“I’m telling you, he’s from the Dark Ages. But it all worked out. The folks who count supported you. And now you’re up here in this lovely office. Let’s just move forward, okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the information.”
Willow stood from her chair and lightly tapped a manicured finger on my desk. “So what are you gonna do now, honey?”
“Prove Max wrong.”
*
Willow left and I sat in my office. I didn’t move a muscle. I waited. At some point, Anita peeked inside my door to say good night. I never moved. I sat at my desk and waited some more. The lights went out across the floor. I still waited. I’d wait until midnight if I had to. When I was sure everyone on the floor was gone for the day, I walked the entire twentieth floor. Twice. The office was bathed in the dusk-dark lights of the reserve lighting system. I needed to be sure I was alone. On my last walkabout, I hit the override switch at the elevator bank.
I paced down the hall to Max’s office suite, quietly opened the door to his office, and flipped on his lights. Willow was right. Walking into his office was like stepping back in time. Every executive on this floor selected the decor for their office. From the looks of it, Maxwell Lumpkin had selected Early Antebellum as his decor theme. Lots of heavy dark wood and boys’ club atmosphere, from the beadboard paneling to the heavy mahogany desk, lamps fashioned to look like replicas of hurricane lanterns and the huge bald eagle bust lodged on top of it. Anchored on the wall behind his desk, an oversize American flag. It nearly covered the entire wall. I bet if I peeked under it, there was a Confederate flag there too.
On the credenza behind his desk was a photo of Max shaking hands with David Duke, another of him posed in between two American flags shaking hands with Donald Trump, and a third of him holding a bible, smiling broadly into the camera. In the corner of the credenza, a neat stack of National Review magazines. This guy didn’t hide who he was.
I pulled away the huge leather chair and searched through a couple files on top of his desk, looking for anything related to Sam or my secrets. Nothing. Everything was quiet, except for the soft hum of the computer. His computer was still on. I peeped toward the office door before clicking the escape key on his keyboard. The screensaver, a picture of the emblem from his lapel pin—the two intersecting gold flags and the red heart—popped up on the screen. His club again. I hit the Outlook icon and his email sprung up on the monitor. He didn’t even lock his computer.
Idiot.
I glanced toward the door again before I started scrolling through his in-box. The first few emails yielded a lot of traffic between Max and other employees in Operations. Nothing unusual. I tried to keep my eye on the door as I continued clicking through the emails. Nothing. I did a search for Michael Sayles. Several emails popped up. I scrolled through them and then opened the one with the subject line: Our Discussion.
December 28
6:39 pm
From: [email protected]
Re: Our Discussion
Perhaps you should focus more on the protesters in front of the building instead of things like this! I’m not interested!! But maybe the authorities will be!!
I scrolled down further . . .
December 28
5:55 pm
From: [email protected]
Re: Our Discussion
Michael,
I hope you’ve reconsidered. Our organization could benefit from your broad experience and the wide reach of your business network.
I think you could be a very useful general in our efforts to restore order where others have sown chaos.
The fight continues.
Max
General? The fight continues? What did any of this mean? Why was Max trying to recruit Michael for some fight?
I searched for a few minutes more, but there was nothing else related to Sam or Michael or me. I scanned the desk again. This time, I spotted the edge of a document peeking out from underneath the blotter on top. I slipped the paper out. A flyer for the Tri-County Outfitters gun shop. The exact same flyer I found in Michael’s duffel bag at my house. Why would Max and Michael have the same flyer for a local gun shop? I lifted the blotter but there was nothing else underneath. I slipped the paper back under the blotter.
I moved on to the drawers in his credenza. More dead ends. I slipped open the pencil tray on his desk. A slew of business cards, pens, and other minutiae were scattered about. And I almost missed it. But sitting there within the desk clutter was a silver-and-black thumb drive. Along the side was a single name: Ellice Littlejohn. My stomach tumbled. I placed it in my pocket and left.