The Mockingbird Drive

by A. C. Fuller

  "It could happen. Could. But it usually doesn't. Remember the WMDs in Iraq? What happened when it turned out they weren't there, and the evidence had been fabricated, largely by the CIA, on orders from Cheney?"

  "Well the—"

  "Nothing. Nothing happened. Conservatives and hawks thought, 'Well, we needed to go to war, so it's okay to manufacture the evidence to get us there.' Liberals thought, 'Damn Cheney! I think I'll post about it on a message board, eat a salad, then go buy a Prius so I can feel superior as I suck the remaining juice out of the earth at a slightly slower rate than conservatives.' But do you know what most people thought?" She turned to pet Smedley, who was now resting his paws on the divider between the two front seats. She sounded resigned. "Nothing. They didn't even notice."

  We drove along in silence for a good ten minutes. I didn't mind her thoughts about me. Hell, I'd had half of them myself. But I didn't agree with her about anything else. To me, it wasn't as black and white as she was trying to make it. And I was starting to believe that there was a deeper reason behind her pessimism, one she didn't want to admit. Or one she wasn't even aware of. As much as Quinn's paranoia had been proven right over the last few days, she had no instinct to share the truth with others. The opposite was true: she wanted to keep it to herself.

  The same paranoid state of mind that had concluded that the CIA was after her—especially her—also assumed that she was the only person who could make the situation right. And my guess was that that's why she wanted to go to ARDS. She'd finally gotten a piece of real, verifiable information, and she wanted it to be hers, to horde it. In that moment, she reminded me of Gollum. But instead of an all-powerful ring, she had a binder, a hard drive, and a 31-minute audio clip.

  Finally, I said, "So, what's your plan? I still don't get what we would actually do at ARDS."

  "We have to finish this ourselves. We are only half a day away. When we get there, we'll be able to find out what's really going on, who's really after us. Then we connect the dots, send all the info somewhere safe, and disappear."

  There was no way I was going to disappear, but I didn't tell her that. And I was starting to get pissed. "But how will we find out what's really going on? Why in God's name would we go there?"

  "Where else would we go?"

  "What…I…anywhere."

  "Think about it," Quinn said, and, clearly, she had. "Allied Regional Data Security is the biggest data security firm in the west, outside of California. Tudayapi said over half of their contracts come from government or intelligence. They're a major player. It answers the question I've had since the minute Baxter was framed for the shooting."

  "What question?"

  "When Gunstott ordered that his past be scrubbed clean, how did the CIA know the drive hadn't been destroyed? How did this come to the surface now, of all possible times? If Tudayapi stole it years ago, why now?"

  I'd wondered that, too, but dismissed it as something I wasn't going to be able to figure out. But Quinn had a theory.

  "At first, I thought that maybe they'd been patrolling message boards or antique computer resale sites, looking for old CIA stuff. But they couldn't have found the drives by chance. There are hundreds floating around, and they'd have no reason to believe these particular ones were special. Tudayapi never posted photos, and the sticker would have been the only identifying mark. So somehow they found out that these particular drives hadn't been destroyed."

  I knew where she was going with this. "An audit?"

  "Exactly," Quinn said. "A huuuuge part of government and intelligence budgets goes for audits. Whole companies that just follow paper trails to make sure something that was supposed to happen actually happened. The way I see it, Gunstott somehow ordered his team to double and triple check every bit of his past. Track down the paper trail on everything he's ever done. Opposition research on himself, essentially."

  "And you think there was some record somewhere of an audit of old CIA data or data destruction, and they found a discrepancy?"

  "And that discrepancy was the two hard drives."

  "That makes no sense. If that was the case, they would have just gone straight to Tudayapi. Taken the drives, killed her, whatever."

  "But she no longer had them."

  "Right, but even if she'd sent them to Baxter, they still would have ended up at her house first. And they…"

  I trailed off, because I knew what Quinn was thinking. I knew what she was going to say. And I didn't want to have to listen to her say it. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  Well, not nothing, but not the well-reasoned objection to her faulty thinking I'd planned. "Oh no," I heard myself whisper. "Oh God, no!"

