House of Gold (31 page)

"So you were, Mr. Woodward, so you were. A lot of people underestimated the
problem."

A sympathetic expression came to his face. "This is the long way around to Caribou, isn't it?"

"Not really. Too many crazies on the roads up the coast. Safer this way. And call me Buzz."

Rheumy was maybe ten years older than Ralph. Perhaps Buzz's exact age. Buzz's gift for guessing now deserted him. The clean room. The TV. The lights. The civilized treatment. The grist for the guessmill
was receiving mixed ingredients. But there was one thing.

The way Rheumy sat in that chair. His butt was too far forward.

There must be a pillow behind there,
Buzz surmised.

Rheumy turned to his brother. "So, besides meeting Buzz, did anything interesting happen down by the road?"

"Lloyd popped another one today. A preacher."

Rheumy closed his brown eyes, and shook his head slowly.

"That boy is
dumber than snot, Ralph. It's so hard to find good help nowadays. What did you do with the body?"

It's all an act,
Buzz thought.

"We buried it. Next to the others."

"I suppose you didn't want to drag it back up here," Rheumy mused with understated sympathy. "We'll have to get back down there and dig them up soon. Move them to a more appropriate resting place. So little time. So much to do."

Buzz
nodded with empathy, and again, stifled an urge to jump the bastard.

"So how bad is the back?" Buzz asked.

"Buzz is a chiropractor, Rheum," Ralph inserted quickly.

"Excellent. My back has been bad lately. Makes a hard life harder. I miss my chiropractor in the city. Old Jack had the gift. I just couldn't convince him to join us up here."

The city,
Buzz noted. A New Yorker expression. Rheumy must
have come up from New York.

Buzz gave a knowing nod. He suppressed an urge to brag about his own skills. Buzz knew in his guts–from some instinct without a name–that Rheumy Marks was the kind of tyrant who liked to say all the important things.

Rheumy noticed the bottle by Ralph's side for the first time.

"Mariner!" He turned to Buzz. "How did you know?"

"Tell you the truth, I didn't. I don't
drink Scotch. I appreciate the beer, too, but I'm not much of a drinker. I traded an adjustment for the bottle in a little town called Argyle, New York, where I hooked up with the two Jesus freaks. A real nice fella named Bob Samuels gave me that bottle–a real Scotch-lover."

Buzz was concentrating hard on giving his lies a tangential basis in truth.

"So you bring me fine single malt, and you adjust
backs," Rheumy said, a note of admiration in his voice. "My ship has come in."

Buzz decided to let loose some of his own charm, his own joy-of-life. It was time.

"You bet, Rheumy. I've got a good feeling–a real good feeling–about this place. I mean, who-da thunk it? A set up like this–the electricity. The workers. You liking single malt, me liking Nicholson. As Good as It Gets just happens to
be my favorite movie of the Nineties. Pun intended–your place here is as good as it gets. I've seen a lot of garbage on the road, ever since I left Montclair. A lot of garbage."

"Are you making me an offer?" Rheumy offered.

Buzz waited.

"You bet your life," he said soberly. Finally, finally, he was sure the beer had worn off.

Rheumy stared at him. Buzz stared back. Ralph watched the silent interplay
closely, his eyes darting back and forth between his brother and this strange man.

"There's a place for intelligent men here at the Marks Farm, Mr. Buzz Woodward."

"It's so hard to find good help nowadays," Buzz agreed, smiling. "So let's quit screwing around. Let's get you to a bed or a couch and I'll fix up that back of yours."

Chapter Fourteen

Judge Jury Executioner

Over the next ten days, Buzz scoped out the lay of the land at the Marks Farm. As Rheumy's resident chiropractor, he was given a free run of the compound. He spent most of his days playing cards with Ralph or Rheumy or both of them, watching movies, hanging out on the deck, reading Rheumy's huge library of pulp fiction, even going out to hunt with his host–pretending
that he loved every minute.

