“The article?” said Tim.
“Yeah,” said Dan. “The one you’re obviously going to file, like immediately, giving TruthTeller the world exclusive verifying the Knights of Romero.”
Tim nodded and spoke carefully.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to go back to that bar. The cops will be looking for me. The people in the bar would have ID’d me, right? Hell, my neck brace got left at the scene of the crime.”
“With your DNA all over it,” Ryan said.
Tim looked at him defensively.
“What? You drool. I can’t be the first one to tell you that.”
“Anyhow,” Tim continued, “when we file the story, I want to make sure we have all of the facts straight. I want to get some confirmations before this goes any farther.”
Ryan and Dan looked at each other. What Tim was describing was not the TruthTeller way. (That way was to shout news the very moment you had it—before it had been fact-checked in any manner—in screaming red headlines across the face of the page, insinuating and implying connections to every person possible.)
“Normally, I would want to get something up on the site immediately,” Tim said, “but these are not normal times. And I don’t just mean that I was present at the abduction and probably have police looking for me.”
“There’s no probably about it,” Ryan said, holding up his phone. “The Plain Dealer says two Caucasian males are dead after a shooting at Kidd’s Bar, and a third, possibly injured, fled on foot. Slowly.”
“It does not say slowly,” Tim insisted.
Ryan retracted the phone before Tim could get a closer look.
“Anyway, this is a national political convention,” Tim continued. “This is different. If there are powerful people connected to this shit, they might actually be in town. Physically here. I want to take this as far us the chain as we can before we pull the trigger. If we let on that we know what happened today—and have a reporter who was personally involved—people are going to be a lot more cautious. We want them to be the opposite.”
Ryan and Dan both opened their mouths to object. Tim cut them off before they could.
“Look, I’m as sick as you are of the f-word. Being called ‘fake news’ all the time is grating as hell. But how do we shake that? One way is to break real stories that are too true for anybody to ignore! We run what we’ve got now … we’ve got a lot of sensation, and a lot of pieces that don’t fit together.”
“Yeah, and also a lot of clicks and views and advertising dollars,” Ryan sputtered. “Can you imagine how much the boss would like that?”
“Yes, I can,” said Tim. “But I can also imagine how much the boss would like it if we sat on this story for a few days, did some investigative reporting, and broke the biggest political story of the year. That would do more than get views. That would transform TruthTeller forever.”
Ryan and Dan seemed to consider this seriously. Sensing he was making progress, Tim continued.
“And if we could connect this to someone here at the convention—if we could really do that, and uncover proof of what’s going on—well … I’m not saying we’d win awards, but we’d win awards. All these ‘real’ journalists with their fancy degrees and corrupt globalist bosses would lose, and we would win. They wouldn’t want to give us the Pulitzer. But they would have to. Think about how good that would feel.”
Ryan and Dan did. Irrepressible, irresistible smiles crept across their faces. Forcing your way into the club that had excluded and derided you for so long was a deep, primal fantasy, not lost on any of these gentlemen.
“The other thing we have to think about is Jessica’s safety,” Tim said. “I know you don’t like her. I know you think she’s the establishment and so forth, but she’s really not a bad person.”
“The story in the Plain Dealer doesn’t even mention her,” Ryan said. “Do you think the cops know she was even there?”
“I’m not sure,” said Tim. “I don’t think anybody in the bar saw her being taken away. I was the only witness.”
“Well then, we need to tell the cops,” Ryan said.
“You do,” Tim said. “Anonymously. We’ll call it in from a hotel phone in a spot where there’s not a security camera. I’ll give you all the details I remember. But …”
“But what?” Ryan asked.
“But something tells me if anybody is going to figure out what happened to her, it’s going to be us,” said Tim, a faraway look in his eye. “If they wanted to kill her, she’s already dead. If they kidnapped her to get a ransom from her wealthy parents, then that’ll come out on its own. But I don’t feel like it’s any of those things. I feel like there’s something going on here that the police aren’t even going to see. I think it’s up to us.”
“What’s the next step for the story, then?” Ryan asked. “I mean, the kind of reporting you’re suggesting … is not what we typically do. You might have to show us how.”
“Don’t worry,” Tim said confidently. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I learned a thing or two before I dropped out of J-school. And I know just where we’re going to start.”
THE TYCOON
They were in some sort of boardroom. Tastefully appointed. Well-lit. Leather chairs around a long polished table. Flat screen televisions set into the walls. The Tycoon stood at the head of the table, like a man making a presentation at a business meeting.
“In a way, we are not divorced entirely from the traits of your savior,” the Tycoon said.
The Governor nodded back. It was nearly all that he could do. This was because the Tycoon had had him tied to a chair.
The Tycoon was accustomed to making this presentation to potential initiates. However, in almost all cases, he did so when he believed they were willing to join his organization. The Tycoon had seldom needed to make much of a case for the benefits of joining. And he had never—that he remembered—had to make his case to a person he thought might be actively resistant.
