Stories About Corn

by Ri, Xesin

  It was, of course, a waste of time. He got up and shut off the remaining lights in his office and went to the darkest corner of his office. He sat there on his newest couch and looked down at the glass tabletop of the coffee table that he’d had custom made. The money, the workmanship, and the time, time, time that went into crafting things, businesses, inventions, new worlds, new systems could be seen in the shifts of movements across the spectrum of couches or coffee tables, the same as anything with a history—and a market.

  “At one time,” thought Ray, “there were people and no couches.”

  The pattern was the same.

  Ray didn’t have the information. He knew this. Months, hours, days, seconds, all lost to Mexican authorities, dead family members, threats to destroy his businesses, a thousand times more scrutiny, journalists asking questions, bloggers talking about conspiracies, and more and more and more. He knew ADD or the Flints, likely both, were responsible; but he wanted satisfaction against the triggerman. He couldn’t let that part go. The triggerman was the one who started all of his problems. If he ever got that information, if he could ever prove it, if there were recourse, bloody or otherwise, he wouldn’t look for some little reaction, he would bury that man. He’d long since decided that everybody’s got enemies—especially a sheriff.

  The phone rang with a distinctive tone and light letting him know it was Peg.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Peg.”

  “Your appointment with the FBI is right now. They are here. Shall I send them in?”

  “Not yet. Give me a moment.”

  Ray picked up his tie and coat. He wanted to look as together as possible for the FBI. They weren’t likely to be impressed by his coat or tie, but he didn’t want to give them any reason to suspect he was anything but a perfectly good businessman, which wasn’t always easy to convey in Illinois. With one governor in prison, Blagojevich on trial, and who knows what next, the feds were always hoping to stumble onto another snake’s nest, so it never hurt to keep up an appearance around the law. And if they were watching the news then it sure must have looked like Ray Synad was one of the biggest snakes around.

  He tied the tie looking out through his big window near the wall to the right of his desk. He wondered if there was an FBI man at the building across the way, staring at his face even now. The gray wall, the light overhead, and night falling fast gave him a nice mirror.

  Peg called this “ghost dressing” on account of his reflection making him look like the incorporeal apparitions in the movies. She begged him to buy a “proper mirror.” To which he would reply, “I love you being a real lady. Best secretary ever.” Peg would laugh at him and he would say, “Watch out, Peg. You could be my next divorce.” And she would answer, “I’m not that stupid, Mr. Synad.”

  The thought of silly banter between Peg and himself did not break his lack of confidence. He still felt like he was on a cliff, half his body already hanging over. Reaching out his arms as far as he could, trying desperately to get a grip on the ground as it ran away from him at breakneck speeds; he was still right there. The thought was so real his nails actually seemed to ache with the pace of the earth running away.

  But he knew he had a spike, a giant metal spike. He just needed to have the balance and motion to reach back and grab it and stick it into the earth and catch the running earth with his anchor.

  “Peg,” said Ray holding down the button calling her.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ray turned his office lights up.

  “Get Jack for me.”

  The phone was quiet, and then Jack’s voice popped up. “Jack here.”

  “Jack, I’m going to talk to the FBI about whatever the hell it is they want. Got anything I need to know?”

  “Nothing. I think you should have an easy time. Good luck.”

  “Bye, Jack.”

  Ray ended the call with a push of a button. The little light on the button went off.

  “Good luck,” was the phrase. It meant Jack was telling him he hadn’t found a damn thing, didn’t know anything that could help, and that Ray would be going in as blind as he was with the information he already had.

  “Peg, send in the FBI.”

  No lawyer. No recording device. No bodyguard. No counsel of any kind. Not even a subordinate at his shoulder.

  The door opened.

  Ray walked over to the two men trying to act like it was any ol’ business meeting. But it wasn’t the same. The two men in suits wore the same deep black tie. Both men were between five foot eleven and six one. Both were just shy of two hundred pounds. Both men shook his hand as if they were trying to crush it, and both times, he could see the sidearm each man carried.

