Chaos Theory

by M Evonne Dobson

  He stares at it in horror. He stutters, “Kami, I think you are insane.”

  Through the muffling glass, the watchers chant louder. “St. Charles. St. Charles.” Both he and I turn to look. It really is looking like a company holiday. The marketing department has made cool signs sporting a dragon’s head in a circle with a slanting bar over it. Others read: Down with the Gnawing Dragon. People are waving them back and forth. Then with perfect chance timing, the crowd moves aside to make room for the laughing chairman. Someone hands him one of the signs.

  “You don’t have a choice. It’s time to slay your dragon.”

  Clearly mortified, he says, “For heaven’s sake, I should fire you.”

  I don’t care. As long as he leaves this office to cram that stupid sword down that shredder’s throat. He moves to the door. I say, “Hey! You can’t go like that. They’re watching. You have to act it up. Come on. Let me take your suit jacket.” He removes it, hanging it over the executive chair. The weight of his planner/calendar in its inside pocket makes it swing a little before hanging straight.

  The chanting is louder now, and Uncle Charlie gets into it. He makes a big deal out of rolling up his sleeves and hams it up with more muscle crunches, which is funny, given his wimpy arms. More cheers and laughter follow. Mrs. F is in complete shock. Then he lifts the cardboard sword and swirls it around his head. The crowd goes insane.

  I say, “See, told you. This is all they’ll remember.” I unlock and open his door. Cheers roll into the room like honey. I have to yell for him to hear me. “Go slay your dragon!”

  Everyone loves a LARP. The crowd chants, “Saint Charles! Saint Charles! Saint Charles!”

  Uncle Charlie charges into the front office with his sword swinging over his head, lifting Mrs. F onto her desk. She perches there on wobbly legs, arms like pelican wings, and barefooted. Perfect corporate employee Mrs. F caught with her shoes off. There’s laughter and the Saint Charles cheers shake the glass walls.

  No one looks my way.

  Uncle Charlie works his way between desks toward his arch nemesis, while I reach down and slip his planner out of his suit-jacket pocket. With my back to the crowd beyond Uncle Charlie’s glass walls, I open it to today’s date and swear. Ink wrote: Where it began w/Julia - 11:00. There was no physical location, only a hint. I snap a photo and flip pages, freezing on the week prior. It lists dollar amounts. There’s a label G, an arrow to the initials CJ (I assume Charles Jamison) and a dollar figure. Beneath that is another G, arrow to Greg with a dollar figure. I slip back a few more pages. Yep, these are definitely payments from a mysterious G.

  Outside, there’s uproar as the sword is probably thrust into the Gnawing Dragon. I double-check the photo quality. Perfect. I reposition the planner in the jacket, exactly like Uncle Charlie left it, and then head out to join the crowd.

  The crowd shifts and there’s a view of Jurnee and Rugby for a moment before the crowd swirls back to mask them. With remembered panic, I scan the crowd for Ink, but he’s not there.

  Thirty-three

  The hallway door bursts open and laughing people stream through, lifting Uncle Charlie up on their shoulders. He waves the hilt, the only part remaining of Gavin and 3J’s D&D sword, the rest having been fed to the shredder. Uncle Charlie is trooped out and down toward the cafeteria.

  That’s when my phone vibrates. A text from Jurnee: You got it?

  The crowd shifts again and there’s Rugby. I raise my right finger and swipe my nose in The Sting movie classic fashion. Sandy would approve.

  Rugby texts: Get out now. Meet in parking lot.

  No way. What if Uncle Charlie gets suspicious? What if Ink comes back with new information? And, if I go now, my team will be sidelined, benched. I’m not going to let that happen.

  If he reads an FU in my body language, that’s just fine. I’m finishing my day. There’s a lot to think about. The DEA, Ponytail, GV and my team are to meet at five in the Bat Cave. Excuse me, CIU. I check my guilt-meter about not sharing the clue immediately with the DEA—nope, none. I don’t text my crew either. For now, I want the location clue limited to me only.

  ***

  At three o’clock, as I head out the door for the last time, Uncle Charlie rushes out of his office to walk me toward the entrance. He says, “Today was great.”

