5~
Winslow adjusted his glasses while watching the four department heads adjust their seating and listen to his presentation.
He gestured to the image beamed from the conference room's projector. A tastefully shot bird's eye view of the water slide attraction he had purchased was displayed on the screen beside him.
"This, people, is going to really bring in the customers," he told them with almost a child's enthusiasm. "This water slide is the investment of a lifetime. Summer's coming up, and what better way to beat the heat than to head on over to Fleach's Folly Factory's newest attraction, The Whoosh!"
"The...Whoosh?" Beatrice Sharpe, the park's sales director, asked slowly and incredulously.
"Yes!" Winslow answered, finding it hard to believe that the heads weren't more on board with this. "It's simple, it's catchy, and it sounds fun! Whoosh! Come on, everybody! Say it with me!"
The others joined in reluctantly, wondering, not for the first time, if their beloved leader wasn't touched in the head.
"Whoosh!" Winslow called out again. "See? Now, as you know, construction began a few months ago, but it should be completed just in time for the Summer tourist season."
Beatrice leaned forward and pursed her lips in thought. "I wonder if we'll have time to make commercials announcing the new ride. T-shirts that say, "I survived...The Whoosh!" and the like."
Winslow sat down in his office chair. "We'll get in touch with that print company downtown, and we'll hire some film students from Darrow U to shoot the commercials."
The park security chief, a beefy, gray-haired paranoid of a man named Robert Packard, grumbled, "We may have to beef up security and hire more officers because of interest in this new ride. The more people who'll show up for this, the more opportunities for crime, Mr. Fleach."
Winslow waved at the issue dismissively. "Not a problem, Robert. If need be, we'll put out an ad for any mall cops or deputies out there who want some extra money over the summer by working here."
A strange man by both nature and by reputation, the recreational director named Edward spoke up. "I'm confused, Mr. Fleach. Will my ride technicians have to turn the water on and off and ensure everybody's strapped down, so they don't fall out of the ride? Looks rather complicated."
"No, Edward," Winslow explained pedantically, pointing to the various parts of the ride and trying to remember why he hired him in the first place. Desperation must have been a factor at the time. "Everybody will slide down this wet chute here. That's the ride. And quickly enter this large swimming pool below. That's the destination. The most we'll probably need to run it is a lifeguard or two."
Eleanor Angelina Shelby, the resident maintenance director, and a transplant from neighboring Gatorsburg, said in her usual drawl, "A lifeguard, huh? Well, maybe I could pull double duty, then. I still got my old swimsuit from my days as a mechanic in NASBOAT."
Winslow shivered internally in distaste, thinking of her fat, elderly body squeezed into an otherwise lovely one-piece.
"Uh, that's quite alright, Eleanor," he said as diplomatically as he could. "I'm no slave driver, and I'm not about to be one now. You work hard enough as Maintenance Director. Hmm...Perhaps, I could get Marcie to work as a lifeguard this summer."
The doors of the conference room flew open, and a girl stepped inside with a confident gait.
She wore bell-bottomed jeans, sandals, a blouse covered by a tasseled vest, a gold bracelet on her wrist, and a big, floppy, brown, flower-covered sun hat that cast an almost concealing shadow over her grinning face.
In her hand, she squeezed a small plastic bottle that raised a ringed wand from its interior, from which she was blowing bubbles.
Winslow observed the stranger, grateful that Security Chief Packard was on hand. He stood authoritatively and addressed her.
"This is a staff meeting. Please, leave, or I will have to call security."
"Security?" the girl asked amusedly, walking casually around the table, trailing bubbles in her calm wake. She directed her shadowed gaze towards Winslow. "Are any of us truly secure? But then, everybody knows me around here, Daddy!"
Upon hearing "Daddy" from her, Winslow recognized the voice and only became more confused.
"Marcie?"
"Hi, Daddy," his daughter casually greeted him, assuming a playful pose. "Still trying to cut corners, as usual?"
He ignored the truthful jibe. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Because my eyes have been opened, at last, Dad!"
Winslow cocked his head to one side, still trying to make sense of the moment. "You don't need glasses anymore?"
Marcie, momentarily confused, herself, stopped for a clarifying beat, then continued with a slightly manic gleam in her eyes. "No! I'm saying that I don't need rules anymore. Conformity's a trap we've all been caught in since Day One, but I'm here to say that I'm free, and you can be, too, everybody."
She walked over Eleanor, and without preamble, took a flower from her hat, and carefully slipped it into the woman's salt-and-pepper hair.
"Why, thank you, darlin'," Eleanor giggled, not knowing what to make of the gesture but appreciating it, nonetheless.
As Winslow watched the proceedings, he decided that, while her being there wasn't being too disruptive, it was slowing business down noticeably. Time was being wasted, and, as he was instructed so long ago, in Darrow University's Business Administration class, time was money.
