Chaos Theory (17 page)

Daniel's stretches his arms out across the cold glass window like a bird seeking escape.

I want to escape too. I want to go back to looking down on the world—not connected to it or the people in it. That cold scientific data that I've hidden behind all my life has been cut away. I'm free-falling into the chaos below. This isn't about numbers and data. What we're doing is important. It isn't a scientific puzzle to solve anymore. This is about saving real lives.

Thirty-one

Silence falls, as do my tears. Wiping them away, I pick up Uncle Charlie's scattered pages. Correlating and analyzing these numbers has to be our priority.

Sam takes the pages. “We'll work on these. You're beat. Couple hours sleep last night doesn't cut it. Go use the sofa.”

“No. I need…” Bone tired. I am bone tired, but I don't think it's from lack of sleep. I think it's because my tight rope broke and I'll never go back to the safe, untouched distance.

Sitting on the floor, I look at my friends and I'm overwhelmed by how great my friends are. “Listen, what happened with the DEA agents and everything...I'm sorry that I brought the OK Corral Gunfight to the Bat Cave…”

Uninterested in my apology, Gavin interrupts. “CIU.”

That stumps my slow brain. “What?”

“CIU for Crime Investigation Unit. That DEA agent is right. We aren't the Beanie Bops. We're a serious investigative crime unit. No more Bat Cave.”

“But I like the Bat Cave.”

Sandy gives a half-wattage smile. “I'm with Gavin. What we're doing matters. This is CIU headquarters. Get used to the new name.”

“Don't you guys get it? We aren't a real crime unit.
Getting used
to it isn't happening. This case is a one-off, and then we're done.”

All of them, even Daniel, give me a Cheshire cat smile. Okay, I'll argue that later. “Listen, you didn't sign up for guns.”

They continue to smile as one cohesive unit. Gavin even twiddles his thumbs. Sandy says, “Hey, Kami? Shut up.” She reaches down and picks up the scattered pages.

I frown. “K.”

Gavin says, “And you're beat. Take a time-out.”

He's right. I'm exhausted, even the burritos can't keep my eyes from sagging. Daniel pulls me up from the floor and settles me on the leather sofa. He rolls up his coat as a pillow.

Daniel says to everyone, “For the record, anyone makes a crack about Beanie Bops again—I'm going to deck 'em.”

Gavin grins. Somewhere along the way, he and Daniel had come to some sort of testosterone truce. “Amen to that!” Sam the Back to Work plops down on the floor. Hollywood Gavin pulls over an easy chair, and they look down at Uncle Charlie's handwritten pages that Sandy spreads across the coffee table. Daniel pats my jeans leg before joining them.

***

When I wake up three hours later, there's one dried and disgusting burrito left. I snarf it down and join them. “What do you have so far?”

They all start talking, but Sam the Organized summarizes. “We have the proof to convict Mr. Jamison.”

Gavin continues with the findings. “We have clear evidence that he's changing the numbers in the formal reports, like we suspected. You only had one week of the altered handwritten shipping manifests, but it's enough. A huge chunk of the drugs are not going where the company thinks they are going.”

Daniel's up and pacing. Clinch. Clinch. Clinch.

I rub my eyes and recap. “Greg is dealing drugs. He also targeted Julia. He's got Uncle Charlie terrified. Uncle Charlie is altering numbers. We're closing in, guys. Listening in on that meeting…” I check my phone for the time. Yep, it's after midnight. “Tonight will provide the hard evidence.”

Daniel stops making fists. “And the meeting location will be in his planner.”

Sandy goes back to the crime board and writes:
Get Planner
. Then she says, “You could pickpocket it.”

“Not likely. It's more than just getting it. I have to get it, see what's inside, and then get it back to him—without him noticing. It disappears, he'll freak, and they'll change the site.”

Sam the Investigative Reporter says, “Maybe it's time to turn this over to the DEA.”

