by Lee Winter
There was a sharp bang overhead.
Lauren immediately wrenched on Ayers’s arm, pulling her to the ground. Another bang echoed around them. Lauren gave Ayers a push, propelling her into the sodden ditch three feet below. There was a heavy splosh and a curse. Lauren scrambled after her, splashing into the thick brown water rimmed with green vegetation.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ayers sputtered. Mud had drenched the front of her blouse and her pants were soaked. She tried to get up but Lauren slammed her hand firmly between her shoulder blades, pushing her lower with a hissed “No! And for god’s sake, be quiet!”
Ayers’s head jerked around.
“Someone just took a couple of pot shots at us,” Lauren growled softly. She shifted an overgrown weed out of her face and edged up on one elbow
“You’re sure?” Ayers sat up higher, glancing around.
“Yes I’m sure!” Lauren said, wrenching her back down. “Three of my brothers hunt. I know what gunshots sound like. Okay, it looks like we can commando crawl back to the car along this ditch. It’ll be muddy as hell, but at least we won’t get our heads blown off.”
“Are you insane? And this is getting beyond absurd. We’re being shot at in the middle of nowhere!”
“Yeah, well, could be our thugs are in a bad mood because they can’t find the laptop. Or maybe they want to stop us from finding our whistle-blower.”
“It can’t be those two oafs,” Ayers argued. “If they’d been following us, the shots would be from behind us, not over there.” She pointed sharply toward the trees.
Another shot sounded—closer this time.
“Catherine!” Lauren snapped her arm down. “Could you remember this is live ammo?”
“Hard to forget,” Ayers snarled, “since we’re lying in a putrid trench like we’re stuck in some bad Coppola flick.”
Lauren blinked at her, realization dawning.
“What?” Ayers asked with a dark look. “Don’t tell me you liked Apocalypse Now. It was highly overrated.”
“Shit,” Lauren said and twisted forward. “Well I think I know who’s shooting at us.”
She sat up and shouted, “Hey, Gray!”
“Lauren!” Ayers hissed, pulling in vain at her T-shirt. “Live ammunition, remember!”
There was another shot in reply.
“Oh come on!” Lauren shouted again. “We’re friendly, okay? Hold your fucking fire.”
A figure stepped into the ditch about fifty feet away and stared down at them, water lapping his shins through camouflage pants. His hair was sandy, unkempt, and escaping an old dirty bandana; eyes clear blue.
He took one look at them and laughed.
“What in hell do you two think you’re doing there?”
“Uh, avoiding getting shot at?” Lauren said.
“What makes you think you’re important enough to waste a bullet on?”
“Wait—you weren’t shooting at us?”
“Not unless you’ve grown a blasted cottontail and go well with baked potato. Besides, if I was shooting at you, you’d be too busy being dead to talk. So, who’re you with? You one of Uncle Sam’s slippery little eels?”
“Hell no! I’m a reporter.”
“Reporters are as bad as the government. Bit of a line ball which is worse, actually.”
“We just need your help to find Jon. Della’s frantic. We came from LA to look for him.”
“My boy’s missing, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“And who’s she?” He jabbed a finger in Ayers’s direction. “Some kind of mute?”
“I’m also a reporter looking for your son,” Ayers said as she sat up. The mud clung to her clothes, and she scowled, trying to sluice it from her body. “I’m Catherine Ayers.”
He regarded her thoughtfully.
“Well now, so you are,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar. Worked in DC once, didn’t you? You brought down those corrupt senators who were up to their snouts in kickbacks. About, oh, three years back, am I right? You were in all the news.”
Ayers gave a slow nod, her disbelief evident.
He nestled his rifle in the crook of his arm, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small pouch. He rolled himself a cigarette and muttered, “They sure stitched you up later, didn’t they, honey? Taught you who was boss and how that cesspool works. I read you just scuttled out of there after that. Dust cloud up your tail.”
