by Camryn King
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“Seriously, Karl? You still think Van Dijk is a great businessman? The guy’s a jerk, the absolute worst that’s ever stepped in front of a camera. And I don’t mean just in the United States. I mean in the world!”
“Like so many others you’ve drunk the Kool-Aid. I get that the man is unconventional. He’s also a genius, on the pulse of the nation, plugged into the hearts and minds of the American majority.”
The image that floated up in Kennedy’s mind was one of Karl’s hero plugged into something else. She bit her tongue to keep quiet, so hard she almost drew blood. The Pulse was an autobiography written by Van Dijk that became a bible among evangelicals and a New York Times bestseller. In it, he detailed the discipline based on biblical principles that garnered his family’s astronomical success. Kennedy knew of a certain p-word Van Dijk didn’t want in print.
“There are things you don’t know, Karl, that if you did . . .”
“What, another witch hunt or some kind of fake news?”
Kennedy turned toward him again, serious this time. “You do know I’m in that industry, right? Not directly as a reporter or such, but I work with some form of media every day. My best friend is at Chicago Star, and I can tell you they work their asses off to keep America informed of what’s really happening. The truth, facts that have been researched and documented.”
Kennedy felt herself getting agitated. “Look, I don’t want to argue. I’m not going to change your mind.”
“Atta girl.”
How frickin’ chauvinistic! She swallowed the thought. “Where’s your friend Kimora?”
“She left a little while ago.”
“She seems nice.”
“She is, smart too. We think alike.”
“Of course.”
Someone signaled that it was time to go watch the fireworks. The conversation ended but Karl’s words reverberated in her mind for a very long time. He spoke the position held by millions of Americans about a man who seemed made of Teflon, where the most heinous facts—corruption, racism, adultery, abuse—rolled off like water on a duck’s back. There were documents and pictures supporting those allegations, too. A fact that, for Kennedy, begged the question. Would publicizing those pictures be the end of Van Dijk’s career and life as he knew it? Or would it be the end of hers?
14
Zeke waited until he heard a cheer from the crowd, then emerged from a stairwell behind the dollar store, his demeanor calm but inside, slightly shook. For the second time in this operation he’d been caught off his game. Had this been war and were he on the frontline, he’d be a casualty right now. No Bueno. Zeke had vowed as he threw her off his trail that it wouldn’t happen again. He’d flipped his reversible ball cap and pulled the hair attachment from inside the rim. The black Yankees sign that Kennedy may have seen was now orange with a logo for the Mets. The buzz-cut blonde now sported straggly black locs. He’d slapped a large, stick-on flag to the front of his shirt and kept his head down slightly as he slipped into the alley and headed to his car parked two blocks away. Once back to the rental, he fired it up and headed straight to Kiowa Street and the home of Karolyn Burnett. Since learning she’d subleased her condo, Zeke had been unable to uncover her new location. Pure instinct had led him to Peyton, figuring she’d might go home for the holiday.
By the time he arrived at the home where Kennedy’s mother, step-father, and either a half-sister or cousin lived, he was once again in all black, except for the Mets cap. Not that it mattered. Five thousand, four hundred of the fifty-five hundred residents the town boasted were standing along a parade route that went on for a mile, ending at the town’s high school on the other side of town. He guessed no one would be back in the house for at least an hour. Not that it would take him that long. He pulled out his lock kit, slid a file along the patio door and unlocked it faster than someone with a key. He slipped inside, holding his alarm detector as he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The house was small and cluttered. It smelled like a holiday. The sweet and tangy smell of barbeque sauce vied with onions, and some kind of meat. Zeke’s stomach growled. He ignored it. Assured there was no type of surveillance equipment inside, he began a search of the house. There was only a slight chance that Kennedy had left her computer bag here, but he had to take it as he’d already looked in that boat of a car he saw her exit earlier, when the family arrived to watch the parade. What had happened to her BMW? Starting at the farthest point west, he entered a master bedroom. His military fingers itched to properly complete the shoddily made bed, and gather the clothes strewn on the closet floor and place them in baskets. With the military training on top of his borderline OCD, he wouldn’t last more than five minutes in this house. How did people live like this? A running dialogue continued in the back of his mind, even as his focus was squarely on the task at hand. He checked purses and luggage, coat pockets and drawers. He moved methodically from room to room, ending in one with twin beds with a piece of luggage at the end of one of them. A quick check told him it was Kennedy’s belongings. But there was no flash drive inside. After taking several pictures of the framed photographs and a few of the home, Zeke headed toward the patio door. He opened it. Just before stepping out, he turned and walked back to the refrigerator. Seconds later he made his exit, the smell of a barbequed chicken breast wafting up from between two pieces of bread.
There was nothing more for him to do in Peyton. He scheduled a flight back to New York and put a call in to his boss. As far as he was concerned, continuing to trail Kennedy Wade was a waste of his specialized time and Van Dijk’s money. There were traitors to his country who needed to be silenced, but Zeke didn’t think Kennedy was one of them.
