by A. C. Fuller
As it turned out, the first hit was a listicle from Love Hound, a men's site The Barker acquired a couple years ago. According to the piece, there are five types of romantic gesture that "All Women Want to Experience." Each type of romantic gesture illustrates one of five specific messages. And the message is the key, because it's not about the object or even the experience. Focus on the message you want to send, the piece assured me, then craft the gesture, gift, or experience around the message. And the five messages were:
1) I'm Sorry
2) This Day is All About You
3) I've Been Planning This for Weeks
4) I'm Ready to Be Open and Honest
5) I Must Win You Back.
Before you start rolling your eyes, I know these lists are nonsense. All women don't want the same things, just like Four Daily Habits won't double your productivity, and Three Amazing Superfoods won't melt away thirty pounds in six weeks. But I love Internet lists anyway. They give me a starting place on how to think about something and, in this case, I was desperate.
My biggest issue with this list, though, was that it encouraged the reader to pick just one gesture. When I'd read the article, I'd tried to reflect on our relationship. What had Greta told me? What had she tried to tell me that I wasn't ready to hear? What intel had trickled back to me through friends? I wanted to figure out the ways I'd disappointed her so I could know which type of gesture to choose. For example, if I'd made one major mistake in an otherwise solid relationship, I'd choose #1, the I'm Sorry gesture. If I'd been consistently selfish, ignoring her needs, not taking her life seriously, I'd choose #2, the This Day is All About You gesture.
After reflecting on our marriage, I'd picked all five. My plan was to incorporate all of them in a single, monumental anniversary surprise. Greta's schedule and the fact that we weren't communicating were the only problems.
Greta had once been a massage therapist, but she'd slowly transitioned into a life coach for the rich and famous, so her schedule fluctuated. Some days she'd have five or six clients, some days she'd have no clients. On occasion she'd even accompany a CEO or movie star on a trip for a couple days. So, to make sure she'd be free, I'd had a friend of a friend book a day of her time, telling her it was to accompany him to an all-day board meeting on Sunday. Four and a half days from now.
Was it a good idea to start off my grand, reconciliatory gesture with deception? Probably not. But I didn't have any better ideas.
So the friend of a friend had set it up to meet Greta at Mee Sum at 10 am on Sunday because it was near her office and near where his board meeting would take place. But the real reason was that, when she got there, I'd be there holding a plate of Cha Siu Bao, those little buns stuffed with pork. You see, Mee Sum is a little Chinese pastry shop near Pike Place Market in Seattle. On our first night in Seattle twelve years ago, we'd watched an old man stuff pork buns for half an hour and eaten three buns each while breathing in the salty, fishy air from the Puget Sound. It wasn't a memory Greta and I talked about much, but it meant something to me, and I hoped it would to her.
When I met her at Mee Sum instead of her client, I'd be saying This Day is All About You and I've Been Planning This for Weeks, all in the first minute. This was phase one.
Phase two was Dexter Park, her first yoga teacher back in New York City and, to this day, her closest mentor. I was flying him in for a day of yoga and couples counseling. Phase two would reiterate the I've Been Planning This for Weeks message and transition to what, for Greta, would be the most important message of all: I'm Ready to Be Open and Honest.
The honesty part I could handle. The openness, not so much. Before we'd moved to Seattle, Greta was pregnant and I was over the moon. But Rebecca had been stillborn, and, despite talks and plans and dreams, we'd never had another child. I'd never been able to talk about it.
The waiter set down another course, something about Spanish olives six ways, but I was about to bail on the dinner. That's when I read the final text from Mia.
You got a letter from Shapiro, Hawley, and Jackson, LLC. Certified mail. Should I open it?
Chapter 5
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
Mornings in Vegas are underrated, and I'd planned a nice one. Sleep in, eggs Benedict and a couple mimosas, maybe an hour or two of people-watching in a cabana by the pool before my flight to Seattle. But they're not as pleasant when you'd received a certified letter from the top divorce lawyers in Seattle the night before.
