Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

The Organization
by Forrest Roy Johnson

Wish I could say it was the first time I'd had a rock thrown at me through a window, though the whole being in bed thing was a twist. I catapulted upright, like a movie character having a nightmare. The sound of breaking glass always reminds me of the day Jess and I broke up (if assault counts for "I think we should see other people"), so for a few seconds I treated her like a T-Rex - if I didn't move, she wouldn't see me.
Once my brain woke up, I shot a glance out at the street. Empty. At least she'd had the decency to refrain from screaming at me and waking the entire neighborhood.

I clicked my bedside lamp on and surveyed the damage. My apartment was on the second floor of an old house; nothing too big or fancy, just a kitchen, sitting room, bathroom, and bedroom. The bedroom had three windows along one wall, under which sat my bed, on which now lay most of the middle window. The rock had also smashed my computer monitor. Great.

A few of the shards had penetrated the thin blanket in the area of my midsection. I hadn't felt anything, but I might've been in shock or something. I lifted the blanket - all present and accounted for. Though one largish piece caught on the front of my boxers as I slunk out of bed, which gave me pause.

As I offered a silent prayer of thanksgiving, I turned my attention to the rock itself. About the size of a softball, not particularly interesting except for the piece of paper tied to it. I checked the street again - last thing I needed was to take another rock in the ass when I bent to grab this one. Still empty. No exes, no mysterious black SUVs, not so much as a stray cat. A perfect October midnight in a sleepy little Saint Paul suburb.

I detached the note. It was typed, a plain font:
I will kill you. Don't bother to hide, or call the police. You know what you did, and you'll pay. Isaiah W. Anderson 1985-2011.

"Um. That's new."

I guess she had gone from crazy ex to full-blown homicidal stalker sometime in the last six months.
Well, called the cops and they were exactly zero help. They sent a squad over to Jess's place - not my place, mind you, frickin hers - and established her alibi. Of course they did. Then they promised to keep a closer eye on my street, by which I think they meant loiter around the Starbucks eight blocks down.

I took stock of what weapons I had at hand. A baseball bat my brother had left here once and never retrieved. The cast iron frying pan under the sink. One of my old textbooks might be heavy enough to do some damage. Heh, I had a rock.

It was almost four by the time they had straightened everything out. I checked my patch of the window - painters' tape and a black garbage bag - and grabbed my sleeping bag, spread it in the kitchen. But linoleum sucks to sleep on, so after about a half hour of being cold and uncomfortable I decided to jump in the shower, see if I could scrub off some of the paranoia.

The cold water hit my chest, I swore a little, then realized: The year was wrong. I was born in '86. Jess knew that. Holy hell, what if her alibi was legit? Did that mean someone else wanted me dead? Or did someone else named Isaiah Anderson piss someone off to the extent they'd want him dead?

I dried and went to my bedroom. I wasn't in much of a mood to deal with the cops again, so I dug the White Pages out from under my bed, where it had been propping up one end. No Isaiah W. Andersons listed. A couple without the middle initial though. I wanted to go online to see if maybe one of them was born in 1985, but since my computer had been so callously mucked up, I had to call in a favor.

"Hey, Markus, how ya doin buddy?"

"Zaiah what the hell?"

"Look, I know it's early, but -"

"Early? Dude, I just went to bed an hour ago. What do you want?"

"I need to use your computer. Mine's... broke."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm serious. Got smashed with a rock."

"You back with Jess again?"

"What? No. Just - Can I come over for a little while? I have some stuff I need to check into."

"Go to a library."

"Can't. Remember how the one in Roseville blacklisted me after all that stuff went down there with Jess? Turns out they've banned me from every single one in the county."

He sighed. "Fine. Just none of that freaky Japanese stuff. I don't need you virusing up my computer, too."
"I told you! That wasn't.... Whatever. So it's cool?"

"I'll leave the door unlocked. Don't wake me up." Click.

I cracked open a Mountain Dew and made my way out to my car. The first gray stages of dawn were playing on the edge of the horizon. Yeesh. I would have to take a sick day. No way I was answering phones all day with an hour of sleep under my belt.

My old Escort was parked about a block away from the apartment - Mister Winkowski, my landlord who lived on the first floor of the house, only had driveway space for his boat of a Cadillac so I got to park on the street. With three small colleges in the neighborhood, parking was scarce. I approached from behind, unlocked the driver's side door, and noticed that oh, good, there was a rock through my windshield. Another note.

We need to talk. I'll let you know when and where later. Oh, and call the cops again, I'll burn your house to the ground.

