Not now, cool guy. You practiced this for her! It shouldn’t shake you, damn it!
Yancy swallowed hard. His gut instinct had been to tell Jenna. He’d made that mistake before, and he loved her more than his pride. But then, he’d gotten an e-mail with the picture of Ayana, swinging just feet away from where Yancy knew some combination of he, Charley, Vern, or Victor had stood, standing guard, ridiculous text safe words ready on their fingertips to reassure Jenna that Ayana wasn’t within Claudia’s grasp. He’d not only had to face the reality that their security was all an illusion of Claudia’s making, that the picture was proof that, at any moment, she could swoop in and devastate them, but that a second reality was in play: everything Claudia had revealed to him and imparted to him was part of the game.
The story he’d prepared was decent, for his non-sociopathic self. One involving Jenna’s ex-mother-in-law and the court battle over Ayana’s collection of her father’s life insurance and the files Yancy had supposedly needed to help the case. But somehow, with the moment here, confronted with the impossible cover-up he was about to face – as impressive and intricate as it might be in all the right places – it didn’t feel as much the masterpiece of perfect deception it had in theory.
‘Come on, man,’ Irv pressed. ‘You know I’m not walkin’ away without knowing why the hell you hacked into secure government databases. I know you enough that I know you’re not crazy. The skill to hack into FBI databases itself is proof you aren’t stupid.’
God, I hope not. Here goes nothing.
Yancy took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and began to lie.
Twenty-two
As Dodd eased the SUV left to merge on to I-270 off the Capital Beltway, Jenna shifted in the passenger’s seat and pressed the button to unlock the keys on her smartphone for the dozenth time. ‘Still nothing from Irv,’ she reported, staring at the screen. Her message box was empty, the only new activity two missed calls – both from the same unknown number and placed right around the time they left Quantico.
‘Even geniuses need a bathroom break now and again,’ Dodd replied.
Jenna half-laughed. ‘Maybe. But it’d still be nice to know if the cross-check turned up any connections between anyone at the bank scene and people involved at the Olney Theatre before we get there. Give us a better idea where to start. Besides, even with Saleda and Teva staying behind to work the victim profiles, any helpful info from those would get to us twice as fast if they had Irv to expedite the tedious stuff.’
‘And the stuff they can’t get their hands on without him, too, you mean,’ Dodd said, eyes on the road. He nodded. ‘Yep. Even the hardest workers need their bathroom breaks.’
‘That’s what I’m interested in seeing most when we get there,’ Porter grumbled from the backseat. ‘After an hour on the road, I need to find a bathroom before I can even consider a meet and greet.’
‘You smell that bad?’ Grey said, her voice breezy.
Jenna tensed. While she and Saleda had decided it best she take Grey along, lest the team have to track her down again, and while Jenna never doubted all the ways in which the choice would make things easier, it’d complicate them in plenty of others. One of those becoming apparent was Grey’s dislike of Porter. While Grey’s offhand remarks could be just the product of a thought process akin to blowing bubbles on a summer day, her thoughts weren’t always nontoxic fluff.
‘What?’ Porter said, annoyance in his voice. ‘I just need to take a piss, Matilda, not a bubble bath.’
‘She knows that,’ Jenna said, cutting him off. She shook her head. Grey had learned long ago that people viewing her as loony but harmless meant she could sneak in passive-aggressive jabs at them and get away with it. Eccentric definitely didn’t equal naive.
‘Well, I’ve got news for you then, Matilda. Your book game might be on, but your comedy routine needs some work,’ Porter replied.
Jenna couldn’t see Grey behind her, but she could hear her heavy, quick breathing.
‘This must be the place,’ Dodd said, making a right-hand turn into the modest parking lot across the street from the green-accented, white building of the Olney Theatre.
He shut the engine off, and they all climbed out. Hopefully whatever hunch they were here on would manifest results fast. The idea the group could’ve met here made sense with enough clues to give it weight, but this would either be a big break or a big waste of time.
