When She Was Bad Read online

  “Help me! Whoever the hell you are, for God’s sake, man, help me.”

  But Hunter didn’t bother to answer. He watched the gray shapes, heard the man’s screams as he saw what was coming for him, the frantic thrashing only making him look more like prey.

  It didn’t take long. Hunter waited for the sharks to finish and go about their day in search of more worthy prey. Then he slid into the water, his wetsuit helping him blend with the shadows as he made his way to the boat anchored nearby.

  The man he’d killed anchored at this spot every Tuesday; it was far enough out he felt he was on the big blue sea, yet close enough he still felt safe. At this time of day there wasn’t much traffic, and by the time another boat or someone came across the man’s boat, it would be another sad tale. A man drank too much, lost his balance, and fell overboard. So sad. Until they found the incriminating pictures on the hard drive of his laptop. The one Hunter had conveniently made sure was open and waiting inside the luxurious cabin.

  The job complete, he called it in. The voice on the other end was female, yet Hunter knew it had been disguised.

  “Confirmation received. The money has been deposited into your account. The next job will arrive in your inbox tomorrow at noon.”

  “Thank you, Delores.”

  Hunter clicked over to his offshore account to verify the deposit, then started up the boat. There was only one other man in the company that was as good as he was, and while no one retired from the Organization, if they made it past forty, fifty if they were incredibly talented, they took a desk job. If they refused, they’d find themselves on the Organization’s list with a younger, hungrier guy looking to move up the ladder after them. No one was allowed to leave; it put the firm at risk, and risk was not acceptable except on contracts.

  The crystal tumbler he’d taken from the yacht caught the last rays of the sun as he drank deeply. It had been a good day, and he raised the glass.

  “Death comes to us all.”

  CHAPTER 3

  IT HAD TAKEN ME ALMOST a week to make the drive from New Jersey to Kansas. I kept stopping along the way, changing routes, getting off the highway then getting back on, anything to make sure I wasn’t followed. When I was fairly certain he was gone, I got back on the highway and made good time as I pulled into town late one night.

  The first night in Avid I spent at a motel on the outskirts of town. The next day I woke to bright light streaming through the thin curtains, my stomach demanding food. There was a café down the street, a few early lunch folks like me. The sign said seat yourself, so I picked a booth at the back, against the wall, where I could see everyone coming and going.

  “What can I get you?” The waitress had three pens stuck in her hair and another in her hand poised above a pad as she waited for my order.

  “A slice of pepperoni and a slice of white pizza. Could you add some spinach to the white?”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “How about a Pepsi?”

  “We serve Coke. I’ll bring you a pop.”

  Hearing her say “pop” brought back memories of my gramps. During the time I’d lived with them, with all the road trips we’d taken, I’d never been to Avid, Kansas—then again, it wasn’t like there was anything to see. The cemetery was an hour and a half away, and I needed to pay my respects. But not yet. I wasn’t ready.

  The café emptied out as I ate, the lull before lunchtime. The waitress and I got to talking, and she told me about a small farm. The farmer had a cottage on the property that he hadn’t been able to rent, since it sat in the middle of a meadow, and she said it wasn’t appealing to folks. The woman went on to say there was a small path paved with gravel that I could drive on to get to the house, but otherwise there wasn’t anything but meadows and cows around.

  “Well, other than Sam’s place, and there’s another house.” She pursed her lips. “You can’t see it from your place. A single mom and her kid live there.” By the frown, I figured there was a story there, but I wasn’t going to ask.

  “Could I get the number? It sounds perfect for my needs.”

  She came back with a refill of my drink. “Sam said to come on over.”

  I thanked her and followed the directions to a tiny cottage where I half expected to see fairies flitting about. The farmer, Sam, was waiting for me.

  “Sally Ann said you were coming.”

  He looked baked by the sun, weathered and worn, and I kept my distance. Friends weren’t something I could allow in my life. Maybe later if I stayed and was safe.

  “It’s so pretty out here.”

  There were wildflowers all around, a few trees and cows. Brown, black, and white, and a few that were brown and white. I could see in every direction—a good place to be left alone and to see anyone coming.

  Sam opened the door and stood back to let me go inside. It was furnished in a shabby-chic way that made me want to curl up on the sofa and pretend I was someone else.

  “There’s sheets for the bed and kitchen stuff, but you’ll need towels and such.” He glanced outside toward my SUV. “Doesn’t look like you have much. I’ll help you carry that chest in—that is, if you’re staying.”

  I smiled. “I’m staying. It’s perfect. Is it okay I have a cat? He’s really well behaved.”

  “Fine by me.”

  He helped me carry in the hope chest and the rest of my belongings. “Where do you want this?” He held my sewing machine up.

  “Over there on the blue table.”

  “Call if you have any questions. Rent’s due on the first.” He handed me a set of keys.

  “Wait. Don’t I need to pay you now? And what about a security deposit?”

  “The first will do fine.”

