Bentley Little: The Store

Not all of the managers were on board, but most were. He and Mitch had together contacted over two hundred managers, and only ten had been so obviously despotic that they hadn't even been approached. Another fifteen seemed borderline, and so, just to be on the safe side, they hadn't mentioned anything to them. But the other 175 were solidly in their corner, willing to do what it took to topple King, willing to endure humiliation and embarrassment, the ravaging of their personal lives, in the service of the greater good.

Bill was proud of them all.

The plan was for the participating Store managers to call a special meeting of all their employees Sunday morning at five o'clock Pacific time, six o'clock Mountain time, seven o'clock Central time, and eight o'clock Eastern time, so that all of the meetings would correspond and occur exactly at the same moment, no matter what time zone the individual Stores were in. Sunday was chosen because it was the day that The Store opened latest.

Besides, Sunday was supposed to be the Lord's day.

And the God connection couldn't hurt.

King's people would be fired at the meetings, directors reassigned, security departments dismantled. Inventory should have been taken at each of the Stores by that time, and the managers would sign chargeback forms and order invoices in order to instantly change, at least on paper, the contents of The Stores' stock.

It was a bold plan, and even if the results didn't turn out exactly the way they intended, it was still a hell of an organizational achievement.

And it was bound to hurt King.

The only question was, how much?

Sunday morning, Bill and Ginny and Shannon awoke early. Ginny made breakfast, Shannon watched TV, Bill read the newspaper, and all three of them tried to pretend that this was an ordinary day, that nothing momentous was going on, but they were all anxious and nervous, quieter than usual, and the countdown to the hour seemed to take forever.

The time came.

Went.

In the kitchen, Ginny washed the dishes; on the television, _Heathcliff_ sequed into _Bugs Bunny_. There was no big change in the fabric of existence, no earthquake or lightning, no killer wind or sonic boom. There was no way to tell if everything had occurred as planned -- or if anything had happened -- and Bill paced nervously around the living room, out of the house, into the garage, down the drive, back to the house, clenching and unclenching his fists, waiting a full forty-five minutes before deciding to call Mitch.

The phone rang just as he was about to pick up the receiver and dial.

He grabbed it excitedly. "Hello?" he said.

"It's done." Mitch. "Everything went according to plan here, and I called a couple other managers and they said the same."

"Everyone's supposed to check in."

"They will."

"Any difference? Any change?"

Mitch was silent for a moment. "I don't know. I didn't _feel_ anything, if that's what you mean. I don't . . . I don't know."

"I guess we'll have to wait."

"You could try calling Dallas, ask to speak to Newman King."

Bill chuckled. "I think I'll wait."

"I'll call back if anything happens."

Over the next hour and a half, they all checked in. Bill didn't know what was going on in Dallas, but in small towns all over the United States, the devolution of The Store's power had begun. He was the impetus behind it, and he felt a surge of pride as the last manager, from a little town in Vermont, checked in.

"What do we do now?" Shannon asked.

"Go on with our lives. And wait."

"For what?"

"Newman King."

"What do you think he's going to do?" Ginny asked.

He shrugged. "We'll have to wait and see."

He called a meeting himself that night, closing The Store early, in order to tell his employees what had happened. He'd shared the news with a few of them throughout the day -- the ones he talked to, the ones with whom he had come into contact -- but he wanted to let them all know that the managers had rebelled, that Stores all over the country had seceded from the corporation. It was possible there were still some King supporters among his employees, but he had no problem with them knowing what went down. The worst they could do was inform on him, tell King. And he had the feeling King already knew everything.

Maybe King was dead, he thought.

He remembered Lamb and Walker and Keyes, falling to the floor.

No. It was too much to hope for.

The CEO would not go so easily.

If King was not dead, he was undoubtedly pissed, and Bill was not at all sure that his power came solely from the Stores he controlled. He thought of that arm with too many bones, those deep wild eyes in the white plastic face, and he shivered.

For the first time in several days, he allowed himself to think about Sam.

She'd never been far from his mind, but she'd had to share space in his thoughts with other concerns, and he'd only been able to contemplate her in short spurts.

The memories of her were tainted, though, his fatherly feelings for her overlaid with a guilty shame, and he was unable to think of her without seeing that image on the video, without remembering how she'd felt in his bed. It was uncomfortable to think of her now even as a child, and he wondered what was going to happen when she returned, how they were going to act toward each other.

Maybe she'd been hypnotized and would remember none of it. Maybe the two of them would just avoid the subject, never speak of it, pretend it didn't occur.

Maybe she wouldn't return at all.

Maybe King had had her "terminated."

No, he thought. Anything but that.

He tried to remember her the way she was before. Before The Store. She'd been a kind and gentle girl. Smart, pretty, thoughtful, nice. Even-tempered even as a baby. A girl with a great future ahead of her.

And King and Lamb and all of their cohorts had turned her into a conscienceless automaton, willing to do whatever they told her.

He was glad Lamb had died. And Walker. And Keyes. And if he could see Newman King die as well, he would be a happy man.

Maybe King would commit suicide, he thought hopefully. Maybe he would kill himself.

Bill stood before the assembled employees. He climbed atop one of the tables in the espresso bar and faced the men and women, boys and girls, who were packed into the junction of aisles and rows in front of him. He'd gathered them here rather than downstairs in the assembly corridor or one of the multipurpose rooms because he wanted to emphasize the difference between the old Store and the new Store, and he was gratified to see no fear or hatred on any of their faces, only expectant interest and curiosity.

The tenor of The Store really had changed.

He raised his hands for silence, announced what had happened, what the managers had done. He explained that nearly all of the stores in the chain had renounced the old ways and that from now on they would be managed and operated individually. "The corporation's power has been decentralized," he said, "and everyone is using us as an example."

A cheer went up.

"As most of you know, I have had my little disagreements with the corporate office in the past --"

Laughter.

"-- and I am gratified that Newman King will no longer be able to dictate how we operate. His tyranny over Juniper is ended."

"The King is dead!" someone yelled, and everyone cheered.

"Long live the King_."

The voice was like thunder, like that of a god, and it cut through the noise like a knife, instantly silencing the assembled employees. The clapping stopped, the cheering disappeared, and all heads turned toward the source of the voice.

Newman King.

He stood in the center aisle, looking toward the espresso bar.

Looking straight at Bill.

"You little shit," he said.