Grey joined Jenna and Dodd as they started toward the theatre, still huffing angrily. Behind them, Porter slammed his door and caught up to them. Grey muttered something undecipherable under her breath.
‘Hey, if you can’t take it, don’t dish it out, brainiac,’ Porter said evenly without facing her.
Grey stopped just short of the flight of cement stairs. Jenna’s phone rang as Grey whirled to face Porter.
Jenna stepped between them and held a hand up to Porter, her other hand removing her cell from her pocket. ‘Please, Porter. Play nice. I’m gonna take this. It might be important.’
Jenna took three long strides away from the group, trying to ignore the man peeking out of the blinds of the window above them who had to be wondering who the heck they were. They hadn’t exactly made an appointment. She’d explain after she took this call. She slowed, her heart thundering as she glanced at the phone again. The same unknown number. What if someone was trying to get in touch with her because something was wrong?
As she pressed the button to answer, questions flew through her head. Which safe words had she gotten when Ayana was at school? From who? Who was on duty to pick Ayana up, bring her home?
‘Dr Jenna Ramey,’ she answered, swallowing hard.
‘It’s about damned time. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for over an hour. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you must’ve been on a plane and had it off or something,’ a female voice chided matter-of-factly.
The hot coral of a paradise flower in a tropical bouquet flashed in. Reminded her of the shocking pink of boldness, but it was distinct. Brazen. Bold, yes. But confident without shame.
‘Um, excuse me,’ Jenna said, clutching the phone tighter. ‘Who is this, and how did you get this number?’
‘McKenzie McClendon, New York Herald. As for the number, you have your people, I have mine.’
Strawberry red flashed in as Jenna pictured the short, sassy auburn girl-next-door image the papers had splashed all over a few years back when the up-and-comer had chased a wild lead that had turned into the scoop of the century. The more Jenna had heard about the hungry young reporter, she had associated the color with her. She was apparently a firecracker, too – took a bribe to keep quiet, then outed the person responsible for the assassinations of the leaders of the free world anyway, all on the front page.
Jenna let out a half-laugh. Pushy, too.
‘I’m so sorry, Ms McClendon, but we have no comment for the media at this time.’
‘Don’t hang up, Dr Ramey. Trust me, you’ll regret it,’ the cheeky voice replied.
Jenna raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that a reporter threatening a federal agent? That wouldn’t look pretty on the front page.’
‘No, that’s a reporter telling a federal agent if she’s smart, she’ll ix-nay the theatre, turn back around, and come to the parking lot across the street to talk to me.’
Jenna whipped around, the hairs on her arms standing up. ‘How the hell did you know where we were? And why are you—’
McKenzie cut her off. ‘This is a high-profile investigation, and I am a reporter. Flew in as soon as the bank story broke. I’ve obviously been following your team’s every move since I got into town. Looking for a scoop. Or I was, anyway. Point is, you’re good at your job. I’m good at mine.’
But Jenna was stuck back at the words where the yellowy-tan hue of butterscotch had flashed in. It was a color that popped in when a casual comment thrown into an ordinary conversation set off Jenna’s radars as alluding to something important. ‘What do you mean you were
just a reporter trying to get a scoop? You’re not anymore?’
A wicked cackle. ‘I don’t remember saying ‘just a reporter,’ but yeah, I guess you could say I’ve been upgraded to front row seats,’ McKenzie said.
Jenna squinted into the distance, first at the parking lot where the team had left the SUV, then to the next closest lot – a tiny rectangle of gravel to the left of the theatre parking lot. A gray sedan was parked facing the road. Sure enough, leaning into it with her hip and holding her phone to her ear was auburn-haired McKenzie McClendon in jeans and hot pink high heels.
McKenzie gave a little wave. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? I’m sure the theatre puts on great shows, but I’ve got something they could never offer you on a weekday afternoon.’
