by Stanley Gray
Collectively, the photos in this box had taken around 4 whole minutes to capture. A long and tedious, even dangerous, journey had accompanied them, to be sure. But the pictures themselves had been created in such short spans. Yet it was this evidence that had destroyed him.
Masala Mugabe had been convicted in 5 different countries for heinous crimes, ranging from human trafficking to terrorism. In America, he had been part of a group responsible for at least 23 murders in four states. Mugabe used his dirty money to buy highly addictive, and illegal, narcotics, so that the illicit proceeds could finance terrorism.
And major America news media power players helped him do it.
Because murder helps sell newspapers.
Tom didn’t grow up wanting to be a journalist. He never wanted to be some pious do-gooder bucking the system out of a sense of moral absolutism. The only thing he’d ever really wanted, in his heart, and the only thing he still desired, was to tell peoples’ stories. When he’d first realized what was happening, he didn’t immediately begin chasing it. For a long time, he hadn’t even told anyone, for fear of being called a quack. It seemed crazy, to think that the very people he’d looked up to for so long could be such horrible villains playing a nefarious game of multidimensional chess. With him as just one of many pawns.
“Tyler.” he said. The word escaped his lips. It came out with almost a sibilant solemnity. Tyler Brown had been his boss at the Denver Courier for almost a decade. In the photo Tom now held, he saw Tyler’s familiar face. A pale white man with a small misshapen brown birthmark just under his left eye, Tyler always wore expensive suits. The Pulitzer-prize-winning writer and editor had no idea that those suits were a major source of derision and satire whenever he wasn’t around. Even Tom had engaged in some of the banter, even though he’d always idolized the man.
He stared at the picture. So much power, held in that small piece of plasticky paper. In the photo, Tyler Brown was laughing with a school shooter. Just days before John Smith had walked into a crowded Colorado Springs high school and opened fire with an AR-15, the public face of Denver’s largest and oldest daily newspaper had given the man a check. For 1.8 million dollars. The exact amount his lawyer would later ask for when representing Mr. Smith.
18 people senselessly and brutally slain. And the killer got 3 years in a psychiatric hospital.
“You don’t look insane, John.” Tom said.
Tom had to stop. He began piling the various items back into the box. It still nagged at him, a disturbing reality he felt unable to fully acknowledge. He might have been crazy, about the groceries. But he knew. He knew with all of his being that someone had been here. In his new home. They’d been here, and they’d rifled through this box of evidence. They’d left it sitting out deliberately, so that he would know of the foreign presence. It was a subtle, quiet threat. He couldn’t call the police, because no law enforcement official would ever give two shits about a box sitting in the wrong place. There was no sign of forced entry, not that Tom could ascertain, anyway. Nothing had been stolen.
Except his innocence and sense of security.
The idea of buying some sort of home security system, one of the fancy ones with secret cameras and remotely operated microphones that recorded to the cloud, proved an irresistible force he couldn’t quite ignore. He went about the various tasks of starting his day, his mind absent as it waded into worry. As he folded a load of laundry, he reviewed various security options on his phone. As he did a small load of dishes, Tom thought about his woefully inadequate bank account.
At around noon, fatigued, Tom sat down on the couch. He felt drained. He rested there for a long moment, his eyes closed, enjoying the relative stillness.
BANG!
Tom groaned. He opened one eye and peered out at the woodpecker. Then he smiled. He returned to his momentary respite. If he allowed the anxiety to consume him, they would win. The whole point of the psychological terrorism was to scare him. Yet, that need, to frighten him, exposed a structural weakness. They couldn’t just kill him. He knew too much. He was too hot. The only thing they could do for now was try to rattle his cage.
He was an essential co-conspirator in their plans against him. That meant they could only win if he let them.
Tom wasn’t going to let them win. At least, not yet.
Feeling somewhat better, he realized he needed to get back to the important duties of his job. He’d been assigned to the arts editor. He was a glorified book reviewer and movie critic now. Tom experienced a certain sense of disgust, as well as déjà vu. He’d begun his career doing theater reviews in Seattle, almost exactly 20 years ago. It was a hard, tedious job that catapulted him far from his comfort zone.
