The Ten

February 13, 2009.

The Middlebrook Ghost sat at one end of a large glass table in what looked to be some sort of conference room. Each seat at the table was occupied by a different person, and each figure was clad in a black hooded robe. His was the only visible face, but that hardly mattered, as significant alterations had been performed earlier; a dirty blonde wig, which fell just below the tops of the ears, a fairly bushy, light brown mustache, tinted glasses, and a prosthetic nose, one significantly larger than the actual nose that lay beneath. He sat at one head of the table, and, despite the circumstances, was completely at ease. After all, The Ghost was the guest of honor tonight, and it was the first time anyone had ever seen him under that identity.

The man at the table’s opposite head stood and extended a hand in The Ghost’s direction. “Fellow constituents, tonight we have been graced by the presence of our inspiration. I must admit that I have, from time to time, lost faith that this day would come. Approximately eighteen months ago, I had a dream of this organization that we now call The Ten. An organization that has allowed those of us with superior vision to come together and support each other in our collective endeavor. In those eighteen months, I have been joined by eight people of like mind and skill, but one place has always been intentionally held vacant.” Again, he lifted his hand toward The Ghost. “That place has been reserved for you, because without your work, none of us would be here.”

“I’m flattered,” The Ghost replied, “but my last victim was more than three years ago. I cannot fathom a scenario in which I would be in any way helpful to you.”

The man chuckled. “You are far too humble, my extremely-accomplished friend.” He looked around to his associates, four on either side of the table. “Everyone in the entire state is well-versed on the exploits of the famed Middlebrook Ghost. Well, I daresay you are the most successful assassin to ever walk these grounds. Nine kills, and not one trace of evidence left for anyone? If we cannot learn to more effectively hone our craft from you, I shudder to think that there is anyone who can further our cause.”

“I’m retired,” The Ghost uttered, unpretentiously.

“I understand that,” the man replied, “but we simply have to have you. We’re nothing more than a horror story right now that people whisper in back alleyways. Should you join our ranks, you will give us immediate credibility.”

“And why would you want credibility, or, for that matter, publicity of any kind?” The Ghost asked. “It would seem to me that your hobbies would be better served by flying under the radar.”

“We’re a bit more organized and driven than you may realize,” the man replied with a laugh. “Truth be told, I think we represent the silent majority; that faction of people that is unhappy with the way things are, but is too scared of losing what little they have to do anything about it. We’re not scared, at least not anymore.” He looked around at the others around the table. “Each member here has initiated him or herself with the slaying of at least two undesirables.” He eyed the largest person in the room. “Some as many as seven, isn’t that right, Babylon?” He answered a curious glance from The Ghost. “We each have a nickname, one that pertains to our victims. Babylon Descending over there has killed seven different whores, helping to alleviate the pressure of that particular sin on the streets.”

“I see,” The Ghost replied, without emotion.

“In short, it is our goal that our actions will incite this entire community to stand up to the garbage that now pollutes the very air that we all share. In short, my new friend, we’re talking about a revolution.”

The Ghost chuckled. “Well, you’re certainly motivated. That much is evident.”

The man clapped his hands together, suddenly energized. “And that’s where you come in. Once it has become common knowledge that The Middlebrook Ghost has joined our ranks, we attain the publicity that has long-eluded us, and, moreover, we shall finally be taken seriously. We’ll be discussed out in the open, with no more whispering.”

“And you somehow consider me to be the key?”

“You are the key, without question. And it’s not what you think. You may stay retired, if that is what you wish.” He shrugged, amiably. “You can be a consultant, or simply a figurehead, whatever you desire. Simply put, we need a legitimate reputation like yours, and once everyone sees that you’re on board with us, then the group as an entity becomes ten times more formidable.” He placed his palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “Now, before I ask you for a decision, let me explain a little more about The Ten. Make no mistake, we are an organization, and we do have guidelines. Targets are researched, and we vote before giving the go-ahead for a kill. You must have a majority vote to proceed.”

