HOWLERS (12 page)

Rebecca reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “Why don’t you come by the gun shop instead? I’ll be there after two,” Rebecca said.

Gary nodded.
Today
, he thought, watching her leave,
was the best day of my life.
He was in love! Without question. He knew he was in love for the first time in his life. It was as if he had gotten a new pair of eyes. The shop’s brass bell, attached to the door, rang as she closed the door and left him alone with Worden.

CHAPTER 12

I could break the story
here,
Price thought,
putting his cell phone down.
Why not?

Howard looked out the bank of windows from his spacious corner office. His stand-up desk held several computer monitors, and a flat panel TV hung on the wall above it. The TV was tuned to CNN, but the sound was muted. CNN had reported nothing that morning to contradict what his brother, a fire captain in Santa Monica, had just called to tell him: major riots were underway in several southern California cities, including downtown L.A., all under a news blackout ordered by Homeland Security.

Price turned from the TV, which was showing clips from the previous evening’s
“
Dancing With The Stars,” where there had been a major upset. He didn’t recognize any of the “celebrities.” The tarted-up
wunderkinder
being interviewed were dressed up in garish costumes, their faces overly made up.

Price laughed. He’d been in the office for more than five hours and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. He searched his messy desk for his coffee cup.

He usually got to work around by 5:00 a.m., which allowed him to work on his own book about Building Seven’s collapse on September 11. He was keeping the book a secret from everyone at work because of what had happened to him at the
LA Times
. He was also tracking several international news stories that he felt weren’t getting the attention they deserved in the US press: the nuclear accident in Japan at Fukushima, NSA’s project PRISM, and the federal government’s use of drones
inside
the US.

Tracking these stories took time and effort. He’d been especially engrossed in the Fukushima story because it seemed so important to the future of mankind. He couldn’t help himself. Of late he had begun tracking currents in the Pacific Ocean, and the strange reports of sea otters and other mammals dying off the coast of Orange and San Diego counties. He was convinced of a link to Fukushima’s ongoing meltdown and massive release of nuclear waste directly into the Pacific Ocean.

His research into Building Seven had convinced him that the U.S. media were no longer doing its job. Big Media had turned into a hopeless wasteland filled with mind-numbing PR about iPhone apps, or lurid tabloid stories, or we’re-on-it-now disasters. The best TV news coverage was the rampaging lunatic-gunmen stories—very common—which made for high drama and high ratings. The TV news business had become an empty-headed array of video snippets with blow-dry commentary—even for mass shootings. The question of
why
there were so many murderous lunatics in America remained unaddressed. Major newspapers, too, were doing their best to keep up in this race to the bottom of America’s IQ.

   Howard considered what his brother had just told him, which was unbelievable, even to him. Across the street was an exact duplicate of the building he was standing in; its mirrored windows reflected a pewter-colored and dangerous looking sky. He saw Miles Hunt park his ridiculous old Mustang in the parking lot and trot toward their building. Miles, he guessed, was back from Genesoft’s news conference.

Staring out the window, he tried to put the conversation with his brother into some kind of order. If it had been anyone else,
anyone
, he would have assumed the person was a lunatic.
My brother isn’t crazy
.
He’s an asshole maybe, but he is not crazy
.

Howard waited for Miles to walk into the city room, or what passed for a city room. Compared to the
L.A.
Times,
it was more like a mailroom. As soon as he saw Hunt, he signaled for the young reporter to come into his office. Uncharacteristically grim faced, he motioned for Miles to close the door behind him and sit down.

“There’s something wrong at Genesoft,” Miles said. He sat in the chair across from Price. “Employees are sick.  I have a whistle blower who—”

Howard put his hand up to stop him. “There’s some kind off major panic in Los Angeles. I have a call into the
L.A. Times
trying to check on the story. Homeland Security is trying to cover it up, it seems. They’re not letting the media report it. There’s a news blackout. I want to break the story
here
. I have to wait until I get more details, but I think we’ll run it in tomorrow’s paper. I want you to help me with the cover-up angle. I’ve got Garzarelli working the phones with some other local papers. I’ve had him call the
Chronicle
and the
Sacramento Bee
, to see what they have on the story.”

“You mean another riot?” Miles said. “Another Rodney King thing?”

“No. Different. I got call from my brother this morning while you were at Genesoft. He’s a fireman, a captain in L.A. County.”

The phone rang and Price’s secretary told him it was his call into the
Times
. Price took it on the speakerphone. “Jim?”

“Howard, I got your message.”

“You’re on a speakerphone, it’s two of us here. My reporter Miles Hunt and myself,” Howard said. He was looking at the phone as if it would jump off the table.

“This is all off the record,” the
Times
editor said.

“Fine,” Price said.

“Yes, your brother is right. There is a news blackout.”

“What’s going on? My brother said it’s some kind of major panic,” Price said. “Some kind of illness?”

“No one knows for sure what it is. People are disappearing, that’s all I know for sure. Whole buildings full of people come up missing for work. The police are working with only about forty percent staff, probably less. We’ve been able to confirm that part of the story. And it’s the lack of police that’s prompted the news blackout from Homeland. The
Times
is cooperating with their request, at least for the time being.”

“I don’t understand,” Price said. “You said
disappear
? What do you mean, exactly?”

“We’re not sure. But I know a lot of the staff here at the
Times
are missing too, probably over half.”

Howard looked at Miles.

“We can’t contact them,” the
Times
editor said. “We’ve called their homes, but either no one’s there, or their families can’t find them. We’re getting a lot of reports of people seeing their loved ones on the street and them not recognizing family members. And worse stories, too. This is what the mayor’s office and Homeland don’t want reported.”

