Birth of a Monster (12 page)

“It
will
be—I just know it,” his wife
said, patting him on the shoulder, while looking amorously into his
eyes.

“Who did it, father?” asked Samuel, a
serious-minded youth of seventeen years of age. He was the oldest
son and planned on following his father’s footsteps.

“The drug peddlers, most likely. Only
they could be so brazen. Our city’s more historic criminal
class—robbers, forgers, extortionists, et al—would never dare carry
out such a . . . military-style attack. But my sources—and they are
legion—say the drug peddlers are acquiring unprecedented wealth.
Adding to the nasty equation is the fact that, ironically, this new
criminal class is subjected to far severer penalties than the
average robber or forger, etc. Thus, when faced with the
unrelenting hand of justice, you have the perfect storm of a group
of desperate men with heretofore unthinkable resources with which
to wage their bloody resistance.

“Ahhh,” he said, letting out a sigh,
“it does bring to mind the bloody wars of prohibition fought so
long ago. One may question the wisdom of SISA altogether, I
suppose, or question the severity of the sentences, but, my wife
and children, the law is the law,” finishing like a professor at
the end of a profound lecture.

“Will the good guys win,
daddy?”

It was little Jenny, just four years
old, but already showing signs of interest in matters far beyond
her years.

“That depends, pumpkin.”

“On what, daddy?”

“Whether good men stand firm and resist
corruption.” Mr. Felden scanned the face of every family member at
the table to make sure the enormity of this simple, but decisive,
axiom was fully appreciated.

“More wine, Mr. Felden?” a maid
asked.

“No, thank you,” Mr. Felden replied
benevolently, but not sparing her a glance.

“I believe in you, dear,” Mrs. Felden
said, her hand grasping her husband’s and interlocking her fingers
with his. Mr. Felden smiled and patted her hand
lovingly.

“We all do, father,” Samuel said, with
an almost militant look in his eyes.

“Come now,” said Mr. Felden, attempting
to inject a bit of levity into the somber atmosphere Samuel left
whenever he opened his mouth, “it is the police and the politicians
who face those struggles. Let us give thanks that journalism is a
safer line of work in such times.”

Samuel didn’t look convinced, but
neither did he dare contradict his father.

“Well, I can’t thank all of you enough
for postponing your own dinner on my account,” Mr. Felden said,
glancing at his watch, which showed the time was slightly after 9
p.m. “I must rest now. Tomorrow may prove to be even more eventful,
but let us hope it is not so.”

The family then joined hands and
prayed.

Mr. Felden was glad he hadn’t accepted
the last offer of wine. Even with the one glass he had drunk, he
feared he had pushed his drowsiness to the point climbing the
stairsteps would seem like ascending a mountain.

He was practically panting by the time
he reached upstairs, but the climb had at least perked up his
energy levels slightly. As he approached his bedroom, he saw a note
lying on the bed. He knew he was going to have to gently chide his
beloved wife, Rachel, later. She was simply too good to
him.

As he drew nearer, he saw the envelope
was much larger than any dear Rachel ever used, and his energy
levels began to rise quickly, commensurately with his
curiosity.

He turned it over. It was closed with
an aesthetically pleasing seal.

“Hmm . . . must have fallen out of my
briefcase,” he said to himself. He almost set it aside to peruse
the next day, but his curiosity was too strong now.

He broke the seal, opened the envelope,
and found a handwritten letter, as well as another sealed
envelope.

Esteemed Mr. Harry Felden:

When you told your assistant editor
Abigail Dolther that she should “wage war with words against the
reprehensible criminals,” did you take a moment to think about
whether your family would like to be in a war—a very real war,
where throats are cut, homes are burned, and heads lie rotting on
the ground? Did you consider the possibility Abigail receives a
weekly stipend to keep an eye on you?

When you said “Good morning” to your
coachman, Alexander Risden, did it even cross your mind he could be
a spy on the payroll of the drug peddlers?

When you had lunch today at The
Grillmaster, did you wonder whether that second steak you ate could
have been poisoned by one of my agents if I gave a certain wink and
nod?

When you went to the bathroom four
times during the workday, did you wonder whether you would meet
death in the form of a man’s iron-like grip around your throat,
leaving your body in a most humiliating pose for the scrutiny of
the investigating detectives?

When you let your eyes wander more
than once towards your intern Kelly Barden, did you ever stop to
think that she could lure you to a motel under the pretense of
romance only to cut your throat while you lay facedown for a
massage?

Lastly, when you implied during this
evening’s meal that journalists could sit safely on the sidelines
during a time of social upheaval, was that merely for the benefit
of your servile wolf pack, or are you indeed delusional beyond any
hope of redemption?

My agents are numerous. Their eyes are
everywhere. You are a mouse inside a small glass cage living under
the illusion of security because you have never seen the owner of
the cage, who can slip a rattlesnake inside of it at any time he
pleases.

You will not be the first victim if
you defy me. I will start with your wife and proceed downwards in
reverse chronological order. Whether it be tonight, or after
burying a dozen of your loved ones for vain pretensions of
“principle,” you will see reason.