This is absolutely perfect! The Ghost thought to himself. Not only are they extraordinarily delusional, but they’ve just given me the perfect ammunition, and they don’t even know it. “Say no more. I’m in, on two conditions.”

“Anything,” the man said, sounding a bit too overzealous.

“First, we must discuss my fee,” The Ghost said.

The man’s eyebrows went up curiously. “Your fee?”

“Well, surely you would not expect me to associate myself with your group without compensation. After all, you need me. I do not need you.”

“What did you have in mind?”

The Ghost pressed his fingers together. “Well, you say that I will further your cause, tenfold, no? There are nine of you, and so I think that coming up with twenty thousand a month is not too much to ask.”

The man looked around the table at his hooded partners. “Anyone that is not capable of coming up with two thousand dollars a month for our friend, please raise a hand.” He looked around, and, noticing that not one hand was raised, continued. “Very well. Everyone will contribute two thousand, and I shall add four, making it an even twenty thousand for you. It will be money well-spent. Hopefully, this will give you some idea of our seriousness in our desire to acquire both you and your talents.”

The Ghost smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth. “I now have an inkling, yes.”

“And what of your second condition?”

The Ghost rose from the table. “If we are to work together, I will not abide secrecy to any degree. Now, you can see my face, but I cannot see any of yours. So, before we disband—or continue—how about we all reveal ourselves?”

“A demonstration of trust, absolutely!” the man said, pulling back his own hood, and revealing a pudgy, pink face, not exactly framed by his wire-rimmed glasses. “You will, of course, forgive our hidden identities to this point. If you had decided against joining us, we could not have had you knowing our faces. I’ll start with myself. My name is Paul Gates, and I, like you, am from Middlebrook, Pennsylvania. My nickname is The C.E.O., which is, I suppose, meant to be ironic, because we do vote collectively on almost everything. Though I started this little group of ours quite a while ago, I’ve personally only taken two lives. However, I trust you’ll be pleased to learn that one of them—my first, in point of fact—was one Timothy G. Allenby.”

“I assume you are referring to the former owner of the Middlebrook Foundry?”

Gates nodded confidently. “You assume correctly. You see, I believe in quality over quantity.” He snickered and looked around at his associates. “Of course, not everyone here shares that particular tenet, and that’s perfectly acceptable, so long as the vote goes their way when they present to the group.”

“A fine display of trust, Mr. Gates,” The Ghost replied. “I thank you.”

“And all shall make the same display presently,” The C.E.O. announced with a wide grin. “Although, I would like to make it clear that we normally address each other by the nicknames that we have adopted.”

The Ghost nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Outstanding.” The C.E.O. raised his right arm, gesturing to the figure next to him. “How about we start with you.”

The individual removed the hood to reveal a striking woman with long jet black hair and equally dark eyes. “My name is Tanya Sanchez, but around here, I’m known as The Smithtown Butcher.” She giggled. “An appropriate moniker, actually, because that is what I do for a living. Nobody would ever think that The Smithtown Butcher would, in reality, be a butcher by trade, nor would they ever suspect a woman. Thank goodness, The C.E.O. believes in equal opportunity.” The laughter in the room quickly stifled, as her face went nearly dead in front of everyone. “I have five kills; all piggish men that have somehow, some way, abused women to some degree. One reason I chose the name is that I like to use knives, but not those of surgical quality. You see, I want it to hurt. I want them to feel the pain that they have caused the so-called weaker sex.”

“Babylon?” The C.E.O. said.

The next hooded figure—the only one pointed out previously in the meeting—revealed himself. Though his cloak was large, it was easy to tell that this man was well in excess of three hundred pounds. His dark chocolate face was coated with a thick but close beard, and his head was razor-shaven bald. “My name is Lincoln Morris, but I am known to The Ten as Babylon Descending. It is, I feel, my duty to rid my hometown of Bartsville—as well as surrounding areas—of the disease of prostitution. It is a wickedness that must be eradicated. I have seven kills, all by means of strangulation.” He held up two bear claw hands and smiled sickly. “After all, when you’ve got these, who needs weapons.” The others joined him in a low volume, wallowing laugh.