There were four buildings besides Rheumy's house (where Ralph also lived). One house for the eight henchmen, as Buzz came to think of them–including Lloyd, whose last name turned out to be Beaumont. There was one house–a jail, really–for the fourteen "workers," now including Johnny, who were basically well-fed slaves. Two were older women, twelve were men, most of them
refugees "recruited" at the roadblock. None were related to each other. Their master had been careful not to recruit any locals; they were all from out of state.

The workers toiled under the watchful eye of Lloyd or another overseer, planting crops, grinding wheat, cleaning, and caring for the horses and livestock.

Everyone was well-fed. There were dairy cows and thousands of pounds of grains,
rice, and beans that Rheumy had purchased before the millennium. These were stored in the third building and in two gigantic silos. Buzz guessed that there were other stashes, probably buried underground, on the expansive, four-thousand acre property.

The compound had three propane generators and thousands of gallons of liquid propane in buried tanks. In addition to the wind turbine, there were
four large solar panel arrays. Rheumy, during his conversations while Buzz treated his back, or during the meals which Buzz was invited to join occasionally (Buzz usually ate with the henchmen), bragged about his "back-up" back-up systems, and the two million dollars he had invested making preparations.

His proudest possessions were stored in the fourth building–the Hothouse. The prostitutes.
Four women who were not slaves, but rather, high-class escorts (no cheap whores for Rheumy–"Nothing but the best," he told Buzz). Rheumy had paid top dollar to rent them for a two week spree just before the turn of the century, knowing they would never be able to return to the city.

There was a short blonde, a buxom brunette, a redhead (tall and and slightly chunky), and finally, a musky one named-Crystal,
with a dark butch haircut. She was reserved for the times when Rheumy or Ralph felt like "mixing it up," and was sometimes loaned out as a reward to a henchman who did a particularly good job.

"Rheumy has foresight," Ralph told Buzz once with nary a hint of irony. "He's stockpiled thirty-five thousand condoms. And if we don't use all of them, Rheumy says they'll make make great trade items."

Buzz turned down Rheumy's frequent offers to join in the fun. Feeling nervous, he confided to Ralph that he was dysfunctional in that department. Like his other falsehoods, this had a basis in truth.

The workers were guarded during the day. At night they were herded into a specially-designed building, which sported two floors and a few small windows high on the walls. They were also fed separately
in their mundane jail.

Rheumy took a special satisfaction in his generous treatment of them: they were given home-made beer, dim electric lights, and decent beds with clean sheets in small private rooms. After hours, he let them watch as many movies as they pleased. One day per week, according to a schedule, each man was given use of the frumpy redhead.

"By and large," Rheumy once told Buzz during
a late-night massage, "they like it here. Where else are they going to be so well-fed? They're safe. They're protected."

"Then why do you guard them?" Buzz felt bold enough to ask.
Because they know where the bodies are buried?
he didn't ask.

"Just playing it safe. They could become violent. People are unstable in these trying times. You never know when one might turn on you. It's a different
world now, Buzz, a different world. We didn't use guards back when I had my own law firm–to keep the clerks, the receptionists. Even the younger lawyers trying to make partner. We worked them the hardest.

"The weapon we used back then was the salary we paid. Plenty enough so they could get by–but never more. That way they had to stay with you. They liked it, too. But they always had a choice.
It would have been easy for any of our workers to run off if they really wanted to back in the old days."

Buzz knew this was pure rationalization, but then again, Rheumy had been a lawyer. He could twist ideas with words.

At night, there was a sentry at the door of the slave house, a second sentry at the front entrance to the compound, and another one or two sentries at the roadblock. It was Ralph's
job to manage them, and he often complained to Buzz that he needed at least three more men.

Despite Rheumy's outward friendliness to him, Buzz suspected that he was in a probationary period. He was not trusted with a gun, nor asked to help with sentry duty, despite the obvious scarcity of manpower.

It would have been easy for Buzz, who was staying in the henchmen's house, to slip away at night
and return to his bicycle and backpack. But there was Johnny. He couldn't leave Johnny behind. Not after what they had done to Tom.

