The Boy Who Would Rule the World

by Brian Toal

  Four miles away and twenty-six floors up, Jim Wilson rose from his desk and walked towards his private bathroom - one of the privileges that came with being the manager of a large Detroit Bank. Standing in front of the toilet his stream pounded into the centre of the bowl. Suddenly his body went rigid, his eyes wide and staring, urine cascading against the lip of the bowl and darkening the legs of his grey trousers. Then as his flow dried to a trickle, he nodded to himself. He had work do. His damp pants would be of no consequence this afternoon. He would be receiving no staff. The work he had to do was very private, very secret. He quickly returned to his desk and punched the button on his phone that linked him with his secretary.

  "Donna, hold my calls for the rest of the afternoon and tell Sheila Martin I won't be able to meet with her at four."

  "Yes, Mr. Wilson." His secretary responded, "Do you want me to re-schedule your meeting with Ms. Martin."

  "Sure, fit it in tomorrow," he answered casually. "Tomorrow morning preferably."

  "Yes, Mr. Wilson." She answered, as he hung up the phone and swivelled his chair towards his computer terminal. He had work to do. Quickly he called up the account of Intertec Developments. The huge balance was no longer needed. Now he had to put the money back.

  Four blocks south and two blocks east from the Rutherford's home, Alex Baldwin sat in a makeshift office at the rear of his house. His large work-hardened hands and the flannel shirt tucked into his faded blue jeans marked him as a man who spent as little time as possible sitting behind his battered metal desk. But this afternoon, he had left early from the renovations his construction crew were working on. He too had work to do. He had to plan for the largest commercial renovation job his company had ever undertaken. The complete, interior finishing of two floors of the new Financier Centre. A big job. A job that required planning, ordering of materials, the hiring of additional electricians, carpenters and plumbers. Yes, a big job. The fact that he probably would never get paid, didn't worry him a bit. Nothing worried him much anymore at all. His life was finally predictable. No longer a constant struggle from day to day. No longer full of worrisome concerns over which he had little control. His wife no longer threatened to leave him. His seventeen-year-old son no longer had the little blue puncture marks running up his arm. His sixteen-year-old daughter no longer snuck out of her bedroom window, into the arms of a guy that had been more than twice her age. Yes, everything was fine. Every aspiration, every worry, every pain, every need - satisfied, completed. Total contentment.

  Isn't that what life is all about?

  NINE - THREE

  They were are a group now. Some would call it a society, an organization, a fraternity, an elite - and they would be right. It was all of those things. A society now numbering close to four hundred. A society that conducted its business only for its own benefit. A society that had its own laws, its own values, its own code of ethics. A society that was totally linked, each independent, but knowing of the others. Knowing of their special kinship and receiving, without misgiving, direction from the centre. Direction that always provided for their common good. Each individual content with the knowledge that they were contributing to the group. Building their society, furthering its goals. They belonged. They were needed. Their self-worth enhanced and cherished by all.

  Jim Wilson, working late in his office, didn't know why Intertec Developments had needed over seven million dollars deposited to its account. But, he knew Intertec was part of them. An important part too. He hadn't worried about the danger, hadn't worried about the difficulty of the task - in fact, he had known it was impossible for him to transfer the money. He was only the branch manager. His position did not allow him access to millions of dollars. But he hadn't worried, and shortly after he was told of the need, both the accounts manager and the manager of computer operations had called him to arrange a meeting. Between the three of them, it was not even a challenge. Their combined levels of access insured success. And now he was arranging for the money to be returned. Of course, it had to be returned, otherwise eventually they would have been caught. And that would not have furthered the objectives of their society.

  It was an organization too. Individual members joining together, creating alliances, like Jim and his two subordinates, to complement each individual's abilities. Others met to discuss options of further recruiting. Two or three members inviting a reluctant future initiate out for lunch or to an evening of cards or to the theatre. Their combined good will overcoming all resistance.

  Recruiting Lizzy Maxwell had taken great organization. Lizzy had been employed in the zoning office at the Detroit City Hall for going on twenty-six years. There were ten other employees, including her supervisor, that worked within the confines of the cluttered zoning department located on the fourth floor. But none of them, not five or six of them put together, knew the commercial and residential zoning by-laws as well as Lizzy. Every desk had its computer terminal, the back wall was lined with filling cabinets, but all they had to do was turn towards Lizzy's position at the front of the room and shout, "Lizzy, how about re-zoning applications in (whatever area of the city they were interested in)," and Lizzy would shout back the relevant details, along with exceptions and applications filed.

  They absolutely needed a zoning bylaw change along Oakwood. They were planning a huge structure and it would never pass the political process, unless a great deal of recruiting occurred. But if they had the actual bylaws changed - well then, there would be no problem.