Yet, Tom couldn’t help but recall, in intimate detail, that he wasn’t that guy anymore. He wasn’t a hungry intern or a novice writer fresh from campus. He was Tom Martinez, the two-time Colorado Press Association Journalist of the Year. Just two years ago, he’d turned down an opportunity to be the Presidential speechwriter.
“Jesus.” Tom muttered. He couldn’t help but laugh. It seemed acutely ironic. Not long ago, he’d been given the chance to work for possibly the only person in the known universe who could help him. And he’d turned the offer down. Why? Because he’d wanted to devote time to the story…the story that had landed him in El Paso.
Scrolling through his email, he saw that one of the projects involved a book signing by a local independent author at the library. Tom looked at his wrist. “Shit.” he said. He almost never went without a watch, but here he was, the familiar time-telling accoutrement absent. Tom glanced at the upper left part of his phone’s screen. It was 1:45. The book signing was scheduled for 2:15.
Scrambling up, he rushed back to the bedroom, where he flung clothes from the closet in a frenzied effort to assemble a workable outfit. “Socks. Where are my socks?” he asked the quiet. He stopped in the middle of this burst of activity. He began laughing. “Who am I talking to?” Then he shrugged and returned back to the search.
He held up two mismatched socks. He looked at them. A pensive frown etched itself into his face. One was blue, the other brown. Shrugging, he made a little grunt, and picked up a wrinkled pair of light tan trousers. Snapping a belt down from the back of the closet door, he began shimmying into the pants. He looped the dark brown belt on, then closed it, only to realize belatedly that he was without shirt. He smiled. Bending down, he picked up a purple shirt. He looked at it, shook his head barely perceptibly, then chucked it onto the bed. It joined the doleful pile of rejects.
A light hum began to emanate from his lips as he moved. It came from an unconscious place, and he barely realized he was humming. When he became aware that he was murmuring the tune to I Will Survive, he couldn’t resist the urge to chide himself for being such a dorkopotomus.
He looked at himself in the mirror after he’d finally finished dressing. He frowned. He looked okay enough, though disheveled. Shrugging, he went to the bedside table, where he retrieved his watch. Snapping on the brown leather band, he headed towards the door, checking the time. He plucked up his phone on the way out.
Tom stopped.
Across the street, sitting right there in broad daylight, was a white van. The driver sat in the front seat, holding a camera. She smiled, pointed, and shot. Then she drove slowly away.
Chapter 5
It confronted him.
A large poster with image of the author’s book cover sat by the door. It was placed in such a way that it aggressively caught the eye of any who entered the store. The feral yellow eyes on the cover seemed to stare directly at Tom, accusing him. Tom walked past, having to go around the cardboard display to actually enter the store. He felt a moment of anger. He clenched one fist, then unclenched it, and took a few deep breaths. He looked around, and quickly spotted the small crowd gathered around the writer. They were towards the back of the store, and Tom approached them.
Standing at the edge of the group, he listened as the man sp
oke. A small, shrewd-looking man with bushy eyebrows and a menacing scowl, he possessed the sort of dep, raspy voice that made one think he might be a smoker. He wore a brown blazer over a black shirt, and dark horn-rimmed glasses. Ara Lajani seemed the quintessential writer. “And my mother’s influence is seen throughout the book, such as in the scene where Fazal drinks a soda for the first time.” He smiled. “I’m sorry. Do you all say soda here?” he asked. A few people giggled. Someone, a woman, said that she preferred pop.
“Then pop it is.” he said, smiling. “What is your name, by the way?” he asked. He looked directly at the woman. He possessed a certain charm that was hard to put one’s finger on. The woman answered. “Lovely to meet you, Emma. Thank you for coming.” he said.
Tom strolled over to a stack of books behind the crowd. Near it was a small display encased in thick plastic. It informed guests that these books had been signed by the author. There was a small photograph of the man at the bottom left corner of the sign. Tom knelt and peered at it, trying to get a better gauge for the author. In it, Ara smiled, showing off his pearly white teeth. He had a bald head and what appeared to be brown liver spots on his cheeks. Tom thought it odd, that a man so young would have such markings.
