The Whisper Box Read online

  Aaron was hyperventilating. The First Lady had been murdered and he knew who was behind it. He punched the gas pedal to the floor and sped to the airport. He absolutely had to see Grant now, because he needed protection from Grant and CNN. This was getting to be overwhelming.

  When Aaron pulled into the airport, he had no time to look for a parking spot. He pulled up to the front door and ran, with his laptop, through the airport to the gate at which Grant should be arriving. He was not there yet, so Aaron went to the bar. There were about twenty people there. If someone were following him they would not try any tricky business in a packed airport bar. From where he was sitting he could see the gate. He ordered a Budweiser. Maybe Grant had made the plane turn around and head back to Washington after the story about the First Lady hit the airwaves. Maybe Grant had just finally decided that Aaron was a crazy old man. He slumped down in his chair and sipped on his beer, wondering if he should wait to see Grant or get drunk.

  8

  Mac ached all over, but he had to keep moving. He had to get in touch with CNN somehow because he needed to make these tapes public. This was no longer an issue about representing a woman against the President. That woman was dead. This was now about saving his life. The one person who kept coming back to his mind was Grant Winchester. He knew Grant was dedicated to his job. Even more important, he knew that Grant was well aware that he was very close to eternal stardom and would do anything to achieve it. Still, Grant was respected, well connected, and the first to attack the government or its elected officials if deserved. If he could find a way to get in touch with Grant Winchester he could crack this case. He also assumed that CNN could come up with more than enough money to help him get some protection during all of this. How does someone get in touch with one of the most popular reporters in the world? All he could think was to call CNN directly.

  Aaron had to find a place to clean himself up. He had to be presentable when he approached anyone about this or they would immediately classify him as an idiot. He would not, under any circumstances, go to the police. Right now he had no idea what town he was in and he had no transportation. Furthermore, he did not even have a map or a compass to help him determine his location. He turned around and started walking.

  The bushes were thicker in some areas than others. Thankfully, there were no prickly bushes. He had an overwhelming fear of snakes, so each step made him shiver. Twice he was struck in the face with a whip-like branch. One of the whippings actually drew blood. This was nothing new. He looked as if he just fought his way out of the meanest parts of Bedford-Stuyvesant. His shoulder was throbbing, everything else was aching and now he was bleeding in more than a few areas. The man at the front desk of the lucky hotel he chose was going to have a story to tell his friends.

  During the entire journey, Mac was debating the pros and cons of the present situation. From the financial perspective it could be very good. He would gain notoriety and, consequently, thousands of future clients who would pay top dollar for the attorney who risked his life for the good of the country. Unfortunately, the immediate concern, which he continued to hash over in his mind, was that at any moment, even after this whole mess was behind him, he could take a bullet.

  The Timber Rattler, a deadly snake, was snugly curled around a fallen branch that was half in the adjacent stream and half on the shore. The snake was definitely aware of Mac's presence. Mac had gone from a brisk walk to a very slow tiptoe, but it was the change of pace in Mac's steps that set the snake off. It unwrapped itself and slithered closer to Mac at a decent rate of speed, one that was much too fast for Mac's comfort level. To make matters worse, it was vibrating his black and yellow tail. Mac could hear its rattle. It had gray skin with diamond markings. Mac felt like he was going to faint. Mac wanted desperately to run, but did not because he feared the possibility of there being more snakes in the area that may strike.

  The snake slithered along until it was within four feet of Mac. Mac froze. He had heard several times from programs on Animal Planet that if you freeze, the snake would no longer be intimidated or aggressive. Obviously, the snake had missed that episode. As Mac stood there, trying to decide whether or not to make a move, the snake made its own decision, lunging at Mac with blinding speed. Although the bite was to his left calf, his entire body writhed in pain. He screamed, swinging the plastic bag filled with the videotapes at the snake's head. He missed. He and the snake froze and studied each other like two boxers dancing around the ring trying to determine the other's weakness.

  Mac decided that he'd had enough of the game after a couple of minutes. He was in no mood for it after all that he had been through. Adrenaline pumping, he threw his arm back again and swung harder, and with more concentration than before. His aim was perfect, and the snake flipped and flopped around like a helpless worm. Hoping the snake would now back off, Mac froze again and made eye contact with the nastiest of creatures. The snake, however, was not finished and came back towards Mac, resuming its low steady and deadly rattle. He slithered slowly with the beat of its rattle making each movement seem like a dance step choreographed in anger.

  At this point the snake abandoned the waiting game that they were playing and became extremely aggressive. Aside from the three remaining feet of its body that was coiled up below it, the snake was now standing straight up. The sight was bone chilling. Mac wanted to search the ground for rocks or something to defend himself with, but was afraid to look away. Meanwhile, the snake dipped down quickly and lunged forward again. It landed another bite just below the first.

