The Journalist

It started with a cup of Colombian dark roast—black, a plain bagel and light cream cheese. As she sat, lap top open, in a local coffee shop, a thin gentleman, white-haired with a neatly cropped beard approached her table. She'd noticed him earlier, folding his copy of the Times as he read it in sections. She figured him for a banker or an attorney, maybe even a professor—anything except a messenger.

He sat across from her, folded his legs and slid his creased paper across the table. She recognized the highlighted article—her expose' on the pharmaceutical industry's methods of suppressing research on cures in favor of expensive maintenance medications. His expression stoic, he leaned back in the chair and scanned her with a narrow gaze.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?"
He tapped the edge of the paper with his ring finger. "Open it," he said, his voice authoritative and gravelly.

She unfolded the paper, revealing a handwritten message on a yellow sticky-note: 'If you want break the biggest story in history, follow me when I leave. Tell no one.'

She looked up just as he stood and headed toward the exit. 'Of course,' she thought. He was probably a CEO or house counsel for one of the big pharma corps. He'd lure her outside with the promise of a big story, then threaten her with a law suit if she didn't back off. Since the story broke, her inbox and voicemails had been flooded with demands for retractions and promises of 'scorched earth' litigation. Thankfully her editor reminded her every day that he had her back. If they thought the 'shock and awe' approach would cause her to go weak in the knees, they'd better be prepared for just the opposite.

That said, she had to give him points for originality. It appealed to her 'cloak and dagger' fetish. She gathered her computer and followed him outside. She spotted him about twenty feet ahead of her on the busy sidewalk. He stood at the corner with his hands tucked inside his trench. When their eyes met, he disappeared around the corner.

She power-walked the block, made the turn around the building and saw him sliding into the driver's side of a grey sedan. She approached, adjusting her backpack as she broke into a trot.

"Hey," she said. "Thought you had a sto—"

He closed his door. She stopped, about to reach for her phone and snap some pics of his license plate, when she heard the lock click open on the passenger side door.

An image of her slit throat, her naked body weighted with bricks and dumped in the Hudson ran through her mind. She stood at the door, caught between getting inside and getting as far away from him as possible.

The window slid down. "Get in."
"I don't get in cars with strange men."
"My terms. Either do what I say or this will not happen."
"You want me to believe you, give me something."
"If you want to know what I know, get in the car. If not, go finish your coffee and keep pretending to be a journalist."

He was teasing her main button, hitting every one of her investigative nerves. He could just be wasting her time, but her hound dog instincts had already kicked into overdrive. If he just wanted to bully her, he could have done that already. She'd learned over the years how to sniff out a good lead and he was wearing that old familiar scent like a heavy cologne. Bottom line—he was either a paranoid loon or he was holding something—something big. Indecision churned in her stomach until she finally took a cautious step forward. Though she'd be breaking the 'never-go-to-a-second-location' rule, she knew she'd never be able to sleep if she didn't source him.

She slid off her backpack, unzipped the side compartment and retrieved her keys, clutching the pocket sized canister of mace attached to the ring. Her other hand gripped the handle and she got in.

Once she shut the door, he pulled away from the curb and accelerated into the mid-morning traffic.

"Okay," she said. "I'm here."
"I'm going to bring you up to speed as quickly as I can."
"Is this about my story? You know something about the pharma scandal?"
"It's bigger than that."
"Where are we going?"
"Nowhere. When I'm done, I'll bring you back where I found you."

He jerked the wheel and made an abrupt left turn at a yellow light closer to red than green. She noticed his glance darting back and forth between the rear view and side mirrors.

"You seem nervous," she said.
"I am. You should be too."

His comment landed in her gut as she watched him grip the wheel two-fisted, navigating the downtown traffic as if there was a checkered flag at stake.

"Okay." She double checked her seat belt. "Two minutes in and I'm not impressed. You got something for me or not?"
"Your story touched on a small piece of a larger puzzle. They'll try to silence you. Discredit you. You're on their radar now."
"Who's 'they'?"
"The people who control what we see and hear. TV, radio, internet. There are messages embedded in every broadcast, every communication that—"
"Okay, let me stop you right there."