  They were both very cordial. They added warm business smiles as they said, “Hello, Mr. Synad.”

  The slightly taller man introduced himself as FBI Agent O’Reilly. The other agent identified himself as Agent Wimble. Both showed their badges and cards to him, proving they were with the FBI.

  Ray offered chairs and the two men sat down. Ray sat behind his desk.

  “Sorry about the wait. But, how about we get down to it? What is the reason for this in-person visit today, gentlemen?”

  The short one, Mr. Wimble, spoke first. “Mr. Synad, we know you are currently under scrutiny for a rather tragic event that happened on one of your properties last year, so let me first assure you our visit deals with that issue in only the most ancillary manner.”

  “Okay, you understand that any question that may come up regarding that whole situation will be impossible for me to answer? There are pending civil and criminal cases for me.”

  “That might be so, but we were hoping the case we are working on might be of enough interest to you that you might be willing to give us some information that may cross that boundary. You see, we are here about a series of events, but—there is a missing person, a young married woman.”

  Ray thought of Raewyn. He thought of No-bit strangling her or dark shadows coming alive and spooking her in a darkened warehouse, garage or old house.

  “Here,” said Agent Wimble handing over a picture to Ray Synad.

  The picture was of Raewyn. It was a fascinating and bizarre picture. Just her ears were pierced. She had no tattoos. Her hair was natural. Her face was empty of angry contempt, but it was the same woman.

  “I don’t know if I’ve seen her before,” said Ray. “She is quite attractive. Kinda makes you think you have or that you would like to.”

  It was arrogant for a businessman to meet with no aides, lawyers or other safety net when talking with the FBI. Ray wanted them to think that, but now he was regretting this trick, these weren’t the Flints.

  “Is she your missing person? I don’t think I saw anything about a pretty young woman gone missing on the news. Such a pretty girl would have been a headline for sure, wouldn’t she?”

  He hadn’t been able to save her after all. Another death in less than a year. Another event caused too far away to something connected to him. Too many games were being played.

  “We believe someone may have hired her to steal sensitive information,” said O’Reilly.

  “She is a spy?”

  “No,” said Wimble. “She is a thief, or at least that is what her employer made her. Someone compelled this pretty young woman, a woman in her early twenties, to marry a man she didn’t love with the intent of stealing sensitive information that could be of great value to people in your industry, the government, Wall Street and for a variety of other groups by a variety of different means. We believe several people, possibly you, met with Mrs. Dean—“

  “I’m sorry, what was that name?” said Ray looking at the picture again.

  “When she was married, she was Mrs. Loretta Dean. She was married to a man named Charles Dean. They lived together in Iowa.”

  “What military or American governmental, agricultural secrets can be stolen out of Iowa?” asked Ray.

  “Whoever forced Mrs. Dean into this
situation would not only be in trouble for industrial espionage but also for human trafficking and slavery.”

  “Glad that’s not me. Those wouldn’t look good next to the things the local prosecutors are threatening.”

  “Mr. Synad,” said Special Agent O’Reilly. “Please take care not to make light of this. This woman may be imprisoned, tortured or murdered—if not already. A man like you could be destroyed by even implications that you might have been involved in something like this.”

  “Keep talking. That’s my very first threat from an FBI man. Not my first received threat of the day, however, and not likely the last either.”

  “Mr. Synad,” said Wimble. “We know this woman leaked information to the web regarding what she found; everyone in your industry saw it. You made some interesting business decisions in the last few months—“

  “Like what?” demanded Ray.

  “Like destroying acres and acres of your h. h. corn corps,” said O’Reilly. “Like refusing to sell products on the markets in any pattern resembling what you have done each year, year-after-year. No one understands why your food production has suddenly gone against every standard and pattern for your business or for your industry.”