What the everloving hell?

The rest of my trip to Markus's was uneventful, though rather ulcer-inducing due to the fact that maybe this psycho was, you know, following me? I locked the door behind me and logged on. First thing I checked was the status of the other Isaiahs, but they turned out to be a P. and an R. So as far as I could tell, I was the only Isaiah W. in the metro area. Comforting. Checked into hiring a bodyguard next. Impractical, to say the least. Though one listing caught my eye.

I. W. Anderson Consulting: Data Retrieval, Home Security Verification, Surveillance, Personal Protection. Discreet, Professional.

I called the number.

"Hello?"

"Um, hi, is this I. W. Anderson Consulting?"

Ruffling sounds, a light cough. "Uh, yeah. Yes, this is Isaiah, how can I help you?"

"Someone's been throwing rocks through my windows. Could you shed any light on that?"

A pause. "I'm sorry, could you clarify that a little?"

"My name is Isaiah William Anderson. I live in Lakeview. I've had two rocks go through my bedroom window and windshield in the last eight hours."

"I... see."

"Yeah. They were addressed to an Isaiah W. Anderson. Would you know anything about that?"

"Maybe you should come to my office."

* * *

The office turned out to be a split-level house on a residential street in East Bethel. I rang the doorbell with some trepidation. The man who answered could have been a serial killer in a bad movie. He was skinny, probably mid-twenties, slightly balding, wore thin-rimmed glasses and had a wispy soul patch. He introduced himself as Gil, led me inside. I wished I had brought that freaking bat.

A spare bedroom on the main floor had been transformed into an office with the addition of an old metal desk and a filing cabinet. He gestured to a mismatched folding chair and took his seat on the other side.

"So, Isaiah, what can you tell me about last night?"

"Woke up to a rock going through my window. Found another one in my car. Remember? Or didn't the other Isaiah tell you?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a slamming door. Another youngish man emerged from the lower level wearing gym shorts and a wife beater, yawning. He noticed me. "Oh, sorry! Damn, didn't know you had a client, Gi - um, Isaiah." He ducked back downstairs.

Gil grimaced a little. "That's Roger, my tactless associate."

"So do I call you Gil or Isaiah?"

"Gil. Gil is fine."

"You sure? Cause I can just call you Isaiah. I mean, it's weird hearing my own damn name - down to the middle initial, no less - referring to someone else, but whatevs, I can deal with it."

"You're upset. I understand that. Please allow me to explain."

"Yeah. Do."

"About a year ago, I started working as a private investigator, sort of. I don't have a PI license, so I just called it consulting, since you can call basically anything 'consulting.' Now, I needed a professional name in order to be taken seriously.... My real name is Gilbert N. Sullivan."

I snickered.

"See? I picked out a name I thought would be a little more common. Though apparently the relative number of 'Isaiahs' is much lower than I remembered. There were like five of them in my grade when I was a kid. Anyway, I picked my nice, inconspicuous name and started working."

"You born in '85, by any chance?"

"I was, actually."

I pulled the notes out of my jacket pocket. "Then I think these are for you."

He glanced them over. "Hoo boy. I think you're right. Come with me." He stood and led me downstairs.

"Um, where are we going exactly?"

"Someplace you'll be interested in."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Means I don't want to spoil the surprise. Just hold on."

He really was a serial killer. I freaking knew it.

We reached the almost completely unfurnished living room and Gil walked to the left wall. He leaned against it and a section in the corner swung inward. "After you," he said.

I approached and poked my head in. A steep concrete stairway descended some twenty feet and ended by a dark green steel door with chipped paint. On the door, a metal sign declaring it to be a FALLOUT SHELTER. Ah. This must be his murder room.

The door opened and Roger emerged, this time dressed and carrying a small sheaf of papers. He saw me and stopped. "Okay.... Hey, Gil! You up there?"

"Yep." He stepped through the opening and headed down. "No need for the paperwork with him. He's going to be an Organization project."

Roger nodded. "Gotcha. You may as well come on down, man."

I followed Gil. At least this way I knew he wasn't going to kill me from behind with an axe. It's always better when you see those kinds of things coming. We emerged into a late Fifties era, family-style bunker. That had been converted to an amateur Bat Cave.

Moldering floral print wallpaper peeled from the walls exposing dark gray concrete. A rolltop desk sat in one corner, a huge flatscreen monitor on its surface. A small chemistry set – test tubes, beakers, Bunsen burners, the works – bubbled and steamed in the opposite corner. Green, rough-textured armchairs flanked an end table and faced a matching couch. A small kitchenette occupied the countertop next to a walk-in pantry. A double row of cots was bolted to the walls behind a curtain at the far end.

