Man in the Middle

the handwriting on the envelopes.

What were you up to, Mom? he thought.

Peter then grabbed the scrunched-up wad of junk mail that bunched half-in and half-out of the box. He carried the handful to the trashcans, but went through the sheets one at a time, making certain he discarded nothing significant in the tangled mass. He separated out the mail he’d come for and tossed the rest.

Closing the mailbox, Peter paid the bill and prepaid, in cash, for another six months.

He went to a corner of the office and set the mail on a countertop. He began with the letter to him, from his mother. His hands trembled as he unfolded the typed page and read:

Dearest Peter,

I do not expect you will ever read this, and I don’t know why I am writing you. Only that I am nervous. When I heard about . . .

At this point in the letter, his mother had written Jackson Securities and crossed it out, not quite enough to hide the words. She continued:

 . . . certain recent events, I knew I was responsible. I sent some things to a man at the SEC, someone I thought I could trust. He must have leaked the information. I want to believe it is all an unfortunate coincidence, but I cannot.

In these registered envelopes are documents that would implicate certain people in a massive conspiracy. I have breached legal ethics by making copies of these confidential papers. I do not know what to do with what I know.

Do not open the registered envelopes. The date and seal will prove to any interested party that you have not made copies of the contents.

If you are threatened, you must return the envelopes to Jason Ayers, in their current sealed condition. He loves us and will protect you, just as he has provided for me over the years.

I wish I had not embarked on this insane crusade. It has already brought so much misery, and I now realize there is no way to win. These people are too powerful.

Love always,

Mom

Against his cheek, the pages felt warm, and his mother seemed alive.

Momentarily distracting him, a thick man in a brown suit pushed his way past, nearly brushing against Peter’s shoulder. The man stopped and stared less than five feet from where Peter stood. Had he been followed? Peter felt a wave of panic flush his face. He thought about his next move— flight or fight?

In the midst of Peter’s confusion, the other man’s face suddenly turned soft. “You look upset,” he said. “You okay, mister?”

With those words, Peter realized that tears had rolled down his cheek. He wiped them with a sleeve and answered, “Yeah. Just a letter from someone I love . . .”

The man nodded like he understood. “Love can be a bitch,” he said, and exited the mailroom.

As he recomposed himself, Peter debated whether to take the personal letter home with him, but decided not to. He placed everything back into the mailbox and re-locked it. His mother’s hiding place had proven effective for this long. Why not a while longer? The temptation to open the registered mail quickly passed. His mother emphasized he should not. Filtered through his taut nerves, her advice seemed brilliant. Sometimes, he convinced himself, ignorance was bliss—at least relatively speaking.

When he arrived home half an hour later, Peter had two phone messages. The first was from Drew Franklin: “White Bread. Long time no hear. Baby’s due soon and she’s gonna be a girl. Yippy. Monica and I want to name her Hannah. I hope that’s okay with you? Don’t forget your friends. I’ve left a couple messages and not heard back from you. We still love ya, guy.”

Henry jumped into Peter’s lap as he pressed the play button for the next message. Peter’s smile disappeared the moment the man’s words filled the room.

“I was fired from the SEC yesterday. My investigation was unsanctioned, as you know by now. I will leave you alone, of course, since I am no longer a government employee. All I can do is wish you luck. You’re gonna need it.”

For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Peter felt a fresh bout of anxiety coming on. Dawson fired? He disliked Dawson. Or did he? He didn’t believe anything the agent had told him. Or did he?

“How much does it cost to bribe a dirty cop?” the agent had asked. With the information in the letter from his mother, Peter fought against the feeling that fresh meat hung on the carcass of Dawson’s arguments. It had all turned into a confusing mess.

“Dawson got what he deserved,” Peter said to Henry. “The man is dangerously misguided.”

One thing, however, stabbed at Peter’s rationalization. If only former Agent Oliver Dawson had never asked: “How much does it cost?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 “OH, OLIVER. WHAT HAPPENED?”

When the hotel room door closed, Angela ran and wrapped her arms around Dawson. Her neck folded over his shoulder as they embraced. For two days, she had had no contact with him—had no idea why he was fired. Every Thursday morning they met at a seedy hotel ten miles from the office to exchange messages. This Thursday, she apprehensively waited. When Dawson arrived, she had melted.

After a kiss, Dawson tried to explain. “People know that Neil and I met. Someone then notified Ackerman that I was operating without supervision. I discussed this possibility with the director when we set this whole thing up. It was necessary for him to can me and to do it in front of his assistant, Freeman Ranson.” Dawson didn’t mention that Ranson had looked like the cat that had just consumed the family parakeet.

“You’re not fired then?” she asked.

“No. I am. If I’m right and can prove it, I’ll be rehired. In the meantime, the only ones who know I’m working on this are you and Ackerman.”

“How can you be working on a case if you aren’t an employee?”

“Unofficially.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In truth, neither do I. Did the director give you anything to pass on?”

“Not much. He sure as heck didn’t explain that you had his support.”

“I’m not sure I do. But this thing with his special assistant is so big he feels he needs an answer. I want you to tell him I’m returning to San Diego. I’m going to make contact with Neil again. This time I’ll be more careful.”

“You’re going back? You can’t.”

“I have to. They think they’ve shut me up, so that makes this a good time to go.”

“They’re killers.”

“I’ll be careful,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“I love you so much. Tell me I won’t read you’ve gone berserk and blown yourself to bits like everyone else who looks at these lunatics crosseyed.”

“You won’t.”

“You think Neil will come around and help?”

“Given enough time, yes. What I’m afraid of is what happens to him if he slips up and is seen as a threat. Unfortunately, with what happened to his mother, Neil has few reasons to trust me. His mother sends me something in the mail and ends up in a car crash.”

“But you were just trying to help.”

“How does he know that?” Dawson draped an arm around Angela’s shoulder and pulled her into him.