  Part 3

  Chapter 24

  They had visited Tudayapi.

  Before we got there.

  That was the only possible explanation, and Quinn had figured it out somewhere back in Idaho, through what I imagined was a bit of a hangover. She watched as my mind raced. Someone—the CIA or Gunstott's goons—had found out that the drives hadn't been destroyed. They'd traced the drives to Tudayapi's job for ARDS, then to her. They'd shown up at her door, but she'd already sold the drives. Rather than kill her, they'd used her to locate Baxter. They'd probably planned to kill her after killing Baxter, but once things got out of hand, once I got the drive and escaped, they'd figured out we were heading for her, and they'd used her again.

  It explained why we hadn't been followed out of Las Vegas. Or, it explained that we had been followed, but that Tudayapi had been reached before we got there. It explained why she'd been willing to help us. Whoever was following us used Tudayapi to try to find out what we knew.

  But the revelation raised more questions than it answered.

  Quinn saw the look on my face, and she read me right. "They were there. Before us. They got to Tudayapi."

  "I'm there," I said. "But, why? If they were willing to kill Baxter, to kill James and everyone else at the Gazette, why…"

  I trailed off. My mind was dancing around from theory to theory. I was bordering on panic. If they'd been to Tudayapi's before us, they could have bugged her house, even our room, our car.

  Quinn said, "For some reason, we're more valuable alive than dead."

  "How'd you figure it out?" I asked.

  "The loft."

  "Do I want to know what was up there?"

  "At this point it's too late anyway—"

  "Too late for what?"

  "Anything. I just mean, knowing or not knowing won't help you."

  "So?"

  "She has a Dark Web data center. She stores data for criminals. Knowing what I know of her, it's probably Chinese gangsters, hackers, or Bitcoin miners."

  "So?"

  "My guess is that she got flipped. Whoever is after us got to her first and let her stay in business as long as she helped them. Helped them with us and, probably, agreed to help them with others. Someone like her is valuable."

  "So, back to the original question. Why in God's name would we go to ARDS now?"

  "They're messing with us, Alex. And it's the only way to take back the power."

  ARDS was about twenty miles northeast of Eugene, Oregon, and we had two possible routes.

  I argued that we should take Interstate 84 northwest, then cut south on Interstate 5. We'd probably have more consistent cellphone reception that way, which would be good if we needed to use Quinn's laptop. Plus, we'd be around more people.

  But Quinn wanted to take the more-direct route through Central Oregon. Small highways. Small towns. But slower speed limits and more isolation.

  Our disagreement made me think of my fights with Greta. In my mind, when deciding on a driving route, you start with time. What's the quickest route? All other considerations are secondary. But Greta lives her life like a work of art, and timing would be one of the last things she'd consider. Greta might base an entire route on a single factor that appeared dubious to me. I could see her next to me, in Quinn's spot, staring at the map. "Ooo
ohhh, if we take State Highway 73, we can go through a town called Lavender. I wonder if they have lavender fields there? Let me check." She'd Google it while I grabbed the map, only to find that State Highway 73 was a hundred miles out of the way. It might sound like I'm complaining, but it's one of the things I love most about her.

  Quinn was closer to Greta on the spectrum, but she didn't treat life like a work of art. I was beginning to think that she treated her life—or at least these last few days—like a movie she was starring in. Sure, interstates are efficient. That's what they're there for. But they are boring. Small highways, small towns, a huge forest that we'd be passing through at dusk: these were things that Quinn could get behind. If she was going to get nabbed by the CIA, it should be at a lonely gas station bordering a small artichoke farm in rural Oregon, not at a sprawling rest stop on Interstate 84 surrounded by SUVs and moms and dads and kids.

  I thought it would be better to be surrounded by people. If we were being followed, we'd be safer around people. But Quinn argued that, if we were on smaller roads, it would be easier to tell if we were being followed.

