Bentley Little - The Store

"Didn't realize what a bigwig her daddy really is, huh?"

Ginny laughed, but it was a forced laugh and it died too soon. "Do you think that's all he wants to do?" she asked. "Talk?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe you shouldn't go."

"Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he's just trying to frighten me and cow me into submission."

Ginny's voice was quiet. "Maybe he wants to do more than frighten you."

"That's a chance I have to take."

"I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go, either. But I have to."

"Why?"

"Because if I don't, that means he's won. Ben's gone, Street's gone, everyone else has either died, disappeared, or been intimidated into silence."

"Not me."

"You weren't invited."

She kicked him again.

"It sounds paranoid and egotistical and everything else, but it's true."

"I know," she said quietly.

"That's why I have to go."

They made love after that, the first time in several weeks, and though it should have been great, for some reason it wasn't. It was good, though, and they both came, and afterward fell instantly asleep.

In his dream, he flew to Dallas, was picked up by a limo at the airport and driven to The Store's corporate offices, where he was led past desks of secretaries and assistants before finally entering the CEO's office.

There was no one there.

"What -- ?" he started to say. Then he realized the truth. Newman King was a fictional figurehead, a made-up character. There was no CEO. There was no president. There was no leader. There was only the company. It ran itself, and the bureaucracy maintained it, and there was no way on earth to stop it.

Ginny dropped him off at Sky Harbor in Phoenix the next day. Arrangements had been made online, through King's secretary, and he'd been assured that everything was taken care of, but he still wasn't sure what to expect. He assumed there'd be tickets -- coach, probably -- waiting for him at the counter where he was supposed to check in, but instead a tall, straight-backed blond man in a black leather Store uniform met him at the desk and escorted him through a series of doors and hallways until they were outside the terminal and on the tarmac, where a black Lear jet was waiting. Ginny was not allowed to go any farther than the terminal exit, and she pulled him aside, hugged him. "Be careful," she said.

"Always."

"I still don't think you should do this."

"We've been through all that."

She hugged him again. "I'm scared."

He hugged her back, held her. He was scared, too, but it would do no good to tell her that, would only make her worry more, and he said nothing.

The blond man cleared his throat. "We have to go, Mr. Davis. Our flight has been cleared."

He kissed Ginny. "I love you."

She was already crying. "I love you, too."

It felt too much like permanent parting, a final goodbye, and he was creeped out by it. He wanted to postpone it, wanted to linger, wanted to somehow shake off this feeling of dread that had crept up on him, but instead he waved to her, blew her another kiss, then hurried across the tarmac to the loading ramp of the jet.

The flight itself was uneventful. He was the only passenger, and he had the entire center section of the jet to himself. There were couches, a bar and small refrigerator, a television and VCR. The pilot assured him over the loudspeaker that he was free to use any of the luxuries and partake of any food or beverage provided. He was not hungry, but he was thirsty, and he opened a can of Coke. He was nervous, antsy, and was not in the mood to watch TV, despite the impressive selection of videos offered. He was tempted to use the cellular phone to call Ginny, but he knew the conversation would be bugged, and what he wanted to tell his wife was not something he intended to share with officials of The Store. Besides, she'd still be driving back to Juniper.

So he sat on one of the couches for most of the two-hour flight, staring out the small porthole window at the passing desert below.

They were over Dallas when the pilot finally spoke again. "The power's off to your right," he announced over the loudspeaker, and Bill looked out the window to see a black skyscraper situated several blocks from the other downtown high-rises. It probably didn't look that strange from the ground, but from this perspective it appeared that the Black Tower was being ostracized by the other buildings, and the visual symbolism was not lost on him.

He fastened his safety belt, the jet touched down smoothly, and a moment later the hatch was being opened, the same Aryan employee offering to help him down the steps.

Bill declined, disembarking on his own, and he glanced around as his feet touched the tarmac. He was sweating already, the heat unbearable, and he looked up, thinking idiotically of how similar the blue Texas sky was to that of Arizona.

"Over here, sir."

He turned toward the voice, and the hairs prickled on the back of his neck as he saw The Store employee standing next to a long black limousine.

The limo from his dream.

He made no effort to move.

"Sir?" the employee said. "Your ride is here."

Bill nodded dumbly.

A pause. "Mr. King is waiting."

"I'm coming," he said. "I'm coming."

He moved forward, put one foot in front of the other, and it was a cold sweat that dripped down his face as he walked across the tarmac and forced himself to get in the car.

2

He was dropped off directly in front of the Black Tower.

It was like nothing he had ever seen.

The Stores themselves bespoke average American sophistication -- up-to date, but in a way the ordinary swap meet shopper could relate to. They were impressive not so much for what they were but for the context in which they appeared.

The Black Tower was just plain impressive.

Under any circumstances.

He got out of the limo, looked up. The building was not catering to rubes or yokels or the average joe. There was no attempt here to feign modesty or mediocrity. This was the true Store, the real Store, the home of Newman King, and though it possessed superficially the attributes of the average downtown Dallas skyscraper, within those confines it asserted its independence and its supremacy. The Black Tower stood alone, the artistry of its design and the quality of its construction marking it as the property of an extremely powerful, important, and influential man.

Newman King.

The smoked-glass front door of the tower opened, and the same blond employee who'd met him at the airport in Phoenix and the airport here in Dallas strode down the marble walkway toward him.

Bill frowned. This wasn't possible.

The employee drew closer, and now that he looked more carefully, he realized that it was not the same employee after all. The one in Phoenix probably hadn't been the one at the Dallas airport, either. They just looked the same.

He found that disturbing.

"Mr. King's waiting for you," the blond man said with a smile. "I'll take you to him."

Bill nodded. He didn't know what he was going to do, what he was going to say, how he was going to act when he met the CEO. He thought of Ben, and part of him wished he'd brought a gun or a bomb or some type of weapon, but he knew that even if they didn't search him, he'd probably have to go through some type of metal detector.

The two of them walked through the front door into an enormous lobby with a two-story-high ceiling. The floors were marble, the walls were marble, there were palms and cacti, modern sculptural fountains with running water. Behind a gigantic desk, under The Store logo, sat a single receptionist, a pretty blond woman wearing black leather.

He was led past the receptionist, ushered into a glass elevator, and he and his escort rode to the top of the Tower.