But today was different. The Tycoon was not necessarily inviting the Governor to join the legion of the undead, but he was asking at least for the man to make peace with it. The Tycoon believed that the Governor might be a hard case when it came to bringing him around, but he did not think the task would be impossible.
Nonetheless, restraint had been a necessary precaution.
The Governor’s disturbing smile had never left his face. It stood there even now. His expression said that he was still willing to allow that all of this had been some strange misunderstanding. If the Tycoon would only have his men loosen the restraints and let him go, this could all be overlooked …
“I apologize that we needed to tie you up,” said the Tycoon, acknowledging the Governor. “Have no doubt. You will be released in time. We just need to get a few things out of the way first.”
The Governor continued to smile. He would do almost anything to be the next Vice President. The Tycoon hoped he would do this as well.
“As I was saying, your own savior died and rose again,” the Tycoon said. “He instructed his followers to eat the flesh of the dead. To drink his blood in remembrance of him. These are all established facts. So you see, we are, already, playing in the same … ballpark.”
The Tycoon had never attended religious services on any regular basis. When he tried to address audiences of the faithful in their own lexicon, words often failed him.
“What ballpark is that?” the Governor asked. “I don’t understand.”
The Tycoon nodded.
“I find that demonstrations can work wonders,” he said. “They’re much better than words. Say it with words, and people might not understand you. But say it with action? That gets them every time.”
The Tycoon stepped to the side of the large conference table where an intercom waited.
“Bring it in!” he called, depressing a button.
“Yessir,” an unseen voice came back.
The Governor smiled curiously.
Moments later, the s
ide door opened. Two men in suits wheeled in a large clear tank of water. It was big enough for a man to fit inside. The Governor—who had been to Las Vegas a time or two (for political conferences only, of course)—was reminded of the tank into which a magician on the Strip had submerged himself. And like the ones in Vegas, this tank appeared to have been built as some sort of showpiece. The edges were gilt and the top had been emblazoned with the Tycoon’s family name. Ambulatory stairs were wheeled in next, and placed beside the tank.
As the Governor looked on, the Tycoon began to disrobe.
“Think of this as a baptism,” the Tycoon said, kicking away his shoes and pulling off his socks. “I usually don’t do this personally anymore. But for you, I’ll make an exception.”
One of the men in suits brought out a silver tray and held it up to the Tycoon. On it was something small and flat and rubbery. The Tycoon nodded to the attendant, who picked it up from the tray. It was a bathing cap. The attendant carefully placed it onto the Tycoon’s head, making sure to get every part of his hair inside. (The bathing cap was also emblazoned with his logo.) By the time the cap was firmly in place, the Tycoon had stripped down to a pair of gold lamé boxer shorts. The attendant next handed the Tycoon a tablet computer that had been placed inside a tight fitting plastic bag. The Tycoon grabbed it, and waved his hand to show that now they were through. He had everything he needed.
The attendants departed, and the Tycoon began to climb the ladder. The Governor still looked on, rapt and smiling. Soon, the Tycoon stood at the top of the tank. He dangled his toes into the water, testing the temperature.
“You may not be able to see your own watch, the way your hands are tied,” the Tycoon observed. “There’s a clock against the wall. Count inside of your head if you begin to think it might be fast.”
With that, the Tycoon slowly lowered himself into the tank. There was a soft splash as the Tycoon’s head passed underneath the waterline and stayed there. The clear walls of the tank allowed the Tycoon and the Governor to make eye contact, which they did. The Tycoon waved to the Governor, then pointed once again to the clock on the wall. The Governor, dumbfounded, simply nodded back.
At which point the Tycoon turned his attention to the tablet in the plastic bag. He turned it on and began depressing buttons. If the Governor had not known better, he would have sworn that the man was browsing the web and Tweeting.
The Governor was so confused that he did not think about the clock on the wall until two full minutes had passed. Only at that time did he begin to discern these goings-on as more than simply odd. For one thing, the Tycoon did not appear to be breathing. No bubbles escaped around his nostrils. Was this indeed some magic trick, the Governor wondered. But the Tycoon had never given the slightest hint of being the kind of man who needed to perform for his guests. What was more, he did not seem like a man with the patience to study an art form like prestidigitation.
The Governor watched the second hand of the clock on the wall and tried holding his own breath. He could hardly get past a minute and ten seconds before the need to breathe became unbearable and he started gasping. Astonished, the Governor kept timing. The Tycoon distractedly typed and scrolled on his phone. Minutes passed.
Five minutes.
Six minutes.
Ten.
Twelve.
When a full fifteen had passed, the Tycoon finally looked up from his tablet. He knocked on the glass to make sure he had the Governor’s attention. He gestured over to the clock. Horrified and confused, the Governor nodded enthusiastically to say that, yes, the Tycoon was making his point.
Moments later, as if on cue, the suited attendants reappeared. They carried a tray piled high with towels and fresh clothing. Placing this bounty onto the conference table, they ascended the portable ladder and helped the Tycoon climb out of the water. They toweled him off and dressed him in a new suit of clothes. The Tycoon’s omnipresent makeup had come off during his submersion. This gave him a stark, cadaverous aspect that made the Governor feel as though he did not like to look at him.