  But, Lizzy was difficult. Lizzy worked from eight to five, sometimes till five-thirty or six. Then she took the bus home (Detroit had too many cars and too much pollution and she was not about to contribute to the problem). Made dinner. Fed her three cats. Walked her aging poodle at nine and went to bed at ten. But Lizzy loved Bingo. Yes, she certainly did. Unless there were blizzard conditions or it had been raining for weeks on end (it had to rain steady for at least three or four days before her arthritis began to get bad), Lizzy would be out the door by seven on both Friday and Saturday nights. Yes, there were plenty of good Bingo Halls to choose from. And when two girls from accounting chose to join her at her table - well, that was nice of them wasn't it? Lizzy had her four cards spread out in front of her but, between the action, there was time for a bit of chit chat. And they were quite nice girls. Quite nice indeed. Both had cats and both were equally concerned about getting home on time, to be sure that their felines hadn't got into mischief. Lizzy understood that. Cats were sensitive creatures and tended to get upset and slightly mischievous when left alone. Lizzy had one of hers test out the fabric of her couch a while back, when she had been over-long at the department store. And yes, well certainly she would accept a ride home. It was a bit misty tonight and since the girl's van would be polluting the streets of Detroit anyway, a slight detour to her house wouldn't make much of a difference.

  What a surprise it was for her then, as she settled herself into the middle bench seat and the two girls slid the side door closed, that the van suddenly seemed to be full of men. At least four or five. Large and dark, in heavy pull over sweaters, their fingers digging into the fabric of her coat as they pulled her over the seat. Still, she did her best, kicking, and gouging with her fingernails at their faces. She tried to scream too, (as it said she should do in the Rape Prevention book she had read a while back) but one of them had both of his hands clamped over her mouth and nose, his weight forcing her head against the floor. She fought, but they were too large, too strong, too co-coordinated.

  When the men had finally had subdued her, pinning her body to the floor, her eyes had been drawn to the two, nice young girls, now kneeling, looking back at her from the front seats. They smiled and waved at her when they saw that she was looking at them, and as one of the men jammed a smelly rag over her mouth, one of them even blew her a kiss.

  A day later, and although the Detroit city council had never voted on a re-zoning application, the following change was recorded in the files and computer re
cords of the zoning department located on the fourth floor, of City Hall: at an official council meeting dated May 12, 1972 it was approved that two blocks on both the east and west side of Oakwood Street, bounded by Sherwood and Beachwood would be re-zoned high density, high rise. Following that was a record of council members who voted for and against the bylaw change along with a listing of the two who were absent, on that day long past.

  They were a fraternity as well. A fraternity with an initiation right, far less painful and rigorous than those located in most university towns. But a fraternity all the same. All bore the faint scar, just below the hair line. Although for many this badge was fading, the autumn sun darkening the new skin so that it blended with the old.

  But like all clubs and fraternities, some individuals would be admitted, only to be determined after the induction, to be unsuitable. In fact, entirely unacceptable, undesirable and a shame and embarrassment to all of the members.

  The same was true with the growing brother/sisterhood occurring in the suburbs of Detroit. Some should not have been recruited. Could corrupt the others, their thoughts sickened and twisted.

  MaryAnn Smithe and Thomas Borden were the second group of two that had been chosen to review new associates. Their access to the minds and thoughts of the total group were unrestricted. Their ability to probe desires and past deeds of each member was totally unobstructed. They sat, the two of them in their separate houses, eyes closed, concentrating on the visions and feelings and thoughts they deliberately searched out. Together, they knew the minds of all.

  When a new member was recruited, and often ten or more were recruited each day, they had only the time to touch the fringes of their minds, looking for psychosis, schizophrenia or other mental disorders. But later they would return. Twenty...thirty minutes, longer if necessary, they would probe a member's mind, working through the layers of protection, moving through corridors of desire, scrutinising their motivations and darker interests.

  That is how they had found Jason Trenton. His mind had been filled with the recorded images of little girls lying drugged in their hospital beds, their pyjamas tops pulled up over their heads and their bottoms down to their feet as he photographed them.

  MaryAnn had only needed to probe lightly. She hadn't needed to search far. He had been doing it for years, thousands of experiences were stored. It was his only true desire, all his other needs were secondary.

  She had contacted Thomas, who then had accessed the new recruit's mind as well. Yes, he agreed, there was a problem.

  Concentrating, they had sent their thoughts on to another. A mysterious other. One who simply sucked up their information, but gave nothing in return. The one outside of their scrutiny.

  Only moments passed, before they were washed with the same pictures they had sent. For a moment all members were disengaged from the calm and serenity that everyone enjoyed, and Thomas and MaryAnn knew, from the hate pouring from the minds of the others that all had seen.

  They felt, for the first time in weeks, the emotional chaos of hatred and loathing. Four hundred minds screaming for justice and revenge.

  Then all were allowed the knowledge that members had been dispatched to terminate the cancer, even allowed to see how it would be done. Then there was a clamour of delight as each knew of the pervert's doom.

  Moments later though, the collected, composed emotions returned and in the silence Thomas and MaryAnn went back to their work. They were denied access, however, to the man they had turned out. He had been cut off, disenfranchised, alone in his terminal moments.

  In the days and weeks following they had found many more. Men with secrets, needs and passions deeply buried. Women too, but with secrets of a different type.

  Twice they had consulted together and then passed their information on. Both times they had heard nothing in return, but the two disappeared from their net. Vanished, a still blackness where before there had been intelligence, visions and life.

