much time.”

  His pulse hammering, Will settled onto a chair and slid the thick stack of films out onto the table. It looked as if all of them were mammograms. At least one man had died because of them, and both he and Lionel Henderson were on the brink. Why?

  He was about to spread the X-rays out when he saw the corner of a white envelope protruding from the stack. He covered it with one hand and, in almost the same motion, grasped half of the films with his other, allowing them to slip through his fingers and onto the floor between Lionel and Watkins.

  “Clumsy bastard!” Watkins exclaimed.

  “Now, listen here,” Lionel said, “Cussing is not allowed in my home.”

  He glared at Watkins, then dropped to his knees and began gathering up the glossy X-rays. They had scattered over quite an area and were awkward for him to handle. Watkins reflexively bent over and grabbed a few before sitting up and warily turning his attention back to Will. But during those precious seconds when the killer’s attention was diverted, Will pulled the business-size envelope out, folded it in half with one hand, and stuffed it into his pants pocket.

  “Come on,” Watkins growled.

  “Sorry. Sorry, Joe. Thanks, Lionel.”

  “No problem. No problem. Eighty-one and I can still get down and do my own floors. But I can’t believe you suspected I might have messed with the stuff in that envelope. I never even looked to see what was in there.”

  “Sorry,” Will said.

  “Dammit, Grant, let’s go. Are they all there or not?”

  There was a small wall lamp tacked up just to Will’s left. Once the shade was removed, the light, though not great for a detailed reading of the mammograms, was adequate. Will quickly arranged the films in stacks by patient. There were ten different patient names altogether. Grace Davis was one of them. Even though the cancer was there in the upper outer quadrant of her left breast, the absence of a BB assured him the film wasn’t hers. The next
two sets also showed cancers, one in the right upper outer quadrant, and the other a rather large mass just lateral to the right nipple, with bright white flecks of calcium throughout—often an ominous sign. The fourth stack of films held the key. The name on those X-rays was different from the patient of stack three, but the cancer was identical. Will was absolutely certain of it. Same location, same size, same pattern of calcium deposition. In fact, even the pattern of the blood vessels and other markers in the rest of both breasts were the same.

  Watkins shifted edgily and jerked his head in a demand that Will hurry up.

  Stack five was identical to Grace’s films. In all, although the mammograms were labeled with ten different patients’ names, dates, and clinic numbers, there were actually five identical pairs of films. Will suspected that the variation in the films coincided with the size and shape of the patients’ breasts. He also began suspecting something else—that none of the X-rays actually belonged to the women whose names were on them. If he was right about those two possibilities, a third one, sickening almost beyond imagination, seemed quite likely, as well. None of these women, all of whom were probably treated for cancer at the Excelsius clinic, actually had the disease.

  Will slumped back in his chair, trying to get his mind around what he was seeing. One thing seemed certain: As with everything involving the Excelsius HMO, at the root of the films and the deception, one way or another, was money. Watkins stood.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Are there any problems, or are these all the X-rays?”