And Buzz was smart enough to know that there were probably more dead bodies in addition to the ones buried down by the roadblock. Johnny was a material witness to a murder. It was perfectly conceivable that if Johnny tried to escape, he would be hunted down.

Rheumy
was proud of his three bloodhounds.

Except for one occasion, Buzz was unable to talk to Johnny. The preacher had been off by himself in the fields, planting potatoes by hand. Ralph, who was supposed to come by shortly to take Buzz hunting, was running late. Lloyd was on a horse, on the far side of the field, oblivious. There was a pecking order on the Marks Farm, and Lloyd Beaumont was already
below Buzz Woodward.

Buzz was standing on the dirt path next to the field, facing away from Johnny, looking at Lloyd.

"Don't look at me," Buzz began, trying not to move his lips. "Just keep looking at your spuds while we talk. How you doing, brother? Hangin' in there?"

"I'm doing okay, I guess. I miss Tom. I really miss him–it's hard. We were together for three years.

"And these people are depraved.
I'm trying to bring them to Jesus, but they just make fun of me. They actually like it here. They're whoremongers. I miss my Bible."

"I know, I know," Buzz said.
They're murderers.

"Have you got a plan, Brother Buzz?"

"Yes, I do. It's not a pretty one. Expect me to come by at night, very late–I can't tell you which day. Soon. They're beginning to trust me."

"But the guards..." Johnny almost spoke
out loud.

"I'll take care of the guards."

"You won't have to kill anybody, will you?" Johnny asked.

"I'll do what I have to do," Buzz replied.

"I'll pray for you," Johnny promised.

"Thanks."

Lloyd brought his horse around to face them, and Buzz, fearful of being suspected of having a friendly relationship with Johnny, walked into stride without another word.

+  +  +

Buzz grit his teeth, standing
over Rheumy's small but sinewy back, and began to use his hands to heal this...charming, despicable creature. The smaller man's arms hung over the side of the bench.

At Rheumy's insistence, the boys in the shop had fashioned a treatment bench, about knee-high, to Buzz's specifications. It even had leather-covered cushions.

Buzz now knew much of Rheumy's background: childhood in the ritzy Scarsdale,
a suburb of New York. Getting beat up by the bullies on the playground during grade school; unable to play sports because of his bad back. High school valedictorian. His numerous sexual escapades at Manhattan College. The abusive alcoholic father he strangely admired; law school at Pace. The millions he made as a trial lawyer.

"Remember that billion-dollar tobacco settlement? That was me. That
was partly Marks, Marks, and Spittledorf in New York State."

Rheumy told Buzz how the president of a large computer-company with government contracts had tipped him off to the computer bug in late 1997.

The weird fact that some of Rheumy's background, in a sideways-sort-of-fashion, paralleled Buzz's, made it all the more creepy.

Given a different decision here or there, I could have been a Rheumy,
he once realized with a chill.

It was more than that. Rheumy Marks had a friendly, clever knack for manipulating others. Buzz realized that he was dealing with an equal. He suspected that Rheumy realized that Buzz was putting on an act–but couldn't know for sure.

He did know for sure if Rheumy would eventually discover inconsistencies in his story, or feel in his gut, in that way that only a lawyer
could–especially ones who were as guilty as their guilty clients–that Buzz was playing a role.

Maybe Rheumy knew but just liked having his back feel good. Or maybe Rheumy knew Buzz was acting, but didn't yet know why.

Healing Rheumy, whose back truly was a mess, gave Buzz an extremely ambivalent feeling. Rheumy raved about Buzz's abilities, even claiming he was better than Old Jack.

His healing
skill enabled Rheumy to whore all the more, Buzz noted glumly. He was keeping a tyrant in tip-top condition. Was that okay? Was that right?

