Angels Mark (The Serena Wilcox Mysteries Dystopian Thriller Trilogy)

by Natalie Buske Thomas

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Yeah. Make sure that something does.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Morris came out from behind his metal desk, a desk littered with children’s school pictures, office supplies and paperwork that Morris should have completed weeks ago. A pizza box with one piece left in it topped the stack. His body brushed the pile, causing the tower to slide off the desk. Morris seemed not to notice.

  He walked toward Paul until he was standing only a few inches from his face. Morris, several inches shorter than Paul, had somehow made himself tall enough to look him eye to eye. He reached out and gripped Paul’s shoulders with his hairy stubby fingers.

  “Look kid, it’s a tough world. I’m doing you a favor. You have something that women want.” His halitosis expelled over Paul’s face like an exterminator’s fogger. He growled, “A pretty boy like you. Use it.”

  Paul left Handley Sweep & Repair and went directly home, to the empty house that had once been occupied a happy family. Well, to be fair, the family was never all that happy, but at least they were together, all of them alive. Imperfect parents were nearly always better than dead parents. They’d been gone a long time now and Paul had trouble remembering what it was like to have had parents; his brother Clyde had been his legal guardian since Paul was thirteen years old.

  The empty house seemed to echo his every step, mocking him. Paul was aching for his parents even though he knew deep down that he probably wouldn’t have shared any of this Miss Donna situation with them. It was a relief when a clatter from the kitchen caught Paul’s ears: Clyde was home.

  “Why are you home?” Paul asked.

  Clyde didn’t pause in his dish-washing routine. “I could ask the same of you, little brother.”

  “I’m in trouble, Clyde.”

  “Oh?” Clyde dried his hands on the faded green-checked dish towel hanging from the front pocket of his jeans. He turned away from the sink.

  “This nasty old bat came on to me and I got out of there. Morris wants me to go back to her and do what she wants.”

  “Mole-man? He’s pulling your leg.”

  “No, he’s serious. And it’s a gopher. He looks like a gopher.”

  “Mole, gopher – a rodent is a rodent. How do you know he’s not messing with your head?”

  “He wants the sale. He’s not joking.”

  “You’re telling me that the scumbag would pimp out my little brother to sell a vacuum cleaner?”

  “If you don’t believe me, listen to this.” Paul fished his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “You recorded him?”

  “Audio. There’s no video, I kept it in my pocket.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Clyde listened to Morris’ tirade, and could hear for himself the unmistakable meaning of what Morris told Paul to do. Clyde felt the blood rushing to his head, his hands clenched into fists. He willed his body to relax. He tensed his face and then released the tension. He took a couple deep breaths. When he had stabled himself he said, “I’ll take care of it. You go on to the rest of your route. Say nothing about Donna.”

  “How did you know it was her?”

  Clyde held up the clipboard Paul had set on the kitchen table. “You checked off all the names before hers. Besides, she has a reputation. Figured she was the one.”

  “You got it right. It’s her.” Paul shuddered at the memory of her moist hot lips on his mouth.

  “Don’t worry, kid. I’ve got your back. You check off her name. Mark it as ‘not home’. Go to the next person on your list. Business as usual. Say nothing to Morris, or anyone. Got it?”

  Paul opened his mouth to ask what Clyde was going to do, but something in his brother’s face stopped him cold. Paul left the kitchen, went upstairs to his room, and spent the rest of his Friday afternoon listening to music. By Sunday, Paul had two nights of hard partying with his friends behind him and had almost forgotten about Miss Donna.

  The following Monday morning, when Paul arrived early, without a trace of a hangover, Morris pulled Paul into his office for a chat. “Paulie, I got something to tell you.”

  What was that expression on Morris’ face? Compassion? Pity? Were rodents capable of emotion? Paul waited, said nothing.