"Isaiah," Gil said, taking a seat in one of the chairs, "I have a question for you."

"I may have an answer." I stood by the door, ready to bolt if things got weird.

"How do you feel about our current legal system?"

"At the moment, a little pissed."

"Why?"

"You know why. Some crazy bastard is threatening to kill me and all they do is stick their thumbs up their butts and tell me they can't do anything about it."

"How about objectively? Do you think the system works?"

"I don't even know. You hear about all these people who get away with stuff for one reason or another, even though they're pretty obviously guilty. I guess not, then, but it's what we have."

He looked at Roger, sitting at the counter eating cereal, who shrugged. "Here's why I ask: For the past couple of years, I have been involved in building an Organization, a group of like-minded individuals who are willing to go... outside the law in order to protect others. To be honest, it's been difficult. You're not the first I've approached. Roger is the only person to have joined out of the dozen or so I've asked.

"We're vigilantes, yes, but you yourself just identified that there is a problem with the way things are going. If you wanted, you could help change that."

I chuckled and shook my head. "You are out of your mind. You honestly think you're doing good? How could more crime - because that's what this is - help stop crime?"

"We offer justice to those who have been treated unjustly."

"What, you chop off shoplifters' hands because their sentences are too light?"

"Were you abused as a child?"

"Holy frak, what?"

"Were you abused as a child? Did you see your mother beaten?"

"No! God!"

"What about your friends? How many of them were beaten by their fathers, or their stepfathers, or their moms' boyfriends, or their mothers even?"

"I..." I didn't know. "Maybe a couple, I guess. Now that I think about it."

"Do you suppose it was ever reported?"

"Probably. What kind of person would let some shithead get away with beating a kid?"

"A person who's scared. A person who thinks it's normal. Thousands and thousands of cases of child abuse are reported every year - but just as many, or more, are not. We help those children and women who are hurt and don't have any hope of that ever changing. That's kind of our specialty, anyway."

"So where does the rock-thrower figure into all this?"

Roger chimed in from his cereal bowl. "That's Gemsen, right?"

Gil nodded. "Gordy Gemsen was one of the first targets the Organization went after. Bank teller by day, small-time stalker and peeping tom by night. He would write his victims notes and deliver them via flying rock."

"Boring stuff, really," Roger said. "Very specific and realistic threats, like 'I'm going to videotape you showering,' or 'Better check the brakes on your car.' Nothing fun like, 'I want to lick your sweat when you sleep.'"

"We caught him in an alley between two small apartments in Midway, trying to watch some kids necking. I disabled him and got the police down there. He got sent to prison for a while. Guess he's out."

"No crap he's out," I said. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"We'll start by trying to get his attention away from you."

"That would be nice."

"After that," he shrugged, "we'll see where it goes."

"Sounds great."

Gil looked at me. "You're welcome to help."

"Nah. This is your problem now. I'm tired and pissed off, so I'm going to go home and sleep for a couple hours since my idiot boss won't let me take a sick day. Let me know how it turns out though."
Gil sighed. "Okay. I will. Just think about my offer, alright? Sleep on it."

I left without replying.

* * *

“Sir, I’m sorry, but the warranty is very clear.” I sat at my station listening to a man somewhere on the East Coast swear at me for not giving him a free replacement for the color printer he destroyed. “Any unauthorized repairs void the warranty. Your attempt to repair it with a flathead screwdriver was unauthorized. Therefore, the damage is not covered by your warranty.

“Sir, I’m not even sure what that word means.

“Thank you for clarifying. Would you like to speak to my manager?”

I transferred the call, sighed.

“Another one of those?” Victoria Westman, the only decent human being in the call center, asked.

“He called me a welshy gobshite.”

She laughed, and said, “Guess what my count is at today.”

“Three.”

“Twelve!”

“Oh, wow. You must be especially bitchy today.”

Victoria kept a running tally of how many times she was called a certain vulgar word every day.

“I know, right? You might end up owing me a drink tonight,” she said smiling. The agreement was that if she ever hit fifteen in a day, she would have her self-esteem lowered enough to let me buy her a drink. We joked about it, but damn if I wasn’t hoping.

See, she wasn’t just a decent human being, she was a decent-looking one too. And she laughed at my jokes. No member of the feminine species had so caught my fancy in the months I’d been away from Jess.

“All but one came from one call. Sounded like a middle-aged woman. I told her that word lost its effectiveness after ten uses. Yelled it one last time and hung up.”