The next figure received her cue and removed her hood. She had a nearly porcelain complexion, enhanced by her flowing mane of fiery red hair. “Susan Sweeney. Twenty-nine years old, from Weston, PA. I am known as The Poison Flower, and I strictly target rapists. They are well-researched, and, when I’m through, well disposed of.” She let out a toothy grin. “A man who has to rape women does not deserve to exist, and that is the cause to which I’ve dedicated myself.” She cleared her throat. “Four kills, and uh, with my alias, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you my preferred method.” Again, the room gave a low, collective laugh.

One by one, the members of The Ten showed their faces and furnished The Ghost with brief personal accounts and profiles.

“Terrance Black,” the next man said. He appeared to be in his early thirties with dark hair, neatly combed to the rear. He was tall and thin, and resembled a young businessman of some kind. “I’m from Packard, Pennsylvania, and I’m known as The Black Cloud.” His mouth turned up on one side. “If you are garbage trailer trash, and you happen to live near me, good luck. They represent the lowest common denominator, in my opinion, and they are a race of people that has no place or purpose on Earth. They are, in essence, useless eaters, and must be culled. I also have four kills, and I cannot wait to get going on number five. Method of murder? Well, that’s the tricky part. I like to try to incapacitate my victims with either a needle, chloroform, or a stun gun, but ultimately, I want them to suffocate with a white trash bag around their head.” He laughed sinisterly. “It’s kind of my signature, if you will.”

Two thoughts occurred to The Ghost with increasing frequency as the members of the group continued to reveal themselves. The first was that they all seemed to be fairly intelligent—he was already able to discern that through their manner of speech. The second thought was that each person was, unequivocally, off his or her particular rocker; each truly immersed in the deluded justice of his or her particular endeavor.

The next man spoke. He was the shortest person in the room, and when he pulled back his hood, it did not take long for The Ghost to ascertain—before even hearing the man’s name—that he was Italian. “Tony Morolla, from Pennswood. I’m thirty-nine, and I fucking hate niggers.” He quickly put up an apologetic hand toward Morris. “You know what I mean, Babylon. I got nothin’ against good, honest, self-respecting blacks, just the same as The Black Cloud has nothing against good, honest, self-respecting whites. But this ghetto trash? It needs taking out, and that’s where I come in. I’m known in our little circle here as The Super, because it’s my job to manage the projects. Drug dealers, gang bangers, pimps, what have you. It ain’t hard to find a scumbag in the ghetto. Five kills, and each time, a twenty-two to the side of the head. Two shots each, just in case the first one doesn’t do the job.” He laughed jovially. “After all, these people sponge enough off the government without having to keep one on life support.”

The next man removed his hood. He appeared to The Ghost to be of Middle Eastern decent. “My name is Peter Molinari. I am the youngest member of our group at twenty-three, and I make my home in Feronia, Pennsylvania. I have chosen the name, The Reckoning, and my specialty is Catholic Priests who have made the conscious choice to spit on their vows in the most disgusting of ways, by violating children.” He spoke with no trace of an accent, save that of local flavor. “I was adopted by an Italian family and raised Catholic, if you are wondering. Now, it is my job to help to purify the religion by executing those who have besmirched it. I only have two kills, but my targets are very specific, and so are my methods.” He laughed a bit. “Advanced circumcision.” He whipped out a shiny razor and flipped it open. “You see, I take the offending appendage, and I remove it from the offender. Then, I slowly cut him all over his body, until he bleeds out over a very long period of time.” Again, he laughed. “I suppose one would consider that a form of torture.”

Only two hooded figures remained. The Ghost felt dizzy from all of the information presented, and nauseas from listening to the deranged tales of these delusionary, self-righteous people, several of whom seemed to kill people that they simply did not like. With each new introduction, the others looked at him intently, searching for some kind of reaction. He occasionally smiled in a barely perceptible manner, or nodded thoughtfully, but otherwise, offered very little.