But it wasn't only that–it was that Rheumy was such a pleasant fellow. Despite himself, Buzz had grown to like him in an odd kind of way. He was a good conversationalist, and Buzz knew that Rheumy enjoyed talking to him. His brother Ralph was bright, but not
as interesting or smart as Buzz, who always made a point of challenging Rheumy during their conversations. Buzz was like the vice-president of a corporation who allows the president to win at golf–the key was making the challenge appear real; make the competition feel acute. But in the end, the boss would always win.

This gave Rheumy a chance to debate, and finally, to prove his new friend wrong
about whatever was being discussed, whether the topic was a movie, or the ethics of the new paradigm.

It wasn't that Buzz thought that he was immoral–it was that Rheumy was amoral. He showed no signs of guilt about his treatment of his so-called workers, or his sexual indulgences. The prostitutes seemed to genuinely admire him, and to be thankful for having work and good food in a world of scarcity.

Rheumy would take a massage twice a day, sometimes having Buzz awakened in the middle of the night. There was always a guard. During the first week, the guard sat in the room with Buzz and his patient. Now the guard usually sat outside. Buzz suspected this was because the little man enjoyed discussing "management decisions," as he called them, with his private chiropractor.

"You ever think about
getting married?" Buzz asked him this evening after dinner, after he began the massage. Rheumy was on his stomach, his chin on a down pillow.

"What for?"

"You know, to have a couple kids. Keep the family name going. The whole white picket fence thing."

"I hate kids. Ralph can pass on the family name if he feels like it. Were you ever married?"

"I told you I was divorced, remember?"

"And?" Rheumy
asked.

"And what?"

"And did you have any kids?"

"Yeah, I have a daughter. Or had a daughter. Jenny. She was attending college at Gonzaga in Washington State before the trouble started."

"And?" Rheumy asked pleasantly, almost kindly.

"And she hated me," Buzz confessed.

"She hated you. I rest my case. Love is overrated. Family relationships are cultural constructs, nothing more. Take it from an
expert. My old man was a real bastard. Treated me like dirt. But I rose above it. I made something of myself. I ran rings around those prep boys from Yale and Harvard with their skinny, perfect wives and doting, lovey-dovey parents.

"If I'm a happy person today, I believe it's because I rejected the fiction of love when I was a young man, before it ruined me.

"Love makes people soft. Everybody
wanted soft before the crash. Not Rheumy Marks. I was hard then, and I'm hard now. That's why I not only survived the collapse, but prospered. That's why I was able to save Ralph. Ralph was too soft and I had to look after him. All these people here, they owe me their lives because I was cold and calculating about the implications of the computer bug.

"And another thing, there were too many lawyers
back in the old days," Rheumy added with no hint of irony, now warming to his subject, just as Buzz had hoped.

Rheumy loved to pontificate when he was warmed up, and Buzz was gathering intelligence, and, perhaps, in the back of his mind, holding court.

"Practicing law was becoming a grind toward the end," he continued. "This may sound strange, but I didn't mind when the bug bit. It has given me
a great chance to take time off, to relax, become rejuvenated. I like it better this way. Less competition."

When Rheumy had mentioned that love was over-rated, Buzz had immediately thought of Mel: her face, for the first time in months, became a perfectly clear picture in his mind, and he wondered why God had brought him this far, to this place, at this time.

Rheumy had gotten under his skin.
On purpose? Buzz couldn't know. But he felt an overwhelming urge to run from the room, to get out of here, to run toward Mel, and the hell with Johnny.

"And what about the future?" Buzz asked sincerely, preparing to bring up a topic which he knew no one else here would dare mention to Rheumy.

"What do you mean?"

"We both know that your little paradise here can't last forever. It might take a few
years, maybe longer, but law and order will be restored eventually. There are the bodies."

He felt the muscles in Rheumy's back tense up, ever so slightly. Buzz was careful not to change the rhythm of his massage.

"What about them?"

"Let's not kid ourselves, Rheum. Guys like you and me, we've done...things. We've–uh–taken advantage of the situation; at least that's what the small-minded people
will say. And they'll remember."