  And then he left me alone. I made a quick inventory and drove to the discount store I’d passed on my way into town. Then I hit a small general store for towels and a few things from my list. I’d almost forgotten groceries, and hit the brakes so I didn’t pass the Grab-and-Go. It was a good day: they’d had a cashier quit and hired me on the spot. I started tomorrow. So I spent the afternoon cleaning and settling in while Midnight roamed around outside, getting his bearings.

  That night, too tired to cook, I went to the café again. The town had a bank, a tiny library about the size of my old apartment, a little hardware store, the café, and a couple of businesses on Main Street. There was indeed one streetlight, and not a single strip mall to be found.

  Guess news traveled fast: I heard a few people whispering, though so far everyone had been polite. It was good they recognized strangers, and bad, because they’d easily remember me. The pizza was amazing, though I quickly realized my vegan diet would stand out too much in this town. Especially knowing they all worked at the feedlot and meatpacking plant. So little by little I was eating meat again especially since Sam offered to stock my freezer, couldn’t get any fresher than that. Tonight I sat at a small table by the doors to the kitchen. The rest of the place was packed.

  As I ate, I listened to the conversations around me, letting them flow over me. There was a group of women seated to my right. From what I heard, it was their book club night. They came here to eat and then went to one another’s homes, alternating every week as they discussed whatever book they were reading. They all laughed, and the book club sounded like an excuse for them to get together and drink, get away from the family. Their conversation bounced around. These women knew everything going on. I’d have to be careful.

  They were all very protective of Blesser, basically the only employer around, and they were suspicious of me. I kept my eyes turned away but heard them as they talked about the new girl in town and stared at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. I was an outsider, and while that was fine with me, it would mean I had to keep the darkness locked away. For now.

  CHAPTER 4

  AUGUSTUS GIER, CEO OF GIER Foods, Inc., read the name on the confidential memo and allowed himself a small smile. Operation Domino. It was fitting, given what
they were all gathered here today to accomplish. Of the thirteen men seated around the table, eleven of them controlled close to three hundred billion in annual sales. The other two attendees, important in their own right, were invited to ensure no break in the supply chain to meet the ever-increasing demand of consumers.

  The dominant players, who would normally strike at the slightest sign of weakness, slashing the other’s jugular without a moment’s hesitation, would on this one day put aside their rivalries to plot out a strategy engineered to carry them through the next five years, ensuring their financial security for generations to come.

  Food. How the meaning had changed over the years from the time when his grandparents were children. Food was understood to mean fruits and vegetables, grown in a backyard garden, and the meat purchased from the local butcher shop. Not anymore. Food, as most people thought of it, came ready to consume in plastic bags. It was pre-made, only requiring the harried, stressed consumer to toss it in the microwave. Over ninety percent of American households owned a microwave oven, allowing them to get food from the freezer or refrigerator faster and faster. Processed industrial food was big business, equating to even bigger profits. And Augustus was one of the top dogs.

  The two men sitting slightly apart from the others represented suppliers of what Augustus called “the magic.” Salt, sugar, and fat. Without those three ingredients, not only would none of them be sitting in this room—the vast fortunes they’d amassed and presided over, large amounts carefully hidden away in offshore accounts, wouldn’t exist. Forget religion and God. Augustus and the men gathered here today worshiped this new magic.

  The secret meeting took place at a discreet club, one he’d never attended except as a guest. One of the men here today was a member who’d arranged for them to have an entire floor to themselves. While it wasn’t as exclusive as Augustus’ club, it was more centrally located. He looked around, noting the small touches designed to make members feel at home. The atmosphere was pleasant, the air as rarefied as the furnishings and the paintings on the walls.

  Tomorrow they would all go back to business as usual, each company doing their damnedest to destroy the others in the war zone known as the grocery store aisles. Augustus would do whatever it took to conquer additional shelf space, more gut space within the consumer, but today, he had agreed to put away the cannons, run up the cease-fire flag, and work with his rivals for the greater good, all to increase what they held dear. Money and power.

  One of the suppliers crossed his legs, drawing Augustus’ attention as he eyed the man from the tips of his Ferragamo shoes to the Brioni suit, similar to his own, as the corner of his mouth turned down. Had he made the wrong choice? Perhaps he should have started a supply corporation rather than his own empire, for these men held the building blocks of everyone else’s products, and Augustus hated being beholden to anyone.

  Both suppliers offered salt, the taste that made consumers’ taste buds believe they were on perpetual spring break at the beach, constantly searching for the next fun time and hot college girl. The blond man’s company also supplied fat, which signaled the brain to crave more empty calories.

  The dark-haired man in the Brioni suit was urbane, sure of himself, as well he should be for what he controlled. Not only salt but the king of all ingredients. Sugar. More addictive than the drug industry could ever dream. Cocaine and heroin had nothing on sugar, and it was perfectly legal. This cartel of thirteen power players had decided nothing less than world domination within the food industry would be acceptable. Profit above all else.

  There had been others involved in the conception of Operation Domino. Titans from the tobacco industry who had quietly worked alongside them in the conception of this audacious plan. Cognizant of what the tobacco industry faced, all had agreed to band together, to fight and protect what was theirs. No one would take it from them. Wars had been started over less.

