The Mockingbird Drive (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 3) Read online

  But we both knew we weren't fighting about Red Bull. This was about the Kelsye Sparks photos. I'd known we'd have this fight since the moment I'd clicked "upload" on the story. But it was also about me neglecting our relationship and failing to effectively process what happened with our daughter, at least if you asked Greta. If you'd asked me in the moment, I would have said that it was about Greta being a controlling, judgmental shrew who believed that the only way to deal with difficulty was through hours of psychosomatic processing, of which she was one of the world's experts. If you asked me now, I'd probably admit that she was right.

  She took a seat on the couch and stared at the TV. "Alex, we need to talk."

  I sat next to her. "I'm sorry I had to work all night," I said, putting my hand on her knee. I could feel her warmth through the blue yoga pants. She didn't say anything and I tried to come up with an excuse that didn't contain the words "Kelsye" or "Sparks."

  "I'm never going to forgive you for running that story," she said, not looking at me.

  "Never? Really? Never?"

  "She's twenty-three. It was practically kiddie-porn."

  "If we hadn't done it, someone else would have."

  "Scumbags have been using that excuse for thousands of years."

  Was it a terrible story? Sure. But, for some reason, people care more about a teenaged starlet not wearing panties than they do about anything else. And if I hadn't bought those photos, someone else would have snatched them up five minutes later. Plus, the profits from that story would pay our mortgage for a year. Not to mention the fact that it would keep the lights on at The Barker and allow us to do better stories while keeping seventy people employed.

  I nudged her hand playfully. "Why aren't you looking at me?"

  As much as we'd drifted apart, the truth was, I was still in love with her. If I'd fallen out of love with anyone, it was myself. And I guess I felt that if I kept loving her, that was enough. I would have bet that we'd never, never break up. But, as she turned toward me, eyes glued to her lap, I knew that's exactly what was about to happen.

  "Alex, this hasn't worked in a few years. We both know that." She looked up and took my hand as she said it, but let it go a second later. "I don't know what's going on with you, but we both know this isn't working."

  "Not working," I repeated. I meant to say it as an indignant question. Not working? How dare you describe our love that way. But it came out flat, like a comment. "Not working."

  That yoga music was driving me crazy and I grabbed the remote from the armrest, smashing at the "off" button. I thought of throwing it across the room, but, instead, I just dropped it on the floor.

  "Remember when we first got together," she said, "and we talked about how you're the perfect blend of selfless and selfish?" I remembered. A billionaire's widow had said that about me just before James and I founded News Scoop. Greta and I had gotten together soon after and, at the time, I'd found the sentiment to be a useful way to understand myself. I'd bought into it and even tried to live up to it. Really, though, I was just another privileged guy who occasionally did altruistic things to block out the guilt of being a jerk much of the time. "Well," she continued, "it feels like the selfish side won out." She paused and met my eyes. "Alex, I want you to find an apartment."

  Here's the thing about moments like that. Years later, when we write the books and screenplays of our lives, we have to make the key emotional insights of our characters line up with key actions or moments. As in, "When she smiled at me at the top of the Space Needle, that's when I knew she truly loved me."

  But real life doesn't work like that. Not for me, at least.

  In that moment, I should have been struck with some revelation about our marriage, or myself. Some insight that would bring reconciliation, or change, or peace. But when she said she wanted me to find an apartment, all I could think about was a sign I'd seen on my walk home from The Barker that morning. It was an advertisement for high-tech condos starting at $2,400 a month. Standing in the dawn light, sipping my Red Bull, I'd wondered what "high-tech" meant, and I wondered it when Greta told me to find an apartment. A T1 line, probably. Maybe a built-in Bose sound system, managed by iPad. I wasn't sure. But right then I saw myself plugging my phone into a built-in USB charger in the wall, snuggling into bed, and turning off the lights with my voice.

  "You know I've never cheated on you," I said.