  “It’s about Donna. Drop her from your list. She’s dead. Her son found her body on Saturday. It was a freak accident. Somehow she fell into her bathtub full of water – her clothes still on and everything. Her blow dryer was plugged in nearby, it was in the tub – switch was on. They think she might have grabbed at the cord as she was falling, or was stupid enough to dry her hair while in the tub. I don’t know if she died from hitting her head on the tub, from zapping herself, or from drowning. Whatever. She’s dead. Take her off your roster.”

  Paul blinked. He said nothing. His mind fleetingly went to Clyde. Could Clyde have had something to do with Donna’s death? No, of course not! “Are the police investigating?”

  Morris snorted. “I doubt it. What’s one less skank in this town?”

  Paul continued selling vacuum cleaners for another six long months, until he had enough money in his bank account to make a down payment on a small business loan. After that, Paul would never have to sell another vacuum. Because, according to Clyde, there was a little something that Morris was completely clueless about: who owned the building, the hole-in-the-wall hovel in a God-forsaken town, where Handley Sweep & Repair had been in business for three generations. Clyde knew, and he filled Paul’s head with a plan to get out from under Morris Handley with his middle finger held high.

  The history on the Handley building involved the late Mr. Ferro, a dear friend of Morris’ grandfather, who helped the Handley family in the early days when Mr. Handley was supporting an ill wife and a young family with eleven children. Ferro set a lower-than-market-price rental agreement, something Mr. Handley could afford to pay – and yet maintain his pride in supporting his family.

  In over forty years, Ferro had never raised the rent, even when Handley Sweep & Repair was passed down through two generations. When Ferro’s daughter Martha inherited the Handley Sweep & Repair building from her father, she had no interest in the building and made no changes to the original rental agreement that her father had with Morris. She had never visited the building, probably never read the rental agreement, and Clyde suspected that she would rather get rid of it than continue the relationship with the Handleys; who, two generations removed from the original Ferro-Handley friendship, were strangers to each other, and not in the same league as Martha and her circle.

  Paul made Martha an offer for the building. She didn’t hesitate to sell it to the promising young man, so enterprising and energetic. Making something new out of something neglected? Her father would have appreciated such idealism and work ethic. How wonderful to be out from under the Handley building with a sale she could feel good about. Secretly, Martha was, above everything else, pleased that she no longer had any association with the Handleys, which was precisely what Clyde expected.

  What Clyde also knew was that Morris was in debt, a deep dark abyss of debt that Morris would never be able to repay, even if he worked hard for the rest of his life. His shrew of a wife had overextended their credit cards, again, and the Handleys were in serious danger of losing their house. The poor chump couldn’t even declare personal bankruptcy because he had already done that all too recently. There was no more recourse for Morris and Clyde knew that Morris would not be able to hold on to Handley Sweep & Repair if the rent was, say, triple what he was currently paying.

  As per Clyde’s instruction, Paul promptly changed the rental agreement. The original contract had long expired and had no legal standing, so there was no barrier in the way of immediately raising the rent to what the current market would bear. Eventually Morris would fall so far behind in payments that eviction would be the next step.

  During the planning stage, Paul had asked, “But why bother with any of this? I can just quit Handley’s and
get a different job.”

  Clyde scowled, “Paul, you can’t let him run you off. You have to take back your power.”

  “You’ve been watching too much daytime TV,” Paul scoffed.

  Clyde didn’t crack a smile. “This isn’t something to play around with. You let this rodent squeeze you out, and you’ll be under someone’s feet the rest of your life. There will be another Morris right behind this one.”

  “Why don’t I just kick him out right away? Why wait months?”

  “Patience, little brother. Watch him squirm. Revenge is sweeter when it takes time to unfold. And when it does, you can throw away your cheap polyester suit.”

  After three years of selling vacuums, Paul was done with that forever. And Clyde was right; it was a sweet victory to watch Morris beg for extensions when the rent came due each month. Paul stretched out the enjoyment by allowing extensions, with interest, for over six months. Then Paul sent Morris’ account to collections. Finally, nine months after Paul had purchased the Handley Sweep & Repair building, he evicted Morris.