He scanned the bio that captioned the photograph. Ara had immigrated to America some ten years ago, and was now a naturalized citizen. He’d been born and raised in Iran, but his parents had fled to Iraq in his teenaged years. Shortly thereafter, his village had been nearly wiped out in toto when Saddam Hussein launched surprise chemical attacks on them.
Tom tried to imagine the horror. The trauma and pain that this might have caused. It helped put things in perspective, and he began to relax a little. He realized it was a little wrong, but, at the same time, he took a certain pleasure in knowing his troubles paled in comparison to those endured by many others. He’d just lost his job.
He turned and tried to listen in. Ara spoke into a microphone, but the sound didn’t reach all parts of the store the same. Weaving his way back to his original position, he stood and immersed himself in the discussion. Ara was talking about a scene from the book where Fazal, his protagonist, had to search the corpse of his mother for a ring.
The book was entitled The Ring. Tom patted his pockets. He realized he’d forgotten his digital recorder. He frowned. Clenched his teeth. He silently reprimanded himself. He tried to focus, but the bitterness and anger he felt at his failure inhibited his ability to concentrate. He kept returning to his incompetency.
How was he supposed to get his revenge if he couldn’t even do his job right?
People began to move. Tom blinked. He realized that the author wasn’t speaking anymore. He looked around. Seeing that Ara had moved to a long folding table near the door, Tom rushed to secure his place in line. A large sign next to him stated in bold red letters that only the first 250 people in line could receive a few minutes with the man. In smaller print underneath that, Tom saw that for an additional $25, the lucky people could have the privilege of taking a photograph with him.
Tom wondered if maybe he had lost his calling. Maybe he should just start writing novels.
As he stood in line, he pondered his own fate. He wondered why he clung tenaciously, like some diseased barnacle to the undercarriage of a sinking ship, to the youthful idealism that had been destroyed over and over throughout his tenure as a journalist. He couldn’t give an answer. He understood, however, that somewhere deep in his heart, he still harbored the notion, however impractical it might be in reality, that reporting on the facts was a higher calling. Tom could cite a number of important historical events that either were directly influenced by reporting, or that certainly would have been, had the powers that be allowed it.
As he neared the table, Tom stared at the large woman behind Ara. Wearing short hair in a dreadful auburn shade or red, she looked angry. A frown formed a slash across her face that could have been an infected wound. She wore a dark black suit. An earpiece rested inconspicuously in one ear, and she kept one hand near her hip. Tom wondered about her. He cursed himself once again for not bringing all of the tools necessary to record his thoughts and observations. After all, his job for being here was not to gush over an author he’d never really heard of before or to get a book signed. It was to provide 450 words for the Monday edition.
Looking at his hands, tom realized in that moment that he hadn’t grabbed a copy of the book. He turned around and peered towards the back of the line. He frowned. If he got out of the queue now, he probably would lose his chance. He patted his pockets and made sure he had his wallet. He sighed and looked up, thanking a god he didn’t believe in. At least he’d remembered that. He would just have to settle for an overpriced photograph.
He moved with the line. A small woman with long blonde hair stood in front of him. She smelled like peach tea and Gatorade. A very odd combination. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, just…different. Tom glanced down, and saw that she held a book in one hand.
Three more people left. He checked his watch. He saw that he’d only been there for around an hour. He felt hungry. Pulling his phone out, he checked to see what places were nearby. He decided Mexican sounded good. Mexican almost always sounded good to him. His father had immigrated from Mexico, and his mother was Apache.
Taking a few pictures, Tom tried to think. What angle could he use? It was noteworthy that Ara was not only a local writer, but an immigrant. Obviously, here on the border with Ciudad Juarez, immigration was an important, often poignant topic. He wanted to avoid that, though. Not only did it seem too obvious, but he also didn’t want the newspaper getting hate mail about him on his first assignment.