  I nod, but if he is guilty and tonight works, he’ll be arrested. I’ll have put him in jail.

  As we reach the front door, he opens it for me just like Daniel does. “What you did today, Kami. It helped me in ways you’ll never understand. I’ve been lacking in some old-fashioned courage. Now I have it, I’m going to use it to make something right.”

  He leaves the office saying, “Because of something I did, there were some…unintended and terrible consequences. It’s going to stop tonight.” He looks over my shoulder and mutters, “Where it began. Where she was happy.”

  The same phrase Ink wrote in the planner. Was the “she” Julia? And with that reminder, any feelings of sympathy for him disappear. I don’t meet his eyes; not sure what he’ll see in them: anger, sympathy, judgment, disgust? I text Daniel: Pick me up.

  ***

  He asks, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Take me home, Daniel. I need a shower.”

  But I’m lying to him. There’s no time for that luxury.

  Mom’s at home in the kitchen, and she’s arranged what we talked about this morning. I’m not texting or saying anything over my phone anymore. It’s likely being monitored by the DEA.

  I change into my blue jeans and, instinctively, reach for my antique Grateful Dead t-shirt, pause, and then pull it out. I want comfort clothes hugging me tonight. A short time later, Mom drives the minivan out of the garage with me hidden on the backseat floor. Making a diversionary run to the grocery store, she parks and goes in. Still hidden, I use an old bicycle mirror to watch the parking lot traffic. If someone is following us, I haven’t seen them. Besides, what DEA agent would expect my cool mom to help me escape from home?

  “What do you think?” Mom asks after she climbs back in with a lightweight bag of groceries, dumping it on the passenger seat.

  “We’re okay.”

  There’s a Sip N Go next to the Donut Shop. Mom gets out and fills up the van with gas. I ease through the door she’s left open and slip from the parking lot into the Donut Shop. Ponytail is in the corner booth. Mom will drive home alone. I plan to walk from here to the Bat Cave. Oh yeah, CIU.

  Ponytail pushes a chocolate-covered raised donut my way and a cup of black coffee. He’s remembered what I like. In front of him sits his two pink-frosted cake donuts with colored sprinkles on top. Beside those sits his coffee laced with milk. It’s in a new mug. I’d taken his old one. He probably knows that. If he worries that I have his DNA sample tucked away in my chaos locker, he doesn’t mention it.

  I sit down opposite him in the booth and get down to business. “Are you wearing a recording device?”

  He shakes his head with that twinkle in his eye, the one that says we share a huge secret from the world. “No.”

  “If I ask for advice, are you obligated to share that with the DEA?”

  He nods again, and waits like he knows what I’m going to ask. We really are on this weird mental spy net connection or something.

  “Can I ask that you wait?”

  “No, but I will. My paperwork is stacked up on my desk. I’ll call them later when it’s convenient.”

  I lean over my coffee and inhale the aroma, thinking about how Dad’s coffee is sharper and fuller. Dad’s burns the inside of my nose, this just warms it. I take a huge bite from the donut, swallow it, and ask, “What are my legal obligations on information that I learn?”

  He swirls his coffee like he’s looking at tea leaves. “You share it. If you hold anything back, you can be prosecuted. You and your parents signed a formal agreement.”r />
  There’s a thin film on my coffee. It smells good, but looks yucky. “What about the gray area on what I figure out on my own? Things that I don’t have proof or facts to back up.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I press him, looking into his eyes. “There’s always a gray area. What is it?”

  He sighs. “That depends on how they ask the questions. You give them what you find—that’s a given. If they ask your opinion, then you answer them honestly.”

  And doesn’t that leave me a hole the size of Des Moines? I can work around that.

  “Thanks.”

  “Kami, be careful. Some decisions you can’t take back. Drug cartels are serious business. Innocent bodies and unintended consequences can’t be changed afterward.” Sadness flashes across his face. Real emotion for the first time. “Don’t put your friends or yourself at risk—fatally at risk.”

  I consider that and discard it. Where’s the danger logically? Daniel’s uncle is a slimeball, but he is what he is—a gullible pawn. He’s afraid of a shredder!

