Chaos Theory

by M Evonne Dobson

  Mrs. F says, “Greg. It’s good to see you.”

  Ink looks exactly like his photo. His cheap cologne of rum and old mushrooms or something drifts my way. I gag, but disguise it with a cough. I school my face to be bland and bored, not disgusted. But I can’t stop Daniel channeling, digging fingernails into my thigh. Dig. Dig. Dig. And it’s accompanied by ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

  In his office, Uncle Charlie sees Ink. He jumps out of his chair like a trout fighting the hook, wiping his hands up and down his suit pants. Completely unaware of her boss’s panic, Mrs. F says, “You’re supposed to call before you come see Mr. Jamison.”

  And how did Ink get past the security guard at O’Neal’s front door? As he backs up, I see his ID clamped to his sweatshirt. It reads: Greg Matthew Jacobs. The same name he used at Iowa College. Beneath his name, it reads: Shipping Department. With that, little supply-chain-economic-red-flags pop up: shipping, visiting Uncle Charlie, drugs rerouted, drugs shipped, with a likely side trip for some into Ink’s personal delivery chain.

  Ink’s voice is cocky, sure, slimy. Once more from her mental closet, Zombie brain screams: Get the hell out of here!

  Julia’s Boyfriend says, “It’s been a while. Thought I’d stop and say hello to Charlie-oh.”

  Mrs. F ushers him into the inner office. I keep eyes on my monitor. Zombie brain emphasizes her get-the-hell-out point by flashing disgusting memories of Ink and Julia’s x-rated e-mails.

  Mrs. F closes the door on her boss and Ink, returning to her desk.

  “Who is that?” I ask as I cram my earbuds tuned to the I-am-Bug-Here-Me-Roar channel back in.

  “Greg? He’s my grandson.”

  Poor Mrs. F! I can’t help looking back into the inner office where Ink has more or less forced Uncle Charlie toward his chair while he sits on the desk’s corner.

  Noting my interest, she says, “Enough. He’s a handsome boy, but you’ve got work.”

  Wanting to gag, I duck my head back into the monitor, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Inside the inner office, Uncle Charlie’s face puffs up like a blowfish and turns white. Ink leans over the desk with an insolent grin. He pulls out Uncle Charlie’s planner from under his hand. The older man freezes. Mrs. F doesn’t seem to notice.

  Ink says, “We meet tomorrow night.” He opens the planner and takes Uncle Charlie’s gold pen from its stand on the desk, flips through the calendar, scribbles a short message in it, and carefully puts away the pen. Then, closing the planner, Ink slips it into Uncle Charlie’s inside suit pocket.

  He makes a fist and bumps it against Uncle Charlie’s chest. It can’t be that hard of a blow, but Daniel’s uncle collapses back into his chair. It rocks back and forth.

  I group text my team, GV, and Ponytail: You got the bug feed?

  GV: Yes

  I text: It’s Julia’s boyfriend

  Ink turns and leaves, dropping a kiss on the cheek of his flushed and excited grandmother before disappearing into the hallway and toward the shipping floor. The older woman’s face falls and she looks old and tired. I can tell she wants to go home. Back in his office, Uncle Charlie reaches into his magic drawer for fortification.

  I say, “Don’t worry about me. I’m almost done and then there’s shredding.”

  That brings out a worn-out smile. “I’ll check with Mr. Jamison and make sure it’s okay.” She opens his office door and explains why the intern is staying late and could she head home.

  No longer jolly and functioning, alcoholic Uncle Charlie nods permission. He redoubles his handwritten work on a legal pad. His preference for paper hasn’t changed.

  After Mrs. F leaves, I’m back in those password-protected computer files. At first glance everything looks legit. All the drugs equal what went out. All were sent to assumed legitimate sales reps.

  I check the sales rep contact info. They are based everywhere around the globe. There’s a column for date hired. Uncle Charlie had tripled the sales reps, locating them in urban areas that already had established drug representatives. In another folder, there’s a document labeled: new sales plan.

  It calls for the new hires to expand into the smaller rural communities around the urban hubs. The sales numbers for the new people are horrible, but they give away substantially more samples. The long-established reps show no increase in sales at all. Everything zeroes out. Nothing screams scam or illegal.

