Into the Night

by Herb Scribner

  It helps, too, that I have nothing else to do today, so it would actually be completely easy to meet up.

  "Sure. Just tell me where."

  And so he does. And another round of plans are made for the evening.

  I was worried he would want to meet up at his apartment or some sketchy hotel in the heart of the city. I should have had more faith. Not everyone man is trying to murder me. But I remind myself that most men who have exhibited positive emotions toward me tend to have a thirst for blood. So there's no reason not to worry about it.

  But Marty had a much better plan in mind. He told me to meet him at a small coffee shop called Compass Coffee on Seventh Street. When I enter inside, the smell of coffee wafting up my nostrils and sending a shot of adrenaline through my body, I see a grizzled middle-aged man sitting at a table in the back corner of the restaurant.

  He has a gray beard that frizzly and down to the top of his collarbone. Bags hang off of his eyes. His skin is cut up with scars and old age. His fingers press firmly against a pen as he writes on a sheet of paper with a fierce intensity. He's writing something straight from the mind, very little thought about it leave his mind.

  What could he be writing? And why is he writing it before he meets up with me tonight? It seems like a little too much work to be doing right now.

  I walk over with ginger footsteps toward the table, like I'm approaching a lion that's been let out of a cage. When I'm close enough, I patiently wait beside the table for him to notice me. He doesn't. He continues to write like he's spilling his life's story onto the page. Maybe he is. Maybe he wants to write down everything that happened to him in his life before something nefarious happens to him.

  I clear out my throat as a way to gather his attention, and it works. He picks his head up and eyes meet for the first time. And that's when I see it -- he's not happy to see me. He's probably not even happy to be here. He's clearly upset. He's full of rage and anger. The stress weighs down his features.

  There's nothing about him that seems happy. Almost like someone sucked the happiness right out of him and left a shriveled and stressed up shell of a man behind.

  "Marty."

  "Yeah," he says, his voice just as grizzled as I thought it would.

  "Anette Gardner. We spoke on the phone."

  He points his phone at the chair across from him. "Sit."

  Okay. Not going to lie -- he sounds a tad bit rude. No, very rude. There's no reason for him to sound this agitated with me. I didn't do anything to him. I didn't cause him any problems. And yet he's acting like I ruined his life.

  I have to play this a little differently if I'm going to survive this conversation. So I take a deep breath, clearing out any immediate stress crawling on my skin. I rip the chair away from the table and sit across from the grizzled newspaper editor. He sets his pen down, letting it fall upon the pages before him. He sucks up the pages and taps them against the table. Then, he reaches down by his feet and picks up a brief case. He slides the pages into the briefcase and then sets it back down. When he's back looking at me, he grabs a coffee cup before him.

  "Getting yourself some coffee tonight?"

  I think about it and even turn to look at the cafe's menu. Nothing interesting on the board. Just a bunch of average coffees to pick from.

  But I have to think better for it. I have to keep myself at peace and stay away from igniting too much violence here. And if I have more energy -- that is to say, if I drink some coffee and get filled with adrenaline to fight -- then this entire mess of a conversation is going to fall apart.

  "I'm fine."

  "Okay. Fine. I'm not going to tell you what to do."

  "So you said you wanted to talk to me tonight. So talk."

  "You're the one that's here to listen."

  "I just want to talk," I say. "I want to hear whatever you're willing to tell me."

  "What are you reporting on?"

  I really don't want to go into it because the situation has become incredibly more complicated thanks to the shutdown. But if I am going to get anywhere with these stories, then I need to reveal to my sources what I know and what I'm working on.

  So I tell him everything I'm working on -- specifically that I'm working on a long form piece about New Surge, Up Sync, and how all of these tech companies connect and what it means for the future of tech regulation in the United States. He listens by staring at the table below him, taking a sip of coffee here and there to break up the knowing glances when he looks up with me.

  When I'm finished, he takes one final gulp of his coffee and sets his cup down. I can't tell what's wrong with him. But from what I can gather, he went through something stressful at some point or another that made him this way. I remember reading once that he had quoted the Scribe out of nowhere, and people were truly shocked that he would leave such an important job. He hadn't really picked himself up and found another job in journalism, either. So clearly something off had happened to him.

  "So you really want to know the truth about how all the companies are connected?"

  I nod, even though that's only one part of what I really want. I want to know about how Kayleigh died in the national pool and who would have thought to poison her before killing her. But that's its own problem that I'll have to sort out down the road ... eventually. And it doesn't seem to be directly tied to my large story, at least not yet.

  "Yeah, that's what I want. There has to be a reason, right?"

  "Oh, there's a reason."

  Shocked at hearing this, I scoot my chair forward and lean down toward him so he can hear me, my voice barely voice a whisper.

  "Tell me what you know."

  "I need your assurance you won't use my name."

  "Of course."

  "I mean it. Not with an editor, not with sources. Nothing. I finally got away from this entire mess and I want to stay away from it as long as I can."