After texting Mia back and learning that she'd already left for the night, I'd abandoned dinner between courses sixteen and seventeen, tossed and turned until two a.m., nodded off for a couple nightmare-ravaged bursts, then given up at five and called to get an earlier flight. In the last two hours, I'd consumed five cups of coffee while huddled over my laptop, worrying about the letter and reading every article, blog post, and tweet about the shooting. At seven, I dragged my suitcase past the koi pond and hopped in a taxi for the airport.
In the daytime, all the glittery Vegas dreams of the night before come crashing down. The sky is washed out, the sidewalks cracked and veiny. And you notice all the homeless people, pawnshops, and billboards for divorce lawyers you'd missed the night before. I was bleary-eyed and jittery, hollow except for a violent twist in my guts.
I'd never wanted out of Vegas so badly.
At 7:30, I rolled my suitcase into the airport, laptop bag over one shoulder, the drive over the other. It was still in the thin red backpack Innerva had given me, but the zipper was starting to separate, so I decided to find a luggage store to replace it. I'm not a computer historian myself, but I know people who are. The drive was a work of craftsmanship that had survived for decades, and I wasn't going to let it shatter on the floor of an airport. Plus, there was a miniscule chance it had something to do with James's death.
A source "close to the case" had leaked the name of the shooter to the Associated Press an hour earlier and every network in the country was running with it, so Baxter Callahan's creepy face was plastered across every TV in the airport. A mugshot from his most recent arrest. His face was pale white and wore a blank expression, like he was drugged or incredibly bored. He had short, dirty-blond hair, and a scruffy beard that matched. What stood out was his nose. It was crooked and very large, like it had been broken multiple times and healed out of shape.
The names of the victims, some crime scene photos, and the basic chronology of the shooting had also been leaked, so my version of the shooting was starting to crystallize. And the news networks were doing what they always did. After mentioning the victims for a minute or two, they pivoted to the issue on everyone's mind, the issue that would occupy the police and the pundits for the rest of the day. Motive. Once we know the who and the how of a mass shooting, and once we know that the shooter is dead so there will be no trial, motive is all that's left. But so far there was no manifesto from Baxter, no threat against The Gazette, no social media trail of hate. Just a couple of interviews with neighbors from his apartment complex who characterized him as "quiet" and "reclusive, but friendly." One woman even mentioned how they'd bonded over a shared love of Star Trek when Baxter revealed that his dog's name was Worf, and wept over the fact that the dog had now been taken by the police.
My guess was that it would turn out The Gazette had run some inane story that conflicted with a belief Baxter clung to like a life preserver in the typhoon raging inside his head. Maybe they'd reported on the efforts to bring an NFL team to Las Vegas without mentioning the $750 million price tag for the stadium that would be passed along to taxpayers. Maybe they'd refused to run his op-ed about the UFOs the government uses to steal our life force. Hell, it's possible the receptionist had cut him off in traffic that morning and he'd followed her to the office. Who knows? In mass shootings, the motive is never as important as the shooter thinks it is.
I was contemplating all this as I walked into the luggage shop.
"Are you Alex Vane?"
A man's voice, behind
me.
"I am," I said, turning around.
He looked generic, like the dad of ambiguous national origin in the photo that comes with a cheap picture frame. The only difference was that he was wearing a cream-colored linen suit that must've cost two grand. He smiled at me and held out his hand. "I'm Kenny Atkinson. This is Holly."
Holly stood to his right and wore a light blue pantsuit cut with sleek, fashionable lines. She was about ten years younger than him and had curly red hair and bright red freckles on both cheeks. "Do you have a second?" she asked.
She looked like she should have a friendly Irish accent, but she didn't. Her voice matched his appearance. Steady and professional. Generic.
I get approached in airports from time to time. Sometimes by fans of the site. Sometimes by haters. I didn't really care which these two were, but I didn't feel like chatting. "I've gotta catch a flight," I said, shaking their hands quickly and shuffling toward a wall of luggage at the rear of the store.
"Sorry if this is strange," Kenny said, hurrying after me. "We're recruiters for the GNL App."
"And we're big fans of The Barker," Holly added. "It's so funny we're running into you. We were actually in Vegas for the Tech Roundup Conference. We're headed back to San Francisco now."
