The Red Files

by Lee Winter

  Lauren nodded. “Okay. So why have they come after me and not you?”

  “You’re listed in the phone book; I’m not. Furthermore, your place has all the security of a Boy Scout tent. So, given they had a fifty-fifty choice, you were the obvious, softer target.”

  “Have they been trailing us all over Nevada? Who else is in on this?”

  “Don’t get paranoid. That’s how mistakes are made,” Ayers said. “Look, they obviously weren’t following us all the way home or they’d have known about our delay.”

  “How can we not get paranoid, because someone knew we were leaving and reported it to someone else back here.”

  “You’re missing the point. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter. We still have everything we left Nevada with, my home is secure enough to protect it, and now that we know we’re being watched, we’ll be able to plan our next steps accordingly.”

  Lauren turned that over reluctantly but couldn’t find any holes in her logic.

  “I don’t like it. I’d at least like to know which shoulder to look over.”

  “It’s mutual,” Ayers said. “But the truth always has a way of coming out.”

  Doubtful, Lauren’s gaze drifted to the other side of the road, and her amusement faded. She could see women of all shapes and sizes milling around, laughing, having left the gay club. Several pairs had linked arms and seemed happy in that comfortable way of long-term couples.

  She wondered what that would be like, having someone as a constant in your life who knew everything about you and loved you anyway. So far in her unremarkable dating history, most women had given up relatively early once they’d realized the hours she worked and her laser-like focus on moving up the career ladder into something more serious. Women who understood her ambition and the hours she had to put in didn’t exactly grow on trees.

  “Lauren?”

  She turned to Ayers and saw faint concern warring with curiosity. She shook her head, annoyed her deflating mood had leaked out. “It’s nothing. Can you give me your address? I’ll put it in the GPS. We’re a little offtrack right now.”

  “3239 Oakshire Drive, Hollywood Hills.”

  Lauren tapped it in, and as she sat back up, she caught a glimpse of an idling black SUV in her side mirror and wondered at how long it had been there.

  Don’t get paranoid, Ayers said.

  Okay.

  It wasn’t moving. With a thumping heart she switched the GPS out of satellite mode to map mode, then widened the field. Then widened it again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Lauren muttered and scanned the map, looking at any looping, winding streets. One particularly florid curve caught her eye, and she switched the view to satellite and zoomed back in. No homes right along the road. Okay, good. She dropped an electronic pin in it.

  “Just in case,” she told Ayers.

  “In case of what?”

  “Don’t worry. We probably won’t need it,” Lauren said. “But I’d tighten your seat belt.”

  She started her engine and pulled back onto Ventura and watched the vehicle idling behind. It pulled away from the curb.

  Well crap.

  “Where are you going? Oakshire Drive is behind us.”

  “Testing your theory that I’m just being paranoid,” Lauren said, keeping an eye on her wing mirror. She turned onto a side street. The SUV pulled in behind them and slowed.

  Her pulse leaped. She shot Ayers a determined look and gripped the steering wheel.

  “It seems,” she said, “we’ve picked up some friends. Hang on.”

  She punched the gas and screeched down the small street; the SUV leapt into action after them.

  “Friends?” Ayers said, craning her neck around. “As in a tail? You’ve been watching far too many…” She stopped.

  “You were saying?” Lauren grunted and yanked on the wheel to take a corner at high speed.

  “Could you not roll us?” Ayers snapped, eyes widening.

  “Hey I kept two wheels on the road,” Lauren retorted as the speed needle nudged ever higher.

  At the next intersection she did a little dogleg onto a wide side street and bit back a groan as she saw the street sign.

  “Lauren!” Ayers said anxiously. “You’re going up a one-way street the wrong way!”

  “Well aware of that,” Lauren ground out as she crunched her gears. “They still behind us?”

  “Yes,” Ayers said, swivelling in her seat. “And getting closer. Are they high beaming us now?”

  “Yeah they are. Assholes.”

