by Camryn King
Two hours in and Zeke had come up empty. He wouldn’t have guessed the drive was stored somewhere outside the home. In the guy’s car perhaps? Zeke looked at his watch. Just after three. He knew where the production facility was but one, by the time he got over there it would be almost dawn and two, there was almost always a crowd in and around the place. In frustration, Zeke kicked a speaker located beneath the desk. The blow jarred the mesh-like screen on the front loose. After staring at it a couple seconds, he knelt and placed his hand inside. He ran a finger along the grooves on both sides and across the entire bottom. Getting on both knees he used a chair for balance while checking the sides and top of the speaker inside. His finger ran across something taped to the top. Small. Flat. About the size of a flash drive. Zeke smiled and yanked the tape from the wood. He pulled it out and saw attached what he believed to be one of at least two drives that had eluded him for a month and a half. Satisfied at achieving his goal and too stoked to give a damn about who saw him, Zeke strode out the front door, down the stairs and out the front entrance, even throwing up a peace sign to the group of teens who observed his exit.
He could hardly wait to get back to the apartment he stayed at when in Chicago. On the way there, though, his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten for hours. He went through a drive-through for a triple cheeseburger with fries, and then stopped at an all-night grocer for a six pack of beer. Once inside the one-bedroom set-up, he pulled his tablet from the still packed luggage, brought it out to the dining room, and set it on the table. He turned it on and while waiting for it to load went into the kitchen and zapped his burger and fries. Back at the table he pulled a can of beer from the pack, opened it up and took a long swig. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out the flash drive and inserted it into the slot. He grabbed the triple-decker sandwich and took a huge bite, followed by a thick, crunchy fry. He opened the thumb drive. The contents were in a numbered list. He switched the settings to icons. All pictures, he noted, with another burger bite. He clicked on the first icon, immediately recognizing the picture that nabbed him for this assignment—a beautiful rainbow behind a lush private island, the picture he’d studied more than he’d like to remember. Several more clicks revealed the same shot from a variety of angles and distances as he imagined Kennedy monkeying around with the lens. By the time he’d gone through the burgers and beer, he’d also gone through the entire flash drive. His stomach was full, but he was totally frustrated. Where was Van Dijk and the pharmaceutical heir with secret society ties? What was threatening about a bunch of trees? Zeke popped another beer and took it and the computer into the living room. He propped his feet on the coffee table, set the tablet in his lap. He went back to the first image, blowing it up as far as the tablet allowed. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a card that worked as a high-powered magnifying glass. In one of the pictures Zeke could make out what appeared to be a human body. But enlarging the photo so extensively had made any further identification of what he looked at totally impossible. He went through all the photos again, and sat with more questions than answers. Where were the incriminating photos? Zeke had a thought, sat up, looked at his watch and reached for his phone. One of his special op buddies was also an expert when it came to all things digital. He believed, or at least hoped, that photography was included on that list. The guy everyone called Bullet was stationed in the Middle East. It was early afternoon where he was. Even if Bullet was asleep, he thought, as he tapped the screen and his friend’s number, Zeke was getting ready to be his wakeup call.
The greeting was friendly, the conversation brief. Zeke knew Bullet was a patriot. He could be trusted. Knowing this was a job for the good of the nation, Zeke knew that what he told his comrade would go no further. Without sharing details, he asked his friend to use his equipment to see if anyone could be detected on any of the files that would appear threatening to national security. Zeke didn’t mention names when outlining the search. Bullet woke up and went to sleep to TBC News. If Bullet saw Van Dijk with anyone, he’d let Zeke know.
After ending the call, a tired Zeke stretched on the couch, fully dressed, and was asleep in minutes. Hours later he woke up to a message from Bullet, short and to the point.
Nothing but rainbows. Destroy the drive.
“Nothing but rainbows,” Zeke muttered. WTF? He read the message to himself. He read it again out loud. Bullet was keeping something. What, and why? One thing was for sure, he thought as he headed toward the shower. He’d be guarding that thumb drive with his life.
18
So far, Kennedy had done nothing regarding the envelope she’d received or the message she later found once her mind stopped reeling. The message was simple. Turn over the flash drives. Turn over the pictures. A smaller envelope had been included, containing a P.O. Box in Oklahoma that could belong to God knew who. She’d also received hang up calls and once again, felt she’d been followed. About the only area of her life that felt remotely normal was work, which was where she was headed as she got a text from Logan. She pulled into the garage, locked her car and read his message as she walked toward the building.
Where u at? Come over. It’s important.
Logan knew about her new job. He said Gwen had told him. So why was he asking her to come over during working hours? Kennedy knit her brow at the request and responded.
Just got to work. I’ll call on a break.
She read his answer and sighed. Would the craziness of the Bahamas ever be behind her?
Not as long as you keep their secret.
For an inexplicable reason, Kennedy paused and glanced back at the garage, and Harriet. Her text indicator pinged but she waited until she reached the office and had sat down at her desk to read it.
Never mind. Meet me tonight at the studio. Ten o’clock. She read the address. This some real shit. We need facetime.