“What do you mean
worse
?” Price said, looking away from Miles.

“Gangs of people roaming the streets attacking people. No one in the office has seen it for themselves, but we got a call from our office in the San Fernando Valley that a gang of people, about a hundred or so, attacked a fast-food place. Killed everyone in the place. The story hasn’t been confirmed. The ABC affiliate has a helicopter capturing footage of other gangs of people on the streets of the Valley. They’re threatening to go live with it.”

“Gangsters?” Price said.

“No
,
that’s just it—not gangsters
.
Ordinary people,” the editor said. “People are making a connection between the missing and these attacks.”

“I’m sorry, Jim, but I can’t believe this. It sounds ludicrous,” Price said.

“I know. I don’t believe it, either. But that’s what we’ve heard. And these types of reports are coming in now from all over L.A. County. The boss is in a meeting right now with people from the Mayor’s office and Homeland Security.”

“We have missing people here, too,” Price said. “I mean at the newspaper, here.”

“A lot?” his friend asked.

“If you count the delivery people, about twenty or so,” Price said. “We employ fewer than a hundred people.”

“All right, you see? I’ve been calling around town, to different businesses, big and small. Everyone is saying the same things. People aren’t showing up for work. They call them at home and there’s no answer, or their families say they’ve gone missing in the last day or so. We’re hearing the same story again and again,” the
Times
editor said.

“I’m going to break the missing-people story. No one’s told us not to,” Price said.

“I doubt the government cares about the little papers. They’re targeting big mass-media outlets. The
Daily News
has something up on its website, and so does
La Opinion
. And some of the independent radio stations are reporting this. But it’s not on TV yet. Homeland Security’s blacked out TV, local and national, the whole nine yards. Listen, I have to go. Good luck. Call me back and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Howard, good luck.”

A dial tone came from the speakerphone. Price, hitting a button on the phone, hung up too.

“Half the people at Genesoft are missing,” Miles said.

Price looked at him. “You’re
sure
?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to cover the local story, then. We’ll run two stories, side by side. The Los Angeles story, and our own Nevada City and surrounding community’s missing-persons story,” Howard said.

They looked at each other as if for reassurance that the other had heard the same tone of fear in the man’s voice, which had somehow given the outrageous story he told credibility.

“Start with Timberline, and some of the other smaller Sierra towns. Call the sheriff’s department and get a report on all recent missing persons. We’ll build our local story around those. Contact the families of the first ten people on the list. We’ll have to edit the stories ourselves,” Price said. “Everyone on the copy desk is gone.”

Miles turned around and looked into the small city room. It seemed like a Sunday afternoon, not a Friday afternoon when their city room was its busiest.

“What do you think is going on?” Miles asked.

“Something bad. Something
very
bad,” Howard said, and picked up the phone. “Maybe the biggest story of the century. And here I am stuck up here in the sticks with you.”

If it had been a big-city newspaper, Miles would not have had the sheriff’s personal cell number. Because it was Timberline, he did. He went to his desk and dialed Quentin’s cell. Like all the old Timberline families, the Colliers and the Hunts kept in touch. In fact, they were close: Miles’ brother had married into the Collier family.

He got the message option on Quentin’s cell number, hung up and called the sheriff’s department’s main line.

“Sheriff’s office,” a woman’s voice answered.

“Yes, can I speak to Quentin, please?”

“He’s not in right now. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Is this Eileen?”

“Yes.”

“Eileen, this is Miles Hunt.”

“Hello, Miles. I thought it sounded like you. Can you hold a moment?”

“Sure.”

Miles sat looking at the pile of the random papers on his desk. He saw a message from his fiancée in San Francisco and tucked it into his pants pocket. There was another from the whistleblower at Genesoft. He’d told her to call him as soon as she got any more news. He’d made a date with her, for later in the day, to interview her boyfriend.

Miles looked at his watch and kept waiting. He cradled the phone’s receiver with his shoulder and took out the message from his fiancée. A cold panic filled him. She was in San Francisco at a fashion show and buying trip for the new store she was planning to open in Nevada City after they were married.
If something was going on ...
He punched in his girlfriend’s cell number on a different line.

“Room 1222, please ... Hello, Becky?”

“Miles. I was just leaving. Hi.”

The panic in Miles’ stomach eased. He saw his soon-to-be bride. She was a trim brunette with blue eyes and a knock-out smile. They’d met at Cal Berkeley while both students.

“I wanted to ask if my mother had gotten hold of you? She had a list of questions about the guest list. She doesn’t want to make any mistakes with your people. I thought you—”

“Miles, go ahead.”

Miles heard Eileen Anderson on the other line and asked his fiancée to hold. “Yes, Eileen —could you have Quentin call me at the paper as soon as possible? And I was wondering, have you had a lot of missing-person reports filed in the last day or two?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Could you fax me over the list?”

“I don’t know . . . my son’s missing. That was his school calling asking me where he was,” she said. Her tone was different. She sounded frightened.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s okay.”

“I dropped him off at school myself,” she said.

   “Eileen, I need the list of missing people, even if Quentin is out of pocket. Okay? It’s important.”

“All right.” Quentin’s secretary hung up.

Miles punched the blinking button on the other line. “Is everything all right there in San Francisco?” Miles said.

“Yes, Miles. Everything is fine here. What’s wrong? You sound strange,” she said.

Miles sat back in his chair, relieved. “Well, if I told you what we’ve been hearing, you wouldn’t believe me,” he said. “Anyway, it’s probably some kind of hoax.”

“Miles, I’ve got to go. I love you. Don’t forget to call my mom.”