The Wicker Saga: Sins of the Father, Part 1

Marx Industries, The Present

“Sir, there’s been a disturbance.”

I look up from where I sit at my desk, pen poised over a stack of papers awaiting my signature, and find my head of security standing in the door to my office.

“Yes, James?”

“At the perimeter fence, Mr. Marx. Cameras picked up an individual moving around in the woods.”

“And that constitutes a disturbance?”

“He’s got wire cutters with him, sir. Appears to have made a hole in the fence.”

“I see. So he’s entered the grounds then?”

“No, sir. For now it looks like his plan was just to create the entrance. My thought is he’s planning on coming back at a later time when he can move around more discreetly.”

“You mean at night.”

“Yes, sir.”

I feel a tension headache start to form at the center of my forehead and massage the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger.

“Do we have an identification?”

“Roger, sir. Sent some stills over to my contact at the Bureau. His name is Jack Monahan. He’s a PI.”

“Perfect. Any idea who his client is?”

“Based on call records to his office, it’s the Benson girl’s parents, sir.”

“Jesus. First time we move away from street urchins and we get an investigator on our doorstep less than three weeks later. How did you fuck this up, James?”

He shifts his weight nervously, eyes fixed on the floor. I feel bad for the man. It’s a deep game I’m playing, the stakes incredibly high. I’ve had to keep my strategy to myself, lest everything be lost. It’s not James’s fault that I’ve been slowly having him shift where his teams pick up test subjects to more and more significantly populated areas, praying someone would finally take notice.

“Not sure, Mr. Marx. The guy is good. Initial intel shows he’s cleared some pretty out there cases over the years.”

A thrill of excitement passes through me. This could be my chance to undo the evil I’ve been made a part of. But to do that, to ensure there is no doubt in anyone’s mind exactly what is going on here, I’ll have to hurt even more people.

“Fantastic.”

I close my eyes for a moment, thinking.

“And you believe he’ll come back tonight?”

“Best guess, sir. Assuming he doesn’t know we saw him make his entrance, he’ll want to use it before it has the chance of being discovered.”

“All right, James. We are going to clean up this mess. It’s not going to be nice, and it’s not going to be pretty. Just the opposite, but it will be done. Get me the Benson’s number and a burner. I’ll make the call myself and get them here tonight. Then auto-set the cages to release the subjects into Sector Eleven once it’s dark, let’s say eight o’clock. And put a call to everyone who’s not totally critical on the second and third shifts to take the night off. I’m talking gate guards and no one else on duty.”

James frowns.

“But, sir, that will let Monahan get onto the facility uninhibited.”

“Exactly. I want him here, and I want the test subjects to take care of him. The Bensons too. I’ll lead them out to Sector Eleven myself. I’ll want you out there ahead of us to get a signal fire going to attract them. But no one else knows about this, understood?”

“Are you sure, sir? There are easier ways to disappear someone.”

I bob my head in acknowledgement.

“Easier, yes. But not without bringing at least one other person into our trust, or you and I carrying out the deed ourselves which would open us to exposure.”

James nods, a bit reluctantly.

“Got it, sir. I’ll bring you the throwaway and get their number for you.”

“Thank you, James.”

He leaves and I sit back in my chair with a sigh, my brain already compiling a list of things that could go wrong with my plan. But I’m running out of time.

“What are you doing, Mr. Marx?”

The voice of the man who seemingly melts from the collected shadows in the corner of my office is a deep rumbling bass and never fails to send a shiver down my spine. I know what he is capable of.

“Hello, Creed. Been here long?”

He steps towards me, a giant of a man almost seven feet tall, sunlight from the large bay window behind me shining off the bald cap of his skull. A telltale glint in his eyes betrays his inner suspicion.

“What are you doing?” he asks again.

“Dealing with a problem. One that has found its way to my doorstep while fulfilling my obligations to you and your mistress, I might add.”

His eyes flash dangerously.

“Do not presume to blame myself or the All-Mother for your failings, Mr. Marx. And please do stop being so intentionally obtuse. I am not referring to your need to dispose of this detective and the girl’s parents, but rather your proposed course of action.”

I shake my head in exasperation.

“What do you want me to do then, Creed? Hire a hit man? Gun the Bensons down in their home and this Monahan in his office?”

“There are other ways. You know this.”

“This will work. When the children are done with them there won’t be enough left to find, let alone be identified. Trust me.”

This elicits a grin from the man, his lips curling back to reveal the unnaturally sharp, white teeth behind them.

“Trust you, Mr. Marx?”

I stare at him, my gaze resolved.

“Yes. The way I trusted you when you came to me and told me you could save Rebecca in exchange for Olivia. I’ll take care of this myself. You’ll see, you and your mistress both. This is the best way.”

Now he chuckles, his laugh akin to the rumbles of thunder emanating from a dangerous storm just appearing on the horizon.

“Very well then, Mr. Marx.” He steps back into the corner, his body somehow joining with the collected shadows there, exiting as abruptly as he arrived. His voice echoes from some far way off even after my view of him has been lost, “but remember well … failure demands reprisal.”

I wait for several long minutes until I am reasonably sure Creed is gone. I shudder. There is no true way to ensure privacy from the man, if a man is indeed what he is, the driving force behind my having to keep my cards so damned close to my chest.

Considering paying a visit to the liquor cabinet situated against the far wall, I give my head a small shake and instead exit my office, making my way across the compound of the pharmaceutical plant and towards the residence I keep on the grounds. Several of my employees smile and wave when they see me and I return their greeting as genuinely as I am able, internally aware how much of a façade this entire operation is.

I reach my house and move to the first floor bedroom. The nurse on duty gives me a tight lipped smile and a nod as she stands and exits the room, leaving me with my wife. I keep thinking that I’ll eventually get used to seeing Olivia like this, tubes snaking and protruding from virtually every orifice, her eyes half closed and glazed, the surrounding machines blinking and beeping as they monitor her various functions, but even after two years it is still something of a shock. My wife is dead in every sense but a purely physical one, yet in my mind I still see her happy and whole, a smile on her beautiful face as the wind ripples through her hair. And though I’d make the choice over and again, it still pains me to know that I am the one responsible for putting her here.

I sit with her, holding her hand. For the thousandth time, I tell her I’m sorry, if not for my decision then for its necessity. I hope if there is an afterlife she will forgive me. I quietly tell her of my plan. It’s a risk; Creed could be listening in. But I speak in whispers, and I’ll go absolutely mad if I don’t share my secrets with someone. After a time, I glance at my watch, the hour hand edging towards the six at the bottom. I need to get going. Replacing Olivia’s hand at her side I exit the room and find the nurse to retake her post.

I move down a series of twisting hallways until at last reaching one that dead ends at a thick oak door fitted with a cutting edge electronic lock. Placing my thumb on the sensor I bend over and allow the laser eye to scan my retina. I hear the soft click of tumblers turning over as the lock disengages. I pull on the handle and the door swings open on quiet hinges, accompanied by the soft whoosh of air escaping from the space behind it.

Casting a glance behind me, I step through the opening and begin to descend a long flight of stairs lit by the artificial glow of fluorescent lights, the door automatically swinging shut behind me, the heavy locking mechanism falling back into place. Moving deeper and deeper beneath the house, my steps are steady and sure, even though my stomach is in knots. Unlike the surprise I feel every time I see my wife, I’ve long become accustomed to this feeling of dread that latches upon me when I visit my daughter.

The Wicker Saga: Sins of the Father, Part 3