James Smith - The Flock

"That was nice," Ron told her.

"Yes," Kate said. And then, "You enjoyed it?"

"Very much," he admitted.

"You trust me?" she asked.

"What do you mean? Trust you concerning what?"

"Let me put it to you another way," she said. "We've both been zapped in the noggin and tossed here in what serves as the lockup, right?"

"Yes."

"So we're both pretty much in the same boat."

Ron nodded, remembered that there was no way for Kate to see the movement, then said, "Yes. We're both stuck here. We were both sapped on the skull. As far as your former friends are concerned, I guess I trust you as well as I would anyone. What are you getting at?"

"Well." She paused. "I know you're not going to want to hear this."

"Hear what?"

"I think Mary is in with the studio. I think she had something to do with Dodd getting aced."

Ron's breath caught in his chest. And although he wanted to, he found he couldn't so much as swallow.

William Tatum looked up from the papers on his desk to see a true horror enter his office. The building was quiet, and not a sound filtered into the room from the hallway outside: not so much as a whisper. Of course the figure standing in the doorway had shocked everyone and everything into complete silence. His presence was not unlike God's, Tatum often thought. Michael Irons closed the door behind him and looked down on the seated figure of a suddenly very small and very insignificant Bill Tatum.

Tatum wondered what Irons had said to keep his secretary from announcing his visitation. He wondered if he'd said nothing at all. He could see, in his mind's eye, the perfectly manicured index finger coming up to those rosy, almost cherubic lips, just the suggestion of a mischievous smile painted on. Hush, little Miss. I'm here to suuuuuuuuurPRISE your boss. And she had remained obediently still, like a good little scared rabbit.

The chairman stood easily inside the doorway, saying nothing. Calmly, he reached into his coat and withdrew a silver tube from which he produced a cigar. He lit it with a gold lighter produced from another pocket, tilting his head as he did so, peering down at Tatum. He puffed, obviously enjoying each inhalation. A strong and pleasant odor was soon wafting throughout the room, despite the fact that a truly superlative circulation system drew out and replaced the air in the building every few minutes. Cigar smoke seemed to make a nearly straight line toward the ceiling, where it vanished invisibly. With the cigar champed firmly in those shark-like teeth, Irons replaced the gleaming lighter.

"You look a bit stunned to see me. Surely you can't say my visit is completely unexpected." Irons was not smiling, was not frowning; he seemed neither pleased nor angry.

Tatum shuddered, visibly. "I thought that you would call me in," he said.

Irons removed the cigar and waved it with a great, exaggerated flourish worthy of any stage. His bio, which every employee was required to read, said that he'd been an actor as a youth, and had abandoned that career by his twenty-fourth year, when he'd worked his way into surer, more lucrative work in the film industry. "You thought that I'd call you in." He blew out a puff of smoke. "That's really amusing, Tatum. Truly it is."

The security chief sat motionlessly, afraid to move, afraid to stand, afraid to comment. He merely sat and breathed, and waited.

"I thought you were a professional. I thought that you knew how to get the job done, my friend." His face remained a stony, unreadable mask.

"The men I chose for the job were a poor choice. I admit it. I won't even try to lay the blame elsewhere. It was my fault," he admitted. And, really, it was his fault.

"Well, I'm happy to hear you claim that." Irons moved toward the desk, toward the frozen William Tatum, chief of security. As soon as he was at the desk, his thighs just touching the oaken platform, he brought his perfectly manicured fist down on the top of it with a great deal of force. "I like it when a man admits he has completely fucked up!"

Even though he had known something like that was coming, Tatum flinched. He knew deep down that the somewhat voluntary reaction was at least partially for Irons' benefit. It was best not to make him any angrier than he already was. This was, in fact, the only time Tatum had seen anything like a true, human emotion coming out of the man.

"Fortunately for you, no one has been able to trace the idiots you hired back to this company. God," he breathed out hoarsely. "I'd hate to think of the money I'd have to outlay to shut it all up."

His voice cracking, Tatum tried to squeak a further apology. "I'm sorry, Mr. Irons. These men have worked for me in the past. Had done some exemplary work. Up until…until the moment they were discovered with…with," Tatum was struggling with a way to say it without stating the obvious. He could see himself trying to explain away his words in a court of law.

"With Dodd's body, you mean?"

Tatum stared at the boss, the ultimate chief.

"They got away, though," Tatum said. "The police didn't capture them, even though they recovered the…the…his…"

"Dodd's body. Yes." Irons continued to stand and to silently puff away, examining Tatum as if he were some interesting but bothersome pest. "Did you know that they even fouled up their little visit to that fellow from Fish and Wildlife? The one who had talked to Dodd?" He waited for Tatum to answer, but got no reply.

"You won't have to worry about the police questioning them. They weren't around to be questioned. They did that much, at least. And even if they left a fingerprint, it won't matter. Neither has a criminal record."

Michael Irons used the cigar to jot a decimal point in the air. "Oh, we'll never have to worry about those particularly inept assholes. I won't. You won't. The company won't. Their families won't. No one will. No one will ever again have to waste a moment's grief on either of them."

"What?" Tatum croaked.

"Well. To put it in plain terms, my fine, stupid friend: I had them both aced. They're dead." He removed the cigar from his lips, unclenching his jaws in what appeared to be an almost painful manner. There was something akin to a grimace upon his smooth, unblemished, too-young-for-a-chairman face.

"And as for you, Mr. Head of Security…" He paused, drew in a breath and released it almost silently. "You will sit here for a while and do nothing beyond see to it that nobody picks any pockets in the malls, or steals some tourist's rental car, or takes advantage of some dumb broad visiting one of our fine hotels. I've passed along the responsibility of taking care of our…eh, our problems. You will not interfere in any way with the Colonel or any of his actions. Do I make myself clear? Hmm?"

"Yes, sir. Very clear, sir." Tatum remained sitting rigidly in place, but risked a swallow.

"You know…it's not right for a man of my position to raise more than an eyebrow in a situation like this. A man such as myself needs to not have to worry about such trivialities. It's not right for me to pick up a phone and deal with such unpleasantness and be forced to make outrageous offers or spend ridiculous sums of money. It isn't right, damn it."

"I understand, sir. You should never have felt the need t…"

"Shut up, Tatum."

Tatum stopped. Did not finish the syllable. Looked up at his fate.

"You will stay here. Right here in Salutations and act like you're nothing more than small town police chief. You'll stick your nose in nothing more serious than a fender bender, because that is the absolute limit of unpleasantness that I want anyone to experience in the confines of my town for the next little while. Do I make myself clear?"

Tatum nodded.

"Good. I'm glad that you are aware of my position." He put the cigar back in his mouth and clamped down on it. Tatum could hear his teeth mashing the rolled leaves of tobacco. "And Tatum? Stay here. Go nowhere." He held his arms out to indicate Salutations. "This township will be the extent of your little world until I say otherwise."