The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “So,” Pete said as they approached Jason’s room. “What do you plan to do on your first day of freedom?”

  Jason unlocked the door and entered the dorm room, followed by Pete.

  “Well, my parents are coming to town tomorrow,” Jason said. “I think I’ll meet them in Oklahoma City instead of having them come here. She’s flying in from New Orleans. He’s flying in from D.C. Should make for an interesting weekend.”

  “Have they been around each other?”

  “They re-opened dialogue after the explosion, but this is the first time we’ll all be together. Ever. It’s going to be awkward, I’m sure. At least for me. I think I need a referee on standby.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ve got a better one. How about we celebrate your birthday on the lake? We’ll make it an impromptu class party. I’ll break out the ski boat. A couple of guys have Jet Skis or Sea-Doos. You need to get out of here and reconnect with the world.”

  “My parents will still be here, but I think they’d go. It is my birthday. That would take a lot of pressure off everyone. I’ll ask them. There’s only so much we can do in OKC. It’s going to be cold, though.”

  “You’ve got a wet-suit. Anyway, the point is to get away from the base and celebrate.”

  Jason paused. “Okay. I’m in.” He reached for his telephone.

  “Who you calling?”

  “Rusty.”

  “Rusty? What for?”

  Rusty Chambers was a local cop. After the San Antonio incident, he spoke to Jason in an official capacity on several occasions upon his return to Enid. They were around the same age and found they both had similar interests. Rusty would come to the base on Sundays so they could work out at the gym. They had struck up a friendship and kept in touch. It never hurt to have a cop as a friend.

  “I want to go out and look around the Joneses’ house.”

  “No, no, no.” Pete shook his head, walked across the room, and sat on the couch. “Dude, you cannot go to that house. You’re asking for trouble.”

  “I’ve got to know, Pete. I’ve got to find Kathy.”

  “She’s not here, man. Everybody on the planet is looking for her. I promise you, she’s not at that damn house. Hell, the Joneses don’t even live there anymore.”

  “I know. That’s why I want to talk to Rusty. I’d like the police there with me . . . in case someone drove up while I was walking around.”

  Pete placed both hands on his head, exasperated. “What the hell are you looking for? What do you think you’re gonna find?”

  Jason leaned against the countertop. “I’m not sure. I-I just feel like I’ve got to look for her. Maybe I’ll find a clue . . . something.”

  “Dude, if anything goes wrong, the wing commander is gonna fry your nuts.”

  Jason nodded. “Yeah, which is why I want Rusty with me. Colonel Jensen seems to think I go out of my way to create problems for him. Trust me, I have no desire to do anything that would jeopardize my training, but I need to find out what happened to Kathy.”

  “You ain’t gonna find nothin’ on her out there, my friend.”

  “Maybe not. But I’ve got to try.”

  Jason dialed Rusty and arranged to meet him at the Joneses. Pete followed him out the door and waved as Jason, still in his flight suit, climbed in his Jeep, and for the first time in eight months, drove off the base.

  An odd feeling swept over him as he passed through the front gate. In an instant, the sky was bluer, and the air fresher. He felt . . . free. Like a burden had been lifted off his shoulders. Jason sensed the physical change in his body. Strange, he thought. He didn’t realize the amount of stress he had been under the past few months, perhaps because he channeled everything into to his flying. That mindset helped him through the final portion of the T-37 phase and got him off to an incredible start in the T-

  He headed straight for the Joneses’ ranch house. The small home sat outside town to the north. Kathy never talked about how she met the Joneses. Were they friends of the family? Customers at Chicaros? He didn’t know. He wanted to ask them after the San Antonio incident, but as soon as the dust settled from that fiasco, the Joneses sold the property and moved. No one could find them either. Kathy said they were an older couple, but he never met them. Hell, he never even saw them.

  The drive took fifteen minutes with no traffic. Jason blocked thoughts of Kathy out of his head most of the time for the past eight months. But when Colonel Jensen released him from his restriction, she was the first thing that popped into to his head.

  A half mile away, the ranch house came into view, poised on the horizon. The barn stood stoically in the background, the sturdy, white wooden horse fence stretching across the front of the property, up the sides, and north to the back of the ranch. A “SOLD” sticker ran diagonally across the “For Sale” sign. It had been on the market since the San Antonio incident eight months ago.

  When he reached the ranch, Rusty was waiting for him, his police cruiser parked in the circular driveway. The short, stocky cop was thick with muscle and sported a flat-top haircut. Jason pulled his Kelly-Green colored Jeep behind the cruiser.

  “Holy shit,” Rusty said. “I think I can honestly say this is the first time I’ve seen you off base.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Jason scanned the property as he walked toward Rusty. The two men shook hands. “Someone bought the house?”

  “Looks that way. Must have happened recently. I’ll call a friend in real estate and have them find out who.”

  Jason nodded. “Well, where do we start?”

  “By knocking on the front door. We’re not doing anything illegal.” Rusty stepped on the porch and knocked.