I will inform you in advance of the
day each death is to occur so that you will see you and the
police—most of whom work for me—cannot or will not stop
it.

In the attached envelope is the
revised headline and article that you will publish tomorrow on the
front page. If you fail to do so, your wife and the next four
children in line will be dead before 9 p.m. tomorrow. Any article
not fully in conformance with the content and spirit of this
article will be either revised as needed or removed
entirely.

In exchange for your small service, I
have gone ahead and left two million falons on the north side of
the large oak tree in your backyard, because I know you would like
more than another twenty-four hours with your entire family. You
are a clever man; I’m sure you can explain to your family your
change of heart without them even suspecting our private
agreement.

I am well aware that if you do not
take immediate action the current newspaper will have already left
The Sivingdel Times for its various distribution centers, so if I
do not see you outside taking the money within one hour I will
notify my assassins that they are to perform their loathsome deeds
tomorrow.

Yours Sincerely,

A Thousand Eyes and Ears

Mr. Felden had begun trembling partway
through the letter as the inerrant account of the day’s activities
had been placed before his face and had almost wet himself by the
time the letter was through.

Fingers trembling, he opened the
smaller envelope and began reading the revised headline and
article.

I suppose this could
work
, he told himself.

He went outside, telling his attentive
family that he just needed a bit of fresh air and alone time to
reflect on the gravity of the times they were living in. He hoped
he would not find the money. That might mean this person was not as
powerful as he claimed, although a shiver that passed through his
bones as soon as that thought had been formulated reminded him that
the specificity of the information in that letter already precluded
the possibility of the author not being the head of a large and
powerful gang.

As he approached the oak tree from the
south he could already see a bag by the time he was within ten
feet. He reached it, but as he picked up the bag about halfway he
immediately began to vomit the entirety of that evening’s
meal.

Underneath the bag, lying on the
ground, looking up at him in a ghastly plea, was the severed head
of a close acquaintance of his—Chief Lloyd Benson.

A note was nailed to his
forehead:

He means business!

Mr. Felden puked some more, but tried
to keep it quiet, lest his faithful family come outside to
investigate the sudden illness.

He looked inside the bag. There was a
large pile of money, divided into clusters tightly wound in the
center by leather. All of the currency units said “1,000
FALONS.”

Maybe the content of that
story is true anyway,
he told
himself.
I’ve always been privately
suspicious of the mayor.

He started walking back to the house
and then quickly hid the bag of money underneath his large
coat.

It’s a daring thing you’re
doing, but all must be held accountable . . . even a crooked
mayor.

Chapter 25

“You look a little young to be in here,
kid. What’s your name?”

“Richie.”

The broad-backed, flat-nosed,
ham-fisted hulk bent down and surveyed the young kid, looking like
an adult male lion inspecting a new cub.

“How old are you?”

“Ten, sir.”

“Well, let me tell you something,
Richie. You don’t step foot in there until you’re at least fourteen
and I think you can leave on your own two feet,” the hulk said,
pointing to the ring, where two giants were examining each other’s
skulls for structural soundness with thundering blows from their
thin leather gloves.

That was just dandy with Richie. He
hadn’t wanted to come in here at all, but his dad had dropped him
off, pushed him inside, and shut the door behind him, all thanks to
a black eye Richie had brought home from school that day,
compliments of a class bully. If he had been told he would be
denied entrance into that frightening ring until he was
twenty-four, he would have gladly accepted the
restriction.

“But that don’t mean things is gonna be
easy,” said the hulk, grabbing Richie’s hands and lifting them up
towards his chin and then plastering his elbows to his sides with a
tight squeeze.

“Now, no matter what happens, your
hands is glued to your chin, and your elbows is glued to your
ribs—got it?”

A terrified Richie nodded.

The hulk then started throwing some
light slaps and jabs at Richie, pulling them just short of contact.
Richie, who was used to getting a belting if he failed to follow
instructions from his dad, kept his hands and elbows plastered
where instructed, although his heart was beating a mile a
minute.

“Not too bad, kid. You listen, and,
believe me, that’s worth somethin’ in here.

“I’m Coach Ryler, and I own this little
set of four walls.”

“Yes, sir,” Richie said.

“Now, relax your body, but keep those
hands and elbows plastered.”

Richie did as instructed while Ryler
grabbed his shoulders.

“Now, keep your back straight, but
allow me to move it sideways.”

Ryler then tilted Richie’s body slowly
to the left and then to the right, noting with satisfaction that
Richie’s posture stayed perfectly straight throughout.

“Not bad, kid. Now, I’m gonna go just a
little faster.”

He began quickly and erratically
jerking Richie’s body to the left, then to the right, then twice to
the left, then once to the right, and so on in a random
fashion.

Richie’s back stayed straight but
flexible at the waist.

“Well, I’ll be,” said the gruff Ryler,
having learned how to spot potential in the most basic of
exercises.

“Now, listen, son. You just do that
when you see something coming at your face you wouldn’t like to
kiss.”