I say, “They want the higher-ups. We want to know how Julia got involved. No.” I hope I don't regret this. “Only if we can't get to the planner do we tell the DEA.”

Gavin leans back in his chair with hands crammed in his jean pockets. “What's with this guy? Who uses a planner and not a smartphone? And he always has it? Even in the john? So we can't give him the runs or something?”

I toss a French fry at him. They'd made another food run. “Like I'm following him into the men's restroom? But yes, he takes it everywhere. On his desk, he's always got his fingertips on it.”

Sam says, “If he takes off his suit jacket, you could get it.”

I blow my hair out of my eyes. “The only time he takes his suit jacket off is at his desk, and only after he puts the planner on his desk.”

I look at Daniel. “How about you? Could you get it when he's at home?”

He's back to standing at the window, looking down on the lighted sidewalks. “Locked out. I'm not invited since I'm Dad's son. Uncle Charlie won't even take our phone calls.”

Sam the Impractical says, “Well, breaking-and-entering his house at night isn't practical. And I assume that we can't beat him up, or rob him or…”

This time Sandy throws the French fry.

Sitting on the floor, I rest my chin on my hands and think. Everyone's looking at me. Great. There has to be a way—and it hits me. “Guys, I think we go way out of the box.” My plan is insane and stupid, but gullible Uncle Charlie would fall for it and those oddball corporate workers might just love it. “What do you think about Live Action Role Play?”

***

At two a.m., and after countless tweaks, we've set the final details. Sandy, Gavin, and I stretch out on the floor staring at the ceiling. Daniel's zonked out on the sofa. It'd been his turn to nap. Gavin went to locate props for my LARP idea.

I say, “As plans go? This is crazy. It's so…anime, or manga, you know?”

Sandy rolls over and hugs me. “You'll make it work.”

“No, I'll screw it up. You, the lying actress, could make it work.”

Sam laughs at Sandy's what-me?-look. She props herself up on an elbow. “No. You. Won't.”

One by one we get up, with moans and groans. They trickle out through the bookcases, picking up the food mess and hauling it away. I'm left with the sleeping Daniel. His mouth is open and a thin line of slobber drips from it. It should be disgusting. It isn't. Sprawled on the floor, I crawl over and whisper, “Daniel?”

“Huh?” His breath is godawful, but so is mine. He wipes away the drool moisture on his hoodie sleeve.

Note to self, stash some personal hygiene products in the Bat Cave. Wait, get politically correct—CIU. “We're done here. Time to head home.”

He doesn't move on the sofa.

I poke him. “Come on, get up. You're my ride.”

He doesn't budge, so I let exhaustion take over and sigh. “I don't want to go home either, but Mom and Dad will have questions. It'll be an hour before they'll let me sleep, and Intern Kami has to be at O'Neal's before six in the morning.”

“Come here.” He pats his chest. “Plenty of room. Set your cell alarm for four thirty. That'll give us time for showers at your house. My overnight stuff's packed. I warned Mom that I might be at a friend's house tonight. I'll get you to O'Neal in time.”

I look at his long, languid body and want nothing more. “Is that a good idea?”

He lifts his hoodie and wipes away sleep sweat and the drool. Worth it for the good portion of ripped abs exposed. I climb in next to him, spooning my back to his front. His arm wraps around me, his other I use as a pillow. We lay there like that for exactly thirty seconds.

Then he says, “Bad idea.”

I give him two comedy drumbeat seconds and say, “Guess you're right about guys and their bodies.” And wiggle against him.

“Bitch.” He pushes my butt onto the floor.

“Ouch!” I stand and stretch again. “Come on. Take me home, Lancelot.”

“Lancelot?”

“Oh, yeah. You slept through the Charlie the Dragon Slayer plan. Come on. I'll fill you in.”

As we leave, I look back at my secret hideaway that will never be private again. No matter what happens, my friends are welcome here. Grandma would approve.

