Secret Society

by Stuart R. West

  “It’s Kansas. It is what it is.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Cody flipped on the stereo, switched the dial until he found ear-shredding rap.

  “We are not listening to rap.”

  “Hey, I drive, my music.”

  “No. We don’t need any more chaos in our lives.” Leon switched the dial and settled on acoustic blues. “Much better.”

  “What’s this crap?”

  “It’s blues. Eyes on the road. And slow down.” Cody had been pushing the speed limit since they left. Although happy to leave their pursuers far behind, Leon certainly didn’t want any more unwanted attention. Particularly from Kansas troopers.

  “What? I’m only doin’ seventy-five.”

  “Yes, and the speed limit’s sixty. Slow down!”

  Cody grudgingly applied pressure to the brakes. “Whatever, old man.”

  Leon shifted in his seat, glaring at Cody through bloodshot eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight. My name is ‘Leon.’ Not ‘old man,’ not ‘bitch,’ and most definitely, not ‘yo’! And if you insist on calling me ‘Garber’, then at least have the courtesy of prefacing it with ‘Mister.’”

  Cody snickered. “Whatever, ‘Leon.’ Happy now?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t believe how happy I am.” To Leon’s surprise, they shared a much-needed laugh.

  “So, were those guys back at the airport cops or what?”

  “The man in the restroom had a silencer on his gun. How many policemen use silencers?”

  Slow realization crept over Cody’s face. “More LMI dicks?”

  “Yes, Cody, more ‘LMI dicks.’”

  “This is messed up, yo. How the hell they know we were even gonna’ be there?”

  “My fault. I didn’t think things through. LMI has ears and eyes everywhere. They’ve been on top of our every move since you came to Kansas. The fact I didn’t even consider they could track my car was an idiotic move on my part. And I was naive believing we could leave by plane. With security what it is these days—and LMI’s obvious network of connections and sources—LMI knew what we were doing probably before we did. My stupidity nearly got us killed back there.”

  “Hey, don’t sweat it, old…Leon. Could’ve happened to anybody.”

  Leon studied the unfathomable mystery next to him. Obviously sociopathic, murderer’s blood coursed through Cody’s veins. But, on occasion—when he let his bluster slip—he came across as an eager, fresh-faced kid practically begging for acceptance in a tough world.

  “It was a mistake I shouldn’t have made. And if the police weren’t aware of us before, they know about us now.”

  “How?”

  “Because of the attention we gathered at the airport. We were caught on camera from the second we entered the parking lot—and LMI’s clean-up team surely didn’t escape notice either. And we were seen leaving together. I was stupid.”

  They drove on in silence. Music breezed out through the flat-sounding car speakers, momentarily transporting Leon anywhere but in the car. Harsh reality slapped him back. “Cody, can I ask you a question?”

  “Depends on what it is.” Cody stiffened, defenses thrown up.

  “Why do you do it? I mean, why did you do it in Denver?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you went to all the trouble of, ah, doing away with your projects—”

  “‘Doing away with your projects’!” Cody’s laughter grated, particularly with Leon’s growing migraine. “That’s a cool—what do you call it—metaphor.”

  “Anyway. You took great measures to hide your bodies, but…you always left the heads behind.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So, since you hid the bodies, why didn’t you also hide the heads?”

  Cody stared out over the highway, his lips pressed tight. “It’s my calling card.” Undeniable satisfaction put a luster on his words.

  “Let me try again. Why didn’t you hide the heads as well? I don’t think the police ever found the bodies of your projects. You could’ve gone completely unnoticed.”

  “It’s my calling card, yo,” he repeated.

  “Okay, okay. So…why do you do it, really?” Cody said nothing. The radio’s music floated around them like a distant ghost trying to keep its corporeal substance together, hollow and haunting. Leon rephrased his question. “Why do you kill?” When Leon noticed the change in Cody’s demeanor, he knew he made a mistake. Too late.