I reached the racks of luggage and began inspecting a large black backpack. It had wheels and a retractable handle so it could work as both a backpack and a rolling suitcase. Space for the drive, plus three or four side pockets of varying sizes. I tried to look busy, but they couldn't take a hint.
"In Vegas for business or pleasure?" Kenny asked.
"Little of both."
"Were you at the Tech Roundup Conference, as well?"
He was fishing for something, but I didn't know what. "Who were you with again?" I asked.
"We're corporate headhunters," Holly said. "Have you heard that GNL is focusing on their app? It's going to change the media landscape. Honestly, you're on our list to contact about it anyway."
The more I heard her voice, the more it creeped me out. I mean, she looked like Nicole Kidman from Far and Away, but her voice sounded like it was being run through a computer that smoothed out the highs and lows, filtering out the humanity.
"We're putting together a team," Kenny added. "The best and the brightest, so to speak. Melissa Monroe from Yahoo News, Greg Chang from BuzzFeed."
GNL stood for Global News Link, a site that creates customized digital "newspapers" based on your social media use. You give them access to all your accounts—Facebook, Twitter, Google, and so on—and their program tracks every link you click, how long you stay on the page after clicking, and so on. I'd heard someplace they were focusing on their mobile app because their web traffic was anemic.
"Lemme guess," I said, "you want to know if I'm interested in leaving The Barker?"
They both smiled.
"I'm not." I unzipped the new backpack and set it on top of a rotating stand that displayed nuts and inflatable airplane pillows.
"Too bad," Holly said, plucking a mini toothbrush off the rack. "Where'd you stay in Vegas?"
"The Wynn."
I leaned down and struggled with the zipper on Innerva's backpack. It stuck, so I just ripped it open, ruining the bag. But it didn't matter. It would be in the trash in five minutes. I pulled the drive out and set it into the new backpack, just to make sure it would fit. It did, and with space left over.
Holly and Kenny were hovering. They'd each stepped a little closer.
"What's that?" Holly asked.
Her tone had changed a bit, like a spark of personality was squeaking through her mask of professionalism.
"I don't know," I said, zipping up the new backpack with the drive still in it.
"Odd to have such an old hard drive," Kenny said.
I gave Kenny a long look. "If you knew what it was, why'd you ask?"
He stared back at me for a moment, then smiled. "Well, Holly asked. I just meant, where'd you get it? I know a guy back in San Francisco who collects—"
"I've really gotta go," I said, grabbing the bags. This was getting weird.
"Well, it was great to meet you," Holly said. Her generic voice was back, but I barely noticed because I was striding toward the counter.
They didn't follow me, but I watched them over my shoulder while paying $200 for a bag that would have cost $80 online. Kenny was in the far corner, talking on his cellphone. Holly stood next to him, inspecting a purse. After paying, I stepped out of the store and spent a few minutes padding the drive with t-shirts and socks, then shoved my laptop bag into the empty space I'd created in my rolling suitcase.
Kenny and Holly must have lost interest because, by the time I'd finished repacking, I didn't see them around. For corporate headhunters, landing a guy like me meant a finder's fee of 20% of my first-year salary, which would be low seven figures if I ever left The Barker. That meant that Kenny and Holly would see around a hundred grand each if they convinced me to join GNL. As odd as it was to approach me in the airport, I decided they'd just been excited to meet me.
Five minutes later I was at Alaska's first-class desk handing my driver's license to a pimply kid who looked no more than twenty. He began typing and spoke without looking up from his screen. "And what's your final destination today, sir?"
"Seattle. I'm on the 8:55. I was wondering if there are any first class upgrades available."
"I'll be happy to check on that for you, Mr. Vane."
He tapped at his keyboard for a few seconds, then looked up, frowning. "I'm sorry, sir, I can't let you on a plane today."
"What?"
"If you would step aside, I can get someone to answer any questions you might have."
I smirked, then chuckled. "You're kidding, right? I mean, look at me. I know I don't look like a terrorist."
"We don't profile based on appearances, sir. You'll need to step aside."