"Marcie, what are you going on about?" he asked her sternly. "We're in the middle of a staff meeting. We have a lot of work to do to keep the Folly Factory running smoothly because our competition won't be so lenient come summertime."
Marcie looked unfazed by the reprimand. "But, Daddy, you're always going to have competition in life. Why let that fact run you ragged? You'll find no time to enjoy the simple things that make life so beautiful."
And to illustrate that opinion, she leaned over, pleasantly, and blew a stream of soapy bubbles at Security Chief Packard, who just stiffened in their presence and coughed uncomfortably.
Winslow wearily shook his head. Just his luck that his only daughter would pick now, of all times, to follow a fad.
"That's nice, dear," he said condescendingly. "Now why don't you go boogie, or moon-walk, or whatever it is that you kids do, and we'll talk about all of this when I come home."
If his tone was intended to mock or even dismiss Marcie's little evangel, she noticed none of it.
"Do you know that stress is one of the leading causes of death in this country?" she continued. "I can see it in your eyes, Dad. You're worried about the water slide. You're hoping that it'll bring in enough ticket sales to pay for itself."
She approached and calmly blew bubbles at the Recreational Manager, who loudly sneezed when some of the bubbles popped under his nose.
"Yes, that's a concern," her father admitted. "But I believe it will be worth the investment. I was explaining that when you burst in, looking like an escapee from Woodstock. By the way, where did you find that getup?"
Marcie walked up behind Beatrice and put another flower in the hair of the Sales Director.
"Turn Back The Cloth on Leary Boulevard," she answered matter-of-factly. "Anyway, I just don't want to see you burned out. I know you want to be the next amusement park icon, but I just think you're working too hard for it. You're special to me, Dad."
Winslow bristled and was about to sternly challenge her calling him a workaholic in the company of those under him when her gentle words hit him and became momentarily moved by her honest plea.
"You mean the world to me, too, Pumpkin," he sighed with a confident smile. "But nothing will happen to me. And you'll see that it will all be worth it when you have enough money to go to college."
Marcie walked away from the oval table and then turned around to gauge her good-natured handiwork on the staff upon reaching the room's doorway.
"Maybe, but I'd be happier just seeing you live long enough to see me graduate," she told him with a sober smile in return. "It's ironic, y'know? You spend all your life creating other people's fun and never took the time to have one of your own. See ya back home, Dad."
With that, she left the flower-strewn, bubble-filled boardroom, the executive staff watching the office doors quietly close, in uncomfortable silence.
"Kids, huh?" a stunned Winslow joked, trying to save the already awkward conference.
The dusty, purple van looked like some poor man's Mystery Machine. After delivering another crop of brainwashed disciples, it sat parked outside the boarded-up and closed-down Groovitations dance club in the town's geographically small yet run-down section.
Entering from the defunct emergency exit at the rear of the building, converts gathered and sat around the dirty dance floor, enraptured by the voice and the very sight of the man who held court on the DJ's dais, looking over his flock in the gloom of scattered candlelight.
"We have strayed from the path of least resistance, my wayward children," Ringleader preached deeply. "To do what moves us the easiest. We've been taught by parents, teachers, and authority figures that the only way to get ahead in this sad world is to study, work hard, get good grades, and be compliant members of society. Do you know what I say to all of that?"
Ringleader took a deep breath and bleated like a sheep before his audience. The audience then bleated in turn.
"That's right, my flock. That's what we once were. Sheep. But now, those misbegotten days are finally over, for you are liberated from all of that. Freedom is being willing to do what you want. I will free your minds of all hang-ups so that you can experience whatever you want, and all I ask is that you look out for some rich people to collect contributions from," he said.
The audience, so completely moved by the simplicity of what he asked, cheered in agreement and compliance. Marcie Fleach cheered, at least in her mind, loudest of all.
Ringleader brought up his bracelet-clad arms to quiet the masses.
"Now, I know some of you have been converted recently. Step up to me so that I may give you your first mission for our church. The test that will leave no doubt in my mind as to what cause you belong to."
Three girls slowly stood from the throng on the dance floor and padded up to the dais, among them, Marcie. They watched Ringleader approach them with bated breath.
He went to the first two, leaned in close, and whispered into their ears. The girls shivered visibly, recovered, and then returned to their places on the floor, more at peace than earlier.
However, when Ringleader came to Marcie, he looked into her eyes and saw something he didn't expect to see so soon. Doubt.
Had his mesmerism worn off? That was troubling to him, but then, so was anxiety on his part, in front of his cultists. Any sign of weakness was suicidal to his schemes.
He forced the fear down and gave Marcie a warm, insincere smile. He was the master, and he would bring order back into his church, no matter how false it was.
"Marcie, what's wrong?" he asked her fatherly. "You are here, child, but I don't sense the commitment that brought you."