  Jason stood in the driveway, taking in his surroundings. It wasn’t until this moment that he realized how confined he’d been. Looking across the fields in all directions he saw nothing. And it was wonderful. The sky extended from one strip of land to the next. He forgot how good it felt to be out here when he visited Kathy.

  “Doesn’t appear like anybody is here,” Rusty said from the porch as he rang the doorbell. “Ouch!” he shrieked.

  Jason turned back to him. “What happened?”

  “Must be a short in the doorbell. Shocked the hell out of me when I pushed it.”

  Jason chuckled and joined him on the porch. “I’ll check out the barn,” he said.

  “Okay,” Rusty said. “I’m gonna peek around here some more. Maybe I can see something through the windows.”

  Jason nodded and walked around the back of the house toward the barn about a hundred yards away. He stared at the building. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He never had spent much time at the Joneses’ home. In fact, he’d only gone inside the house once and he never went in the barn. But he’d seen it a lot. And today, it looked different.

  9

  April 26, 1996

  DANE AND JOANIE stared at the concrete jungle that trudged past the side windows of the Yellow Cab. The plexiglass divider between them and the driver was too dirty and scratched to see through the front.

  Dane thought the driver found every pothole and crack in the road to LaGuardia Airport. They bounced incessantly in the back, the unpleasantness amplified by the useless shock absorbers and the worn seat bursting at the seams. These attributes were secondary to the overwhelming stench in the cab, reminiscent of a high-school locker room.

  The cab pulled out of the Midtown Tunnel and headed east to the airport. A drizzle started to fall outside, dark clouds pushing in from the south. The excitement of the day was behind them now, and the happy couple looked forward to the flight home despite the miserable conditions.

  “I thought you were fantastic today,” Dane said.

  Joanie blushed. “Today wasn’t about me. You were the center of attention.”

  “Yeah, but I thought you telling the story humanized it a lot more.”

  “Humanized?”

  “Well—yeah, I think . . . I think you
brought more depth to the story.”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “Yeah, right. You can admit it, Dane. I made you look good.”

  Dane smiled when she punched his arm with a love tap. “You did. It must have worked. The producer said there was talk.”

  The smile faded from her face. “Talk?”

  “Yeah. Talk about me. About a possible job.”

  “In New York?”

  “Well—yeah. I mean, there wasn’t an offer, but she floated the idea to me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it would be a dream come true. What else could I say? I didn’t want to spoil it. I can always say no if they make an offer. But if I said I wasn’t interested right off the bat, I’m out for sure.”

  “But what about us?”

  Dane realized he made a wrong move and needed to find a way out. He reached over and grabbed her hand.

  “We’re fine. We’re a team. If I had a job in New York, I would bring you with me. I’m still going to marry you, Joanie, no matter what.”

  That should fix things. A faint smile crept across her face for a moment. For a moment.

  “What about my job, Dane? I like my job. Am I supposed to just quit?”

  Damn. So much for solving it.

  “No. I mean, I’m sure you can find something in New York. It doesn’t matter, I wasn’t offered a job, so it’s not an issue. I’m not going to fight with you about something that hasn’t happened yet.”

  “I didn’t realize we were fighting. I thought we were talking.”

  Dane didn’t respond—he focused his attention out the window. His silence appeared to end the discussion. He would sweet talk his way back into her good graces at the airport bar. They said nothing for five minutes until his cell phone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” she said. “It might be work.”

  Dane pulled out his phone. His forehead wrinkled when he saw the number.

  “Not work?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s a 404 number.”

  “That’s Atlanta.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Joanie’s eyebrows arched, and her cheeks sucked in. “Dane, CNN has been calling the station every week for the past eight months. It’s kind of public knowledge there.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, are you going to answer?”

  Dane hovered his thumb over the green button on his cell phone, then pressed it firmly as he held the phone to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Mister Robinson, let me be the first to congratulate you on this morning’s broadcast.”

  “Thank you.” He paused. “Who is this?”

  “I’m sure you remember me. I came to visit you in the hospital in San Antonio. My name is Draken Black.”

  Dane froze. He remembered the man. He dropped in almost every day after he regained consciousness. The mysterious silver-haired figure showed up and asked questions about what had happened. Weeks later, Dane questioned himself about what he did recall. The lines had blurred between what he remembered and what Draken Black told him he did. And now that he thought about it, the man never showed up when Joanie was in the room.

  He had forgotten all about the man until this morning. Draken Black had not contacted him since he went back to work. Maybe it made sense he called now. He was on TV this morning.

  “Y-Yes, I remember.”

  “Outstanding. We need to meet. I’m in New York.” “Sorry, I’m on the way to the airport.”

  “I know. I’ll meet you at the bar.”

  Dane glanced at Joanie, who spied him curiously.

  “I can’t. Thank you, though. We need to get back to Tulsa.”

  “Mister Robinson, are you forgetting who gave you the information that made you a star this morning?”

  “I—uh . . . no.” The memories rushed back like a tidal wave.