“Yeah, I appreciate the more creative insults. Mister Gobshite just made my day that much brighter.”

Her call light lit up. “Wish me luck,” she said. She winked and answered.

I glanced around at the posters and reminders hung on the pillars and walls of the call center. “TEAMWORK!” said one. “POSITIVITY – Is a State of Mind,” proclaimed another. All sorts of flowers and sunsets and windsurfers dotted the area.

I went for a cup of coffee.

When I got back, I heard Victoria say, “Thank you, sir. And have a good day.” She hung up, looked at me. “You owe me a drink.”

At six, we left and walked to the bar and grill a couple blocks from our little corner of the office park. We sat and ordered our meals.

"Wouldn't have pegged you for a wino," I said as she sipped.

"What were you expecting? Tequila shots? Jagerbombs?"

"I don't know, I just wasn't expecting you to order a Sauvignon Blanc." I made sure to pronounce all of the consonants.

"A Napa Valley Sauvignon Blanc, vintage 2008. Get it right."

"My apologies to your fancy wine."

"I spent a semester out there. In 2008."

"Ah, I see. That why you picked this place? Because they carry your special hooch?"

"Of course."

"What, did you look up area restaurants that serve this particular stuff?"

She blushed.

"No way. Okay, you have too much time on your hands."

"Hey, this is some very good wine, especially for the price. I actually did some work at this vineyard."

"Doing what?"

"I stomped grapes."

"Wait, so your feet touched what you're drinking?"

She raised one eyebrow.

"Ooh-la-la."

She tittered. Then snorted.

"Oh, a snorter too? Where do I sign up?"

This brought on a belly laugh, and several looks from the other customers.

The rest of the evening went very well. I had her laughing all night. The wine was probably part of it, but lonely beggars can't be choosers. I would've chosen her anyway. We left, she thanked me for a delightful (her word!) evening. She raised an arm for a half-hug. I deftly intercepted it and killed the moment with an awkward handshake. Dammit. We parted ways. I took the bus back to my apartment. Didn't once think about the rock-throwing perv - I was too busy floating and kicking myself.

I walked up the stairs, opened my door. It clunked against something. Another. Freaking. Rock. This one through the postage-stamp-sized window over the kitchen sink. Cripes, how many tries had that taken? This note read:
Guess what I have? I'll give you a hint: It's brunette, cute, and just at a plateful of fettuccini. Here's your where and when. 1:00 in the alley we first met in. Be there, or she gets what's coming to you.

* * *

People talk about Minnesota Nice. That's the quality possessed by most Midwesterners (but Minnesotans in particular) to shrug off the difficulties of life and focus on the positive. It lets us show our families and friends and neighbors kindness when we don't necessarily feel very kind at the moment. Even the people who have hurt us in some way (be it breaking my nose with a rock thrown through a library window or calling my Vikings a pathetic lot who'll never win a Super Bowl) we can forgive.

So when my vision tunneled and my fists trembled, my teeth clenched and my breathing slowed, I recognized that this was a strange new thing. A simultaneous feeling of impotence and raw physical power. Rage. Fury. Wrath.

I had nearly beat Gil's door down by the time he answered. "Easy! What the hell?"

"Son of a bitch took Victoria." I twirled my baseball bat and shoved the note in his face. "Fix this."

He paled as he read it. "Okay. Come on."

I followed him into his bunker. "Hey asshole, she's not down here!"

"Shut up, Isaiah! You are not helping."

Roger emerged bleary-eyed from the sleeping area. "Emergency?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Here, link up." He pulled out a couple small earpieces and handed them to Gil and I.

"What's this?"

"Mini walkie. Mostly just so I can relay info, but if you press this here," he indicated a small button on the tiny device, "you'll transmit."

"Come on, you'll figure it out on the way," Gil said. "We gotta go."

Roger fished a Red Bull out of the fridge, went to the desk and sat. "Okay guys. Get movin. I'll keep you posted."

Gil and I hustled up the stairs, outside, and into his car, probably the only vehicle in the area with more miles and rust holes than mine. He got us within a block of the alley and parked. The street was empty. It was just after midnight, and only a few of the windows on that block had lights on. We staked the area from behind Gil's car.

“I’ll go in on the south side,” said Gil, “the rear of the buildings. You sneak up and wait behind that tree on the north. All you need to do is cover me. I’ll take care of Gemsen.”

“Hey guys,” Roger broke in. “I just picked up a call on the scanner. Break-in at an address two blocks west of you. Domestic, by the sound of it.”