  As a collective, they had agreed to put up a total of three billion in additional funding to support their goals. There would be no legislation passed to hinder them; this was a lesson they had learned well from big tobacco. The companies represented here today would never concede the adverse health effects they all knew their products not only contributed to but created. Instead they would do what the tobacco industry did best. Misdirect, pointing the finger elsewhere, blaming the consumer, and creating controversy. One thing no one said but all thought was they would not be vilified like big brother. No, they would never be held accountable for the deaths of the sick and the fatties.

  The first steps of the plan had already been implemented. The companies represented had rushed to show their support to the current administration. Guiding, offering expertise. Though instead of focusing on fruits and vegetables, the men here had helped the administration to see it was imperative to focus on exercise. All food in moderation was good, and moving more was imperative. Moderation. How laughable. Americans might as well tattoo the word across their ever-spreading asses for all the good it did them.

  Every employee who worked for Augustus and his rivals, from the lowliest mailroom clerk to his right hand, would deny under oath that sugar was addictive. Or that the products they created were bad for the American people.

  As the meeting progressed, the man Augustus considered to be his biggest rival stood and addressed the room. Arthur Hinkle was currently leading in cookie sales, but Augustus was confident Gier would overtake Hinkle Foods by the end of the quarter.

  Arthur cleared his throat and took a sip of the 1989 Macallan scotch from the crystal tumbler in front of him.

  “This current threat will pass in time. We all know what is damned today is deemed healthy tomorrow. First milk was bad for consumers, then it helped children learn and grow. Then consumers were warned to stay away from eggs. Butter used to be scorned, and now we all know the recommendations are to embrace fat in moderation. In time, sugar will no longer be the big, bad evil. It too will be accepted once again.”

  His rival left unsaid what they all knew: the consumer was a speck of dust in a tornado, while they had unlimited checkbooks and could tie up litigation for decades in the courts should the need arise.

  Arthur met each man’s eyes, waiting for the nods, while Augustus searched each competitor for any sign of weakness he could exploit at a later date.

  The blond supplier spoke. “As my father used to say, recommendations come and go. Consumers want easy, fast, and cheap.”

  “True, but they also want what they put into their mouths to taste good,” the other supplier added, leaving out the fact that not only did sugar sweeten, it added texture and bulk, and was used to replace expensive ingredients like tomatoes in ketchup.

  One of the CEOs sneered. “I’m tired of hearing about nutrition while consumers pretend to care, but in truth, no one cares. All people care about is how does it taste and how bloody fast can I get it on the table?”

  Glasses were raised in agreement. There wasn’t a single woman present, not at this level of the game. This was big-boy territory. Little women might rise to VP of marketing or HR, but never R&D and certainly not CEO.

  Augustus stood at the head of the table, feet planted shoulder width apart. Arthur occupied the other end, both of them believing they were the head of this group. The next quarter of sales would determine the winner.

  “We have come together to forge this partnership, ensuring the prosperity of our companies, committed funding to a new ad campaign promoting exercise and choice, collaborating to let the consumer believe they have a choice in what goes into their carts. These people hate being told what to do, what they can and can’t have. They are like small children and must be treated as such. In telling them they are responsible for the choices of what they and their families eat, they feel as if they’ve taken back the power to choose, become the king or queen of their castle, even as we know we will lead them exactly where we desire.”

  Augustus smiled as he said the last. The others nodded as he added, “All of u
s have weathered critics. Above all else, we must protect the integrity of our recipes, for they are what make our products successful. I for one, say, screw those hippie vegan liberals.”

  There were chuckles and nods around the room, the men present confident they would succeed. One or two of the smaller players looked uncomfortable, but between he and Arthur, they would persuade them to accept how things must be in order for them all to reap the success they were entitled.

  As lunch was served, small groups broke off, speaking quietly, a few men exiting the room to make or return urgent calls. That afternoon the meeting continued until dessert was served, and afterward they enjoyed a small dish of sorbet while another of their group addressed the room. The man had reigned over his company for fifty years, the family business growing larger every year. He would bear watching with a promising new chip he was rumored to have in development.

  “Then we are all agreed: we will remove a scant half a teaspoon of sugar from our cereals in order to placate those who have been screaming, plaguing us with social media complaints and protesting outside of our headquarters. This is nothing. We will continue, business as usual.”

  Augustus smiled to himself. Fuck obesity. When he got back to the office, he was meeting with his top food scientists. They had figured out how to increase the blend of ingredients they were using in their newest cookie offering, to actually make consumers crave more as they were consuming the product. The triple chocolate and cream cookie was going to make them millions, and Gier foods would edge past Hinkle, putting Arthur in second place. It was good to be king.

  CHAPTER 5

  “MISS RACHE? EXCUSE ME, MISS Rache? Hope?”

  Who didn’t call their employees by their first name? For a moment I’d blanked on my own name. Hope Jones died in North Carolina, buried in the sand, while Hope Rache rose from her ashes. At least my benefactor left my first name intact when he dropped off my new identity. I didn’t think I could have learned a new first name as well. My manager looked annoyed as I turned to face her.