  "Why do we need to know if we're being followed? Why is that the deciding factor? Don't we just want to get to ARDS and find out what's going on?"

  But I knew the answer before the words came out of my mouth. To Quinn, finding out was the goal. Proof she was being followed was what she wanted.

  She said, "We need to know exactly who we're dealing with."

  And that's when it hit me. Quinn didn't think we were going to make it out of this. She viewed the whole world as a web of powers outside of her control. Credit scores. Big tech companies. ARDS. The CIA. You don't beat those powers. And if you're not going to make it out alive, the best you can hope for is to be proven right.

  "Quinn, do you think you'll be alive in a week?"

  She shrugged, like it didn't even matter, and I knew I was right. I also knew I'd give her what she wanted. We took her route.

  Highway 20 passed through a dozen tiny towns like Burns, Riley, and Brothers, then cut through the Willamette National Forest and its nearly two-million acres of mountains, canyons, winding streams, and endless evergreens. We'd filled up the tank before entering the forest, and stopped around nine to catch a few hours of sleep at a turnout.

  We figured that ARDS would open early, and we planned to be there first thing.

  I woke up around 4 am with the first light, and got out of the car to pee and take Smedley for a walk. The air was wet and rich with the smell of cedar, which reminded me of my hometown, Bainbridge Island.

  When we got back on the road, I drove and tried to talk to Quinn about a plan for our arrival. But she was quiet. A couple times I even tried to make small talk, but she just ignored me. For a while I thought she was sleeping, but each time I tried to talk to her she kind of flinched and almost looked at me. It was an active kind of ignoring.

  We exited the forest just as dawn broke, a faint yellow-pink light sneaking through the trees. And we were only twenty miles from ARDS. The wireless signal on Quinn's laptop was working again and she decided to look up ARDS online so we'd know what we were looking for.

  And that's when Quinn freaked out.

  We were coming out of a deep valley at the edge of the forest when she started shaking. The laptop was on her lap, but I couldn't see the screen. Her arms were wrapped around her, like she was hugging herself, and her shoulders were shaking in what looked like an involuntary twitch.

  "Quinn, what's wrong."

  Nothing.

  The shaking slowed and eventually stopped. I went back to watching the road. "Look," I said, pointing at a road sign. "Ten miles to Coburg. Let's talk about how we're going to approach this. I think you should do the…"

  The shaking was back, but worse this time, and she'd closed the laptop. I kept one eye on the road while watching her out of the other. Her eyes were closed and she was shaking, subtly but steadily, her whole body moving in little ripples from her legs all the way to her head.

  "Quinn?"

  Nothing.

  "Quinn?"

  Smedley was sitting up in the back seat, staring at her. He had that concerned look that dogs sometimes get when their owners are in distress.

  I just kept driving, saying "Quinn" every minute or so to make sure she knew I was there. Her shakes didn't seem to be getting worse, so I just kept going. I wondered whether she'd read something about ARDS that had scared her, but I doubted she could have found anything especially interesting in the couple minutes she'd been online.

  I saw ARDS from a few hundred yards away. It was located about a hundred feet off the highway, up on a hill. It was a low, hulking series of rectangular buildings surrounded by a surprisingly high fence, and, as we got closer, Quinn's shaking increased to the point that I was genuinely worried. I pulled into a little turnout, from which we could see ARDS above us and to the right. Building after building, more than I could see, all flat-roofed and grey, some surrounded by small fences within a larger perimeter fence. The outside fence was dotted with tall lights every ten yards and, as I watched them, they turned off as the sky lightened.

  An entry gate sat about fifty yards out from the main fence and, for the first time, I realized that they probably weren't going to let us in.

  "Quinn. I don't know what's happening. But I'm about to call an ambulance. I—"

  "I'm not going in," she said.

  "Well, judging by that gate, neither of us is going in."