  “None of your goddamn business, that’s why, old man!” Cody whipped his head back and forth like a dog tearing a bird apart. “None of your goddamn business.” He slapped the windshield with his wounded hand.

  “I understand. Sorry I asked.”

  The highway unfurled before them, a continuous, never-ending strip of black pavement. Darkness shrouded the fields now, the moon having sought shelter behind massing clouds. Silence weighed oppressively in the heated tin can on wheels.

  Finally, Leon spoke. “You know, there’d be no rap if it wasn’t for the blues.”

  “How you figure?”

  “Listen to the words. It was a different time, but—the problems of the oppressed, the downtrodden, the poor—they were singing about their life. Isn’t that what rap’s about? More or less?”

  Cody bounced his head to the drumbeat. “I guess the blues ain’t so bad, after all.”

  * * *

  They drove all night, blowing though most of Colorado, until the sun came up. A small run-down motel sat off the highway, a place where even fleas and cockroaches took a pass judging by its appearance. Leon desired sleep badly; anywhere would do. After instructing Cody to back the car in so the license plate wouldn’t be visible, Leon paid the disinterested clerk with cash for a room with two single beds.

  “Jesus, what a dump.” The sun bled through the moth-eaten curtains, alighting on flying dust motes. Water-damaged, faux-wood paneling peeled at the edges. The dated orange and aqua color motif would give hippies bad flashbacks. Leon wondered when the last time a maid—or anyone, for that matter—set foot into the room.

  “It’ll do.” Leon tossed his bag on the bed closest to him, ready to follow it. “Get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”

  “Yo, the sun’s comin’ up. I can’t sleep now.” Cody paced the room, pent-up aggression increasing with each lap. Since they’d arrived at the motel, Cody’s behavior had grown ever more erratic. Like a cat in heat clawing at the sofas, begging to be let out to seduce and conquer. Leon understood Cody’s need for release, uncomfortably so.

  “We need to drive by night. It’s safer. There won’t be as many policemen, and we’re more visible in the daytime.” Leon sat on the edge of the hard mattress. His fingers felt heavy, numb, while picking at his shoelaces.

  “I’m too wired to sleep now.”

  “Just go to sleep.” Leon hated his new parent status. Worse than trying to coax a stubborn toddler to bed.

  Finally, Cody threw himself face down onto the bed. “Whatever.”

  As soon as Leon closed his eyes, sleep overtook him. It could’ve been minutes or hours—time felt irrelevant during his blessed nothingness—when a squeaking noise awakened him. He jolted upright, instinctively reaching for a weapon on his nightstand. Nothing there. A harsh sliver of sunlight jabbed at his eyes. Squinting, he made out a stocky silhouette standing in the open doorway. “Cody?”

  “Just go back to sleep.”

  Leon sat up, rubbed a finger in one eye. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m goin’ out. I need to do something. Can’t handle being in here. It’s like prison or somethin’.”

  “Do not go out.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “You can’t go out.” Leon pushed himself off the bed. “You’re putting us at risk.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Leon approached him, his hands up in a placating manner. “I know you can. You’ve proven it, but you don’t know what’s going on out there. If LMI has—”

&
nbsp; “Ain’t no way they coulda’ tracked us here. You made us throw our phones out way back in bum-fuck Kansas. They ain’t got no bugs on us anymore. You paid for the room with cash, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I’m goin’ out!”

  Leon felt spent, no energy left for a pointless battle. “Cody, if you have to go out, do not do anything to draw attention. Don’t cause any trouble. Don’t take the car out—”

  “Whatever. I won’t take the damn car.”

  “And don’t—I mean it– do not take on a project.”

  Cody guffawed. “You and your goddamn ‘projects’! Why don’t you just call it what it is?”

  Leon had no response, too exhausted to think. Or, perhaps, he’d rather avoid confronting the unsettling answer.

  “Look, I’m not gonna’ do anything dumb. I just need a little…action.”

  “What kind of action?”

  “Don’t know. Just see if there’s anything happenin’ in Colorado. Go to a bar, maybe.”