  Normally sources can be a little over protective about their name and keeping all of their information private. I've dealt with tons of sources who didn't want to reveal their names but were perfectly fine with giving me information on background. I had even used an anonymous source on occasion.

  But the way Marty looked at me when he asked me to help him out and not reveal his name was the look of a man who really didn't want anyone to know his name. He didn't want anyone to know who he was, or even consider who he might be. He wants to totally disappear.

  Honestly, Marty shouldn't be hanging around Washington, D.C., if he doesn't want people to know who he is. He should be living out in the middle of the woods with a yurt or something. That might help him out a bit.

  "That's fine," I say. "I won't mention your name at all. We don't even have to speak again about any of this stuff after we're done talking today."

  "I'd like that."

  "What happened to you?"

  "You wouldn't believe me."

  "Try me."

  He clears his own throat and shuffles in his seat. He's uncomfortable. I've pushed a button that he didn't expect I'd push. I don't mind pushing people's buttons. Getting to a certain point where you can cross a line is enough for me to get real information.

  And if Marty is really holding onto some good details, then I have to be okay with pushing him to the limits.

  "I was editor of the Scribe two years ago. You probably know about that. Any journalist with her salt will go looking for information before they meet with an editor. And I'm sure you did," he says, walking his way slowly around the topic. "I was in love with my job. We really did a great job of reporting the news and keeping things serious and straight forward. It was just a really, really good operation we had going.

  "I remember there was this story about soccer match fixing out in Asia somewhere. I forget where now. And it was poised awards. So we were trying to decide how we were going to handle the future of our company. A really good newspaper would lean into award-winning journalism, don't you think? But that's not what happened. Instead, our CFO to
ld us that we needed to make more money at any means necessary or else we'd have to fire a handful of people."

  He shuffles again his chair, clearing his throat even though there's not much left in his throat to clear.

  "So the idea came up for us to tap into the fake news industry. I know. It's sounds ridiculous. But fake news was getting so much traffic. There was so much money in that arena. We're talking at least four people's salaries in one month. All we had to do was create a fake news site, write some crazy fake news, and see what happens after that.

  "Well, as you can imagine, we needed to have a solid reporter on it. So we put Minny on it. Good old Minerva. She was such a strong reporter. Our Pulitzer Prize reporter. Well, she wished she had won the Pulitzer. But she didn't. Because she started writing fake news so we wanted to tone down a lot of the stuff she was working on. She agreed to write the fake news stuff, and so she did."

  Now he takes another sip from his coffee, even though there's nothing left in the cup. Just a dry and empty cup. He's doing it out of habit.

  "Anyway, we tried it for awhile but things ..." He holds his breath again. There's something on the edge of his tongue that he wants to reveal to me, but he holds back. Why? Why is he holding back? What is he scared of?

  "Well?"

  "Sorry, you have to forgive me. My mind isn't what it used to be. I don't really know what happened. We tried it for awhile and then things just sort of stopped."

  "Okay, but you don't know what happened?"

  "I don't."

  "Why not?"

  "I can't say."

  "What?"

  "You ever have a dream that just sucks away all of your attention? Like a dream that just keeps your mind busy. Visual. Powerful. So real. And then the next morning, you wake up, and you forget it? That's exactly what happened to me."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I don't remember it, but I know it happened to me. I can't remember at all what happened, but I know it did. I know it sounds strange.":

  "Yeah, a little."

  "But this is getting outside the topic. The point of all of this is that New Surge was the company who owned another fake news company called Maximum Inc. I know, what a name. They were our competition at the time. And apparently they took all the information they learned from their articles and gave it to Up Sync. A total data collection scam between the companies. That's what I'm here to tell you."

  I don't really know what to say. The conversation drifted into a confusing zone for a minute there. But now it's starting to make a little more sense. The tech companies worked to collect data on the people who visited the website and then traded it to another company. That definitely fits the narrative.

  Now I just have to find a way to prove it.

  "How can I prove this?"

  "Minny. Talk to Minny. She'll prove it to you."

  "Where do I find her?"

  "I don't know. She disappeared right before I quit. Her last night at the office was so strange. She spilled a cup of coffee and then just took off. We really don't know what happened to her after that."

  "That really is strange."

  "I wish I knew more than that. I never heard from her begin after what happened to her, and I really wish I did," he says.

  His eyes tear up, flooding with water, almost rueful. He wipes away whatever's soaked his eyes and sighs deeply.

  "Sorry, I don't mean to bring this up to you and put you in an uncomfortable spot. Truly, I'm sorry," he says. "Anyway, she can help you figure everything out if you can get in contact with her. She knows more about the tech side of all this than I do."

  I pull out my phone and open the Notes app. I type away with notes from the conversation. I write down Minny's name. Maybe I'll have time to find her in the future. Finding her would help me a lot with learning more about what's going on.