In response, Marcie bowed her head, turning her face away from her questionable savior. She couldn't bear, even now, to face him with such disgraceful thoughts of infidelity.
"Master," Marcie whispered sadly. "I...shame you with my wishy-washiness. I spoke to my father earlier. I-I wanted him to learn the path you teach us and live free, as we do. But I don't think I swayed him. I failed to bring him into the fold. I failed you."
'So that's what it was,' he thought relievedly. 'She only had doubt in herself to serve me.'
Ringleader cupped her cheek with his hand and spoke with counterfeit understanding. "Oh, my child. The adult mind is like quick-drying cement and would take the force of a hundred thousand chisels to break through all of that rigid thinking that they're slaves to. But you? You loved your father so much that you tried to get through to him with love...like...some beautiful, four-eyed jackhammer, or something."
"Really?" she asked earnestly.
"You haven't failed me, Marcie. You're my perfect little tool, uh, to, uh, spread the word," he told her, quickly recovering from his faux-pas.
His magnetic voice made her tremble as a grateful trickle of tears flowed down her cheeks.
"Thank you! Thank you, master!" she blubbered. "What will you have me do for you?"
She was ready; Ringleader could see that now. Satisfied, he leaned over and softly whispered his commands to Marcie.
Marcie walked back to the cheering crowd, her heart now lifted with misguided love and determination.
She would not fail him.
The ornate door of the white Southern-style mansion hung open and impotent in the late afternoon. Opened just as wide and just as impotently keeping anyone out, was the half-melted family safe.
The antique china cabinet was ransacked and cleaned of meaningful silverware, crystal, and, of course, china. In the bedroom, jewelry, furs, and designer clothing were taken, leaving behind a whirlwind-tossed mess.
In the kitchen, it was the capacious refrigerator that suffered. Any and all edibles there were snatched out and consumed with all the vigor of a small army.
With sacks of booty, that army marched out to the curb, where a purple van was idling.
The last person to leave the violated home was coolly tossing and catching the most valuable prize from the acid-defeated safe, a Faberge Egg. As she had wrested it, herself, Marcie would have the honor of bringing it before her master as proof of her devotion.
As she stepped over the gassed bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, Marcie couldn't help but hum in deep satisfaction.
Ringleader looked in the back of the van from the driver's seat, watching cult members and sacks fill the area. Congratulations were given and taken all around, and there was a genuine feeling of camaraderie that truly sickened him as he waited for the last member to arrive.
Marcie appeared before her master from the driver's side, holding the egg out to him reverently.
"Have I served you well?" she asked anxiously, her gaze respectfully lowered.
Ringleader snatched the treasure from her hands and gave it a quick appraisal. This was, indeed, a good haul, but they could do better. Crystal Cove still had much to offer before the heat would come down on him, if it ever did, and he'd have to leave town.
Until it did, pawns like Marcie and the kids in the back of the van would be in high demand. He turned to her, smiling.
"Oh, yes, child. You are solid. You've proved to me that you are, indeed, one of us. Prepare for your reward."
Although she thought it inappropriate to look directly at him, Marcie raised her head in happy anticipation. The chance to see Velma again...The idea, alone, was too good to be believed.
Ringleader reached out from the van and touched a pointed finger lightly upon Marcie's forehead, intoning, "For every mission you finish for me, your friend, for a day, will spend with thee..."
Upon deep hypnotic command, the gesture triggered a reaction in Marcie's head. Instantly, her perceptions changed from within. The van, the Rogers' Mansion, and the surrounding neighborhood were gone, and in their place was a hazy, sparkling, happy world only populated by a moonstruck Marcie and one other.
Walking from the imagined distance came a figure she had hoped against hope to see again.
Velma smiled upon seeing Marcie, and it was a smile that rivaled the sparkles that floated in Marcie's mind.
Marcie rushed over and hugged Velma fiercely, wanting to press against her until they were an amalgam of flesh and deep, honest affection.
Ringleader started the cranky, old van and pulled slowly from the curb, careful not to hit Marcie.
"Have fun," he yelled in the distance. "See you when you get back."
Of course, Marcie, hallucinating and completely over-the-moon, couldn't, or didn't, hear her master's words. She was too distracted enjoying her time with her best friend in all the world while she tightly hugged thin air in the middle of the affluent part of town.
The waning California sunset painted the Crystal Cove Mall in subdued shades of rose and gold, and even the dumpsters placed around its periphery were not spared its subtle colors.
One dumpster, in particular, boomed quietly with the thumps and bangs of someone inside.
Marcie gave a friendly tap on the dumpster's side, and, as she surmised, Daisy's head popped up out of the dank depths, scared and, as luck would have it, facing away from Marcie.
"I'm sorry, officer!" Daisy begged. "I-I was just looking for my contact lens!"
Marcie chuckled at the display. "Be mellow, Daisy. I'm not The Man."
