by Sam Sisavath
She got up and pocketed the phone. She might not know how to use it, but that didn’t mean someone else didn’t. Jerry at the station was pretty good with electronics, maybe he could—
The phone buzzed in her pocket as she was riding down the escalator.
Zoe quickly pulled it back out. “You miss me already, Marcy?”
“I don’t know who Marcy is, but you have my phone,” a voice said. Male, young.
Converse.
“Who is this?” she asked anyway.
“The guy who owns that phone you’re holding right now,” the caller said.
“Aaron?”
There was a brief moment of silence on the other side, and Zoe took the time to glance around her at the first floor of the mall. Too many faces, too many teenagers, and too many possibilities, but none of them matched her last sighting of Converse.
“I want my phone back,” the man (boy) finally replied.
“Finders keepers. You know how that goes.”
“What are you, ten?”
“I’m the person who found your phone.”
Zoe climbed off the escalator and took a few steps, then stopped and scanned the faces around her again. The noises thinned out and faded into the background, and she focused all of her attention on the phone in her hand. Or rather, on the voice coming through it.
Don’t spook him. Whatever you do, don’t spook him.
“But I’ll make you a deal,” she said into the phone. “Give me twenty bucks and I’ll let you have it back.”
“Twenty bucks, huh?” Converse said.
“That’s right. Twenty buckaroos.”
“Twenty shillings?”
“Whatever you want to call it, it should total twenty.”
“That sounds awfully expensive for such a shitty phone.”
“If it’s so shitty, then why do you want it back?”
“’Cause it’s my shitty phone.”
“You could probably get a new one for a ten spot.”
“I probably could, but that one has sentimental value.”
“Did someone give it to you?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“You gave it to yourself?”
“It was a birthday gift. I built it from scratch.”
“Is that why it looks like someone picked it out of a Dumpster?”
“Ouch...” He might have chuckled when he added, “Talk about hitting below the belt.”
“I’m still going to need twenty bucks for it.”
“It’s only worth ten.”
“Twenty.”
“You’re supposed to go down.”
“I’m supposed to be eating ramen right now, too, but that’s probably not gonna happen either.”
“Fifteen,” Converse said.
“Twenty bucks. Take it or leave it. Of course, you could always call the police. Report me for theft.”
He might have snorted that time.
“What’s it gonna be?” Zoe asked.
“Twenty bucks, huh?” Converse said, except he sounded really close that time.
Zoe spun around, and her eyes went wide.
He stood behind her, lowering a phone he had been holding against his ear. She wasn’t sure whether to turn and flee or lunge at him to keep him from running away again. The other option was to scream out for the two cops she could see over his right shoulder as they walked by.
Converse saw where she was looking and glanced over. “You could call them, but then you wouldn’t get your twenty bucks.”
She smiled at him. Or as much of a smile as she could force. “Now why would I want to do that? You’re not wanted by the law, are you, Aaron?”
“Of course not. I’m just a teenager in a mall. What’s so special about that?” He pocketed the phone he had been using and held out an empty hand toward her. “Can I have my phone back now?”
“Where’s my twenty bucks?”
“Like this is really about twenty bucks.”
Zoe looked down at the phone, then at him. He was younger up close despite the fatigue on his face and the hollowness in his eyes. Was she looking at a terrorist? Someone with the potential to set off a bomb that would kill everyone in this mall, himself (and me) included?
No.
The answer came quickly and with surprising confidence. She had seen killers before, psychopaths and sociopaths and a dozen other paths, but this kid wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t crazy or angry or dangerous. He just looked…tired.
The cops disappeared into the chaotic background as she handed the phone over. “So now what?”
He took the phone. “When do you go on the air?”
“What?”
He smiled. “Zoe McIntosh. Channel 9 news. ‘Zoe on the Case.’”
Damn you, Joe, I hate you for forcing me to use that tagline.
“You recognize me,” she said instead.
“Not at first, and it took seeing you on a TV screen around the corner for it to register. Why did you think I came back? If I even thought you were one of them, you wouldn’t have seen me again.”
Them? Who was them?
The woman on the phone—“Marcy”—had asked something similar.
“And here I was under the impression you just wanted some money,” Zoe said.
“I don’t need money.”
“What do you need, Aaron?”
“Someone who isn’t afraid.”
“I’m afraid of a lot of things. Poorly made shoes, guys who want to marry me after the first date, and Michelin-starred restaurants that don’t live up to the hype. You’ll have to be a little more specific.”
“What about the story of a lifetime?” the kid asked.
“Okay,” Zoe said. “I’m listening…”
“Why me?”
“You’re Zoe McIntosh.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“‘Zoe on the Case.’ The crazy broad who ran into the schoolyard when terrorists were supposed to be trying to shoot their way out of the place. The same one who got tackled by the cops and made national headline news. That video of them taking you down on the front lawn went viral, you know.”