  "I know. And, as you're fond of pointing out, you could have. Many times." It was her way of calling me callow. "But it's not about that, Alex. You know I still love you. I do. Probably always will. But you're the kind of guy who lives his life on either side of a narrative he creates. Like there's a story of Alex in your head that is never actually aligned with your life. When you're behind it and trying to catch up, you get depressed. When you're out in front of it, it's like you can't see yourself, you don't know where you are, and you fill up with anxiety. The actual moments don't exist to you. Without the story, you're nothing. And I don't mean 'nothing' in bad or judgmental way. Just, not anything. An absence of a person. It's like all events and actions and people have to eventually find their way into your narrative or they don't exist." She paused to let that sink in, then said, "Remember when you told me you'd never lie?"

  "I said I'd never lie to you."

  "And you haven't. You don't lie. What I've figured out is that people or events that don't have a place in your narrative just get omitted. You just won't see or remember the things that don't go with your story."

  "Aren't we all like that?"

  "We are, but my life is dedicated to becoming less like that. To living a life of meat and sweat and spirit. To letting the stories we tell ourselves fall away." She stood, turned toward the bathroom, and took off her sports bra. She wasn't being sexual. She undressed wherever and whenever she wanted, and that was just a sign that she was about to take a shower.

  "This is about us not having children, right, and about Rebecca?"

  We'd named her at a hot dog stand in Central Park a few weeks before Greta's due date and, a few days later, she'd been stillborn. The death certificate read, "Stillbirth caused by fetal infection." To this day, I don't like to talk about it.

  She threw her sports bra on the arm of the couch, took a few steps toward the bathroom, then returned and sat back down. I'd said the right thing. Enough to keep her from walking away, at least.

  "It's not just about her," she said. "But, of all the people you omit from the story you tell yourself, Rebecca is number one."

  She was right, and I knew it. I felt genuinely incapable of talking about it, but I needed to try. "I will…I mean I'll…Greta, I…Ever since Rebecca, I've—"

  That's when my cellphone rang.

  I've trained myself to ignore my normal ring in Greta's presence, but this was the special ringtone that sounded like ducks quacking. It was Bird, my number two at The Barker. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd taken two steps toward the kitchen, where my phone was still sitting on the counter. I turned back when I heard Greta sigh. In one deft motion, I spun around, took a long stride, and flopped back down on the couch. "Rebecca," I said. "Um, where was I?"

  "You got up before even considering the fact that you were in the middle of a sentence."

  "I—"

  There was nothing I could say that didn't taste like bullshit coming out of my mouth. I stretched out my legs and scooched down the couch a bit so I could rest my head on the cushion. The ceiling was bright white and the fancy LED kitchen lights danced in a patch of sunlight. I thought about that sign. $2,400 a month was doable. I'd get a six-month lease and Greta and I would work it out in that time. Things would be fine.

  Greta stood up and stepped gracefully out of her yoga pants. She was naked and no longer sweaty, but sex was the last thing on my mind. For some reason, that was the moment I realized it: I loved her and hated myself.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  As she walked to the bathroom, Greta said something. I'm not
sure if she was speaking to herself or to me. She'd said it the day we'd decided to get married, and she said it the day she kicked me out. I still didn't know what it meant, but on that day, it felt like a kick to the stomach. "We were supposed to be walking each other home."

  I stowed my phone in my pocket and thought about Quinn, who had calmed down and was driving carefully, though still a little slowly for my taste. I could tell she had the potential to be violent, though I wasn't worried she'd be violent toward me. What I was wondering was whether, if I tried, I could get her to turn the car around.

  I was sure there were private flights back to Seattle all the time, and I'd find one. In three hours, I could be back at McCarran Airport. A few hours after that, I could be at the door to our old apartment, begging Greta to call off the divorce. Hell, I'd charter my own plane if need be. I could afford it.

  I sat up and leaned into the space between the two front seats. "Hey, Quinn, can I fly on a private jet if I'm on the No Fly List?" It seemed like the kind of thing she might know, but she was focused on her road and mirrors routine. She didn't respond.