  Mac had no idea if this particular snake was poisonous or not, and the thought of being stuck in the woods with no one around to help him while he died of a poisonous snakebite did not sit well with him. He had to run, but before he ran there was one little score he had to settle. He swung the bag at the snake again. The tapes caught the snake flush on the side of its head, dazing it and throwing it back. Things would have been much easier had the snake just given up and slithered back into the woods.

  The serpent slithered towards Mac a third time. It stopped suddenly and lunged forward again. Mac swung harder than ever with the bag, which he knew could break open at any moment. The bag caught the snake across the side of and just below its head. Apparently the snake grew tired of the action. Mac watched as it turned and headed back towards the river.

  The plastic bag holding the tapes had burst open on contact, sending about twenty video and audiotapes flying in different directions, they scattered amongst the leaves, bushes and trees. McFarland Hart III, future attorney to the stars, was currently having to be aware of snakes, worry about the bites he had just received, and tend to broken limbs and bleeding body parts as he searched through the woods for the only evidence he had. When he had collected them all, he would have to put them back in the bag, which now had a four-inch tear in it, before he continued on.

  Mac was no longer thinking of Tom Tropicana; he was thinking about what he could have done to deserve this. He was thinking about how his father had always seemed to provide, even when the chips were down. Then he thought of the service he was doing for his country and was reminded he could not fail. He found at least ten of the tapes in one area and picked them up as quickly as possible. He had tied a knot in the bag where the hole was to secure it. As he moved in another direction, he heard a loud crack under his feet, leaving one less videotape of evidence. He picked up the destroyed tape anyway and continued searching.

  After about thirty minutes Mac decided the seventeen tapes he had located would have to do. No one was going to find these tapes out here. He hoped his snake friend would choke on them as he moved on.

  Mac was getting hungrier by the minute. His knees were shaking and his snake-bitten calf began to swell. At least he now knew that this snake was not poisonous. After all, it had been an hour since he had been bitten and he was still walking. Had it delivered any venom, Mac would have been dead by now.

  Two more branch whips later, Mac saw a small b
uilding in the clearing just ahead of him. It almost looked like a tollbooth in the middle of nowhere. He picked up his pace. Without realizing it, he started screaming for help and began to cry. He was hoping to see a guard come into the picture. There was, however, no guard. There was nothing. He got to the small tollbooth and looked inside. Scattered across the floor was some office equipment, an old pair of rubber boots, and an old jacket. When he looked up on the wall, he saw a phone. Having no choice, he found a big, heavy rock and hurled it at the tollbooth. He threw like a girl. His throwing arm was hanging uselessly. The window shattered and Mac cleared away the excess glass in the window frame. After the glass was cleared away, Mac climbed inside. First, he put the rubber boots on. They were a size too big but that made them fit perfectly over the $300 Italian leather dress shoes that were ruined. He wanted to dump the shoes off in the river after his great escape from the hit men, but he thought he could use them for walking later on. Mac had seen numerous movies where a stranded person somehow lost their shoes and never understood how. That was not going to happen to him.

  He tentatively reached for the phone. Mac was so afraid that it would not work that he almost did not want to pick it up. Just as he placed his hand on the hand set, he noticed that the cord just below it had been cut. This was definitely his worst day ever. He searched through the tollbooth hoping to find a walkie-talkie, a map or anything else that could help him, but he had no such luck. At least his feet would be dry soon.

  The tollbooth was located on a slightly weeded trail. Walking the trail definitely beat walking through the woods. There would be no more branch whips. If he walked in the middle of the fifteen-foot wide trail he could see any approaching snakes. Also, and most importantly, this trail had to lead somewhere.

  As he headed down the trail, Mac began to think about his wife, crying on and off. The crying, he felt, was threatening to his manhood, however, he kept telling himself that he was in a situation that the average person knew nothing about. He wanted to feel the warmth of his wife, run his fingers through her shoulder-length brown hair and tell her how lucky he was to have such a beautiful, wonderful woman in his life.

  He wanted to feel her turn around and plant her moist lips on his and whisper, “I love you baby,” like she had so many times in the past. He missed home immensely.

  When it began to get dark again, Mac started into a jog. He could not see any snakes or other obstacles in the blackness that would follow soon. He had to have some sort of closure to this ordeal soon, convinced that he could not handle the pressure much longer. As he came around a blind turn, he saw a light far off in the distance. Mac started calling for help again. After about thirty seconds he thought about the people who had tried to kill him about fourteen hours ago. He knew they definitely would not just give up and were probably still scouring the woods for him right now. Still, he could not recall hearing any helicopters through his travels and had neither seen nor heard any other people during his journey. Even so, he decided to stop yelling and sneak up on the building instead.

  When he approached the rear of the cabin, he sunk below the level of the windows. He slowly raised his head in order to look into a window, only to be startled by the face of a man standing right at it. The man jumped back a little, obviously as startled as Mac. Then he swung his gun at Mac's face.

  The man screamed, “Stop right there buddy!”

  He just raised his arms in the air like a criminal and waited for someone to burst out of the rear entrance. The man ran outside wielding a gun.