Zoe made a face. She wasn’t sure if being known as “the crazy broad” who charged into a terrifying hostage situation was a good thing or not. Then again, who really chose what you were known for? If that was the worst thing people could say about her—that she went to the story instead of waiting for it to come to her—then maybe it wasn’t so bad.
“Your channel’s hyping up an upcoming exposé with you,” Aaron continued. “Your face is all over the TVs.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“It’s one reason.”
“So what’s this story of a lifetime?”
They were back on the second-floor food court, with the movie theater behind them. It was Aaron’s idea, and the choice surprised her, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. They were already in a highly public place, and there was no busier section in a mall than the centralized spot where everyone sat down to eat and talk. And there was a lot of talking. At times, she had to strain to hear Aaron. Another reason why he had chosen this location, she guessed, because the chances of being overheard—or really, running into people who cared enough to eavesdrop—was minimal.
Aaron picked at his fries and watched a long crowd of people waiting to buy tickets into the theater. He sat with his backpack still slung behind him, which meant he had to slightly lean forward because its bulk was pushing against the chair’s backrest.
What’s in that thing? Zoe thought for the tenth time since they sat down.
“You saw that movie?” Aaron asked, pointing a soggy fry at one of the marquees.
Zoe shook her head. “I’m not a fan of horror movies.”
“I didn’t think you were a scaredy-cat.”
“Too unrealistic.”
“Let me guess. You’re one of those people who demand realism in your entertainment?”
�
��Is that what this is about, Aaron? Movies?”
“No. I was just curious what kind of person you are, beyond the whole fearless reporter angle.”
“What makes you think I’m fearless?”
He grinned at her before licking the greasy oil off his fingers. “You’re talking to me, knowing what you know, for one. Before that, you were chasing me. Scaredy-cats don’t go around chasing people who may or may not be terrorists by themselves.”
Or maybe I’m just too dumb for my own good, if this blows up in my face.
“Blows up” in your face? Ha! Poor choice of words, Zoe ol’ gal.
“Who were your friends?” she asked. “The ones at the school.”
“You mean my terrorist friends?”
“Were they terrorists?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
The teenager’s face darkened, and he pulled strips of napkin out of a dispenser and wiped at his hands before flicking them into a nearby trash bin. “You remember what happened at the Wilshire offices last week?”
“Remember? Aaron, it was the biggest thing to happen to Houston in God knows how long. A terrorist attack, dozens dead. Yeah, I remember. I covered it and followed up on it for days just like every reporter in the country. What about it?”
“John Porter.”
“He’s dead.”
“I don’t think he is. My friends who were at the school don’t think he’s dead, either.”
Zoe stared at the kid sitting across from her. If she didn’t already know who he was, where he had been earlier today, she would have gotten up and walked away because all of this was a prank. A big, stupid put-on by some teenagers trying to trick the dumb blonde reporter and upload the footage onto YouTube for some lulz.
But that wasn’t what was happening here. Zoe had been around enough liars—they came in all shapes and sizes, ages and colors, and wore the most expensive suits to the cheapest rags—to know when she was talking to one. She liked to think it was a sixth sense that had been honed from years of living, even before she knew journalism was a thing.
Unless you’re wrong. About him, about everything.
Then what?
Zoe pushed past the doubts. There was always doubt, just like this afternoon when she raced into the open field at the school. But she had always followed her instincts because they had never led her astray.
Yet. The first time might cost you your life.
“We were trying to find him when they found us,” Aaron was saying.
“Porter?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’ve said that before. They. And before that, it was them. Who are we talking about?”
“The people who are either going to make you the most famous reporter in the world, or the ones who are going to destroy everything you hold dear. The question is: How much are you willing to risk in order to find out the answer?”
She cracked a smile. “How many times have you practiced that?”
He grinned. “Four or five times. How was it?”
Zoe shrugged. “Pretty good. But it could have been better.”
“Everyone’s a critic.”
She sat back in her chair and watched him. Really, really watched him this time. “Why don’t you think Porter is dead? I saw his body.”
“You saw a picture of his body.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Adobe Photoshop was invented in 1988. That might as well be hundreds of years ago, in terms of technological advancement. I can put you in a threesome with the First Lady of the United States, and no one would know the difference.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I would know the difference. So would POTUS.”
“But what about everyone else who I showed the picture to?”
“People would know the difference.”
“Not if I were the FBI. Or the CIA. Or any of the other alphabet agencies. People believe in authority figures. People want to believe their governments aren’t made up of liars and crooks. Despite what they say in the forums and in private messages, or in backyard barbecues, the truth is that your average citizen has an inherent need to be assured they’re in good hands, that their government is doing everything possible—even the guy with the wrong party affiliation—to keep them and their family safe.”