The next man pulled back his hood. He was a strikingly handsome young man with high, sharp cheekbones, and longish dirty blonde hair, offsetting deep blue eyes. “My name is Brian Froelich, and I’m from Silversburg, PA. I am twenty-six years-old, and my specialty is putting drug addicts out of their misery.” He looked directly into The Ghost’s eyes. “You know the easiest way to get away with killing a bunch of people? Kill junkies.” The room rippled with laughter. “Most of the time, they’ll think it’s an overdose. On the off chance that they don’t think so, they usually don’t care enough to conduct a proper investigation. I have six kills, and I use only one weapon; whatever drug the person is using. Essentially, I want to give them a taste of their own medicine. A junkie has no place in society, and only serves as a sponge of money, resources, and human decency. I have a simple, one word handle; Rehab. Difference is, unlike actual rehab, I’m successful.”

Finally, the last hooded figure brought back his head covering. The first eight people seemed to The Ghost to at least partially fit the profile, even if he had been somewhat surprised that two had been women, and one, a black man—serial killers nearly always being white males. This young man, however, could not have looked less the part. He had relatively close cut, wavy red hair and a face strewn with an ocean of freckles. He looked like Howdy Doody, but he spoke softly, and with measured intent. “Kyle Pastor. Thirty-four years-old. Gurney, Pennsylvania. I have no target group; I simply choose those that do not deserve the lives they’ve been given. I have three kills in my career thus far. Jason Alvarez was my first.”

“The human trafficking guy?” The Ghost asked, his eyebrows raised.

“The same,” Kyle replied.

The Ghost nodded. “That was some scary work.” Alvarez had a very illegal, very immoral business of importing women from Eastern Europe for prostitution. He was found crucified upside down, disemboweled, and burned to a crisp. Even the coroner could not pinpoint which act had actually killed the man.

“It was a bit sloppy, I’ll admit,” Kyle said, sensing what he thought was an impressed look from The Ghost, and, thus, trying to remain humble. “But, as I said, it was my first. Since Alvarez, I have two kills. The first was a football coach that molested the kids on his team.”

The C.E.O. spoke up. “Our young protege here mutilated that man’s body beyond recognition. Curiously, only his genitals remained intact.” His belly began to rise and fall with his increasing laughter. “You want to tell him why?”

Pastor nodded. “I wanted them to arrive in hell in perfect condition.”

The Ghost could not help his eyes from widening. He found the others to be disturbing, but this young man seemed to him to be a truly frightening individual. While it was true that he, himself, had once taken out a very similar character, The Middlebrook Ghost had never tortured any of his victims. He cleared his throat slightly. “The third?”

Kyle Pastor grinned widely. “Senator Reeves.”

A chill made its way up The Ghost’s spine. He knew the story. Senator Karl Reeves, the young, dynamic Pennsylvania Junior Senator had been elected only three years prior. Though his political reputation was that of a serious progressive, he had been implicated in a drunken hit and run charge. In truth, he had jumped a curb and struck a nine year-old boy on a bicycle in the early evening the previous summer. The effects of his prodigious happy hour intake were unmistakable, and he knew it. Without so much as a gaze in his rearview mirror, Senator Karl Reeves continued to speed into the sunset. Two different witnesses had seen him do it, and each had written down his license plate number, but one had subsequently died under extremely mysterious circumstances, and the other was having a serious change of heart about testifying. On the eve of his trial, Karl Reeves’ body was found, half flattened from head to toe, obviously by some very heavy object or vehicle. Ironically, or perhaps fittingly, sitting atop his body was nothing more than a child’s bicycle.

The Ghost did his best to maintain a stony countenance. “So what do we call you?”

Howdy Doody looked back at The Ghost, and, even though he looked every bit an innocuous man, The Ghost saw a dead look in the man’s eyes. “I’m The Arbiter.”

The C.E.O. again took the floor. “So, now you know who we are. I hope the fact that we have entrusted you with our true identities is an indication of our level of commitment.”

“Without question,” The Ghost replied.