  But it raises questions for me. How long do I want to travel down this road? How deep into this story do I want to go? I can't keep following this path forever. Eventually I will have to publish a story, and in many ways that's more important than chasing down every single detail of this story.

  It's so weird be caught in this type of situation. Reporting on a major topic and not being chased down by a killer. Usually I'm the one being chased by a psychopath. Now, I'm just hanging around, reporting, trying to get to the bottom of what's been going on with New Surge, Up Sync and the government.

  There's clearly a bigger story here -- one that Minny will help me figure out.

  But ... am I the one to report on it? Am I the one who has to figure everything out?

  "Thanks for the info," I tell him. "I really appreciate you wanting to meet and talk with everything."

  "I owe Jon for our work together in j-school," he says. "So, wish him well."

  "Can I call you again if I have anymore questions?"

  "Sure. But I think it's best that I call you. I've been stuck in some tricky scenarios so it's probably best for me to reach out."

  "Sounds good," I say.

  We finish up our coffees -- well, we throw away the cups more than anything. We wish each other well. We shake hands and then he flies out the door at more of a hobble than anything.

  I wait around for a few more minutes just to see if anything changes. Maybe Mary will come back to the place with more information. Maybe he'll have some more details for me.

  But he doesn't. It's just pure silence and stillness the coffee shop. When I'm done waiting around, I slip out the front door into the cold. But for some reason I'm not as cold as I was going on.

  I have direction now. I have a plan now for the future. I have an idea of what to do next.

  Well, I hope so.

  I stroll through the city again, letting questions for my story swirl inside my mind.

  Chapter 9: The Search

  I head back to the apartment to collect my thoughts after such a long day. My eyes burn with tiredness and my feet are barking. When I finally open the door into the apartment and hear nothing but the sound of silence, I collapse onto my couch and rest my head against the arm rest on the right side. I flip on the television and scroll through Netflix until I find "The Office" and pop it on. I fall asleep to the sweet sounds of Michael Scott and the Dunder Mifflin office.

  I wake up from a dreamless warm nap and find the apartment is darker than earlier in the day. The place is still eerily quiet. I sit up and wipe away dust from my eyes. My TV screen asks if I want to keep watching the show or if I want to exit. So clearly I click to keep watching. Background noise is better than no noise.

  I scramble over to the other side of the couch and grab a yellow notepad and set it down on the coffee table next to the couch. I forgot my pen, so I have dip back over and bring that over to the notepad and begin to scribe out my thoughts.

  What do I know so far? Not much. All I know is that Upsync and New Surge clearly worked together for awhile, running fake news websites and collecting datas. Somehow it was related to the government. Somehow the government received the data. But was it given to them on purpose? Did they buy it? Did they ask for it?

  Those are questions they Senate is trying to figure out -- ones that won't be answered until the testimony is over.

  But then there's that problem, too. The senate hearings are far from over. We still need to get through them. We still need to hear about them.

  Just thinking about the Senate hearings reminds me of what happened to Kayleigh just the other night. She was due to speak at the hearing. She was the last person on the list of scheduled speakers. And yet she had been murdered in cold blood.

  That couldn't be a coincidence.

  Did she have vital information to the process? Did she have the information that all of the senators were looking for? It's just a little strange that she was killed when the senate hearing was in a weird state of limbo.

  And then there was this Minny character to asses. This person named Minerva who, according to Marty, knew more about this stuff than he did. A
nnette needed to find her. Finding Annette would do enough to help solve a lot of these problems and answer a lot of questions.

  I write down Minny's name thrice over and underlined it. I stare it for a few minutes, almost expecting something to change. Like it's going to give me more information than I need.

  But nothing moves. Nothing changes on the page there. I have to figure out something else.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  I pull out my phone. The sides of it twitch in my hand. A tinge of worry vibrates through my body. People rarely call me like this. Most conversations are reduced to text messages. So when a call comes in, you know it's going to be something serious.

  The number is actually one I recognize thankfully. It makes answering it much easier. It's Ben.

  "Well, look who decided to call me. I thought for a second you would be home napping."

  "No, sorry, I've been up here in the Liaison with the senator and everyone else. We're working on some new strategies for the launch now that we're seeing some social media attention."

  "So the campaign is in the full swing."

  "You bet, babe. And once we go national, you're gonna be dating an aide to a potential president. This is going to go places, I can feel it."

  "That's great. So what are you calling me for? Going to tell me again that you're going to be late coming home?"

  He chuckles on the other end. It's his playful laugh, the one he does when he knows he's wrong or one where he knows he's getting over on someone. I can just picture him with that devilish smirk on his face and a gleeful look in his eyes.

  "Actually, it's sort of funny," he says, "I'm actually calling you on behalf of the senator. My boss. You know, Senator Simmons."

  My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. The paces increases, banging hard against my ribcage. What would the senator want with me? What would she possibly need from me at such a late hour? It's basically dinner time, so why would she want to talk to me all of a sudden. She had all day to get in contact with me unless something changed.

  "Why does she want to talk to me?"