El Paso wasn’t exactly a city renowned for its arts. In fact, it largely wasn’t renowned for anything, other than being a violence-ridden border town. Tom decided he wanted to focus on that. Here was a man who’d made a name for himself in the arts, in hardscrabble south Texas. The metaphor of a desert oasis seemed apropos, and he was thinking of this when he stumbled to the front of the line.
“Hello.” Ara said.
Tom blinked. He blushed. He looked down. He didn’t have a book. Words eluded him, and he stood, acting dumbfounded.
“Did you have a book?” the author asked.
Tom smiled. “Um, I kind of forgot to grab one.” he said. “But I’d be happy to get a photo.” he rushed to say on the heels of his ignominious admission.
Ara smiled. He reached down with one hand and came back with a hardcover. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a few hundred extras. This one’s on me. Who should I address the signature to?” he asked.
Tom smiled. It was an awkward, vaguely embarrassed smile. “Ela.” he said. “That’s my mother.” he said, when the man looked up at him with momentary confusion.
“It is very important to honor our mothers.” Ara said. He bent his head as he scribbled, the pen making a small swiping sound as it moved across the thick paper. Ara handed him the book. “Would you still like that photograph?” he asked.
Nodding, Tom walked around the side of the table, where he stood next to the author. Ara smelled like cinnamon and gin. The camera flashed, and in seconds, Tom was walking out into the desert heat and sunshine holding a small polaroid picture. He examined it as he stood at the edge of the sidewalk. He smiled. Shook his head. He looked so awkward.
Getting in his car he plugged in the directions for the restaurant where he’d decided to eat. He sat there for a minute, waiting for the air conditioning to turn on. June in Texas. It was harsh. When the air began to flow and he cooled down a bit, he put the car in drive and navigated out of the busy shopping plaza parking lot. A white van caught his eye.
“Shit.” he said.
As he drove, he tried to ignore it. But the sight of it kept coming back to him, and he found himself looking in the rearview mirror every few seconds. It was there, trailing him. Tom knew it. He wasn’t sure what he could do about it. Or even if he wanted to do anything about it. Calling the police woul
d only cause him more problems. For all Tom knew, the police might be in on whatever it was they had going on. They. It would almost be easier, if the forces of evil stalking him with relentless patience had a face and a name. Instead, they were vague, shapeshifting creatures, moving and merging with the shadows of his cynical mind.
Violently turning the wheel, Tom took a turn, and got onto the freeway. Horns blared. Tires screeched. He raced ahead, then made another turn to get back into the city. He drove down several residential streets, driving until he was satisfied that he’d managed to evade the tail. For now.
Looking down, his breathing returning to some semblance of normality, he widened his eyes. He saw that he was almost out of gas. He stopped in front of a dilapidated house, the disheveled front yard full of rusted-out cars and bicycle parts. A toothless old woman with a shotgun in her lap rocked in a chair and watched him, her wrinkled forehead and peering eyes making her look like some stereotype from an old spaghetti western movie. A large and menacing-looking black dog strolled towards the reddish metal fence, and it stood on its hind legs. Its entire muscular upper body went well beyond the top of the gate. It watched him. It stood there and watched him.
Tom wasn’t sure if he were actually safer, having avoided whomever it was that had been following him.
Google finally told him the directions for the closest gas station, and Tom slowly drove away, eyes on the canine and the granny as he fled.
When he finally arrive at the restaurant, he felt drained. He barely remembered what day it was, much less what it was he’d originally intended to do. He walked in, his eyes and body heavy. He stared at the menu for long enough that a thin female server with a lip piercing came over and asked him if needed any help ordering. Tom shook his head. He decided on a chicken burrito.
Taking his tray of food to a table, he sat it down, then got a drink. He pressed the plastic cup against the handle and listened as the ice was nosily dispensed. He hesitated. Normally, he didn’t drink soda, but he felt a sudden and intense craving for caffeine. He filled the large container with yellowish liquid. Mountain Dew. He smiled as he looked down into the cup. The beverage brought back a flood of memories. In college, he had practically lived on the sugary drink. That, and canned soup. Every once in a while, his mom would send him a batch of tamales or something, and on those days, it seemed everyone in the dorm was suddenly his friend.