  “That was well-publicized: a blight. Something made the h. h. corn sick on several of my farms. The food? Better safe than lawsuit. Geneticists are working right now to determine what exactly was the cause. H. h. was supposed to be resistant to all such diseases and illnesses, yet I had a major setback this season. All sorts of departments, both federal and local, not to mention my own lawyers, told me to destroy any food crops nearby if any science suggested that there might be even the slightest chance of getting sick. I’m sure you looked into that. I’m sure you know that.”

  “We do know that,” continued Wimble. “We also know that it could also mean you knew about new pollution standards that were on their way down, standards that might mean disaster for you.”

  “Are you talking about—Oh, I get this. You are talking about that Tribune report in—what was that—March? The one that made all those rounds in the news circuit. I saw that, just like everyone else did. Nothing that interesting, really. Besides, it only highlighted new laws.”

  “Except you made your move before that publication made it to air,” said Wimble. “You made moves before you could have known.”

  “What sort of inquisition is this? I thought this was going to be a friendly chit-chat?” said Ray.

  “We know everything about you, Mr. Synad,” said O’Reilly.

  “I doubt that. I’ve had, in less than twelve months, one of my largest farms nearly shut down after several people were killed there, two sheriff’s deputies in the mix, no less. Al Duncan and whatever happened there. And did you know my sister was going to be great at business? I sure didn’t see that coming, and now she’s taking my number two man with her. She’s my sister, and I still didn’t know. Questions about what happened abound. Maybe you can tell me what happened if you know everything.”

  The two men nodded.

  “Questions, questions and more questions. Questions I can’t answer. Questions I don’t even understand. Your brother-in-the-law, Sheriff Douglas, wages similar attacks against me. Talking about a set up. Sends me over the edge of the falls. Al Duncan makes contradictory statements, spooks a ton of people. Then he dies. Suicide they say, really? You believe that? I knew Al. You should learn more about him. He didn’t draw a gun and not shoot himself when he was intending to commit suicide by jumping to his death.

  “I’ve got American and Mexican authorities looking to find out what I know because one of the men who died on my farm was the brother of someone big back down there in Mexico. I’ve got people who don’t want to do business with me due to the fire-red heat. I’ve got banks trying to shut me down. I’ve got that Tribune report that changes the game for almost every farmer in the country who’s growing h. h. corn because nobody knew—even the lawmakers who signed the damn laws—nobody knew what was about to happen. And, now, topping it off, I’m sitting here, hearing more questions from two FBI guys making loose and vague threats if I don’t answer for things I don’t know. Great!”

  “Mr. Synad, we don’t need—“

  “I’ve got alimony to pay, gentlemen. You try having multiple ex-wives. It isn’t easy.”

  “You’ve got enemies. Is that right?”asked Wimble.

  “Damn right! I’ve got enemies. Got more enemies than friends, Agent Wimble.”

  “Fair enough. ADD would be one of those enemies. You hate them?”

  “Hate ADD. Why would I hate ADD? They sell me my seed. They keep this whole market going. Would I like it if they weren’t always playing favorites? Yes. Would I like the games to stop? Sure. World peace? Yes.”

  “You would have a lot to gain by sending someone after those documents,” said O’Reilly.

  “I would have a lot to gain by anything that keeps my farms from closing. So would the other growers, or my main competition, the Flints. That couple is even more threatened by these new laws than anyone.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Wimble.

  “Because they weren’t leveraged right.

  “Here,” said Ray. He searched for a file in his desk. “This is a proposal the Flints gave me a few months back. They came here, to my office, and tried to act like they were going to get me to sell my farms to them, almost totally. I called their bluff. They told me, after realizing I wasn’t born yesterday, that they had really come to team up against ADD’s growing influence over the growers and the h. h. corn market in general. So don’t come in here pretending like I’m the only possible bad guy on your list. There’s more information in this world than what makes it to the news. So, if you’ve done your homework, you should have a lot of suspects and not just me.”

  “So, you think you are a suspect?” said O’Reilly.

