Bentley Little - The Store

Members of the Inquisition.

Sam and Mr. Lamb walked between the two rows to the head of the room.

_The Hall of Punishment._

A rack of gleaming metal instruments, tools she did not recognize and had never seen before, was wheeled out by two tall exceptionally pale men wearing shiny black coats. They immediately retreated back through the side door from which they'd entered, and Mr. Lamb lovingly touched what looked like some sort of knife.

They were going to hurt Jake, she realized.

_Kill him?_

No. Even The Store wouldn't go that far. It couldn't. Such a thing was illegal. They might beat him, yes. Humiliate him. Punish him. But they wouldn't _kill_ him.

Would they?

She stood just inside the doorway, watching the scene unfold, feeling not only nervous and anxious and terrified but . . . something else. Something more personal. This was Jake they were talking about. Her Jake. He was a jerk and an asshole, and she had no doubt that he had ripped off a candy bar while he was trying to pick up on a big-titted babe, but that didn't mean that he deserved to die. Stupidity was not a capital offense.

And The Store had no right to act as judge, jury, and executioner.

_Die? Capital Offense? Executioner?_

She realized that those words came naturally to her, that they did not seem at all far-fetched or out of place in this hellish black room.

But this was still America. Laws still applied. To The Store as well as to individuals. The Store might be able to fire Jake, might be able to press charges and go after him in court if he'd done something illegal, but they could not physically harm him.

She stared at the twin rows of leather-clad employees, at her sister and Mr. Lamb standing beneath the flickering glow of the red-lighted chandelier.

No, that was not true.

They _could_ harm him.

And they would.

And no one could stop them.

She felt sick. Even after everything, even after what had happened at the sweep, maybe, somewhere deep down, she did still love him.

Sam looked over, meeting her eyes. "Maybe you'd better go back to work," she said. Her voice, authoritative and powerful, carried clearly across the Hall. Shannon shook her head, her mouth dry, unable to speak.

"It's not a suggestion," her sister said. "It's an order." There was hardness in her voice, a tone of command, but there was also concern, a caring intent hidden from all but herself that told her she had better leave. Next to Sam, Mr. Lamb stood grinning.

Shannon looked away.

"Leave," Sam said. "Or I will have someone escort you back to your post."

She wanted to stay, wanted to fight, wanted to protest whatever they were going to do and protect Jake from The Store's punishment, but she nodded, acquiesced, and turned to walk out.

From somewhere far away, in another room, another basement, she heard Jake. He was screaming. She recognized his voice, and her heart sank within her, but she did not stop, did not turn around. Instead, she increased her pace, trying to get away from the horrible sound. She actually felt relieved when she was once again among customers and merchandise on the floor.

Sam came over to her register an hour later. Shannon was helping a customer, and she wanted that customer to remain forever; she did not want to be alone with her sister, did not want to know what had happened, but the customer paid for his purchase, thanked her, and left.

Shannon pretended to fiddle with some receipts and void forms, then finally gathered her courage and looked up. "What happened?" she asked. "To Jake?"

"He's been . . . reassigned."

Shannon felt cold. "What does that mean?"

Sam met her gaze, and the expression on her face was one of muted horror and stunned disbelief. "He's a Night Manager," she said softly.

3

The alarm woke her up at five, as it always did, and Samantha rolled out of bed. She missed living at home. It had been exciting at first to have her own place, and The Store had given her a decorating allowance, letting her choose items from the Furniture department to furnish the house. But even though this cottage was all hers, it wasn't home. Home was where Shannon and her parents lived. And she missed it.

She missed a lot of things. And there were times that she wished The Store had never come to Juniper. She'd be starting school right now if she hadn't gone to work for The Store, beginning her first semester in college, surrounded by guys and girls her age, meeting interesting people, learning new things.

Instead, she'd met - Mr. Lamb.

She shuddered, pushed the thought out of her mind.

There were a few negatives, but overall she liked The Store. She had an aptitude for the retail business, and she'd risen quickly through the ranks. The Store had been good to her. The Store recognized and made use of her abilities.

The Store rewarded her hard work.

Still, sometimes, when she was alone, she wished that things had turned out differently. The scariest thing was how easily she'd adjusted to Store life, how comfortable the fit felt. Intellectually, she knew she should be shocked and horrified by some of the things that went on. She should be outraged and refuse to participate. But the truth was that she really had no emotional response to most of what happened. She understood the necessity of it all, and none of it provoked any feelings within her.

Almost none of it.

_Mr. Lamb_.

She would not think of him.

She took a quick shower, masturbated with the shower massage, ate a piece of toast, drank a glass of orange juice, and drove in her new Miata to The Store.

Mr. Lamb was waiting for her in her office, sitting in her chair, his feet up on her desk. "The manager wants to see you," he said.

Her heart skipped a beat. "Me?"

He nodded. "You."

There was a hard knot of fear in the pit of her stomach. She had never seen the manager, and she never wanted to. She'd heard stories about him ever since he'd come to Juniper, rumors, horrible rumors, and if even a fraction of what she'd heard was true, she knew that meeting him was the last thing she wanted to do.

Nevertheless, he was her boss, the person to whom she was theoretically supposed to report, and she tried to put on a brave face, tried to pretend she wasn't frightened. "When?" she asked.

"Now." Mr. Lamb swung his feet off the desk, stood. "Come on. I'll go with you."

He walked around her, and she followed him out the door, down the hall, and onto the floor. The lights in The Store were all on, but the Muzak was turned off, none of the rest of the staff had yet arrived, and the place seemed eerily silent and empty.

"Do you know why he wants to see me?" she asked.

"Yes." Mr. Lamb continued walking, not elaborating, and she knew enough not to press further. The knot in her stomach tightened.

They walked up the main cross aisle, away from the espresso bar, to the manager's door on the far opposite wall. Mr. Lamb rapped loudly three times, the door swung open, and the two of them stepped inside. There was a stairway leading up, and with a flourish, the personnel manager indicated that she was to proceed first.

He just wants to look at my ass, she thought. But she walked ahead, up the stairs, concentrating on the black door at the top of the steps.

The door opened when she stepped onto the landing.

And she beheld the manager.

He was nothing like she'd expected, neither an intimidating thug nor a hideous monster. He was a cowed and frightened old man, hiding behind a too large desk and watching her with scared eyes.

"No!" he said.

"Yes," Mr. Lamb responded from behind her. The door slammed shut loudly, and the personnel manager moved around her, into the center of the room. He turned around, and in his open hands lay a dagger. He held it out, offering it to her.