  “If you’re not back in four hours, I’m leaving without you.”

  “You won’t get far without me, old man. I’m your wheel-man.”

  “Just be back in four hours; that’s when we’re setting out.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And, Cody?” Leon held his hand out. “Give me the gun.”

  “What?”

  “The gun. I know you took it from the LMI agent at the airport.”

  Cody scratched his soul-patch with the back of his thumb. Whipping his hand behind him, he yanked the gun out. He pointed it into Leon’s face. Speechless, Leon stared into the barrel, a focal death point. Seconds passed, felt like hours. Cody chuckled and opened his fist. The gun revolved around his index finger, the barrel slapping into his fist. “Fine. Here ya’ go.” As Leon reached for the gun, Cody jerked it back with a taunting laugh. Even though Leon felt like running for cover, he held his ground. Cody slapped the weapon into Leon’s palm. “Take the damn gun. I don’t need it. I don’t need nothin’.” When Cody slammed the door, popcorn ceiling particles drifted down like toxic snow.

  Every time Leon thought he had a handle on Cody, the crazy kid pulled something that scared the hell out of him. The gun stunt had been harrowing. Leon knew death had come knocking, no doubt about who was at the door. Cody’s eyes looked wild, no one driving. The kid almost pulled the trigger. Worse, he appeared excited to pull the trigger. Leon let out a long sigh, frankly relieved Cody had left.

  Leon locked the door. With the confiscated gun still in hand, he sat on the bed. Studying the weapon, he turned it over. The cold steel conformed to his grip. It felt reassuring, yet alien. Leon had no experience with guns—at home, he kept a baseball bat nearby—and didn’t particularly want to gain any. Too messy, too loud, too…bloody. Problem was, he might have to use it on Cody when the time came. Shoving it underneath his pillow, he lay down and closed his eyes. After a restless half hour, he realized the window for sleep had closed, not even a breeze of slumber left.

  The lousy motel management couldn’t be bothered to clean the rooms but offered Wi-Fi. Go figure.

  On his laptop, Leon opened his private portfolio of souvenir photographs. A spark of nostalgia warmed his chest. He forced it away. He couldn’t allow himself to embark upon a pleasure cruise through good times past. Answers as to why LMI wanted him dead lay somewhere in his personal archives. The only thing that made sense.

  His last LMI-sanctioned project had been John Smeltzer. Leon immediately disqualified him from consideration. If Smeltzer had been a sticky issue, surely LMI would’ve stopped Leon before finishing the project.

  The project prior to Smeltzer had always bothered Leon, though. He never quite understood why, but there’d been something different, something wrong with the entire operation.

  Grace Van Deusen was a moneyed, old school, Kansas councilwoman, her family’s fortune springing from Midwest oil rigs. Her future looked bright. She had one eye on the senate, the other aimed perhaps even higher. Leon read about her, knew her political stance—a true media darling. Then the surprising envelope showed up in Leon’s post office box. He held the damning evidence in his hand, read through it many times. Van Deusen’s husband—Robert, a successful businessman in his own right—had abused their three children. Time and experience had taught Leon abusers hide behind any facade, regardless of wealth, ethnicity, or religious background.

  Yet…yet…Robert Van Deusen didn’t fit the profile.

  After hours of debating, Leon had finally called Wyngarden, seeking reassurance from LMI…

  * * *

  “Of course we have our facts right, Mr. Garber,” Wyngarden hummed. “Have we ever, ah, been mistaken before?”

  “No, everything’s always checked out. It’s just…she’s a well-known public figure. Wouldn’t one of her opposing candidates have latched onto this?”

  “Precisely.”

  Leon waited for elaboration. Since no explanation seemed to be forthcoming, Leon forged on. “Then why has it not been made public knowledge?”

  “You said it yourself, my dear boy. Councilwoman Van Deusen is an extremely public figure. With entitlement comes, ah, financially backed solutions to issues.”

  “You’re saying Councilwoman Van Deusen paid to have her husband’s behavior kept under wraps?”