Standing in the middle of the bookcases, Daniel yawns. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah. Be right there.” I follow him, slipping through the narrow, towering space and ask, “The first time that I found you here? How did you know about this place?”

He answers as we noisily plod down the wire mesh staircase. “Three years ago, I was at the library researching a class project. Scared stiff. High school/college worries, but this great gray-haired librarian helped me out. Then she showed me this place. When you showed up in
my
private spot, I kinda lost it.”

Grandma would like that we'd found each other in a place she'd given to each of us. She'd like that we'd joined forces on this incredible journey together. “After this is over, ask me about that gray-haired lady, okay? Right now, I'm too tired.”

***

Later, Daniel swears as he pulls up in front of my house. Gavin's there, sound asleep in the front seat of his mom's Prius. The truce between the two testosterone machines has limits. Turning off EB, Daniel asks, “What's he doing here?”

I say, “His job.” I open the car door and thump on Gavin's window until my sleeping friend wakes up. He cranks the window down. I check on Daniel as he does. Back in EB, Daniel's frown is visible in the illuminated courtesy light. I ask Gavin, “Have you got it?”

He yawns as he passes a manila envelope through the window, “Yeah, here's the flyers. And I stuck a scotch tape roll in there.” Then he grabs a four-foot-long cardboard sword with a real metal hilt from the seat beside him. The whole thing's painted gold. It's worn and battered, but in decent shape.

I hold up the fake sword, inspecting it. “This looks fantastic, but this isn't new! Where did it come from? I thought you were making one.”

“It's something that I made to LARP and play D & D with Jimmy.” He sounds sad.

“I hate to destroy it. It's beautiful.”

Gavin wipes a hand over his suddenly sad face. “Nah. I kept it to remind me of good times with Jimmy. Funny what we latch onto in life isn't it? Turns out it meant more to me than him. You can have it. Good luck tomorrow. We'll be waiting for your text.”

Daniel climbs out of EB, still frowning. I ignore him and say, “Thank you again, Gavin.”

At the last minute, Gavin steps out of his car too. Without warning, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me close. He spins me around in his arms and tips me back against the car. Then he leans down close, but doesn't kiss me. Instead, he whispers, “Gotta keep the tension going. It's a guy thing.” He grins when I instinctively wrap my arms around him.

Daniel freezes.

Gavin lets me go, gets in his car, and takes off.

***

After waking from his sleep on our family room sofa, Daniel's still ticked. He'd come in and changed his clothes from his backpack stash and crashed. The sun isn't up when we leave the house. I'm in business casual: intern-appropriate khaki pants and red polo shirt this time. Kinda miss the dress, but the pants are more undercover user-friendly in case of running—to save my life or something. Don't miss the hose, though. Mom and Dad feed us, hug me, and watch us drive away.

The trip to O'Neal Pharmaceutical in EB is quiet. As I climb out, Daniel's warm breath puffs out as the cold air creeps into EB's heated interior. He says, “Be careful.”

“I will. Your uncle's guilty, but I kinda like him. Wish…” The words trail off with my own breath cloud. Uncle Charlie's guilty. He's going down.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

No good luck kiss this time. I pause and peek back over my shoulder. He's climbed out his side of the car. Over EB's roof, he waves. I wave back. Good enough. He's there watching my back.

There aren't many people about this early. I head to the front door and tape two of Gavin's flyers back to back on the glass, so it can be read from both sides. The security guard raises his eyebrows at my sword prop but doesn't ask questions. In this out-of-the-box corporation, it might be normal. Avoiding the extra-early morning runners this time, I post several more flyers. The climbing wall already has two people negotiating the heights. One woman on rollerblades goes by with a hockey stick in hand, whacking a rolling puck back and forth. This place is insane.

At their desks in the serious part of the building, both Mrs. F and Uncle Charlie are already working. She doesn't look up. I slide Gavin's cardboard sword under my desk. It's long enough to stick out; I'll have to be careful to not roll my chair over it.