  Frustrated, I punch my desk with a Daniel-worthy blow. This isn’t enough. If Uncle Charlie is diverting the samples and dummying up shipping numbers, it doesn’t show up in these reports. Still this data is important as a legitimate baseline. If I can find the altered shipping numbers deviating from these numbers—that would be proof he’s hedged. I look back at Uncle Charlie working on his sheets of paper.

  Of course that’s assuming he’s the one hedging numbers. That could be happening at another point in the plant. The most likely spot would be on the shipping floor where Jurnee is—and Boyfriend with Ink.

  In his office, Uncle Charlie scratches things off his papers with violent strokes of his pen. This is followed by him adding up numbers on a small calculator. Uncle Charlie’s not nipping into his desk drawer anymore. His large hands barely move as he writes. The taut fingers make tiny precise entries. He might be dummying up baseline reports right now.

  When he isn’t writing? His left fingers rest or tap his narrow planner.

  I snap illicit photos of the password protected doc I completed and send it off to Mrs. F’s e-mail. I photograph the older copy reports in the same e-folder. Committing the user and password on the Post-it to memory, I toss it into my shred box.

  Bringing up the shipping manifest folder—it’s filled with sub-folders listed by month and week. Inside those are tons of manifest orders. Copying the rest to a flash drive won’t work. During orientation, Mrs. F explained that any device plugged into the O’Neal computers triggered an alarm and brought security personnel. Even keystrokes in e-mails are tracked and scrutinized, especially an intern’s. E-mailing the reports from the computer to an outside address triggers alerts too. So the manifests aren’t going out the front door with me—physically or virtually.

  We need copies of these, but there are too many to snap photos, so I get a week’s worth. I check that all the photos are crystal-clear before, as a Hail Mary back-up plan, sending them off to Daniel.

  He texts back, This it?

  I reply, Part of it—the official side.

  WTG super-agent girl. What about that planner?

  I sigh. Yeah, working on that. Plus, I’ve got to get Uncle Charlie’s handwritten sheets. If he’s involved, they could confirm number hedging.

  Daniel texts back: Got your e-mail. There is a pause. Photos opened. Then he adds: You have this.

  No, I don’t. I’m a long way from hard evidence. I have a piece of it, not the whole thing. Inside his glass-walled interior office, Uncle Charlie no longer works on his notes. His head, propped by his hands and the desk, looks off at nothing. Time is running out. I rush around the office picking up everyone’s shredding. Knocking on Uncle Charlie’s door, he looks up with alcoholic eyes that don’t quite focus. There’s a puppet quality to his face, but the puppet master’s long gone. His face and body are placid and slack—no emotion, well maybe emotion, but it’s tragically sad.

  Intern happy, I say, “Hi. Get your shredding?”

  He snaps his planner closed before I can read anything and eases it lovingly into his inside suit pocket.

  Lowering his legs, he kicks his shred box out from under his desk for me to grab. A quick inspection of his discarded papers in his shred box doesn’t show any of his personal handwritten pages.

  On his desk is another photo of the same girl as the one in the photo frame on the bookcase. They have to be of his daughter, several years older than me and Daniel’s cousin; the cousin who just returned from her s
econd stint in drug rehab. This photo shows a serious young dancer in pink leotards. Her hands form a circle around her head with fingertips completing it like a halo, but her eyes are empty and creepy. Drug-induced? Perhaps.

  I point to the handwritten folded pages not far from the photo. Even through the back side, the heavy lines he’s drawn across them as he finished each doc is visible. “Can I get those too?”

  “No. I shred them myself.” He indicates a small personal shredder behind him.

  “It looks full. I’ll empty the shredded bits.” Looking over his shoulder, I see his legal pad has two handwritten columns. Numbers are scratched off, other numbers entered. Too many numbers changed, too many columns added and re-added on his legal pad. Looks like hedging to me. Those pages and an Apollo rocket might get me to the moon. Too bad I don’t have one. He rips the page free, draws a line across it, and places it upside down to join the other stack.