  Perhaps he was simply suppressing his knowledge of the man. Draken Black was the one who gave him the info about Vince Andrews being a Russian assassin. He also gave Dane the scoop on Jason Conrad being Senator Bowman’s son. “I’m listening.”

  “Mister Robinson, I have information that will put you at the forefront of television news permanently. This story will blow the lid off the political world.”

  Dane grit his teeth as he thought about Mister Black’s proposition. “Okay. We’ll meet you.”

  “Not we. You meet with me alone. Put the girl on the plane. I’ll have your flight rebooked.”

  “I—um, I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Make it happen, Mister Robinson, or I won’t show. I’ll give this story to someone else. Someone with the courage to tell the story.”

  There was a long pause as Dane considered his terrible options. Put his fiancé on a plane or give up being a network newsman. Draken Black interpreted his silence as acquiescence to his demand. “Good. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  Dane turned off his phone and stuck it in his pocket. “Who was that?” Joanie said.

  “It—It was a source.”

  “Clearly. But who?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t say or won’t say.”

  “Both. It’s for your protection. I’m not trying to hide anything.”

  “But you are hiding something, Dane. We’re getting married. We are two people coming together as one. We can’t keep any secrets.”

  “This isn’t a secret, it’s a meeting. In an hour.”

  “Well, I look forward to meeting this mystery-man. It is a man, isn’t it? I don’t even know that much.”

  “Yes, it’s a man. Only you can’t meet him. His instructions were precise— you must get on the plane to Tulsa. Otherwise, the meeting is off.”

  She turned in the seat to face him. “And you agreed to this?”

  Dane nodded. “Yes.”

  Joanie shifted her body back and crossed her arms. She focused straight ahead.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s important. He said this is the political story of the year.”

  “Great.” She continued staring at the back of the cabbie’s head.

  “What does this guy do for a living?”

  Dane paused, mainly because he didn’t know. At first, he assumed he was with the police, then the FBI, but he never said. When he signed up for his AOL account after his discharge from the hospital, he ran a search for the man on Netscape but came up empty.

  “I can’t say. Honey, please forgive me. I realize this looks bad, but please trust me. When the time comes, I’ll tell you everything.”

  That seemed to warm her up. A pert smile formed on her face.

  “Okay,” she said, patting his knee. “But if it turns out you’re going to some orgy—the wedding is off.”

  Dane leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry, honey, you can trust me.”

  STERLING WATCHED the various airliners taxi across the overcrowded ramp from the confines of the VIP lounge of the southern-based airline. The age of the airport was beginning to show, with numerous potholes and cracks, the patchwork repairs contrasting with the original concrete surface.

  Sitting across from him curled up on a couch—a curly-headed brunette with high cheekbones and thin eyebrows—sipping a tall glass of Champagne. The woman was Veronica Chase, a former CIA agent who now parlayed her skills to the highest bidder. Sterling had deep pockets; thus, Veronica was often on his payroll.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” she asked.

  “In due time, my dear.”

  “I would say now is as good a time as any.”

  Sterling waved down a waiter and ordered mineral water with a slice of lime.

  Veronica raised her eyebrows. “No whiskey? This is a serious matter.”

  “It’s all coming together. The gentleman you met this morning is a reporter named Dane Robinson. He was the one who was injured during the San Antonio attempt on Jonathan.”

  “I’m familiar.”

  “He’s the
key. And he started the process this morning when he told the world that our assassin isn’t from Bosnia. He is, in fact, Russian.”

  “But why is it so important that he announce that today? And how could you be sure he would?”

  “My dear, I have a plan--a sequence of events laid out. The first was today when you stuck your pistol in his mouth. My experience with Mister Robinson is that if you pressure him not to do something, he’ll do it. We saw that play out this morning, exactly as I expected. After I meet with him and give him the next nugget of information, he’ll be mine for the molding.

  “Dane Robinson is susceptible. He’s a small man with big dreams. All I need to do is tap into his ambition. Which I did this morning, through you. The praise and adulation he’s receiving feed his ego. Once his ego is fed, he can’t get enough.”

  “What if he decides to rat you out?”

  “Not a problem. No one has ever heard of Draken Black. I kind of like the name. It resonates of the Middle Ages.”

  Veronica swung her legs off the couch and faced him. She shifted out of her sultry mode and was all business. “So, why the obsession with this Conrad guy?”

  “Obsession is such a utilitarian word, don’t you think?”

  “You know what I mean. He’s the target, but he’s not the target.”

  “You’re right on both accounts. I spent a year trying to convince Jonathan not to contact his son—his political career rested on his image. That of the single playboy. But this assassination attempt changed everything. Jonathan should have been a hero and shot up the polls. Instead, he was labeled a fraud and a liar. It was amazing how the press turned on him. All he did was protect the privacy of the mother of his child. It’s not like he had multiple affairs, or people who crossed him started disappearing.”

  “But he was the good guy.”

  “Precisely. Better to be the bad guy in the eyes of the press. Then, there’s nowhere to fall. The good guy falls all the way to the bottom, taking potshots from every hack journalist along the way.”