Twenty-three
Jenna and Porter crossed the street, leaving Dodd behind to babysit Grey. From what she knew of McKenzie McClendon, Jenna’s hands would be full enough dealing with this reporter. She’d have to be an expert juggler to want to add Grey, her made up words, and bird sounds into the mix.
‘Why the backup? You think I’m here to kidnap you or something?’ McKenzie McClendon said, giving Porter the once-over.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ Porter replied.
The redhead nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
‘What do you want, McKenzie?’ Jenna asked. She didn’t mean to be rude, but nevertheless, if the reporter didn’t have a darn good reason for inserting herself into this investigation, Jenna was inclined to bring her in for obstruction.
‘The same thing you do,’ McKenzie said, leaning into her open car window and reaching to the seat.
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ Jenna said as she exchanged a glance with Porter. Her teammate’s hand went to his holster. Girl probably wasn’t dangerous, but still, like Porter had said, they couldn’t be too careful.
When McKenzie turned back, she had a white envelope in her hand. Her eyes, however, were on Porter’s holster … and his hand. ‘Are you guys always so hostile with informants?’
Jenna and Porter traded looks, this time not in secret. Jenna stared at McKenzie. ‘Informants?’
McKenzie shrugged, crossed her arms and leaned against the car again. ‘I guess that’s what I am now. Maybe witness? I didn’t see anything, though, so I’m not sure. But I didn’t come to cause trouble. I came to give you an e-mail that was sent to me.’
Salmon flashed in. McKenzie might be telling the truth, but she was withholding something, too.
‘What does the e-mail have to do with us?’ Jenna asked.
‘It’s from your bank killers, I believe,’ McKenzie replied.
Jenna narrowed her eyes. ‘How do you know?’
McKenzie smiled, as if the question amused her. ‘The e-mail address. It came from yourbankstory2_14_1895.’
Porter laughed. ‘Was it from at-yourfairygodmother-dot-com?’
McKenzie stared him down. Without flinching, she said, ‘Actually, it’s from Yahoo.’ She turned to Jenna. ‘And you can waste time questioning if it’s real if you want to, but based on the scene at that bank, I’m guessing you’re already worried something else is coming. So I’ll save you the time. It’s real.’
Jenna stepped forward to take the envelope out of McKenzie’s hand, but the reporter pulled it back.
‘Not so fast,’ the reporter said.
The salmon flashed in, followed by midnight blue. The color Jenna used to see when Charley held her favorite CD hostage until she agreed to let him have the TV remote, or when Dad used a 9:30 pm bedtime to negotiate Charley into the bathtub when he was little. This was what McKenzie had been withholding. The letter was a bargaining chip.
‘Fine,’ Jenna said, stilling. ‘What do you want?’
‘An exclusive,’ McKenzie said.
‘With the killers?’
‘With you.’
Jenna froze, ice in her veins. The reporter wanted her to talk publicly. About Claudia, of course. What else? McKenzie McClendon was already famous, could have any story she wanted. This was a terror investigation, but after what she’d covered, maybe it was just another case to her. She was interested in a scoop no one else could have.
Jenna took a deep breath, willing herself not to show her emotions.
‘Fine,’ Jenna said. ‘After this case is over.’
McKenzie nodded, stepping forward. ‘After this case.’
Jenna snatched the envelope away, and McKenzie smirked before turning back to her car
‘Thanks, Jenna,’ McKenzie said out of her open window, her car rolling past Jenna and Porter as they walked back toward Dodd and Grey. ‘And I wasn’t trying to play dirty. I have just really wanted to meet you for a long time.’
‘It looks like a bunch of gibberish,’ Porter said, leaning over Jenna’s shoulder from the backseat of the SUV. With the letter in play, suddenly the wild goose chase into the Olney Theatre and the people connected to it wasn’t the best use of their time.