One of the attendants opened a case filled with orange foundation and gave the Tycoon a good dusting. It was uncanny how quickly this base coat restored the Tycoon to fighting shape. The Governor blinked, hardly believing his eyes.
Next, the Tycoon pulled one of the leather office chairs out from the conference table. He slowly and deliberately wheeled it over to where the Governor was tied. Then he sat.
The Tycoon did not speak for a very long time.
“You’re breathing very rarified air right now, do you know that?” the Tycoon said after this pause. “Very few people have seen what you’ve just seen. And a lot of them are dead.”
“Speaking of breathing … how did you do that?” the Governor asked. “I haven’t seen that trick outside of Vegas.”
“I did what I always do,” the Tycoon replied. “Which is not breathe.”
“You don’t breathe?” the Governor asked, aghast.
“I suck in air to talk, because that’s the only way to talk,” the Tycoon clarified. “But I don’t have to do it. Not like you do. I’m different. Special. Now, to return to what I was saying … Most people who have seen what you’ve just seen are applying for the most selective level of membership at our resort. At that level, after the application has been tendered, there are only two possibilities. You can join or you can die. You, Governor, are the first man who will not be required to follow either of those outcomes. But it is important that you understand just what is happening here.”
“But I … I don’t think that I do,” he said. “What is happening here? Why don’t you breathe? What is going on?”
The Governor’s assured smile fell away. He began to vibrate in his chair, struggling against the restraints. The Tycoon shook his head in frustration.
“I don’t know if presidents always tell vice presidents everything,” the Tycoon said, “but we are our own men. We each do what we need to do. Maybe all you need to understand for the moment … is that I’m going to be your boss, and I don’t breathe. Maybe later I can tell you more. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” said the Governor, seeming to grow calmer. “That … and also to be untied from this chair.”
“All things in due time,” the Tycoon answered. “All things in due time.”
THE REPORTER
Jessica arrived back at the arena later that afternoon. Having texted George something to the effect of her interviews with local voters taking longer than expected, she took her time milling through the convention hallways. They were more crowded now. Media representatives from all across the world were arriving, as were convention delegates and staff. Jessica made a beeline for the section of the convention housing the worst of the conference rooms—the ones holding TruthTeller and its ilk.
Jessica found the doorway she wanted and stepped furtively through. There were now perhaps ten people from different outlets inside the dingy room—chatting, milling about, and typing on laptops. Jessica looked them over. After only a few seconds, someone cried: “Found her!”
Jessica glanced up to see a very large man with half a powdered doughnut hanging out of his mouth. His eyes were wide, and he was pointing as if he had seen a ghost. Nearby, a bald man with cheap tattoos spun around with an almost-violent intensity. He also pointed, as if confirming the spectral sighting.
“Jessica Smith,” he whispered. “That’s her.”
A couple of other people in the conference room also looked, not understanding what the fuss was about. It was starting to be embarrassing.
Jessica looked around for Tim, but couldn’t find him. Then he stepped through a side door that linked their humble confines to an adjacent media room. He was carrying three coffees in a cardboard holder.
Tim looked at Ryan and Dan, and said: “What are you guys on about?”
Then he saw Jessica and almost dropped his coffees.
“Jessica!” he called. “Are you all right? What happened to you? We
were just about to call the cops.”
He set the coffees on a table occupied by two college bloggers—who both said “Hey!” in protest—and hurried over.
“Are you hurt at all?” Tim asked. “You saw what they did to my neck brace.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s a long story, but I’m okay. I came here looking for you, actually. Is there someplace we can go and talk? Some things have happened that I need to tell you about.”
“Absolutely,” Tim said. “There’s an empty conference room just down the corridor.”
They filed out into the hallway. Jessica noticed that Ryan and Dan had followed. She was on the point of saying something, when Tim whispered: “They know. They’re the only ones.”
This made Jessica uneasy, but she decided she’d have to roll with it.
Down the hall, they found a conference room that was indeed empty save for a couple of cleaning staff vacuuming the carpet and disinterestedly arranging chairs. They ducked inside. The noise of the industrial-sized vacuum cleaner helped to hide their voices.
“First of all, have you written anything, yet?” Jessica asked. “Published it, I mean. There’s nothing on your website?”
“No,” Tim said. “These two wanted to run something right away, of course. But I realized we needed to work on the bigger story. What is the bigger story, by the way? What happened to you?”
“This is some spy versus spy shit,” Jessica said. “You know how cops pose as hitmen to catch people trying to bump off their spouses? That guy Francis was posing as the Knights of Romero so he could find people looking for the Knights of Romero … and kill them. That gun he had in his belt? That was for us.”
“Who were those people who hauled you into their SUV?” Tim asked.
“They were the real Knights,” Jessica said, and she began to tell Tim (and Ryan and Dan) the rest of the story. She left out no detail.
“This is amazing,” Tim said as Jessica finished.
The arena staff finished vacuuming the room and stacking the chairs. The workers exited, leaving the four members of the media to speak more openly. Jessica sat down in one of the empty chairs.
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