“Hi,” I say to her, and give her my shiny intern smile. “It's early, but it'll be my first time doing the reports alone. It might take a couple tries.” Like hell it will. A sixth grader could fill in the blank templates. “I'll be right back. Need some coffee.”

Mrs. F nods, and returns to her reports. Uncle Charlie's suit jacket is hanging on the back of his chair. The planner is on his desk under his left hand. Fingers stroke it. One Hail Mary plan—that's all we have.

It doesn't take long to plaster more flyers on the walls and pillars. Then I head back with coffee in hand and play good little intern, all the while worrying. We need his planner and, short of a parking-lot tackle, this plan is how we get it.

Thirty-two

I finish more reports by ten forty-five and e-mail them to Mrs. F. A short time later, she gives me the traditional O'Neal thumbs-up sign to show that the report has shown up. With nothing else to do, I take another bathroom break hoping to hear scuttlebutt about the flyers. Gavin did a great job on them. They show a sword-wielding knight with a modern silk tie around his neck on horseback. He has a sword leveled at a big-toothed monster clearly labeled Gnawing Dragon. It reads,
St. Charles the Dragon Slayer
with date, time, and place below that.

In the cafeteria, a small curvy woman munches on a salad and says, “It says to be outside the Sales Distribution Office at noon.”

I wander over to the main entrance where two men powerwalk by. One says, “I don't know what it's about, but I'm going to be there.” He laughs. “Sounds like the whole company is going.”

I walk the entire interior pentagon track of halls filled with snickers and laughter. Many wonder if Uncle Charlie is planning another get-his-tie-caught-in-the-shredder escapade. It really isn't funny; Uncle Charlie could have died if Mrs. F hadn't been nearby. Anyway, the word is out.

My smartphone rings with a text from telepathic BFF:
You can do it!
She's included a self-photo of Gavin, Sam, and her squashed against locker 224. The Post-it label now reads,
Power to the Chaos!

Gavin texts:
Don't screw up!

Me:
LMAO

A half hour later and back at my desk, another text comes from Daniel.
It's time.
I imagine his clink. Clink. Clink
.

It is eleven twenty a.m.. I reply:
Yep.

I knock on Uncle Charlie's door. Behind my back, I hide Gavin's Excalibur. Mrs. F's brows shoot up seeing it. I just smile, praying for some of Sandy's bubblocity. He says, “Come in,” and I do, closing the glass door and locking it behind me on the curious older woman. He picks up his planner and places it in his interior suit jacket pocket.

I ignore the butterfly flapping in my stomach and say, “It's time, Mr. Jamison.”

“What?”

“It's time to face the dragon.”

He looks perplexed and then laughs. “Ah, the Gnawing Dragon you mentioned last night. You mean the monster shredder.”

Sandy can do this in her sleep; even Sam would have been okay. Nervous sweat trickles between my shoulders.

I lean over his desk. “They make fun of you getting your tie caught. It's awful. You could have died. Do something about it.”

Uncle Charlie's face flushes. “Well, it was a long time ago. I doubt anyone cares anymore.”

“No, they remember. Look.” I tip my head to the glass wall and the work area. Beyond that second glass wall is the hallway full of curious O'Neal employees. “People never forget. It's as bad as middle school out there. You have to face this.”

“Kami, I've no idea what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about putting that Gnawing Dragon thing behind you once and for all. People are not going to respect you until you do.”

His eyebrows rise, matching Mrs. F's from earlier. He says, “It's not like there is anything that I can do about it.”

“Wrong. Humor, Mr. Jamison. Face it head on with humor. Once they start laughing, they'll remember that and not the embarrassing part. They'll never talk about the shredder story again without this to top it off.”

“It was months ago!” He looks at the faces again. “What are all those people doing out there? Look there's Jackson from quality control. That smug little basta…” Uncle Charlie modifies his language. It's kinda sweet. He might be pipelining stolen drugs, but I kinda like him.