Daisy turned to see Marcie and exhaled.
"Whew! Hey, Marcie! Nice ensemble. Very retro. What can I do for you?
Marcie leaned contentedly against the steel front of the large container. "Oh, nothing. I just got through seeing a very special friend, and I thought I'd just hang out with you."
Daisy's mouth hung slack at that, a course of action so out-of-the-blue, it took her completely, and pleasantly, by surprise.
"Hang out? With me? Why?"
"Why not?" Marcie shrugged merrily. "You're the only person I know who makes being around dumpsters cool. That's your gift to the world."
Even though Daisy was a fair deal older than Marcie and could, at least, technically hang out with people her age, she was moved deeply by the sudden gesture.
"Wow. I never had anybody feel that way about me or my dumpster diving before," she admitted. "Normally, my parents would just shake their heads and say things like "Where did we go wrong?" and "She takes after your side of the family" and "Maybe we can trade her in for a new pair of shoes."
Marcie waved the sad tale away as something best left in the past. "Parents are so afraid of what they used to do when they were children that they hate to see that same freedom in their own kids."
Daisy had to admit that she hadn't considered that, and her eyes opened wide in appreciation of that somewhat debatable nugget of wisdom.
"That is so deep. I'm kinda glad you're here, actually. My sisters just aren't interested in going on hunts with me. Though I'd swear, that wasn't the case, some nights."
The inquisitor in Marcie sat up and took notice of that. "What do you mean?"
"Well, sometimes, late at night, I wouldn't see them at home. I thought they might be out doing their own thing, y'know?"
Marcie stroked her chin in thought. "Maybe."
Daisy conceded to that. "Yeah, maybe. My mom and dad haven't worried about it, so I guess I shouldn't either, but I do, y'know? They don't talk about where they go, and when I ask them, sometimes, all they do is chuckle."
"Bummer."
Daisy looked glum for a moment, wishing she hadn't brought up the topic. She wanted to relax with a newfound friend and root through the finest dumpsters in town.
Then, a thought sparked in her mind, and she suddenly looked hopeful.
"Hey, I know! You could find out. You said that you're a detective, right?"
Marcie raised her hands apologetically, feeling as though Daisy were trying to call her out of retirement after decades in the PI game.
"I'm sorry, Daisy. I've hung all that up. Something more interesting came into my life."
"Boys?"
Marcie gave a dismissive snort and scoffed. "Please!" Then her expression turned introspective, if not downright dreamy. "Ringleader"
Daisy gave Marcie a quizzical look. 'Who the heck was Ringleader?' she thought.
Early that evening, Marcie pulled on the corroded handle of Groovitation's rear emergency door and let herself in.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim gloom of the candles that surrounded the old fire exit's corridor that led her deep into the interior of the building's first floor.
She kept walking until she reached a T-section, where the hall ended and branched off into two smaller paths on either side.
She took the right hallway that held the women's restrooms and led, with a left-hand turn, out onto the central bar, lounge, and dance floor. The left hallway held the men's restrooms and would have exited to the same area from the opposite side, except that its right-hand turn was choked with haphazardly stacked tables and chairs, and its mouth was barricaded with nailed two-by-fours.
As Marcie passed the restrooms and approached the left-hand turn, she could hear murmurings from up ahead. Quietly, she made it to the corridor's archway and followed them.
On her right rose a single, poorly-lit, curving tunnel sheltering a winding stairwell that led patrons to the second-floor balcony, a smaller, private lounge that sheltered the central bar below and overlooked the main lounge, stage, and dance floor.
Ascending to the area, Marcie could see some dusty tables left behind from its closing, but she wasn't in the mood for sitting.
Another archway, in the rear of the landing, led to the bathrooms that served the balcony's patrons. Most cult members who skulked around after a sermon preferred to stand under it or sit in the shadows, either for privacy's sake or to mentally practice their stealth for the next caper.
In any event, Marcie knew where they were from the perfumes and colognes that she smelled while she stood by the head of the stairs.
"Hey," she said to some silhouettes nearby. "Somebody's been asking about you."
A young woman's voice asked softly, "Really? Who?"
"Your sister."
Three young, redheaded women dressed in hippy clothes, but wearing nearly the same face, strolled leisurely from out of the gloom.
"Well, maybe it's time we introduce Daisy to the master," said Dawn Blake with a malevolent glint in her eyes.
Dorothy Blake slyly chimed in. "Yeah. Too bad our other sister's married and little Daphne's not around."
"But the Blake Sisters can still be one big happy family," Delilah Blake finished in cruel anticipation.
The deliciously sinister thought of having yet another soul fall into Ringleader's clutches made Marcie and the remaining Blakes feel delightfully wicked.
They all gave a decadent laugh, and for a brief moment, the Cult of Crime had become a little darker in the night.