"Wait, what? Can you check again?"
The kid checked the line, which was growing behind me, and sighed. "Please step aside and I'll find an agent."
I walked to the edge of the check-in counter and, a couple minutes later, an older man appeared out of a green door next to the luggage belt. He gestured to the corner of the check-in area and I followed him. "What's the problem, sir?"
"The kid said I can't fly."
"And?"
"Look, I know you're just doing your job. But I'm obviously not a terrorist."
"Have you traveled to the Middle East recently, or participated in any anti-government protests?"
"No, but why would that—"
"Do you have any outstanding warrants? Sometimes that can do it." He seemed like he'd had this conversation before. "If you haven't yet, you should receive your letter from DHS TRIP in the next two to four weeks."
"DHS TRIP?"
"The Department of Homeland Security Traveler Redress Inquiry Program."
"Am I being punked?"
"Sir, we're very busy here."
"Are there ever mistakes?"
"Sure."
"But you can't let me onto the plane?"
"No."
"Really? This is really how it works? I can't get home and you can't give me any more information? And I'll get some letter? I. Flew. In. Last. Night."
The man looked past me like he wanted to move on, then let out a deep sigh. "When you are added to the No Fly List, DHS TRIP sends you a letter informing you of your status and providing you the option of submitting a form to receive additional information. If you choose that option, DHS TRIP will provide a second letter identifying the general criterion under which you have been placed on the No Fly List. Sometimes they include an unclassified summary of the specific reasons for your inclusion on the list."
I just stared at him, blinking. He gave me a long look, like he was making sure he'd shut me up, then turned and walked back through the green door.
I'm usually a pretty confident guy, but I was genuinely rattled. I knew it was a mistake, but a dozen pe
ople were staring at me like I might be carrying a bomb, and now I was stuck in the airport with no way to get back to Seattle. Plus, I was reminded of a fight I'd had with Greta about a year ago.
I'd just gotten back from a two-day trip to Silicon Valley, where I was in talks to purchase a tech gossip blog, and, within minutes of getting home, I'd made the mistake of telling her I had to go again later in the week. Long story short, we'd argued about how much I was working, I'd assured her that the only thing she'd catch me with in a hotel bedroom was an empty pizza box, and she'd threatened to report me to Homeland Security. To get me added to the No Fly List.
It was one of those things people say when they're mad. Like when someone leaves their clothes on the floor over and over and you let it build inside you until it explodes outward and you tell them they're the messiest person on earth. The kind of thing you regret immediately. I'd said stuff like that to Greta before, but she rarely got that mad. Later, she apologized and pleaded temporary insanity, but I'd found it kind of funny. Of course, I'd assumed she'd never actually do it, and the thought of Greta on the phone with a buzz-cutted guy at the Pentagon made me smile. It probably wasn't her, but at this point it didn't matter.
I walked to an off-brand coffee shop at the other end of the airport and opened my laptop. Then I did what I always did when I was confused. A Google search.
Another thing Greta likes to say is, "As bad as you are at feelings, you're that good at Google searches." Of course, that was her passive-aggressive way to get me to do research for her, but it flattered me, and I have to say that it worked. Any time she wondered something out loud, I'd slide up next to her while tapping away at my phone. Seconds later I'd present her a double-sourced answer, like a cat leaving a mouse on its owner's porch.
After a double espresso and a few minutes of Googling, I'd confirmed what the man told me about the letter I'd get from DHS TRIP. I'd learned some other things about the No Fly List, too. Before 9/11, there were a dozen names on the list. After the Bush administration passed the Patriot Act, it grew rapidly for six years before ballooning to over 50,000 names under President Obama. Turns out, people get added to the list for all sorts of reasons. Many are legitimate terrorist threats, sure. Others are journalists traveling home from foreign countries, protesters who rubbed someone the wrong way, or family members of suspected terrorists who refused to cooperate with law enforcement. There are even reports of simple name mix-ups. Senator Ted Kennedy was once refused a boarding pass by mistake because there's a T. Kennedy on the list. Of course, Kennedy was able to board his flight when his secret service detail cleared things up with the TSA agent.