He counts busybody noses. “And that's Caroline from the plant manager's office. And Steve from accounting. Kami, what have you done?”

Mrs. F is in a panic, knocking at the door. When I won't open it, she waves her arms and points to the faces plastered against the glass door and wall. She returns to her desk and tries her intercom. I reach over and disconnect Uncle Charlie's, shutting her out.

I tell him. “I'm fixing it. Everyone will have a blast and so will you. They'll forget about the tie-in-the-shredder thing.”

The people outside are chanting, but I can't make out what they are saying.

He asks, “What am I supposed to do?”

I have him. This is going to work. I pull out the long sword from behind my back and hold it in front of me. “Make a big deal brandishing this sword about. You know, like you're going into a battle. Burst through your office door. Dodge around the desks until you reach the Gnawing Dragon. After that, you shove this right into the feeder. Everyone will love it. You'll be St. Charles who killed the Gnawing Dragon.” I show him one of the flyers.

He stares at it in horror. He stutters, “Kami, I think you are insane.”

Through the muffling glass, the watchers chant louder. “St. Charles. St. Charles.” Both he and I turn to look. It really is looking like a company holiday. The marketing department has made cool signs sporting a dragon's head in a circle with a slanting bar over it. Others read:
Down with the Gnawing Dragon.
People are waving them back and forth. Then with perfect chance timing, the crowd moves aside to make room for the laughing chairman. Someone hands him one of the signs.

“You don't have a choice. It's time to slay your dragon.”

Clearly mortified, he says, “For heaven's sake, I should fire you.”

I don't care. As long as he leaves this office to cram that stupid sword down that shredder's throat. He moves to the door. I say, “Hey! You can't go like that. They're watching. You have to act it up. Come on. Let me take your suit jacket.” He removes it, hanging it over the executive chair. The weight of his planner/calendar in its inside pocket makes it swing a little before hanging straight.

The chanting is louder now, and Uncle Charlie gets into it. He makes a big deal out of rolling up his sleeves and hams it up with more muscle crunches, which is funny, given his wimpy arms. More cheers and laughter follow. Mrs. F is in complete shock. Then he lifts the cardboard sword and swirls it around his head. The crowd goes insane.

I say, “See, told you. This is all they'll remember.” I unlock and open his door. Cheers roll into the room like honey. I have to yell for him to hear me. “Go slay your dragon!”

Everyone loves a LARP. The crowd chants, “Saint Charles! Saint Charles! Saint Charles!”

Uncle Charlie charges into the front office with his sword swinging over his head, lifting Mrs. F onto her desk. She perches there on wobbly legs, arms like pelican wings, and barefooted. Perfect corporate employee Mrs. F caught with her shoes off. There's laughter and the Saint Charles cheers shake the glass walls.

No one looks my way.

Uncle Charlie works his way between desks toward his arch nemesis, while I reach down and slip his planner out of his suit-jacket pocket. With my back to the crowd beyond Uncle Charlie's glass walls, I open it to today's date and swear. Ink wrote:
Where it began w/Julia - 11:00
. There was no physical location, only a hint. I snap a photo and flip pages, freezing on the week prior. It lists dollar amounts. There's a label G, an arrow to the initials CJ (I assume Charles Jamison) and a dollar figure. Beneath that is another G, arrow to Greg with a dollar figure. I slip back a few more pages. Yep, these are definitely payments from a mysterious G.

Outside, there's uproar as the sword is probably thrust into the Gnawing Dragon. I double-check the photo quality. Perfect. I reposition the planner in the jacket, exactly like Uncle Charlie left it, and then head out to join the crowd.

The crowd shifts and there's a view of Jurnee and Rugby for a moment before the crowd swirls back to mask them. With remembered panic, I scan the crowd for Ink, but he's not there.