He slammed the brakes, inches short of rear-ending a UPS truck. Her body jerked forward causing her to place her hands on the dashboard to brace herself. He glanced over, eyeing her fingers curled around the mace.

"My name is Louis McNally. Until five days ago, I worked for Gayner Med group, R & D. And your article... that article was spot on."
"And you know for a fact Gayner is suppressing research?"
"Know?" He released a nervous chuckle. "Up until the day I left, I was the one in charge of doing it. And it's not just about money or profits. That's where you got it wrong."
"Hold on," she reached in her backpack and pulled out her digital recorder.
"No. No devices," he said. "Not until I know I can trust you to follow up on this."
"Fine." She placed the recorder in her jacket pocket. "Continue."
"The drugs are not just maintenance meds. They're cutting edge neuroscience. They leave the brain open to subliminal suggestion."
"And these 'subliminal' messages are where the media comes into it I suppose?" She nodded with condescension, pressing her lips into skeptical grin.
"I know. Sounds implausible." He whipped around another corner. Horns blared followed by a middle finger from the taxi driver in the next lane. "But they are using media to control people, the way they think, shop, vote... every critical choice these people make is being mandated without their knowledge."

She sighed. "I gotta ask, are you on some medication that you've decided to stop taking after reading my story?"
"Your story sent me in another direction... toward some things I hadn't considered. But once I found out what they were up to..."
"What?"
"They've got pages and pages of data. Some of the side effects when people are activated—"
"Activated?"
"Acute, latent depression. Random violence. Shooting sprees. People who fit certain medical histories, psychological profiles..." He glanced up, checking the mirror and adjusting it slightly. "They've been doing this stuff for years, but patients are becoming more resistant to the control parameters of the drugs faster than they can make improvements."
She scoffed. "That's some story, but do you really expect anyone with a functioning IQ above 'monkey' to believe that?"
"It's true. These people are human time bombs. You've seen the headlines. They're walking into theaters, schools and shopping malls and becoming executioners. And you know what, Gayner is labeling these incidents as an 'acceptable range of deviation'.
"I don't know," she said. "to be honest, it sounds like 'Con Theory 101'."
"I have proof."
"Then why bring this to me? I'm sure there would be thousands of media outlets willing to—" His grim expression cut off her words. "Right. My story." She took a deep breath." So, you said you had proof?"

He nodded toward the glove compartment. She opened it and spotted another sticky-note.

"That's the address and access codes to a storage unit I rented outside of the city. It's right off the subway line. You'll find a footlocker. There's a thumb drive inside with all the proof you'll need."
"Why don't you just take me there yourself?"
"We can't be seen together. I took enough of a risk coming to see you in the first place."
"I need names."
"You'll have them. You'll have everything you need."
A chill snaked up her spine. "Am I in danger?"
"Just do what I told you. That information is the best way to protect yourself."

She grabbed the note and closed the compartment.

"Suppose I believe you," she said. "I'm gonna need an on-the-record quote to run a story. How do I reach you?"

He pulled over to a curb and stopped the car. They were about a block from where they started.

"Giving you a way to contact me would be a waste of time."
"Why?"
"Ms. Blake, there's only two things you need to know about me. First, everything I've told you is one-hundred percent fact. And second... I'll probably be dead by the end of the week."

He pressed the button, unlocking her door. "If you really care about being safe, you won't tell anyone about any of this until you get the information on that drive. Not your editor, not your friends. No one." He exhaled a heavy breath and checked the rear view again. "Get out."

She started to press him further, but the weight of his gaze implied their time together had come to an end. She got out and watched him pull away. After his car turned at the light, she saved his license plate number in her phone. Then she pulled out her recorder from her jacket pocket and cued it to the beginning:

'—drugs are not just maintenance meds. They're cutting edge neuroscience. They leave the brain open to...'