Then there was the matter of the pictures themselves. What exactly was supposed to be on them? What meeting could she have photographed that was a threat to national security? Van Dijk had openly met with many controversial figures. He’d shunned weak allies and bolstered connections that were in his company, and in turn, America’s best interest, such as Saudi Arabia and other countries in the Middle East. He’d rattled America’s biggest competitor, China, and showed the Asians who was boss, that no matter how much his channels were sanctioned, America was and always would be the leader of the free world, and that TBC would be its official voice. That’s what he loved about Van Dijk, that’s what his viewers got that those who watched fake, watered down media did not. He led with a firm hand and a big pair of kahunas. He got the job done.
As a former member of one of the military’s highest-trained personnel, one with high clearance and access to military secrets, Zeke knew about covert operations and questionable tactics used against the enemy that had been successfully shielded from America for years. So who could this mogul have met with where public knowledge of such would threaten national security? And even more perplexing, why hadn’t he been briefed on this person’s identity? Their determination to retrieve the pictures from Wade was proof that Van Dijk felt the pictures especially damning. Who was this person? Zeke’s thoughts took a turn. Maybe it wasn’t a leader of a foreign government. Maybe it was someone whose relationship with Van Dijk might be one few people could understand. A member of the mafia, perhaps, or a White Supremacist organizer. As his phone rang the answer hit Zeke squarely in the forehead. Wade had a snapshot of Van Dijk with a woman other than his wife.
He tapped the phone icon. “Zeke Foster.”
“Zeke, it’s Braum.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I received your message. You’re calling with good news, I hope.”
“I haven’t secured the flash drives containing the photos, sir. So far, my searches at several locations have turned up nothing. Our attempts to buy back the pictures were unsuccessful as well.”
“Dammit. That woman is costing us more trouble than she’s worth. You’ve scoped out enemy combatants, captured terrorist sympathizers, performed major intel. What’s the problem with you handling this rather insignif
icant mission?”
“Insignificant, sir?”
“Not the mission,” Van Dijk replied with a cough. “The person you’re tracking.”
“I have no problem tracking the subject, sir. I’m just leaving Peyton, her hometown, and the home of her parents. The problem is in finding the pictures, sir. She’s taken them down from the cloud and removed them from any computers I’ve obtained. She has them on flash drives, sir, and has given them to at least one other person that I know of. I also entered his residence to potentially retrieve a drive, but to no avail.
“May I ask a question, sir?”
“You may, doesn’t mean it will get answered though.”
“Is the retrieval of this information for personal reasons, sir?”
“No.”
“Is it a competitor, sir? Or someone on the other side of the political or moral aisle? I’m just trying to better understand the mission.”
“You know enough,” Van Dijk brusquely replied. “Now get those flash drives. Now!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah, hell, Foster,” Van Dijk continued, a slight accent seeping into his relaxed demeanor. “I might as well tell you since in many ways you’re risking your life to help me. You’re aware of my connections with MAN, the Manner Allmachtig Knights Fraternal Order, aren’t you?”
“Of course, sir. My former commander was a member as well.”
“One of the reasons I hired you. The founding families are very private. They keep an extremely low profile, which keeps the sheep guessing as to who holds the staff.”
“Sheep, sir?”
“The masses, the followers, the ones who, but for organizations like ours, would send the world as we know it plummeting into the darkness of depravity, immorality, and inferior global positioning behind China, Russia, and only God knows who else. I was meeting with the son of one of those fathers. Now, the average person has no idea this family is a part of the order. In fact, they believe just the opposite, that they’re part of the crowd bringing America down. He has successfully infiltrated Hollywood, politics, every bastion where secrets we need flow freely. To be seen with me would mean the end of that access, and usher in the end of the America that we now know.
“There is an association of world leaders who’ve been meeting for years, putting a plan in place to create a new global destiny, a new way to see the world. It will be a merging of power economically, environmentally, and socially, in a way that would be hugely beneficial to the American public, white and blue collar alike. This liaison would give us greater ability to fight the problems that threaten our way of life. But it’s an unconventional, ambitious strategy, being carefully laid out, in secret. Those men were the men with whom I met in the Bahamas, and who may have been captured by the lady taking pictures of the rainbow. Can you imagine what the liberal media would do if they had pictures of me chatting with someone seemingly opposed to our values? Say a faggot or atheist, or one of those sympathetic Hollywood devils?”
“They’d have a field day, sir.”
“You’re damned right. They’d spin a web a lies the way they always do, and the next thing you know there would be yet another probe with lawyers blowing smoke up our asses trying to find wrongdoing where there is none. Those liberal stations have hated me for years. They are jealous of the power our media yields, and how we’ve got the real American, the patriotic, God-fearing majority on our side. They want to turn our democracy into a socialistic, communist nation full of illegal immigrants taking the jobs, and people too lazy to work living off the hard work of the tax-paying public, and make that look normal. Now I know you don’t want that to happen.”
“Absolutely not sir.”
“That’s why this mission is so crucial, son, and why I’ve been a bit testy about it. I don’t want something that can be so beneficial to the majority ruined because of those lying liberal media networks and the fake news they air.”