  Today would be their last day though. MaryAnn Smithe and Thomas Borden knew too much, had seen too much, had served their master too well. Their families would understand. Would not even mourn. It had to be done. It was for the good of the fraternity.

  The third group of two, began their monitoring, even as MaryAnn and Thomas responded to the simultaneous knocking at their doors.

  They were members of an elite as well. The vast majority held no university or college credentials. None of them had IQ's that would impress. But, they had been motivated, composed, directed, transformed. The whole of their being stripped away. Those that were spiteful and jealous became placid and trusting. Others with tempers that flared and rages that frightened, became docile and serene. Each peeled of their emotions of extreme. Those who could not deal with criticism or strain, found themselves confident and collected. Those with fears and phobias found themselves poised and confident. Life's petty problems, with its anguish and blame were reduced to living with no need of fame. Each did what they could do best. No longer worried about impressing family, friends, co-workers or the boss. But each was improved. Able to concentrate longer. More confident at their tasks. Willing to work longer and accomplish more.

  Sally Goodman's birthday would be next week. Her thirtieth, and already she had six children. Four girls and two boys, the youngest four months and the oldest going on ten years.

  Her life had been so busy, oh yes, impossible to keep up with the demands made on her meagre time. The cooking, the cleaning, the diaper changes, the laundry, the feeding, the shopping, the scrubbing, more diaper changes. Her life had become a total chaos of chores and responsibilities. Nothing could she do well. The dishes piled in the sink, half of them washed, the rest waiting. Dirty laundry spilled from the hamper, clean linens heaped on the floor. The youngest screamed from her crib as the stew on the stove boiled and charred under the lid. There was no time for completeness or perfection, only time to begin another task.

  Sally was a good friend of the French's although, with the constant bustle in her life, she hadn't seen them for a couple months. When Nancy French had phoned four days ago and asked if she could come over for a coffee later that afternoon, Sally had been delighted. She had even started to clean up the living room before Nancy arrived.

  Much to her surprise, Nancy had pulled up in front of her house in a huge recreational vehicle. A recreational vehicle driven by another, very nice lady. She had forgotten her name by now, because it really didn't matter. But she remembered the three of them had a very nice chat while she fed the two little ones and helped Timmy with his puzzles.

  When they had indicated they must leave, she had walked with them to the curb, awe-inspired by the size and beauty of the other woman's vehicle. And she had wanted to see the inside. Just a quick peek, as the little ones would need a diaper change soon and Timmy was out on the porch without his shoes on.

  And, well, she wasn't quite sure what happened then. Her mind was still a bit fuzzy on that, but it didn't really matter, because now her life was so much simpler. So much more organized. She was able to plan so well. To accomplish tasks with such ease and such competence. Of course, she no longer had a need to watch General Hospital or the Young and Restless - why would she be interested in fictional TV shows?. She had no trouble saying no, when the pesky neighbours next door and from down the block wanted to come over for coffee. "No, no, it takes too much time from my productive day," she had replied. She gave up smoking as well. A habit she had been trying to break for years. She found if she no longer took breaks for cigarettes or coffees, she could work from the time she got up, until it was time for her to go to bed.

  The kitchen was clean, the laundry done, the babies always dry and since she had driven Timmy and her three older children down to visit the lady with the big recreational vehicle, she no longer had to help him with his puzzles and toys. In fact, he didn't play with them much at all anymore. His little, three-year-old body, was usually busy helping her. He wasn't strong enough for most tasks, but he ce
rtainly could scrub floors, wash toilets, fold clothes, change linen and best of all keep the babies from bothering her.

  Yes, she was part of the elite, the most competent, able, and organized housewife on the block - and after she had convinced the other lady to come back and talk with her husband. Well! He had become so helpful and so considerate and so kind. He still worked a lot of over-time delivering fuel oil to the farms outside of Detroit, but now she knew he wasn't cheating. She knew it! He wouldn't. He couldn't. Life was just so perfect.

  NINE - FOUR

  Jon Abrams loved to drive. Loved to drive fast - put the peddle to the metal, bury the needle, cruising on overdrive, the one twenty rush - but his old 76 Datsun had a bad rim from when he rolled it on its side a week ago and, at seventy-five, she was shak'in and rolling, the back-end pitching and shuddering and he knew he couldn't push her any more or he'd be off in the ditch again. Couldn't be doing that, not again. The aging Datsun had to last him till he found another job. Probably longer than that, the bills were piling up back home - big time. He pulled around a double tractor-trailer, his knuckles whitening on the wheel as the car jolted through the slipstream.

  Maybe he should have signed up for that college course. Nobody seemed to be interested in hiring white, twenty-two-year-old males with no skills except a lot of ambition. That auto mechanics course had looked kind of interesting too. He had been buying and fixing up old cars since before he was legally able to drive, not that the lack of a that little piece of paper had stopped him and his buddies from boogieing around the back roads. But, everybody wanted certificates these days, nobody was interested in what he might be able to do. They wanted a piece of paper to prove it. Yeah, he should have signed up for that course. He was going to waste another year, doing dick-ass little jobs for no money.