  She saw oncoming headlights and sucked in a breath as the staccato beeps of a horn barked at them. At the last minute, she and the oncoming driver swerved just enough to pass each other, both mounting the edges of sidewalks. The angry honking resumed behind her, about five seconds later.

  Lauren flicked Ayers a glance. “Doing okay?”

  Ayers didn’t answer.

  “Don’t worry,” Lauren said. “I’ve got this. Dad fitted out The Beast for just this kind of thing.”

  “Your father foresaw the need for you to outrun pursuers?” Ayers said through thin lips. “I suspect our childhoods were very different.”

  “Ha,” Lauren said and whipped the wheel hard around, hauling them with a squeal of tires across the main thoroughfare of Laurel Canyon Blvd, finally back on the right side of the road. “My brothers loved racing on dirt tracks and gunning it around obstacle courses, so before I even had my licence, they showed me how to do some things that would curl your hair.”

  Lauren glanced at her GPS destination, figuring out the distances remaining.

  “Dona Lola Drive?” Ayers said, following her eyes. “Why are we going there?”

  “It has a shape that’s pretty much perfect for taking out unsuspecting drivers,” Lauren replied. “You’ll see.”

  “Taking out?” Ayers repeated. “Now why do I not like the sound of that?”

  Lauren’s eyes glinted. “Just trust me.” Her heartbeat picked up even faster as she saw the street sign she was looking for. “Ready?”

  She peeled off Laurel Canyon onto the side road leading to Dona Lola and then suddenly slammed on the brakes. “Crap! That wasn’t on the map!”

  They could see Dona Lola Drive stretching up a steep hill on the left. But it had been blocked off at the bottom end, just in front of them, with thick bushes. “Who the hell turns a road into a freaking cul-de-sac without mentioning it to map companies?” Lauren growled. “Shit!”

  She thought about her options for a split second and then, shaking her head, hit reverse. She lined Dona Lola up.

  “You are not about to do what I think you are,” Ayers said in dismay.

  “Fairly sure I am.” She focused and revved her engine, steeling herself.

  “What about your car! Those bushes will shred your paint.”

  “You said it yourself,” Lauren said through gritted teeth. “The story comes first.”

  The wash of high beam headlights hit them as their pursuers came around the bend on Laurel Canyon Blvd and spotted them idling on the side street. They turned off to follow. Lauren said a brief prayer to any deity listening, then stomped the gas pedal. The Beast leapt forward as Ayers’s breath hitched.

  The bruising, scraping, crunching, and crashing noises of metal and nature pulverizing each other made Lauren sick to her stomach, but in a heartbeat they were through and the only noise was the roar of a powerful engine flying up the hill.

  High beams hit them again.

  So the SUV would also be needing a new paint job, Lauren thought grimly. Good. Served them right.

  She angled her car on the deserted road in a way to prevent the SUV from seeing the arcing bend coming up quickly.

  “Ever heard of drifting?” she asked Ayers.

  Ayers shook her head firmly, fingers tightening on her seatbelt.

  “Okay, crash course coming right up. Hold on.”

  “Crash?”r />
  Lauren increased her speed as they roared up to the tight bend. The road was generously wide, but the bend was acute, almost a hairpin, meaning anyone going too fast or who was caught unawares would overshoot, hit the high, right side-rail, and fly into the potholed hillside and bushes above it.

  She throttled up, pulled the steering wheel hard left, intentionally oversteering, and felt the loss of traction from the rear wheels as they kicked out and began to drift toward the metal railing.

  The safety barrier loomed up fast but the momentum from Lauren hauling on the wheel curled them around the turn like a sling shot. But without traction on the rear, The Beast’s rear would slam into the rail.

  “Lauren!”

  She heard the fear and shock in the word but didn’t lose focus. Everything seemed to slow down. She held the turn as the vibrations thrummed through her steering wheel and up her forearms, the engine roared its protest at the unexpected G-forces, and the rear wheels continued to slide loosely. And then she sensed it—that perfect sweet spot of speed and power and timing. Like old times, she heard her oldest brother’s voice screaming in her brain. Now, Laur, now! Punch it!