Ayers’s expression was a mix of sourness, fury, and surprise. Gray shifted his assessing stare over her face and barked with laughter, then lit his cigarette. “What, you think some old washed-up soldier of no fixed address doesn’t know what’s going on in our nation’s capital? I used to live there, you know. I read all the papers. They float on by and make great insulation. Put them in your pockets, in your shirt. Nice and toasty. But they also kept me right up to date.”
He sucked in a slow drag and considered her.
“And now here you are—looking for my boy. Small world.” He shook his head and turned, pointing to the trees behind him. “Well come on then, a person can’t talk in a civilized manner in a ditch. What were you thinking, climbing in here anyway? Crazy-assed move. Is it some LA thing?”
Lauren and Ayers shared an incredulous look and crawled out of the drainage ditch after him.
* * *
Gray pointed them to a white gnarled log as he unloaded and put away his rifle in a tall, camouflaged tent. Strung-up pots hung from the tent pole outside the flap on one side, and a bag of perishables hung on the other pole—presumably keeping it out of reach of vermin.
Lauren studied the set-up, surprised. It seemed roomy and well organised for a man of nomadic impulses. But, she supposed, if you’re going to spend your whole life off the grid, it may as well be comfortable.
Gray returned, crouched in front of them, and stoked a small fire. And that was when Lauren realized he had bare feet—brown, thick soled, and heavily calloused.
“Don’t you get cold?” she asked him, gesturing to them.
He seemed surprised as though he’d forgotten it was unusual. He shrugged. “Get used to it. Easier to get the jump on folks. Had some strange folk in suits follow me around for a bit. You can hear a man by the squeak of his shoes, did you know that?”
“Why?” Lauren asked, perplexed. “I mean, why you?”
He gave her a hard look. “You calling me a liar? Or saying it’s all in my head, maybe? You’re like those veterans hospital shrinks.”
“Actually,” Ayers interrupted hastily, “we’ve had a few run-ins with certain government suits ourselves. So we understand.”
Gray relaxed and inhaled on his cigarette. “Well. That’s the thing. I don’t remember why anymore,” he finally said, exhaling a long swirl of smoke. “Noggin isn’t what it used to be. But I stay vigilant anyway. Move around a bit to throw them off. Just in case. Now, you mentioned my boy? Why’re you two worrying about him?”
He checked a small pot of water on a metal tripod over the fire, then rummaged around a tatty box nearby, and drew out a can of instant coffee.
“Gone up $1.50,” he said, pointing to it. He peered at them. “Not good.” He reached for a spoon. “Well? My boy?”
“We believe your son can help us with an important story.”
“What’s it about, this big story?” He scooped some coffee, and his hands trembled as he tried to get the granules in the mug. He spilled more than he got in, then he poured the boiling water.
“We think he’s a whistle-blower,” Ayers said. “That he’s trying to tell us about a company bribing government officials.”
Gray’s low laugh resounded around the tiny encampment. “My by-the-book kid? Who loves everything neat and in its place? Who lines up all his socks by color and has his boxer shorts ironed and marked for every day of the week? That boy?”
“I know it sounds unlikely,” Lauren said. “He’s been pretty clever about it, but yes, we think he’s a whistle-blower.”
“How can you be so sure?” Ayers asked.
The tent flap opened suddenly, and a man stepped out. “Because he knows me. And he’s right. I would never be a whistle-blower.”
Both women stared at the stooped figure of Jonathan Sands as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes then put on his glasses.
* * *
“Well, look who’s finally up. It’s after two.” Gray rose and passed his son over the mug of coffee. Sands lowered himself to the ground, sat cross-legged, and observed the women through his owlish spectacles. He was the least outdoorsy human in creation, Lauren decided, taking in his neat pants and too-big Marines-emblazoned T-shirt—clearly borrowed—and immaculate loafers.
Sands cupped the mug and glanced at his father. “Who can sleep with you grumbling in your sleep all night?” He drank in big, hearty gulps.