  As to Ink? We’ll be careful. He’s only one guy and he’ll never know we’re there. Not if we do this right.

  My big fear is that the DEA will move in and wily Ink will turn state’s witness before his holding-cell door locks behind him. He’s a survivor and cagey. He’d known how to keep Julia from talking about him. He’d figured out how to get her to sell drugs for him. If he gets arrested, he’ll blame Uncle Charlie and his higher-up buddies before Uncle Charlie can find a lawyer. Then Ink will disappear into witness protection without any real consequences.

  Ink is guilty. He is not walking away scot-free under some protection agreement. Not on my watch.

  ***

  The Bat Cave, aka CIU, is full. No more private space. The two DEA agents sit in the side chairs like a king and queen. Ponytail and GV are on the sofa. There’s room for two more on that thing, but my crew clusters by the crime board. Daniel stays just inside the bookcases, guarding my back and the entrance. I stomp past the DEA and sit on the ground by the coffee table in front of Ponytail and Gravel Voice on the sofa. I trust them at my back. With caution, Sandy, Sam, and Gavin squeeze in around the table and sit on the floor too. Sandy asks, “What did you get?” I’ve ignored their texts and calls, sure the DEA was listening.

  Rugby doesn’t like the position change. “What did you find, Beanie Boppers?”

  My team bristles, but when I don’t tense up, they relax. Sandy gives me a little grin. Then I pull out printed copies of the smartphone photos and set them on the coffee table. Rugby has to come get them.

  “Damn kids,” he says.

  Again, my friends rile at his rudeness. Again, they calm when I don’t move. I’m manipulating Rugby, and he doesn’t even know it. My first science fair project was about body language. Dad helped me learn the kind of dynamics that humans speak beneath the language of words. It’s powerful stuff.

  Rugby hoards the calendar images. I knew he would. I pull out a second set from my backpack and hand them out. Daniel steps over to get his and returns to his wary stance at the entrance.

  My crew leans over the coffee table and scours the sheets while I fill them in. “It worked. No one saw me get to his planner.” No one saw except the DEA agents. I talk like the two agents aren’t there. They’ve done it often enough to us. Besides, I want them to marginalize us this time, and that starts with getting Rugby really ticked.

  I say, “From the docs I stole last night, we know that Uncle Charlie is changing the drug sample shipment numbers.”

  Both Jurnee and Rugby stiffen. They thought they’d taken everything I’d brought out of O’Neal. I hand them Uncle Charlie’s handwritten doctored pages. “These show that the numbers to the sales reps are being manipulated. Jurnee, you would have obtained the manifests and the official copies from where you were posted yesterday. With what you got from me yesterday, you know that too.” And they hadn’t shared with us, had they?

  Rugby says, “You had these yesterday and didn’t tell us?”

  “You didn’t give me the chance,” I reply. Then I ignore them and focus on my team. “Ink has access to the drug shipments. In the planner it shows he meets regularly with Uncle Charlie. And Uncle Charlie’s planner has notes on money transfers.”

  Sandy gasps, and of course there is a clink from the doorway. Clink. Clink.

  I say, “But it still makes no sense why this creep bothered with Julia’s small-time operation. Not with the huge numbers Uncle Charlie is shifting around. I’m sure neither Uncle Charlie nor Ink has the skill sets, the network, or the intelligence to be the mastermind behind this. And Ink is mainly blunt force. This ‘G’,” I point to the letter in front of the payment note, “has to be the next level up.”

  Sandy says, “So we go with what we have—Uncle Charlie and Greg. The DEA nails those two, and they go after the higher-ups.”

  Clink. Clink. Clink.

  I ask, “Daniel?”

  Clink. Clink. Clink. He says, “If we get this Greg bastard and he tells us what really happened with Julia’s death, then that’s good enough.”

  But Daniel doesn’t realize the possible consequences—that Ink could go into witness protection. I weigh the benefits of having this discussion now or later. I decide to wait. If Ink killed Julia, as Daniel believes, that’s got to rebalance any witness protection offer. Right now, we follow the clues we have in hand and that’s this drug ring.