  As to the planner? It’s back in the suit jacket. I’ve no way to get to it.

  Emptying his personal shredded paper, I try to return the rectangular bin, but it doesn’t fit back inside the portable shredder. I shove it a few times and finally have to lean down to position it properly. Right behind the unit is its electrical plug. Remembering Uncle Charlie’s lack of talent with the big shredder, I unplug this one and push it back under the credenza. Returning to the work area, tons of used paper goes into the Gnawing Monster. Nothing that passes through my fingers looks useful. I need those scribbled handwritten pages. Inside his office, he huddles over his pages, entering and adjusting more data with a new burst of I’m-getting-out-of-here energy.

  Close to five, I’m still feeding individual sheets rather than handfuls at a time into Gnawing Monster. Then Uncle Charlie stands, rips his final sheets off his legal pad, and tries to feed his mini-shredder. He swears and kicks it. I wait until there’s a second round of swearing and my own stack is done before heading in.

  “Can I help you, Mr. Jamison?”

  “The thing’s not working.” He looks like a two-year-old ready to cry. He really has had a bad day and just wants to go home. “Can’t they design a portable shredder that works longer than two months?”

  “Let me try?”

  He moves aside and I try, knowing the unplugged thing isn’t going to work. That’s followed by another mighty intern failed attempt. I don’t offer to plug it in. “Nope. It’s a goner. Do you want to use the big one out there? I can do it for you if you like.”

  Twenty-nine

  Through the glass dividing wall, he eyeballs the giant shredder. “The only time I tried to use that thing, it grabbed my tie. Would have choked me to death if Jeanine hadn’t been there.”

  Ah, so the grandmotherly Mrs. F has a first name. “I know. She told me about that. I’m being careful.” I point to his pile of papers. “There aren’t that many pages, it won’t take long to feed them into Gnawing Dragon.”

  Uncle Charlie laughs, but it’s an exhausted one. “Gnawing Dragon? You gave it a name?”

  “Anything that tries to eat my boss rates a name, don’t you think?”

  He looks at his daughter’s photo, and shoves the stack at me. “Here, have at it.” Before I can leave the room, he asks, “What is your name again?”

  I give him a happy intern grin and say, “Kami the Dragon Slayer.”

  He shakes his head, slipping on his winter coat from its hook. He reaches for his briefcase. He has a handwritten report on his legal pad and what looks like an official shipping manifest compilation on his desk. He slides them into a single folder and then into his briefcase. Tomorrow those numbers will be transferred into the secured icon files by Mrs. F. They will zero out perfectly.

  With him waiting behind me, I head to the big shredder and look around for inspiration. No way am I putting Uncle Charlie’s notes down Gnawing Dragon’s throat. Next to the shredder are fresh and neatly stacked paper reams. One is ripped open. Positioning my back to hide my movements, I grab enough papers to equal Uncle Charlie’s stack, while I slip his pages deep into the open paper ream. Pushing the feeding limit, I cram the pristine pages into the dragon. It makes a nice satisfying crunch and growl.

  When I’m finished, Uncle Charlie asks, “All done? I’ll lock up.”

  “I still have to restock everyone’s printer paper.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Under his watchful eye, I grab a couple of wrapped reams of paper and the half-open one on top that hides his handwritten notes. Then I fill the individual printer trays at every desk.

  Uncle Charlie is back to staring off into nothing. He says, “Stay young, Kami the Dragon Slayer. When you’re young, there are so many options, but year by year they fade away with every decision you make until there’s only one or two.”

  He sounds so sad. I remind myself that he’s the mark; he’s the bad guy. I’m not sure how to reply to his statement, but he’s looking at me like he expects one. I say, “I guess time takes care of that, doesn’t it?”

  He turns away and mutters, “Yes, it does.”

  With his attention elsewhere, I reach my desk. My hands shake like earthquake victims as under the desk and out of his sightline I cram his handwritten pages into my intern pack. The excess paper goes back to storage. Done, I retrieve my parka from the coat hanger.

  Uncle Charlie follows me out of the office, locking the door behind us. I take my time, pulling out my phone. Uncle Charlie slows down to match my speed. Once out of the office, he doesn’t seem anxious to head home. I guess he doesn’t have anything to get home to. Each in our own world, we walk side-by-side down the hallway.