  Paul, at twenty-one years of age, knew that his revenge marked the last time he would ever answer to anyone. But after his revenge on Morris was complete, he was stuck with Morris’ old haunt. What to do with it? Lease it, sell it or use it? He turned the matter over to Clyde.

  Clyde needed no arm twisting. He was waiting for Paul to finally realize that something would need to be done about the building now that it was vacant. He offered, helpfully, to partner with Paul, and he was quick to spin the situation until his younger brother believed that Clyde would respect Paul as an equal, or even, laughably, as a senior. It amused Clyde that Paul was so easily manipulated that Paul was actually seeking him out for help, without a clue that Clyde had been “helping” him all along. Clyde cursed the fact that Paul was not a twin, and was not even a full brother, but Paul was as close as Clyde would get to an alter ego. Messing with Paul’s head was child’s play; he was a soft lump of clay that was no challenge for a skilled potter. After all, the conditions were ideal: Paul was a vain conventionally-handsome boy who had been flattered from birth. He would never believe that anyone could hate him or want to do him harm.

  Yes, Clyde would go into business with Paul. He would be a silent senior partner: secretly spinning webs and twisting Paul’s thoughts until Paul himself believed that Clyde’s ideas were his own. That’s how it had always been, and how it would always be. As for this latest development, Paul didn’t come up with the Handley takeover. Of course it was Clyde who had filled his head with ideas, so naturally Clyde thought of the building as his own from the start. If Paul hadn’t come to Clyde with the partnership idea on his own accord, Clyde would have spun a web to draw him to what he wanted, but Paul made things easy for Clyde, as he always did.

  The two brothers agreed to hold their first business meeting at their parents’ kitchen table. Catsup, two plates, two mugs, two forks, and two paper napkins were already on the table before Paul came downstairs. The smell of cooking oil greeted Paul when he entered the kitchen, reminding him that he was hungry. Without a word, Paul sat in his regular chair while Clyde fried the sliced baby red potatoes he had boiled the day before. A few moments later Clyde served up the potatoes and the coffee. Then he sat down opposite Paul.

  “The old Handley building has real potential,” Clyde began.

  “I handled that slick, didn’t I? I have to make money fast though. I burned through all my savings on the down payment.” Paul drizzled catsup over his potatoes. Fried potatoes like Mom used to make, Paul’s favorite.

  “You don’t have much time to find a new job.” Clyde’s eyes were full of concern. Clyde had practiced that particular expression in the mirror until he could do it on command. He could have been an actor in another life, a character actor though – he was not good looking enough to be a leading man. Paul would be the man for that job. Clyde broke free of his own musings and realized that Paul was talking. How amusing, little brother was defensive.

  “I don’t want a new job. I want to be my own boss,” Paul bristled. Paul was amazed sometimes at how little Clyde understood him.

  “You don’t have time to grow a business.” Clyde took a bite of potato and slowly moved his eyes in thoughtful contemplation.

  “What are you saying? Go into business or not? I need money now, but I want to do this. What should I do, Clyde?”

  “Too bad people wouldn’t just give you money, tossing dollars into an offering plate just to see you talk.”

  “I could be a preacher,” Paul snorted.

  “Now that’s an idea worth considering! The old Handley building is in an excellent location for a church. The people will pack the pews. Magnificent!” Clyde jumped up from his chair and began clearing the dishes. Every movement he made was with great gusto: Stack the plates with a clatter, clatter. Scrape, scrape the scraps into the bin. Slip it all into the sink with a satisfying plunk into the soapy water.

  “I turn it into a church? You’re not serious.” Paul twisted his body in his chair to follow Clyde’s movements as he whirled about the kitchen.

  Clyde sat back down. “Sure! Start up a new church. People will pay just to hear you speak.”

  “I don’t know, you think so?” asked Paul.

  He leaned forward on the table and hid a snide grin behind pious folded hands. Paul was warming up to the idea, his ego responding to the idea of people hanging on his every word. Soft clay was never a challenge for a skilled potter like Clyde.