  Pointing to this week’s calendar, Sam the Excited says, “But it doesn’t give the meeting location. It just reads: Where it began with Julia - 11:00.

  Wired, the DEA agent blurts out. “So where is the meet happening?”

  I keep quiet.

  Jurnee says, “Where it began with Julia probably means where Greg and Julia first met.”

  And that is the first stupid thing Jurnee has said since I met her.

  Rugby talks like we aren’t sitting right at his feet. “In the oldest e-mails, it talks about their first meeting—at the mall.”

  That confirms what I already guessed. Once we gave them the connection between Uncle Charlie, Greg, and Julia, the DEA got a court order to access e-mails. By now, they’re likely in ours too. And our phones.

  Jurnee has her cell out again. “Even with the mall closed at that hour, this will be a logistical nightmare. We’ll need locals and fast.” She asks GV, “How many troopers can you call in? Arrange for as many as possible to meet us at our hotel for a strategy session.”

  The DEA agents, GV, and Ponytail stand up. This is too easy, but then it comes. Jurnee asks me, “So John’s right?”

  I give her my preplanned answer. “It’s logical and reasonable.” Wrong, but logical. The room clears.

  On his way out, GV slips a large manila envelope onto the coffee table beside me. His hand rests on it a moment before he disappears through the bookcases. He doesn’t make eye contact with Daniel, who stands guarding the only way in and out of the CIU.

  When everyone is gone, my crewmembers all speak at once. I raise my finger to my lips and then inch-crawl my fingers down my jeans like a spider. The implication is clear: Bugs.

  We gather our stuff and leave. Four floors down, I lead them into the stacks labeled J - Political Science. We stand around the track bookcase edges and compare thoughts.

  Sandy gripes, “Would they really bug our CIU?”

  Daniel says, “They’ll bug anything they legally can.”

  I start with Sam the Clear Headed. “What do you think about the meeting place, Sam?”

  “I don’t know. The mall makes sense.”

  Gavin says, “Yes, but did you notice that the other meets were labeled mall.”

  Sam says, “Right. It’s out of the ordinary.”

  Daniel asks, “Why chose somewhere different?”

  I say, “Meeting places have meaning. Th
ey can be safe or a threat.”

  Then I share the conversation as Uncle Charlie left the office. “He told me that tonight he’s going to make it right at the place where everything went wrong. Then he said, ‘Where it began. Where she was happy.’”

  Daniel says, “The stable, with Diamond.”

  Sam the Logical isn’t sure. “That’s a stretch. The mall is more likely.”

  I say, “Look, it’s a stretch—a long one, but think about it. Julia was happiest there as a child. Ink changed all that and got her hooked.”

  Daniel blurts out. “Julia didn’t do drugs. She told me she didn’t.” Beneath those words is raw, exposed vulnerability and doubt.

  I lift the envelope GV left. It’s heavy, but not physically. It’s full of pain. “Yes, she did, Daniel.” The letter is sealed. I hand it to him. “I gave GV Julia’s hair from her grooming bucket. Remember how she shaved her head? She had Trish bundle it up in a rubber band?”

  Daniel breaks open the seal as I fill everyone in. “I had Gravel Voice test it.”

  Daniel isn’t reading the report. I don’t think he wants to. He yells, “Drugs were in her system. She was full of them. They killed her!”

  I wish I couldn’t read the pain in his eyes. “The initial autopsy toxicology tests used stomach contents because her head was shaved. But, over time, hair absorbs ingested chemicals and tells the chemical history as it grows. There was six inches of hair to test. That’s enough for two time frames with two tests. She was clean in the oldest, but in the last set, they showed drugs. It wasn’t a random thing. Daniel, Julia was hooked on drugs.”

  Thirty-four

  Daniel shouts, “When? When did you figure this out?”

  “This morning. GV left a handwritten note with Mom.”

  Sam, Sandy, and Gavin do their best to blend into the wall, trying to fade out of existence.

  “Daniel, this is proof you’re innocent. Your North Carolina school has zero tolerance and does drug testing. I know you were clean, while Julia was doped up most of the time.”