  I’d set up three group texts: One for my team, one for GV, Luis, Mom and Dad, and the ultimate Bat Signal to everyone. I text the third one: All clear.

  GV texts back immediately like he’s been waiting anxiously for it: You good?

  I glance at Uncle Charlie who is still off in his own thoughts.

  Me: Yep.

  GV texts: I’m taking off. Daniel’s coming to pick you up.

  I text: No problem. C U later.

  After serious discussion, we’d let GV and Luis in on the Bat Cave location. It’d been a tough call, but no one wanted to set up shop at the police station. Our turf was the better option.

  ***

  Uncle Charlie accompanies me past the bored security guards and out of the building. Heart pounding, I mimic the Sandy the Actress bored look. They don’t search my bag. Uncle Charlie pauses when I stop by a bench outside and asks me, “Aren’t you driving home?”

  “No, my boyfriend is picking me up. He’ll be here soon. Don’t wait for me.”

  “If you’re sure?”

  I nod and immediately show great interest in a row of bare-leafed shade trees. The parking lot is almost empty. Uncle Charlie leaves, to my relief. Grabbing my intern bag, I dig for my phone.

  That’s when Rugby charges through the front door straight at me. He’s pissed. With the arrival of Ink, I’d forgotten all about him. At the same time, un-summoned, Daniel pulls up in EB. I scramble in. “Go. Go. Go.”

  Daniel sees the pissed-off intern and spins out, peeling down the research park driveway and onto the paved county road to Sandove. I tug on my seat belt and turn around to see Rugby change his trajectory and head for the parking lot, where he climbs into a large black SUV.

  Daniel raises an eye brow and asks, “Rough day at the intern office?”

  “That intern assaulted me at lunch.” Behind us Rugby fishtails onto the highway.

  Daniel’s eyes are on the rearview mirror; his fingers tighten on the wheel and he floors EB. She groans but bugs out with respectable speed. But Rugby’s SUV is catching up. Sandove, known for its huge number of kids, is a couple miles away. The speed limit drops there to twenty-five. We’ll slow. Somehow I’m sure Rugby won’t. If he tries something, he’ll do it there.

 
Sandove is tiny, like eight square blocks. The one sizeable parking lot is the Sip N Go where Daniel waited all day. And it only has two gas pumps and six parking spots, offering nowhere to hide.

  With a gut-wrenching turn to the right, Daniel takes a gravel road opposite the way home but away from Sandove, gunning it. I grab the overhead handhold and pray.

  He asks, “Just what did you do to tick off this guy?”

  “I took his intern spot with your uncle.”

  “Ah.” And doesn’t that put a whole new spin on being followed? Interns don’t do this. “You think he’s tied up with the drugs somehow?”

  “No idea, but we don’t want him to catch us.”

  Like all central Iowa counties, rural roads are on one-mile grids that line up east and west or north and south. Open, flat, snow-covered crop land stretches in all directions, except to Sandove’s buildings to the left and slightly ahead of us.

  I grab my phone. GV can’t be far away. He has our location GPS, the same way Sam set up ours. I punch in: SOS.

  I hold on as Daniel cuts to the left this time. EB’s engine roars and, miraculously, doesn’t disintegrate. Rugby’s SUV is catching up, but it can’t handle the turns. We speed ahead. At the next intersection, Daniel turns into a rural residential area. A forest flanks both sides of the road, breaking up the flat sightlines. The houses are tucked back under the tree cover. We’re masked from Rugby’s view. I swear EB lifts up on two wheels as we turn into an alleyway leading to a row of ag buildings and large garages behind the expensive homes.

  One machine shed has both roller doors up, probably to take advantage of the winter sun’s passive solar heat. Daniel glides into complete darkness inside the shed. In silence, we listen for the building’s owner or Angry Rugby to ferret out our hiding place. Neither happens. We hear Rugby roar past, going well over the posted twenty-mph speed limit. We wait. He screeches to a halt on the other side of the subdivision. Then he returns crunching on the snow not yet cleared.