The old man gave him a grunt and turned to his guests. “You two want some coffee?”
“No thanks,” Ayers said.
Lauren shook her head.
“Right then, I’m off to the lake. Since you two scared away that jackrabbit, I’ll have to hook us some supper instead.” He reached for a backpack a few feet away which had a fishing rod stuck in the back.
He eyed the two interlopers. “You cross my boy, and I’ll hear about it. And next time I won’t be playing around with those bullets.”
His threat sounded almost cheerful.
Jon glanced at the two women after his father disappeared beyond the trees. “Don’t mind him,” he said, returning his tired gaze to his coffee. “Dad can be a little protective. When he’s not reliving the Tet Offensive every other night, he tries to scare away anyone who might want to stir up trouble. But he’s mostly harmless. You know, he used to teach comparative literature at Georgetown University in DC before he got drafted.”
“Why didn’t he go back to teaching?” Lauren glanced around the small encampment. “This isn’t much of a life for an old man.”
“Says the war stole his words. That’s all he ever says about it.”
He studied Lauren for a moment between sips of coffee. “So—the entertainment writer. We meet again, Ms. King. And who’s your bedraggled friend?”
Ayers glowered, and Lauren bit back a laugh. “Catherine Ayers. Also a reporter.”
“Show me your phones and any electronic devices.”
Lauren handed over their burner phone. He quickly removed the battery and SIM card and passed them back.
“Nothing else? Tablets, smart watches, anything?”
They shook their heads.
“Well given the fact you’re both here, I suppose there’s hope for this story yet. How far have you gotten?”
“But you just claimed you weren’t a whistle-blower,” Lauren said.
“I’m not.”
“But—” Lauren protested.
“Just tell me—how far,” he interrupted. “It’s important.”
“The SmartPay launch with prostitutes and champagne,” Lauren said. “Everything that you said wasn’t a story, was. We traced the invoices back to an account most likely set up to pay bribe money to four Nevada state officials.”
“I never said it wasn’t a story,” Sands disagreed. “I just asked why the other journalists in the room didn’t think it was. It’s still a valid question, don’t you think?” He arched a disdainful eyebrow.
“We’re not here to debate the media,” Ayers broke in, flicking mud from her thighs to the ground beside her. “We’re here for the story.”
“Which it sounds like you already have,” he said. “Why haven’t you run it? How long do I have to hide out in this hole until it’s safe to reappear?”
“It was incomplete.”
“How so? You just said you uncovered an account to bribe officials. So—print that.”
“No, Mr. Sands, you uncovered an account to bribe officials,” Ayers corrected. “And you left us a breadcrumb trail to find it. Not to mention, you were the one who paid for thirty-four prostitutes, a bus, and a pallet of champagne using $100,000 intended to bribe four officials.”
He adjusted his glasses. “How you came about your story is not important. It’s just window dressing. The bribes, the official corruption—that is the story. So what are you waiting for? Run it. Today.”
“You’re not disputing your involvement?” Ayers said in surprise. “And yet you claim you’re not a whistle-blower.”
“I’m not. Tell me when I ever contacted the media. I have leaked nothing to you or anyone. Even when Ms. King came to see me, I said nothing to encourage her to follow up this story. Under any legal or journalistic definition I’m no whistle-blower.”
“Why are you so opposed to being called that? Nevada’s law has protections,” Ayers said. “You could have revealed what you found, openly and safely.”
He gave her an incredulous stare. “A whistle-blower in Nevada is only protected if they take their concerns to their superiors. My superiors were corrupt all the way up the line. And are you really so naïve as to think anyone can whistle-blow safely in this country?”
“Why not?” Lauren asked doubtfully. “Give us one good reason.”
“I’ll give you more than one. Edward Snowden. Revealed to Americans their own government was spying on them. He was called a traitor and forced into hiding overseas, even though the Supreme Court now agrees he uncovered illegal acts.