With a slew of photos to analyze, articles to edit and the print deadline for Chicago Sighting’s August issue looming, plus Jeff making a rare office appearance, it wasn’t hard for Kennedy to put Logan’s texts behind her and focus on work. Even without a break for lunch, the day flew by. She left around six o’clock. Once in the car and flowing with traffic, she tapped the Bluetooth.
“Hey, Kennedy.”
“Hey, Gwen.”
“What’s up?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you. Logan sent me an urgent text wanting to meet right away. Do you know what it’s about?”
“No. I haven’t talked to him today.”
“Are you sure?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sure. Why? What do you think it’s about?”
“You know there’s only one thing that comes to mind with weird stuff like this. Anything unusual happening with you? Any strange incidents or people or something out of place?”
“No.” Gwen dragged out the word into more than one syllable. “You?”
Kennedy had told herself she wouldn’t share what happened in Peyton and the phantom Jack Sutton sighting. But she told Gwen what happened.
“You know what, Kennedy? This has gotten way out of hand. I’m seriously concerned for you. It’s time you go to the authorities and get a trained professional to help you figure out what’s going on. Either that or . . .”
“Or what?”
“I probably shouldn’t say anything.”
“Well, after saying that you most certainly should.”
“Okay, don’t get upset. I’m just throwing stuff out there. Do you think it’s possible that with the burglary in the Bahamas and all the stress you’ve been under lately, it might help to see a therapist?”
“You think I need therapy?”
“It’s not the worse that could happen, Ken. You’ve been through some pretty traumatic experiences. I know people who’ve sought help for far less disturbing experiences than you’ve been through.”
“I’ve never thought about it, but . . .”
“Think about it, Ken. You may be experi
encing some type of breakdown and not even know it.”
“Okay, wait a minute. I’ll concede to maybe needing to talk to somebody but to say I’m in breakdown mode is pretty extreme.”
“So is feeling as though you’re being followed, or that your home is broken into, or that a guy you met in the Bahamas has followed you to your hometown!”
“You think he was a figment of my imagination? Fuck you, Gwen. I know what I saw.”
“You asked me to tell you what I was thinking, and I did. I love you, girl. You know that. I’m also concerned for your welfare, in every way—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I just think it would help you to talk to somebody, that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you or make you angry. Just giving you something to think about.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry you’re angry.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“You know I love you.”
“I know it, chick. I love you, too.”
Kennedy ended the call, looking around for a place to have dinner. She’d planned to ask Gwen to join her, but her friend’s well-intended advice squashed that desire. She was drugged, robbed and burglarized, all in just over a week. Not to mention the compromising pics Gwen knew nothing about. Yet Gwen thought it irrational to believe she might be followed? To consider that the person who robbed her in the Bahamas, and may have burglarized her home could do the same to her mom’s house in Kansas? She knew Gwen meant well but she wasn’t the one who’d woke up groggy and naked with two days gone.
“I may be crazy,” Kennedy mumbled as she pulled into a strip mall parking space. “But at least that kooky paranoia is keeping my ass alive.”
Kennedy dawdled over a Chinese dinner, but afterwards there were still a few hours until her meeting with Logan. She got in her car with no destination in mind. Several lights later she saw a theater marquee. A dark room, hot popcorn and total anonymity. She maneuvered her car into the left turn lane. Turns out it was a discount theater offering second runs of recent blockbuster hits. Kennedy scanned the titles and decided on a Spike Lee movie she’d heard about but never saw. She’d just eaten but still bought popcorn and candy along with a drink and settled into worn but comfy seats in the darkened room. From what she gleaned in the darkness there were less than a dozen others who’d selected to watch a movie about infiltration and covert operations. Given that she herself was in a controversial situation that could upend a nation, she couldn’t miss the irony, and felt the movie more than a little apropos. The deft way the director used humor to lighten a heavy topic helped her see her own situation in a less tenuous light. It also helped her understand where Gwen was coming from, and to forgive her. Not that she could laugh at what was happening in her life. When it came to the picture she’d accidentally snapped, with its myriad implications and what it could mean to the entire world, there wasn’t a damn thing funny.
Over two hours later, Kennedy was back in her car and headed to Chicago’s notorious South Side. She pulled up to a nondescript, brick building, and parked close to the entrance. Bass beats from another car in the parking lot cut through the night air. A group of men stood off to the side, talking. They eyed her speculatively as she approached the door. One of them—short, stocky, wearing shades after dark and a scowl that suggested “you don’t want none of this” stepped away from the group and blocked her entry. She felt him ogling her through the black lens.
“What’s up?” he asked her.
“I’m here to see Logan.”
“Who?”
“Um, Lowkey?”
His chin rose and fell with his blatant body scan. “You his woman or something?”
She crossed her arms. “Or something. Is he here?”
“Is he expecting you? This is a private session.”
Kennedy pulled out her phone. The “guard” offered a lopsided smile, reached back for the door and opened it. “I’m just messing with you, shorty. He’s on the second floor, last room on the right.”