‘Can’t be,’ Jenna replied, the canary yellow of relevance flashing in. She scanned the words again:
McKenzie McClendon,
I do not write to you as so many might, appealing to your ambition, drawing on society’s fear, or using some boorish, amateurish tactic like blackmail to encourage, incentivize, or intimidate you into becoming a platform for my propaganda. Yes, journalism is a needed profession by those pursuing controversial goals … by people such as myself who have been thrust into leadership positions to spur on others with the same aims. However, I do not need or desire a parrot.
What I need is a voice, and one with a brain behind it.
While the profession of journalism has long been hailed a noble and ethical field, fewer and fewer in the station will watch and listen, learn and think before they decide. That is, if they decide of their own accord. We may not live in a world of burned TRANSGRESSORS, but ignorance – willful or not – complacency, and coercion are alive and well today. Each helps our very own current culture of UNSPOKEN WORDS to masquerade as liberty.
I am not so unreasonable or out of touch that I would expect you to take my honest words as such, automatically view me objectively. In fact, most would consider it appropriate and normal to react to this letter in the opposite fashion, vilify me, and disregard the correspondence entirely. So, trust me when I tell you that if your initial reaction is that very natural one I described, I will not take offense. On the surface, it would be logical of you to assume me a monster. And because of that, I would be insolent to ask you to consider that perhaps I am not fully a monster. That of the two natures of man, I can be rightly either. I can be radically both.
I do not ask you to accept my reasoning that us being in the middle of a raging war should justify allowing the beast inside me – the one inside every man – to come out. That the only Beasts to be feared are those without reason. I only ask in the coming days that you do not abandon your own ideas as some men think all men must. I’ve read your columns. Know your famous stories. You were able to ignore the din and the raging current to report the valid and not just the popular. The only thing I ask of you, Ms McClendon, is that you remain UNEQUAL to your peers. I ask in the dark days that are coming not for you to think me a hero, but rather, for you to unleash your boundless curiosity, look for a nice tunnel where you can stow away and write … formulate your own opinions about the coming events. whatever those opinions may be. Ignore those too cowardly to seek the truth alone; by watching and listening objectively, you may on some level come to understand that these atrocities are not about the people. The people are not the point. They were – and will only be – a part of the sickness. An aspect of the sickness we will hurry to step over, for we do not kill people. We slaughter the principle.
We killed the pipe dream, Ms McClendon. And we are going to kill it again. Too many cowards won’t, McKenzie, and that is why we must.
So, what’s it going to be then, eh, Ms McClendon? It’s your decision, and if we find that tunnel in which to think and hide and wr
ite, know that you can be one of the few people who still respects that at all costs and all turns, we must be allowed to make our own choices. You can truly ask yourself whether you believe in making your own moral choices. Most people do not have the luxury and are simply told the answer. You still have the ability to make choices – and the ability to remind others over and over again that if they do not ask themselves the same question, and often, they may end up without the option.
The capitalized words in the middles of sentences jumped out at Jenna, seemed to be chosen at random: Transgressors, Unspoken Words, Unequal. There was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on about the sentence with the, ‘eh,’ in it, too. It didn’t fit with the careful, almost overly articulate tone of the other word choices.
She pushed away the light khaki, yellowish color she associated with things seeming out of place, sticking out given the circumstances. The words did, but she already knew that. She needed the color behind it that was trying to push through.
Indigo flashed in. Deliberate. She kept scanning:
… My only hope, Ms McClendon, is that you will be a great source of comfort and support and in time, tell the truth as only someone as inimitable, impartial, and undaunted as you can. For I have made my decision. Many may think I’ve lost my humanity in trying to protect our society’s potential, but I shall not allow them to turn me into something other than a human being where I have power of choice no longer. I shall not lose the power to take meaningful action. At some point, the time for reversing course will be over, and in the meantime, much more irreparable, painful damage will be inflicted.
So, we are coming. I will not tell you when or where, only that we are coming. I ask you to be the one who is vigilant, Ms McClendon. It is hidden, but here. Don’t wonder what makes me say that. Because whether they realize it or not, we are not the enemy, but the savior. And when you see it, tell them that, they may decide for themselves.
Flash Point Page 12