“Private Manning. Released proof of American pilots shooting up groups of unarmed civilians and covering it up, among other things, and sentenced to rot for thirty-five years. You literally do less time for rape and murder. And that’s when they’re not also dragging your name through the mud, or calling you a terrorist sympathizer or crazy.
“Of course those are just the alive whistle-blowers. Want me to start on the curiously dead ones? What about the murdered journalists? Like Michael Hastings? Of course you wouldn’t have heard of them if you followed the sell-out, lazy mainstream media in this country.”
“We get the point,” Ayers interrupted, holding up her hand. “But if we were all sell-outs or lazy we wouldn’t be here right now, would we?”
Sands paused. “Mmm,” he conceded, finally. He gave them a half smile. “I suppose there’s hope for us yet.”
Lauren smothered a laugh at how aggrieved he sounded making that admission.
“So,” Ayers said impatiently. “You worked out that by doing it your way you’d only get charged with embezzlement?”
“Yes. Well, the best-case scenario I wouldn’t be found out at all. Second-best, I wouldn’t be charged given all I took was money intended for bribes. Absolute worst-case scenario—a year in jail—probably less for a first offence—or a fine. I kept the alcohol and the receipts to return it for a refund to lessen the severity of the charge.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “I miss Fee and Della, though. So, if we can move this along, I’d really rather be home.”
“I don’t understand one thing,” Ayers said. “If you’re so frightened by what happens to whistle-blowers, why do anything at all? Why risk it? You could have pretended you didn’t find the red files.”
“After going to all the effort to find something I could use on SmartPay, I wasn’t about to pretend I hadn’t found it. I just had to figure out a way to use it and protect myself at the same time.”
“It wasn’t an accident then?” Ayers asked, “Finding the red files?”
He gave a wry laugh. “Definitely not. I had to write a very clever little program to squirrel its way through SmartPay’s internal accounts over many months to dig up that particular fiscal irregularity,” Sands said. “They’d hidden it in their marketing budget over a dozen different departments to make it look legitimate.
“But then I tried to pull the thread at the Nevada government’s end, and discovered the red files we
re so creatively hidden that no journalist would ever be able to find them unassisted. I’d have to stick a neon arrow on them.”
“Why are you gunning for SmartPay?” Lauren asked. “I mean aside from the fact they pay bribes?”
“SmartPay bribing officials to talk up their technology at business conventions and government meet-fests and calling it speaking engagement fees doesn’t even touch the sides of what they’re up to. And I don’t want to see my little girl growing up in a world with something as evil as SmartPay in it. Think of them as a corporate Al Capone.”
Lauren cocked her head. “The gangster?”
“A ruthless crime boss from the twenties,” Sands said. “They couldn’t get him for all the countless murders, prostitution, and drug rings he ran, so they finally jailed him on tax fraud. I decided to do the same. While the red files bribes are chicken feed in the scheme of what SmartPay is involved in, it can still destroy them. All that’s needed is enough bad publicity to frighten off any other states from signing up and to stop California’s rollout cold. But it has to be done now.”
“If the red files are chicken feed, what’s SmartPay’s main crime?” Lauren asked.
“It’s nothing I can prove without costing me everything,” he sighed. “And without the proof, people would dismiss me as a conspiracy theorist just so they could sleep at night. Some truths are too scary to face.”
“Tell us anyway,” Lauren urged. “Maybe there’s a way?”
“A way? I’ve thought of nothing else for over a year,” Sands said, staring into the fire. He shook his head. “I’ve thought of every possible scenario, and it all ends in me dead, rotting in jail, or exiled somewhere that has no extradition treaty with the US. And in every option, I lose my family. But with the red files? Problem solved. Corrupt officials, a bribing corporation? People can wrap their heads around that. And I get to keep my family.”
“Why didn’t you tell Della any of this?” Lauren asked. “This has been a nightmare for her. They told her you were probably dead.”