“That’s a good speech, but what does it have to do with John Porter and your friends at the school this afternoon?”
“Have you ever heard of the Rhim?”
“I’ve heard of rim jobs.”
The teenager chuckled. “Who hasn’t? But I’m talking about another kind of Rhim. R-h-i-m.”
“What is that, pig Latin?”
“I don’t know the origins of the word, but it’s what they call themselves.”
“There’s that they again. Who is they, Aaron?”
“The people who want you to think John Porter is a terrorist. That my friends this morning are terrorists. The same people who really run the government, the corporations—everything and anything that actually means something.”
Zoe stared at him for a moment.
Five seconds, then ten, before she finally let out a big sigh. “Oh God, you’re one of those guys.”
“‘Those guys?’” Aaron said.
“Conspiracy theorists. New World Order Truthers. What’s in that backpack, tinfoil hats?”
Aaron grinned and sat back, or as much as he could with his backpack bumping up against the chair’s backrest.
“What?” Zoe said. “What’s so funny? Did another conspiracy just pop into your head?” She picked up her bottle of Coke. “Let me guess, New Coke isn’t really new?”
“You’re funny.”
“No. I’m wasting my time.” She looked up and around them, searching for someone in a uniform. “But the day’s not a complete loss.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning”—she glanced at her watch—“I can still salvage this in time.”
He frowned. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Don’t I?”
“The real story isn’t me. It isn’t my friends, either.”
“I know, it’s John Porter. The dead John Porter.”
“He’s not dead.”
“Of course he is. John Porter is dead, and you’re just a kid looking to make some sense of your friends’ deaths this afternoon. I’ve seen it before.”
There, two officers—a man and a woman watching as another throng of moviegoers flooded out of the building behind them. One of them turned around just as Zoe stood up.
“What are you doing?” Aaron asked, panic rising in his voice. He turned around in his seat and saw where she was looking. “Don’t—”
But she ignored him and held up her hand to get the cop’s attention when she heard chairs squeaking and heavy footsteps behind her. She put her hand down and turned around, just in time to see a half dozen or so cops in uniforms rushing through the food court toward them.
How did they know?
Aaron stood up—too fast, and somehow got his feet tangled with his chair and went down in a pile on the floor.
“Aaron, don’t run,” she was saying to him, when her words slurred.
No, not slurred. She was screaming because someone had grabbed her arms from behind and forcefully bent her forward at the waist until her forehead slammed into the table, knocking her cup of Coke onto its side. Brown, sugary liquid spilled around her head, coming dangerously close to wetting her hair.
“Hey!” Zoe shouted.
She managed to lift her head just enough to see Aaron, sitting on the floor next to his overturned chair, staring back at her. Then there was a forest of legs and uniformed torsos as people surrounded…her.
Soon she couldn’t see Aaron anymore, and the singular thought that went through her head was, What the hell’s going on?
Zoe tried to get up when a palm pressed against the back of her head and
pushed her harder into the table, like they were trying to force her to eat the filthy tabletop.
“Hey, asshole! You wanna get sued?” she shouted. “Then go ahead and keep your fucking hands on my head!”
“I wouldn’t worry about that pretty head of yours if I were you, lady,” a gravelly male voice said behind her. “You got bigger things to worry about.”
“What are you talking—”
She screamed again when cold metal bit into her wrists for the second time that day. Handcuffs.
A new voice—a woman this time—said, “Zoe McIntosh, you’re under arrest for the murder of Stacy Baker. You have the right to remain silent…”
The woman went on, but Zoe wasn’t listening. All she could hear was “You’re under arrest for the murder of Stacy Baker” echoing inside her head over and over again.
Stacy? Stacy’s dead?
Then they were dragging her up from the table and the wall of men parted, and she could see Aaron again. He had picked himself up from the floor and was looking after her. She wondered if her own face was as shocked as his.
“Aaron,” she said. “What’s happening?”
He shook his head before the man holding her cuffed hands behind her back in a viselike grip spun her around. Her heard was spinning, her mind desperately trying to come to terms with what was happening…and failing badly.
Chapter 13
Quinn
“Where are you?”
“We just crossed the Texas border. Are you okay?”
“Alive and kicking, for now.”
“Are you safe?”
“Safe enough.”
“Aaron, are you safe?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Aaron took a deep breath. She could hear enough traffic from his end of the phone call to know he was still on the street somewhere. The noise pollution was low, so he wasn’t anywhere near the busier areas of Houston but probably along a side street, with only the occasional vehicle driving by. She glanced at her watch: five minutes past midnight. The fact that Aaron wasn’t yet indoors meant he hadn’t found a place he considered safe enough to stop moving.