  She slammed her foot hard on the pedal, and The Beast regained its feet, gave a little ass wiggle, and shot forward, straight down the hill like a bullet.

  She could hear a wailing screech of brakes just behind her, then a shredding sound of metal on metal as the SUV smashed into the barrier. It tore through it in a furious ripping sound of twisting metal.

  She eased up on the speed and saw in the side mirror the plume of smoke and metal smouldering against the bushy hill face. She slowed to a stop, opened her door, and leaned out to watch as two men crawled shakily from the wreckage and appeared to be shouting at each other. One pointed furiously at Lauren’s idling car.

  She grinned, closed the door, and tossed a relieved grin at Ayers, who was staring straight in front of her as though she’d just seen the second coming.

  Hell, maybe she had.

  “Takes a lot of practice to do that,” Lauren explained as they resumed their journey. “Doubt they had a clue what hit them. Now aren’t you glad we took The Beast?”

  At Ayers’s prolonged silence, Lauren realized she was white as a sheet.

  “Hey, you okay?” Lauren asked. “Want me to stop?”

  Ayers shook her head. “Just. Home. Now. Slowly.”

  “Sure,” Lauren said. She lowered her speed. “Hey, I think you should know I have done that move, like, a shit-ton of times.”

  She glanced at Ayers who didn’t seem big on speaking. Or blinking. Or breathing.

  “You were always in good hands,” she reassured her. “And it was probably safer than it looked. Okay?”

  “Probably safer?” Ayers slowly uncurled her white-knuckle grip from the seat belt and turned to look squarely at her. “Lauren,” she said in a low voice, “I just had the depressing realization that if I died, the last line of my obituary would read that I was a gossip columnist for the Daily Sentinel. So I’m only going to say this once. Thank you for not killing us tonight. And from now on, I drive.”

  * * *

  Catherine Ayers’s home was, in a word, freaking spectacular. Okay, so that was two words, Lauren amended to herself as she gingerly turned into a driveway lined with low palms and thick, lush greenery that was blocked by a towering wall and gate. It had taken a lot longer to get here than it should have thanks to Ayers and her withering glares every time Lauren tried to nudge the speed anywhere north of forty.

  Ayers exhaled raggedly at the sight of her address and thumbed a small remote she’d pulled out of her bag. A wide wrought-iron gate rolled open.

  Beyond lay an elegant, two-story, cream house, lit with warm exterior lights which extended into the garden, backlighting the greenery.

  “What style is your house?” Lauren asked in awe. “I mean, that is gorgeous.”

  “It was built in the ’20s,” Ayers said quietly as she put her keys away. “A racetrack owner is rumored to have built it, thinking he could lure the stars of the golden era of Hollywood to his parties. He wanted something intimate but beautiful.”

  “It is,” Lauren said. “How much did you pay for it?”

  Ayers glared.

  “Sorry,” Lauren said. “It’s late. I lose my censor button after eleven.”

  “Useful to know.”

  Lauren was distracted by a movement in her rearview mirror.

  “Your camera just turned to follow us,” she said, startled. “The one on the external wall we passed.”

  “It has a movement tracker. It’s sending video of your vehicle to my security company as we speak. I should get a call any minute about a strange car in my driveway.”

  A moment later as she pulled up in front of the garage, and the red cedar door slid up automatically. “Neat trick.”

  “It’s automatic,” Ayers explained, pulling out her cell phone which had just begun to ring.

  “Ayers,” she answered. “Yes. Please log its plate number for the white list. By the way, I’m expecting security intrusions in the immediate future. Put my address on high alert. And do the external patrol. All the extras. I believe it may be professionals involved, so be vigilant. Thanks. Good night.”

  Lauren turned off her ignition and watched in wonder as the door behind them closed on its own and the interior lights of the garage came on, washing the room in warm yellow. Ayers’s infamous silver Saab was parked beside her, and the entire garage was meticulous with gleaming benches and an alcove for every tool.

  “My dad would love this,” she said in wonder.