  I felt stupid for asking. Chartering a plane and racing back to Greta was exactly the kind of thing I'd do. I'd swear we could work it out and I'd work my ass off to do it. But it would all be an elaborate plan to avoid feeling what I was feeling in the moment, which was that my heart had fallen through the floor of the car and was now five miles behind us on the highway.

  "Quinn! Private flights. No Fly List."

  Quinn glanced back at me. "No," she said. "They cross check the No Fly List on all flights within the U.S."

  "What about busses?"

  "Yeah, you can travel by bus."

  By dawn I could be at the bus station and by midnight tomorrow I could be home. But that was twenty-four hours from now, and that was if I could convince Quinn to turn around.

  I had to talk to Greta, and I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't going to be in person, at least not today. I was already feeling stupid and guilty that I'd turned on my phone, even though it had only been for a few minutes. "I'm not necessarily granting it's the CIA," I said, "but I get that you know more about info security than I do. Is there a way I can make a phone call without sending up a flag to…whoever it is?"

  "No."

  "What about on your laptop?"

  She thought for a minute, checked the mirrors a few times, then looked at me in the rearview mirror. "There are three problems with that. First, there's no way you'd be familiar with my operating system, so I'd have to do everything for you. Second, the crypto I use tends to throttle bandwidth, and if you want to make a voice call, that might be tricky. Third, and most importantly, there's no way I'm letting you use my computer. No offense, but…just…no. Do you have TorFone on your computer?"

  "No, but I've heard of it and I can get it. I do have a VPN account for encrypted communication, if that helps."

  "With who?"

  "TorGuard. I…well, to be honest, I mostly use it for torrenting movies and stuff."

  "Well, at least they're not CIA. And this wouldn't be a long connection, right? We can't hang around while you read every Ten-Reasons-To-Wear-Capris listicle out there."

  "In and out," I said. "I just need to call my wife."

  "Well, better to do it through an encrypted laptop, rather than waiting until you get nervous enough to turn your phone on."

  I felt guilty, but was glad she hadn't noticed. "So, will you help me set it up on my computer?"

  "How about we make a deal? After we talk with Tudayapi, I'll set it up."

  "I'd really rather—"

  "That's the deal, okay? You get what you want when I get what I want."

  I slid awkwardly over the divider and into the front passenger seat. Quinn flashed something close to a smile and nodded out the passenger side window, where, in the faint glow of our Thunderbird's crooked headlights, I could see the sign: TWIN FALLS, 300 MILES

  Part 2

  Chapter 13

  Thursday, June 15, 2017

  I took the wheel the last 100 miles, exhausted but still wired enough to keep my eyes on the road. The dim, crooked headlights of the Thunderbird didn't illuminate much, but in the last hour we'd passed miles of odd rock formations, some road signs dotted with bullet holes, and one that read: SPEED ENFORCED BY SNIPER.

  Finally, we passed a small painted sign: WELCOME TO THE DUCK VALLEY INDIAN RESERVATION.

  The town was dark except for a few streetlamps and a sign that blinked the message Welcome to Owyhee, and the time: 1:09 a.m. Luckily, the main road through town led straight to the motel, a six-room mess that looked like a double-wide trailer and abutted a small hill. Thin windows and AC units faced out to the street. I pulled the car up in front of room six.

  We'd stopped at a truck stop a couple hours earlier and Quinn had called the motel from her laptop, still not wanting to let me near the thing. She'd told the guy we'd be arriving between midnight and one in the morning, and offered him an extra $50 to wait for us. He'd said he'd just leave it unlocked and throw the keys on the bed.

  I'd driven the last hour with a forced concentration interrupted by occasional waking dreams, or possibly hallucinations. I'd reached the point of fatigue that I imagine torture-victims experience. Too tired to keep their secrets. Willing to betray the ones they love for sleep.