Gil’s eyes darkened. “More info.”

“Yup, gettin there. Okay, baby-daddy has a restraining order on him, three kids, all under six, mom’s living with sister. Ohh, Gil, guy’s got a weapon.”

“Gun?”

“Knife. Squad car is ten minutes out.”

“You’re on your own, Isaiah.” Gil sprinted down the street as Roger gave him the address.

Super. The last time I was in a fight, I punched Davey Buckmeister in the head so hard that he dropped to the ground. We were in third grade, and he never picked on me again. All my hand-to-hand experience in the intervening years came from mashing buttons on an Xbox controller. Unless Gordy Gemsen wanted to thumb wrestle, I was in trouble.

But dammit, if something happened to Victoria….

I put on a swagger that I really didn’t feel. I scowled and bared my teeth. I held my bat with both hands to keep them from shaking.

"Hey dickweed," I called softly into the alley. I stood with my back to the building, just around the corner.
"Anderson," a voice answered.

"Yup," I said, stepping around the corner, bat in front of my like a lightsabre, "and I'm gonna kick your ass."
… Is what I planned to say.

"Yup, and I'm - wuhhhh…."

Gil didn’t mention that Gordy Gemsen was a freaking giant. Six-six, three hundred pounds, looked like a refrigerator with a wig on top. He grinned and took a step toward me. In a fair fight, he would break me in two. Even with the bat, my odds would’ve been better against a bear. Luckily, his arms were up and his crotch was perfectly in my strike zone.

Can’t say I hit a home run, but it was at least a double. He bellowed, grabbed himself, and bent at the waist. I smashed him in the back, right between the shoulder blades. He snarled and fell to the ground.

"Where is she?" I hit him in the ribs before he could answer. "Huh? What’d you do with her?"

He tried to get up, but that earned him another blow, this time on his lower back.

Lights started coming on in the buildings.

"Last chance, asshole!"

"Pickup," he gasped. "Behind."

I didn’t bother to do anything more to him. I darted down the alley to the small parking lot behind the apartments. There, as promised, was a pickup with one Victoria Westman, bound and gagged, in the bed under a blue tarp. She screamed and struggled against the duct tape when I pulled the tarp aside.

"It’s me! It’s me! Hey, you’re okay!"

She stared at me a second, nodded.

"I’m gonna cut this tape, okay?" I dropped the bat and pulled out a small knife I always carry for just such an occasion. I glanced over to the alley. Gordy was staggering to his feet. "Oh balls." I somehow managed to cut the tape off her without slicing her open anywhere. "Can you run? We gotta run!"

Victoria nodded. "Yeah. Yeah."

I grabbed her hand and ran back toward Gil's car. Just then Gil rounded the corner, pell-mell and looking scared. "Come on come on come on!" A very tall, very angry man with a largish knife followed a half block back. I made it to the car first, screamed hallelujah that the keys were in the ignition. Gil caromed into the backseat. "Haul ass!"

Knife guy gave up chase a few blocks later. "Wooo!" Gil yelled. "You son of a bitch! Yeah!" He clapped my shoulder. "Hot damn, Isaiah!" He laughed a laugh entirely inappropriate for the situation.

* * *

We dropped Victoria off at a friend's place and got back to Gil's headquarters at 2:30. Between the exhaustion and the adrenaline, my body didn't know what the hell to do, so it just sort of trembled. I got down the stairs without collapsing, then collapsed on the shabby couch. Gil fetched a couple Cokes then threw himself into the chair opposite.

"That took some big time balls, man."

I shot him a look. "Balls nothing. You ditched me."

"I didn't think you were going to charge in alone. I was planning on coming back to help you."

"'You're on your own'? Not exactly a 'I'll back you up, just wait a sec.'"

Roger shrugged at Gil. "True."

"Either way," Gil said. "I'm impressed. Cheers."

"I am friggin exhausted."

"Yeah, you would be. Man, I have martial arts experience and I still had a hard time going up against Gemsen. You must've been powered by pure orneriness."

I chuckled a little.

"So, have you given any further thought to the offer?"

"My God, you're still on that?"

"After tonight, hell yes."

"Is it always this terrifying?"

"Sometimes. But knowing you're defending someone who can't defend themselves... no feeling in the world."

"And these dirtbags are a common freaking occurrence?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

I nodded, thought for a long moment.

"Okay. I'm in."

* * *

Forrest Roy Johnson is a Minnesotan exiled in Iowa. He makes a living as a counselor, but prefers to spend his time writing.