  “Most men do,” Ayers noted and slid out. She rapped on the trunk and waited for Lauren to pop it, then reached for her two designer bags.

  Lauren tried not to think of all the men who’d probably gotten an invite to Ayers’s fancy, high-tech house over however long she’d had it. She hauled out her lone duffle bag, slung it over her shoulder, and slammed her trunk’s door a little too hard.

  Then her eye fell to the deep scratches cutting into the side all along her car. She scowled, and her heart sank in dismay. “Crap.”

  * * *

  Ayers’s home was beautiful and tasteful, with polished timber floors, cream decor, artwork on the walls, and rooms and nooks bursting with books.

  As Ayers led them through the upper level, Lauren paused at one view from an office window and spied a little gazebo next to a stone bench and a pond. The gardens were extensively lit, and the trees had tiny twinkling lights embedded in their branches.

  It was magical, like a wonderland of lights and lush plants. It was warm and soothing and nothing like the lair she’d imagine for Ayers.

  Had to be a killer of an electric bill.

  “Solar lighting,” Ayers said. “And that’s my favorite view. It’s a creative place to write.”

  Lauren glanced down at a small writing desk. On it were framed pictures of Ayers with various noted names. Presidents. Entrepreneurs. Leaders. Nelson Mandela. Stephen Hawking. Sally Ride. Ayers looked poised in every photo except for one. She paused over that exception, taking in a much younger Ayers standing with an iconic political correspondent at a party on the lawn of the White House.

  She picked it up and examined the hopeful expression on the twenty-something Ayers’s face. “Helen Thomas, huh? Who didn’t idolize her?”

  Ayers glanced at her in surprise.

  “You know, Catherine, you’ve really got to stop underestimating my knowledge of political journalists,” Lauren said lightly. “I wasn’t entirely raised in a barn. Although you seem to think I was.”

  Ayers’s lips quirked. “I suppose that’s fair.” She took the photo from Lauren’s hands and studied it closely.

  “It was a different era back then,” she mused. “I’d just moved to Washington. It was a time when seeking the truth was still seen as the core goal of a political journalist.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “Rehashing press releases.
Debating political spin as real news. Being blatantly used by the parties. Helen saw it happening and called them on it repeatedly.” She sighed. “The political machine got her in the end, of course.

  “The golden rule of politics and the media is when the wolves start to bay, it’s irrelevant what you do or say after that. If you’re marked for extinction, they will get you. Seven decades of service to the truth, and her career ended in scandal. She certainly didn’t deserve that inglorious exit.”

  Lauren caught a strange inflection. “But you think you did?” she asked, confused.

  Ayers tilted her head. “While I deserved most of the blame, I know that certain people who contributed to my downfall were not held accountable at all. Look, it’s complicated. But as I said, once you’re in their crosshairs and they want you gone, you’re gone.”

  Lauren held her breath and willed Ayers to explain the mystery no one fully understood. How could someone as smart and politically savvy as Ayers, blow everything with one spectacularly bad story?

  “So what went wrong?”

  Ayers shook her head in irritation and placed the picture of the veteran print journalist in its pride of place on her desk. She adjusted it and then took a step back, obviously forgetting how close Lauren had been standing.

  Lauren could feel Ayers’s body heat curling across her skin.

  “It’s late,” Ayers said, her voice vibrating close to her ear. “And I think our dash to the gates of hell and back tonight has put me in a reflective mood. But no good comes from rehashing the past.”

  Lauren almost slumped in disappointment.

  “Your room’s this way.” Ayers left.

  She trailed after Ayers, entered the guest room, and dropped her duffel bag on the floor. She looked around. It was cosy and adorable. A double bed, a white dresser, and matching white wardrobe. An exotic timber ornamental ceiling fan added unique flair. Ayers pointed to a door. “Guest bathroom’s right there. If you need me, I’m at the end of the hall. Sleep well, Lauren.”

  “You too, Catherine,” she said. Ayers sauntered out as though she hadn’t just spent eight hours on the road followed by one near-death experience.