  “I’ve had these governmental, informational meetings before. Generally, the smart thing to do in an informational meeting is have all the information before you go to the meeting. It’s bad business to learn anything in a situation like this. It rarely turns out well.”

  The two special agents looked at their papers and the Flints’ proposal for a moment. Something had been decided. Something they had both wanted to hear before they came here today. They were following their plan; this was their meeting. Ray was excited—they were going to give him some real information.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Synad, your reputation precedes you,” said Agent O’Reilly.

  Ray had the feeling the spike he’d been looking for, the one to save him, might be his own spine.

  Agent O’Reilly continued, Ray leaned back to listen. “You are truly someone special.”

  “Thanks?” said Ray raising an eyebrow.

  “We know,” continued Agent O’Reilly, “that there are a great deal of odd happenings in your industry. We know you are—only likely—to be the only big grower of h. h. corn to survive the new laws, except for the Flints, who have—let’s say—magically shielded themselves from those ADD maneuvers you spoke of and from the various lobbyists who wrote them. The shielding—and let’s keep some discretion about this—appears to be more than two years old. You, only recently, seem to have discovered this danger. I do my homework, and that’s a nice piece of math, if we understand each other? I can’t tell you who or how your industry problems began, but I can tell you I don’t know who or how your industry problems began.

  “So, here is how it is to be, Mr. Synad. The FBI would like to give you this. It is the report that was filed yesterday from Sheriff Douglas’s investigation into what happened on your farm when sheriff’s deputies Reingold and Rightendale were killed.”

  “I can’t talk about that,” said Ray.

  “This,” continued Agent O’Reilly, “is a copy of the missing person’s report from Iowa on Mrs. Loretta Dean, Charles Dean’s wife, maiden name: Shultz. I want you to look at both of these. Don’t just scan them. I want you to personally loo
k them over for anything that might be interesting to you and could help shed some light upon things. Look at everything I give you; and focus on the ADD connections you might have, look at the towns, look at any similarities you can see, and look at all the names. We even have the names of passers-by, police, principle agents in this game, and the missing and the known-deceased. Any connection, even a small one could be of great value to us, and possibly to you. If you see anything at all—you let us know. Our office is pretty nearby, and I’m sure you do a lot of driving—even without Mr. Orr.”

  Ray looked at the folder. He didn’t open it. “I’m not sure I’ll be of any help. I don’t know everything about the day-to-day operations of my farms. Lots of people come through there. Migrant workers, all legal I believe, you know how it is.”

  O’Reilly smiled, “Sure thing, Mr. Synad.”

  Both of the FBI men stood and held out their hands. Ray shook the two hands, left one first, right one second.

  “Good day,” said Agent Wimble.

  “Yes, be well,” answered Ray.

  “Make sure you look at those files,” said O’Reilly.

  “I will. Good day,” replied Ray.

  Both men left.

  He watched them a moment from his doorway as they walked down to the elevators. Once they were beyond the company doors and into the hallway, Ray went back to his desk to look at the documents he was given.

  Door closed, Peg warned not to interrupt unless it was Jack or world war, Ray got to work reading the two reports.

  He looked at the sheriff’s office’s investigation into the events that happened on his farm. The report suggested that the two deputies were to blame due to overzealous character. Deputy Rightendale seemed to be something of a fool who pushed his fellow officer, Sheriff’s Deputy Reingold, to ignore the dangerous signs, apparently everywhere, and continue into an enclosed space. Deputy Reingold went along with this due to a military background and a need to take more and more risks while on duty. The words were stunning: “overzealous actions,” “inappropriate conduct,” and “reckless provocation of a possibly armed threat.” There wasn’t anything new in the pictures. He was surprised to see a picture of one of the dead officers was in the file. He was clearly dead and heavily burned. The picture was a close-up of the officer’s face, upper torso and nametag. The nametag could be clearly read as “Dep. Reingold.”