  Once in the room, I stowed my bags in the closet, fell on the bed, and scanned the furnishings, which might have passed for decent twenty years ago, but were now just shabby. Carpet so thin you could see the padding showing through, two twin beds too close together, a boxy TV of the sort I'd forgotten ever existed. The walls were covered with typical motel art, desert themed. But it was clean and the bed was soft, and I was thankful to be there.

  Quinn came in just after me and seemed to be doing a thorough inspection. First, she checked the closet and the bathroom, then she bolted the front door, turned on the AC unit, and drew the curtains. I was getting used to her paranoia by now, so I didn't need to ask what she was doing.

  I changed into a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt. The bathroom was outdated, but clean, and I watched myself in the mirror as I changed. I looked like hell. My eyes were dark, my hair greasy, and the 36-hour beard made me look strange to myself.

  Sliding under the sheets, which were stiff but felt heavenly, I noticed Quinn lying on top of the blankets, fully clothed and staring at the door. From my angle, she looked like she was spooning her filthy duffle bag.

  I grabbed my phone from the bedside table. "What time should I set the alarm for?"

  Quinn didn't say anything, so I tried again.

  "Do you think your friend rises early?"

  Nothing.

  "You said she has a data center here?"

  Quinn grunted, her slightly-less-dismissive, ambivalent-yes response.

  "Do you know anything else about her?"

  "She trades old machines. Baxter got the drive from her, like I said, but I don't think she knew what she had."

  "I'll set the alarm for seven. How's that?"

  Quinn's head was moving slightly, and I imagined her eyes shifting from the door to the window and back. I closed my eyes for the first time and immediately felt the fatigue I'd been pushing away. Time was, the run through the Fremont Street Experience wouldn't have had a noticeable impact on me, but now my whole body felt sick. I knew the feeling from when I used to run a lot. After a hard run of ten or more miles, my body got that feeling and I knew it meant that I'd wake up with stiff, achy legs. Plus, I was seeing visions.

  The mosaics and butterfly carpets of The Wynn, the glittering lights of The Golden Nugget. Long expanses of shadowy road.

  Greta liked to say that trauma is just unprocessed experiences and emotions that get frozen inside us. Her work was about locating, re-experiencing, and releasing those traumas. She used techniques from talk-therapy, body work, and art-therapy to help people process the experiences in a safe environment. I'd spent a lot of our relationship t
hinking that her work was pseudo-science, but now I wished she was here, because it was as though all my experiences over the last thirty-six hours were recurring, now that my body had temporarily relaxed. They were coming at me in fast-forward, and I was feeling things I didn't want to feel. Confusion. Sadness. Anger. But mostly fear. Terrible fear.

  I was watching Quinn's version of the shooting, playing in slow motion in my mind.

  "I wasn't always this crazy."

  When I heard Quinn's voice, I thought I was awake and thinking but, jolted by her voice, I realized I'd been half asleep and dreaming. I sat up with a start. "What?"

  Quinn turned to me, body still wrapped around the duffle bag, back now to the door. "I wasn't always this crazy."

  "What do you mean?"

  I said it without thinking and I knew right away it was the wrong question. I wasn't always this crazy was the first piece of self-reflective personal information Quinn had volunteered since we'd met, and I didn't want to blow it. For better or worse, I was tied to her, and I wanted to know as much as I could. I wanted to know how she'd ended up this way, sure, but mostly I wanted to learn how to determine where her paranoia ended and her rational mind began. When she didn't respond, I tried to squeeze the dreamy images from my head as I booted up my inner-journalist: ask open-ended questions, not too pushy. If the subject gets defensive or clams up, pretend you didn't care about that particular question and shift to something else.

  "Are you thinking of a particular time?" I asked.

  "Nine-eleven."

  Now we were getting somewhere. But sometimes a subject will regret a major admission right away, so the next step is to pretend like the revelation wasn't a big deal, like you'd already heard it from three other sources. I chose a classic approach: share your own story as a misdirection, then come back to the main point. "Nine-eleven? I was in New York City back then. Court reporter. Job was mostly boring as hell but from time to time I got into some interesting stuff."