  “Precisely.”

  Leon’s doubts lingered. No matter how many palms were greased in today’s morally corrupt political arena, it seemed unlikely any amount of money could keep loose lips sealed.

  Leon dug into his Van Deusen research with fervor. Medical reports and several small news items appeared to corroborate LMI’s findings. The eldest Van Deusen boy broke a collarbone in what was reported as a skating accident. The youngest girl experienced several serious falls, landing her in the emergency room on more than one occasion. However, there hadn’t been any suspicion cast upon Robert Van Deusen. At least in the media.

  Still, LMI’s claims had always paid out in the past. They had vast resources at their calling. Professionals like LMI simply didn’t make mistakes. Very bad business protocol.

  Leon accepted the project.

  * * *

  Underneath the motel room’s dim lamp, Leon studied the photographs he’d downloaded from Robert Van Deusen’s phone. Three children, two boys and a girl. Always playful and content-looking, hardly the appearance of children fearing for their safety. The pictures of Robert and his wife told a seemingly happy marital story, their love obvious in the way they clung to one another, offering the smallest of pats, touches, mutual respect.

  A pit of dread blossomed in Leon’s stomach. Branches of anxiety spread through his mind. Leon flipped through more photos, fearful of what he might discover.

  Several shots showed Robert on stage with Grace at various political functions. Dutifully, he always stood just behind her. They kept their hands entwined and raised in victory. A throng of well-wishers, supporters, and staffers surrounded them on stage, their faces becoming recognizable to Leon. There was the smiling young woman, eyes closed tight as if in ecstasy. An immaculately dressed, overweight man constantly had three fingers—never two—perched lightly upon Grace’s shoulder.

  All very typical of a successfully orchestrated political campaign.

  Except for the dour old man who appeared like a dried raisin amongst a fresh haul of grapes. Rail thin, shoulders hunched, and hobbled over a dark cane. Dressed in a black suit, he contrasted sharply with the mostly young crowd. He frowned at the cameraman with puckered lips. His downturned puffy white eyebrows looked like storm clouds.

  Leon shuffled through the rest of the political photos. He spotted the old man sitting at a table in front of the Van Deusens. This time he held a bony hand up toward the camera while cupping his face. Hiding his face. But the liver spots dotting his scalp along with his body language identified him as the same man.

  Leon found him one more time. A group photo captured the Van Deusens and their ento
urage flashing smiles in a true hallelujah moment. Except for the living skeleton. He had his back turned toward the camera, the image slightly blurred as if he swiveled at the last moment. Still no mistaking him.

  Leon closed the laptop and sat back against the bed board.

  The old man obviously didn’t want to be photographed. Yet Leon had one clean, distinct photograph of him. Instinct told him he’d found the reason why LMI was coming after him. For once, his intellect agreed.

  Got you.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sidarski stood over the headless corpse of Travis Bergenstein. His morning coffee percolated in his stomach. Two dead bodies, two heads, and two missed breakfasts. Made a cop long for the days when drunk and disorderlys were the highlight of the week.

  “Seems like old times, huh, Detective?” Riley looked up from the corpse with a shameless grin.

  “Yeah, sure, old times. What can you tell me?”

  “This is just a prelim, so don’t take it for gospel, just yet, Detective. You understand—”

  “I got it, Riley.” With all the bodies popping up lately, “covering your ass” seemed to be the standard procedure most cops now followed. “Is it the same killer?”

  “Yeah. I’m bettin’ it’s the same instrument, the same killer. Definitely the same M.O.”

  “Ya’ think?”

  “I do. Looks like the Denver Decapitator moved to Kansas.” Riley’s eyes brightened, the only cop Sidarski knew who could find a potential serial killer case exciting.

  “Let’s keep it quiet. Anything else?”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but—”

  “Riley, I got it. It’s just ‘prelim.’”

  “Okay. The perp seems to be pretty careful. The boys haven’t turned up any prints. Just like the other scene.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”