* * *
The following morning I stepped out into the darkened morning where distant incandescent stars hidden behind swaying palm trees reminded me of a science fiction film. I had slept in Igor’s apartment that night while he kept watch outside. After I left he would be fleeing the country to Mexico. Helena had left as well. Perhaps she was back at her place, I didn’t know.
The opaque landscape didn’t match my reality though. The blissful cosmic principle was forcing me to escape down the street towards my vehicle around the block instead. I looked over my shoulder with keen precision, but in the shadowy morning I was as blind as a bat. I made it to the car without concerns, but after I turned it on I imagined the engine blowing up beneath me. It was a quick thought―I took my chances.
Driving towards the office I kept thinking about Pencho. This was the first person murdered on my behalf because of a story I was pursuing. Many people had been involved in this story, on previous stories as well, but nobody had ever been killed because of me. Then I thought about the Governor with supreme satisfaction. I didn’t know how to deal with that type of guilt. If the story didn’t unravel the way Igor planned, then I would reassess my career choice and renounce journalism altogether. As I approached closer to the office, images of Pencho scurrying across the hardwood floor crushed my confidence. Franklin had better respond favorably to the story because any apprehensiveness would ignite my short fuse. I pulled the vehicle into the parking structure and Franklin’s motorcycle was already parked.
Even today I can’t quite remember the walk from the car to the office. I don’t remember what it smelled like. There could have been trash or homelessness spread throughout the parking structure suggesting urban decay. I didn’t bother to appreciate the concrete underneath my feet. There could have been cracks, potholes, unleveled cylinder blocks, or spray-painted graffiti on the pavement. I didn’t notice the landscape in my peripheral vision, there could have been rows of orchard trees or a funeral procession at the adjacent intersections. I didn’t notice whether I heard sirens or horns honking, there could have been an accident or bottlenecked traffic building up. Everything during that stride has since become unfamiliar. Had I been aware it was my last breath of freedom on the streets of Texas, or anywhere else for that matter, I would have planned accordingly, but I’ll describe what I remember as best as I can.
You see, that morning I stormed into the building towards Franklin’s office while double-takes from colleagues filled up the gallery of masks blurred in my peripheral. When I barged into his office he was on the phone, he put down the receiver with the look of demise splattered across the room. I let out hysterical rants about NAFTA, about the murder of Jay Jacobs and Pencho Slaveykov, about the monopoly. My hands flailed in the air with violence after I handed him the evidence and my proposal, but the only thing I received was a blank stare hidden behind nothingness.
Franklin’s response was, “I’m sorry Michael, but I have to let you go.”
“What? Are you fucken kidding me? Did you not hear what I just said―murder, monopoly, political corruption, scandal, the Governor of Texas, what more do you want. This is huge, man!”
“Watch you’re language boy. Calm yourself before I call security. I just got off the phone with Customs and Border Protection. They’ve been looking for you almost four days now. You’re a wanted fugitive. You went to Canada? What the hell were you doing there? You told me you were in Massachusetts. You’re just full of tricks up your sleeve, aren’t you? You escaped from authorities at the airport―what the hell are you doing here anyway? We terminated your employment yesterday, I’m not interested in any story you’re working on…not anymore. Oh, and something else, I received this police report from Los Angeles yesterday―it was faxed over here by the agent handling your case. It says here you were being investigated on murder charges in L.A. a few years ago about a real estate developer, a man whose wife you were having an affair with. Shauna Chandler. This is totally unacceptable, who knows what skeletons are hiding in your closet,” said Franklin with a smug gesture.
“Wait, wait! I could explain all that. This is all related to this story…I was following leads all across North America uncovering this monopoly and murder. They’re just trying to discredit me! You’ve got to believe me! I was cleared of those murder charges. I kept this information from you because the case was thrown out. Please…you have to believe me. Look―take a look at the evidence, read the proposal, it’s all right there. This monopoly and murder goes all the way to the top, the Governor’s involved. Trust me, please!”
“Sure you were. You expect me to believe the esteemed late Governor of Texas was involved in some murder you fabricated. He’s dead Michael. This doesn’t look so good for you. I suggest you speak to your attorney before you incriminate yourself. I can’t believe anything you say, keep your supposed evidence. Why is the Customs and Border Protection Agency looking for you anyway? Huh? What are you, some―illegal immigrant or something?”
I became frenzied after that comment. My hands took on a life independent from reason. According to a police report, I launched a left jab across Franklin’s dumb face causing my knuckle between my index and middle finger to puncture a hole through his bottom lip, forcing a tooth to penetrate through to my knuckle and a pouring of blood. I leapt over his desk onto his chair and choked him with the intent of ending his life. I blacked out. When I came to, securities had me pinned down on the floor with pistols drawn, two knees across my back, and an audience from here to Moscow outside of Franklin’s office. I looked over towards the hallway, I saw uniformed police officers trotting towards the scene of events. I recognized one―Diaz. He questioned me in my apartment after the break-in. He looked at me with disgust, nodded his head, and spit on the floor. Then I was hauled off into a squad car that waited below in the parking structure. On the walk down I realized the evidence had been taken from my persons. When they booked me into the Harris County Jail in downtown for assault, all evidence of the NAFTA blueprint had been removed.
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