  I was trying to be funny, but it didn't land the way I thought it would. She turned and met my eyes. Her whole face looked hollow, terrified, like she'd just witnessed a crime.

  "Quinn, what happened?"

  "It looks just like the picture I found online. It reminds me of…where I used to stay."

  "Where?"

  "Seven Homes Rehabilitation Center. It's a psychiatric hospital in Texas. I spent time there years ago. The fence, the buildings. It looked just like this. The psychiatric state, the prison system, the military industrial complex, they must have the same architects."

  She hadn't mentioned spending time in a psychiatric hospital, but it didn't surprise me. The shaking had steadied into a slow rocking, and it was clear she was in some sort of shock. I reached back and gave Smedley a little tap on the side. He took the hint and climbed into Quinn's lap, though he was big enough that his tail landed on my arm.

  Quinn wrapped her arms around him. "You have to go in, Alex. I can't."

  "They're not going to let us in anyway."

  "They might."

  "They won't."

  "Try."

  I looked at the entry gate, where it seemed like a shift change was underway. Two men had parked a golf cart at the gate, and two others were stepping out of the structure behind the gate. They seemed to chat for a minute before the two who had been on the cart stepped into the structure and the two who'd been in the structure drove down the road toward the complex of buildings.

  Quinn reclined the seat all the way, closed her eyes, and lay back. Smedley took the opportunity to start licking her face, and the absurdity of the situation struck me all at once.

  I knew what I had to do.

  Chapter 25

  Saturday, June 17, 2017

  I drove Quinn to a friendly-looking coffee shop in town. She took her bag and said she'd tie Smedley up on the post out front, grab a coffee and a scone, and read through the binder. She had settled down as I drove away from ARDS, and assured me she'd be fine for an hour or so. Plus, the coffee shop had a big water bowl for dogs right outside, next to a couple metal tables on the sidewalk.

  I promised to be careful, and drove back to the security gate alone.

  As I slowed the car, a middle-aged guy with short black hair leaned out of the structure, which looked like a toll booth. His green uniform seemed too big for his thin frame. Before I could launch into the speech I'd planned, he said, "ID, please." He didn't even look up.

  "N-n-no," I sputtered. "I don't wo
rk here or anything. I'm—"

  "ID, please!"

  It wasn't a request. I handed it to him and, as he inspected it, I noticed another man in the booth. He was taller, filled out his uniform with thick arms and a bulking chest, and had a phone pressed to his face. His eyes were locked on mine.

  The first guy handed me back the ID. "Mr. Vane. They want you in building three. Pull up there, to the right." He stepped out of the booth and pointed at a small structure set off to the right of the main complex. Like the other buildings, it was a dull gray square.

  "Wait, who wants me? What are you talking about?"

  "I have no information about that, sir. They are expecting you, though."

  "Who?"

  He stepped back into his little booth. I glanced at buff guy, who was no longer on the phone. I got the sense that he knew more about what was going on than the first guy. I leaned my head out the window. "Hey," I called to him, past the first guy. "Can you tell me what's going on? I just—"

  The gate bar lifted. The man took a seat as if he hadn't heard me, and the first guy closed the sliding window of his booth. They were done with me.

  I eased the car forward, checking my rearview to see what they were doing in the booth, but they didn't seem to be doing much of anything. The small building wasn't marked in any way, but it had a dozen parking spots in front. Just like the other buildings in the complex, it was a gray square, but it had a couple cosmetic touches the other buildings didn't: two small windows, both curtained, and a clay pot of dead flowers on the porch. At least they'd tried.

  Three cars were parked right up against the building and I took an empty spot next to them, grabbed the backpack with the drive in it, and strode up to the building. The door swung open as my foot hit the first step.

  It was Kenny, smiling down at me.

  He was wearing a suit much like the one he'd been wearing at the airport. Beautifully cut, tan linen. Completely out of place in the moist morning air of central Oregon. He looked like he should be drinking champagne on the deck of a yacht off the coast of Dubai.