“One thing we have in our little group here is supreme trust, which is why we are the only ones who know who we are, and what we’ve done.” He paused, then pointed directly at The Ghost. “That includes family and friends, by the way.” The Ghost nodded, and The C.E.O. continued. “That trust is built through the exclusivity of the knowledge of true identities. I hope you do not consider it out of line if we ask for your name, as well. That way, we can all leave here tonight relaxed that we’ve done the right thing in revealing ourselves to you.”

“That is only fair,” The Ghost said. Everyone leaned in, eager to learn who this trailblazing pioneer of a death merchant was in real life. “You all know me as The Middlebrook Ghost. Nobody has ever known the killer in me by any other name. You have trusted me tonight, and I shall reciprocate. My name is Timothy Carruthers, I am forty-two years-old, and I am from Middlebrook, Pennsylvania. I have killed nine people. I’m at least fairly confident that I do not have to tell any of you who they are, as they have been widely-reported at this point. Like The Arbiter, I have never tried to limit myself to a single group of people, though I can certainly understand why many of you choose to specialize.” He smiled slightly as laughter arose from the room. “Like all of you, I have always believed my particular purging of humanity has been carefully thought out, and, moreover, contributes to ridding the world of despicable people.” This was only a partial truth, but they did not need to know this, at least not yet.

The C.E.O. spoke up. “And that is precisely why you have been such a shimmering inspiration for each and every one of us. It is also one of the key elements in play in our desire to have you as the final member of The Ten.”

“I am honored, and, at the same time, humbled by your invitation,” The Ghost replied, bowing slightly. “As my requests have been met without reservation, I accept without reservation.”

“Then without further ado,” The C.E.O. said, “I bring this inaugural meeting of The Ten to its conclusion.” When the applause died down, he tilted his head upward and exhaled with bluster. “Finally, we are complete!”

“No discussions or votes tonight?” The Smithtown Butcher asked, sounding disappointed.

“Nothing of the kind,” The C.E.O. replied, rising from the table. “Tonight’s meeting was a special one, with only one purpose. We’ll get together very soon for our next discussion.” He turned to The Ghost. “We each have a throwaway cell at our disposal, and each cell contains the numbers of the other members’ phones, so please keep this safe.” He produced a throwaway cellphone, and placed it into The Ghost’s palm. “Each meeting is in a different location, and at a different time, to avoid any trace of a pattern. We’re nothing if not careful.” He looked back toward the group. “So if there is nothing else, I shall see all of you at our next gathering. Until then, do your research, and stay vigilant.”

The group slowly disbanded with a few pleasantries. Each and every member made it a point to speak to The Ghost before leaving. Many did their best to take a mental picture of the man. Approximately six feet tall—perhaps a shade under—dirty blonde, tussled hair, a bit on the long side, large nose and a bushy mustache. The body type was difficult to tell, as The Ghost wore an oversized pea coat and baggy corduroy pants. After about fifteen minutes, only The Ghost, The Arbiter, and The C.E.O. remained. The Arbiter shook The Ghost’s hand firmly, but warmly. “Can’t tell you how truly humbling it is being in your presence.”

The Ghost smiled. “I’m sure it’s not as humbling as discovering that this organization exists, and desires my membership.”

The Arbiter peered into The Ghost’s eyes, almost as if seeking approval. “You know, every time I put another monster out of his misery, I wonder if you would be pleased with my work.”

“You’ve got a lot of imagination, young man,” The Ghost replied, “but please yourself, and don’t worry about what I would think.”

“I’ll remember that.” With that, The Arbiter turned and left.

The C.E.O. approached and took The Ghost’s hand. “You certainly make an impression.”

“Looks like I’ve got some work to do,” The Ghost replied.

“I told you, we require nothing but your presence.”

“That’s comforting, but if I’m going to do this, I’m jumping in with both feet. I’m not special here.”

“Oh, but you are,” The C.E.O. said, putting a fatherly arm around him and leading him out. “I think we’re all going to see exactly how special you are in the coming months. Our little group here is about to become the stuff of legend.”

The Ghost’s inner monologue came to life. Well, then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t give you my real name.