“I understand, sir, and now that I have a clearer vision of what’s at stake, I’m even more dedicated, more committed to making sure every copy of potentially damning evidence is retrieved and turned over. I won’t let you down, sir. You have my word.”
The call ended. Zeke paced the room—tense, agitated—his fingers twitching to capture and neutralize his target, in this case a flash drive or the owner of such who’d betray her commander. A couple minutes passed. He walked over to a file cabinet and pulled out the folder with pictures of Wade. He flipped through them slowly, as a plan began formulating in his mind. The conversation with Van Dijk had crystalized the mission, made clear that what was at stake was their very own democracy, America, and the constitution he’d sworn to protect. Van Dijk had faith that he could do the job. Zeke did not plan to let him down.
15
On Monday, Kennedy slid into Harriet’s front seat and headed to work. She was still in a good mood from the trip home. Her heartbeat was normal, with no paranoia. While she sometimes dreaded going home, this time she’d actually enjoyed herself, even the quaint little Fourth of July parade sponsored by the Peyton, Kansas Chamber of Commerce. Even with the teasing she endured by almost becoming a part of it. Thankfully, her family had bought the story that she thought she’d seen Tinisha, a former classmate and the only member of their neighborhood gang that Kennedy hadn’t seen since high school. Kennedy never stayed long when she came to town, and mostly hung around family, so being able to see a person she at one time considered a best friend, especially one who’d carved out a little chunk of Atlanta society and appeared on a reality show, would have been a big deal. She’d seen just about everybody else though, including her ex-boyfriend, the “best friend” who’d stolen him, and a slew of rugrats she assumed were their children.
Seeing them, and several other of her high school haters and their families, brought back bittersweet memories. But seeing the sports teams represented made her smile. At one time Kennedy, ran a mean one-hundred-meters, and when it came to hurdles, she wasn’t half bad. The high school band performed respectable versions of Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” and a high school marching band favorite—“25 or 6 to 4.” A second mascot float depicting a twenty-foot bear, this one made entirely of gummy bears, was totally impressive. Kennedy even managed not to roll her eyes as the year’s Miss Peyton offered a queen’s wave to the crowd. Twenty-first century and the town of five-thousand had never selected a person of color to represent them in the state pageant. The more things changed, the more they’d stayed the same. Still, as they’d caravanned to Peyton Lake to watch the fireworks—her mom, Ray, Ray’s brother Fred and his mistress What’s-Her-Name, Karl, his new girlfriend Kimora (and yes, Kennedy felt her name starting with K had given the cute law student an edge over other women he’d dated) and his best friend Deuce (the one she’d had a drunken one-night stand with and then took a pic of his dick as insurance against him telling her brother)—she thanked heaven for her blessings, which included her crazy clan.
There were now two sides to Kennedy’s life—pre-Bahamas and post-Bahamas. It felt that working at Chicago Sightings would help her build a bridge between the two. Less than two weeks on the job, and her co-workers already felt like family. The zany sales force that occupied what they’d dubbed the “Situation Room,” but was actually the second bedroom, kept her laughing. The editorial assistant, serious and efficient, balanced them out. Scott and Monica’s assistant, also the receptionist, was the youngest in the group, just eighteen. A social media whiz whose bright smile hid a slew of insecurities, Fennel brought out Kennedy’s compassionate side, in many ways reminding her of the teenager who’d left Peyton to conquer the world. She’d forgotten the sense of belonging that a workplace could stir up. Maybe that’s why she was at work at eight thirty, when the day didn’t officially begin until nine.
She set down her computer, refilled the Keurig case, made herself a cup of java and sat down to work on the magazine’s September and October issues, the first totally under her art direction. One of the n
ew features she’d added was a page called Hindsight, where a piece of Illinois history, specifically something that had happened in Chicago, would be featured. The articles were paired with photographs, offering modern takes on the historic events and if available, a current counterpart to the history remembered. She’d found a couple interesting pieces for October—the State Convention of Colored Citizens convening in the city and the great Chicago fire of 1871. But so far, the month of September was slim pickings. She sat against the chair back and slowly sipped the sweet, caramel liquid. Her phone rang. With the office still empty, she placed the call on speaker.
“Good morning, Mom.”
“Good morning.”
Something in her mother’s tone suggested the morning may not be as good as Kennedy thought. She sat up and placed her cup on a coaster. “How are you?”
“Not too good.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I just ran into Mrs. Skinner at the hospital. She shared some troubling news.”
“Oh my goodness, is she alright?”
“She’s fine, was here for her annual checkup.” Kennedy relaxed. “But I’m calling because of what she shared with me. She believes that on the Fourth, while we were all at the parade, someone was in my house.”
The unease that Kennedy had worn like a second skin for weeks, the discomfort she’d just shed in Peyton, came back in a flash. So did the image of Jack Sutton, the face she thought she’d seen in the crowd before convincing herself she’d been mistaken.
“Did she know them? Mrs. Skinner knew everybody. “Did she see who it was?”
“She couldn’t see their face. They were too far away. But she thought it was a man, dressed in all black.”