  6

  President Ann Kinji typed the word “Cologne” into the online shopping search engine textbox. She was relieved to find only a dozen choices. She ignored Old Spice, which conjured up a fond memory of her grandfather, and anything that sounded like a teenage boy’s scent. That left her with only two options. Of the two, she chose the best looking bottle, the one with the best reviews. There, done!

  She knew it wasn’t the most personal way to shop, but she was proud that at least she was doing her own shopping for her husband instead of delegating the task to one of her assistants. Ann had a perfect record of never missing their special occasions, regardless of how busy she was. It didn’t matter if she was an overloaded college student or one of the first two Presidents of the formally-known-as United States, she had always found the time for her best friend. However, with Ted’s birthday not quite two weeks away, it was too close for comfort. At least that was how it felt to Ann, who was always light years ahead of schedule. It was a telling sign that she was dangerously close to being sucked into the office; her former life a shadow.

  Ann was determined to hold on to the person that she was, but that noble intention was proving more difficult than she could have imagined. The presidency had blindsided her and she was feeling unsure of herself for the first time in her life. How does one go from normal person to President? Never in her wildest dreams had she held such extreme ambition, or even the slightest expectation that a woman would become President in her lifetime, let alone an Asian woman, let alone herself!

  Ann wasn't ungrateful. Her awareness of her unique place in history, her extraordinary influence in this unprecedented time of turbulence, and her power to alter fate for a nation, no, the world, was acute. And yet, she didn't ask for this unquantifiable responsibility. In her spirit, Ann was still that little girl sitting in the front of the class; assigned to the power seat by one teacher after another, never seeking attention for herself, but attracting it anyway. The only thing that Ann set her sights on was the pursuit of excellence in everything she did. The awards, the accolades, the acclaim – all of these were the cherry on top. Intrinsic rewards were always enough to keep her going.

  Naturally, she was a teacher’s dream: smart as a whip, creative, and talented, without a hint of arrogance. She was a model citizen, popular with her peers without ever joining the “in” crowd, or wasting much energy on worrying about what other people thought of her. She just did the right thing in every situation, and she worked ver
y, very hard – joyfully; she was a ball of light. She moved as if she had the energy of the sun fueling her on, her steps as light and effortless as a flower fairy dancing in the morning light.

  It was that way for Ann from birth. She was blessed to always be at the right place, at the right time, for each golden opportunity. So it was without effort that she found herself wearing a virtual crown, despite never playing political games and never compromising her moral code, not once in her twenty years of public service, not ever.

  Ann was a living example of “work meets opportunity”, an anomaly in politics; someone who had no connections, no family money, and not a devious bone in her body. No, she was just a very smart girl who worked her way up, up, up, -- up and out of her hometown of Warsaw, Indiana -- until one day important people tapped her to solve the world's worst problems in modern day history.

  Her run-in with Paul had conjured up memories of Warsaw; walking after school to the library, waiting for her father to pick her up after work; going to Pizza King after a basketball game and giving her best friend a kick under the table to signal it was time to get away from her annoying date; buying a new dress to wear to the Snowball; feeling left out when kids told stories of cow-tipping and barn parties, even though she didn’t really want to be the kind of girl who got invited to the secret parties where alcohol, and other things, flowed freely; riding with her boyfriend through the corn fields; swimming at Winona Lake and getting stuck in the seaweed.

  Her mind rested on the Winona Lake story for a few minutes. When she had shouted for help, her father told her to relax, don’t panic, relax. She did, and the seaweed fell away, drifting around her in a swirl of harmless green gunk. She easily swam back to the pier. Life is like swimming in seaweed, she mused.

  She was a long way from Warsaw, where basketball was not a mere game or sport, but something as revered as a church service. She had never quite understood the love of basketball, nor did she ever really become a Hoosier – her family moved to Warsaw the summer before she entered fourth grade – but she grew up well there. Watching “brat pack” movies with her friends, attending both proms, tying for first place in the high school talent show, making the honor roll, even taking special classes for “gifted and talented”.