  Mac could only beg, “Sir, I mean no harm to you or anyone here. You have no idea what I've been through today. Please let me explain. I need help.”

  The man saw the look of anguish on Mac's face. The physical and psychological pain this man had been through was obvious. He dropped his gun back into its holster, looked Mac up and down, and invited him inside. After closing and locking the door, the portly old gentleman offered Mac some coffee, showed him the couch, and went to retrieve a First Aid kit.

  Mac explained that he had some very important tapes that needed to be delivered to the proper authorities, but begged him not call the police. Then, he asked if he could use his phone and his bathroom. He also told him that a little food would go a long way and then he would leave. The man agreed, but Mac could tell that he really wanted to help. Mac explained that he really could not divulge any information to anyone at this time. The kind older gentleman shook his head in agreement as he ran his fingers through his bushy gray hair. He waddled over to the couch and began explaining Mac's exact coordinates to him. He was located in the middle of Lebanon State Park. The river he had floated down was, more than likely, the Cuyahoga River, as there were three adjoining rivers in the area.

  The man told Mac about the death of the First Lady. Mac had been in the woods all day and had no idea what had been going on in the rest of the world. He just sat there in amazement while the man continued on about what the police thought. He mentioned some of the accusations being tossed about. He told Mac of the broken neck, the sliding ladder in the White House Library, and every other detail he could remember from what he had seen and heard on the television and radio. Mac sat motionless on the sofa, even though he really needed to go to the bathroom and take care of all of his ailments. He knew that this all had to be somehow tied into the video and audiotapes.

  He finally made it to the bathroom and began to tend to himself. When he walked out of the bathroom, Mac looked different. He looked refreshed. The old fellow, whose name was John Harris, gave Mac a torn flannel shirt he had used to dust off the counters. Mac fashioned a sling from it to carry the weight of his broken shoulder. His freshly washed face was adorned with four Band-Aids. His swollen, bleeding calf had been washed in hot soapy water and wrapped in fresh gauze. Mac felt a lot better. He moved towards the phone and called CNN's toll free phone number.

  The operator was a rude woman whose attitude seemed to indicate that she'd had a tough day. Refusing to transfer Mac to Grant Winchester's phone in his office, she explained that Grant “was never even in the building” and that he did not accept incoming calls. All the calls about possible stories had to go through the media claims department. Callers were routed to a message center and prompted to leave a message and a telephone at which they could be reached within the hour. Mac had hoped to avoid all these channels. The operator did, however, give Mac Grant Winchester's e-mail address, adding that Grant answered all of his e-mail.

  John Harris now felt like he was doing his part. He immediately led Mac to his office in the back. The park ranger had a hell of a computer setup. John got Mac on-line, opened an e-mail screen, and left Mac in privacy. Mac began to type:

  Grant,

  I know this may seem absurd, but I can assure you that all you are about to read is true. I have, in my possession, some serious evidence that incriminates the President of the United States in a number of ways. Laura Green is dead. I was in the same car with her when it happened. I have everything that she had (audio, video, you name it….) With the recent death of the First Lady, the information I have gains even more significance. At this point, I can trust no one, including members of law enforcement agencies. The people involved in the crimes know that I have the evidence. They have made several attempts to kill me. I trust you because I know you are always looking for the “BIG” story and I know you'll cover it honestly and accurately regardless of who is involved. I have more than enough evidence not only to support my accusations, but also to take down Farnsworth and many others. I tried to contact you by phone but the operator wouldn't transfer me to you. I must speak with you directly and very soon, considering I am in hiding about 300 miles North of your present location. You must help me, sir. This is not a request. I need you to survive and, I'm telling you, you need me to ensure this information is made public. This will, I assure you, be the greatest moment of your career.

  Please help.

  GMH3

  Mac clicked the send bu
tton on the screen. When he went back into the other room, he explained to John Harris that he now needed to spend the night. John obliged. He had to work the graveyard shift anyway. There would be no one there until eleven o'clock the following morning. John Harris built a fire and grabbed some doughnuts for Mac from the kitchenette. They periodically checked for a response to the e-mail. As they waited, they exchanged various stories, talked about their families and things that they had done in their lives. John went over his entire job description to Mac. They talked for hours, which made for great therapy for Mac. He needed the company and the diversion, even if he had only known John for a few hours.

  9

  Grant Winchester sat on his jet, scanning the Internet for any information he could find about the stories that were swirling around in Washington and the rest of the world. As intrigued as he was, he felt guilty about leaving a man who was sitting in an airport in Columbia, South Carolina waiting for him. He felt guilty. When the story about the First Lady broke Grant had no choice but to go to Washington. His employers paid him well, so his flight had to be turned around to get him there quickly. Hopefully, the stranger would page him again and he would have the chance to explain. He figured he should at least check his e-mail to see if the man who called himself “AA” had sent him another frantic message. Unfortunately, he had no way of contacting the stranger.