There was a stairway just inside the doorway. As she climbed to the second floor, Kennedy was greeted by a swirl of voices, a pounding bass, and the smell of weed. She passed one open door and another closed one on the way to the room from where music blasted. Inside the room, Logan stood behind a huge mixer with what looked to be a hundred knobs. Another guy stood beside him. They both bobbed their heads to the beat. Two sound rooms housed two artists—a male rapper spitting words with a rapid-fire, staccato-like delivery, while a female R&B singer crooned a hook: Love me. Better. Love me, love me. Better, better. Love me. Lower. Love me, love me. Lower, lower. She began making out the rapper’s words. He was describing, in detail, exactly how he’d love her better. But it was too late to back out of the room, especially with the way both Logan and the guy beside him now eyed her, waiting for a reaction. Did Logan write this, inspired by Gwen? She kept her jaw strong and didn’t give them one. She could have. The lyrics were hot, and it had been a while since she’d played lower body ping pong. But neither of those guys needed to know that. Instead, she turned to watch the performance and joined the guys in a head bob to the beat.
The song ended. Logan pulled off his headphones and stood. “I’ma take five, y’all.” He came over and put an arm around Kennedy. It was a classic baby brother move but he wasn’t smiling. Instead he guided them out the door.
“You alright?” she asked.
“Not at all.”
They continued down the hall. Logan tried a couple of doorknobs, finally finding an unlocked door on the right at the end. He stepped back so she could go in before him. Someone’s office, Kennedy noted, before turning around.
“Okay, Logan. You’re acting all kinds of weird. What is going on?”
He leaned against the wall. “That flash drive you gave me? It’s gone.”
“Gone. What do you mean?” The comment was unexpected and delivered so calmly, she honestly had no clue.
“Gone. Stolen. No longer in my possession. Some motherfucker got into my house, went into the room and stole it.”
“Damn!” The truth finally sank in. “I can’t believe they broke in again.”
“Not a break in really. Whoever’s after you or whatever you’ve got is a professional. Homeboy entered just like he had a key.”
“Homeboy? You saw him?”
“No, but some dudes hanging out the night he broke in did. Tall White dude, they said. He was wearing jeans, a baggy shirt, baseball cap. They felt he was up to something, because for one thing, we know all the White people in our building and he wasn’t one of them, and two, they said he turned and threw up signs. On any block in that part of town, that’s some bold shit.”
His eyes turned compassionate, even as she mentally cataloged the description. With nothing more than a gut feeling for evidence, she thought it was Jack.
“This situation is out of hand, Ken. You need to go to the police, the mafia, some gangs, something. Because these boys aren’t playing. They’ve been after you for months, all the way from the Bahamas. I don’t know what you’ve got, but you need to give that shit back. It’s not worth your life, and it feels like whoever this is could actually take it.”
Logan insisted on Kennedy staying until he could follow her home. He parked, walked her to the door and in a move to lighten the darkness offered to check under her bed for the boogeyman. The coast was clear. She was okay for the moment. But if what Logan felt about whoever was after her was right, she wouldn’t be safe for long.
19
Kennedy was on auto-pilot the next day when she arrived at the office. All she could think about was how someone—the same person who’d done her, Kennedy presumed—had burglarized Logan’s house and stolen the thumb drive. She’d initially been angry at Logan, but he was right. It wasn’t his fault that someone had no scruples and would do anything to get something even he hadn’t seen. When Kennedy stopped to think about it, her friendship with Logan hadn’t been the same since that week after returning fr
om the island, Logan being over, and getting punched in the face. Her eyes narrowed as she remembered the blurry picture of the stranger at the door that he’d shown her. He hadn’t looked like Jack, had he? Did Logan still have that picture? Did she want to ask him for it, and involve him more? And if she asked him, would he give it to her? A few days ago, she would have bet money that his answer would be a resounding yes. Today, she might lose her money.
A light tap cut through the voices coming from sales. She looked up. “Hey, Fennel.”
Fennel held up a package. “Special delivery!”
“Hi, Fennel.” Kennedy waved her in. “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
Monica looked up. “Is that something for the office?”
“No, it’s for me. But electronic devices are always getting stolen so I thought it would be better to have it delivered here, during office hours.”
“Smart move.”
“Speaking of moves, can I get your eye for a minute?” Kennedy picked up the board that she preferred to a computer layout and walked it over to a table. “Since that new Chicago talk show has purchased the inside cover, what about having this photo spread adjacent to it instead of the article on the jazz festival, and move that to the middle, right behind the centerfold?”
Monica picked up the pictures of famous talk show hosts Kennedy had compiled, studying them one by one. “Did you take these?”
Kennedy nodded. “I did.”
“All of them?”
“Yep.”
“Even this one of Phil Donahue?”
Kennedy laughed. “Even him. I was a freshman and he spoke at our school. I even have a picture taken with him.”
Monica looked up. “Now that is the picture we need here.”
Kennedy didn’t say anything. She’d purposely changed the subject to get away from what was in the just delivered package. Bringing up the stalker-boyfriend-not-really, and the fact that she doesn’t even want her name on the publication, let alone her face, may have repercussions.