Chapter 22
Somehow, from the moment Righty stepped foot inside his home, he knew things weren’t going to be half as bad as he expected. In fact, although he begrudged excessive optimism, maybe they would just be so-so. He had faced enough gale-force tongue lashings in his day to get a sense of what was to come from the moment he stepped inside the house.
He heard cooing from the living room, which meant Janie was here. And if things were really bad, she would have gone off to her parents’ house, the way she used to from time to time during his drinking days.
“Babe?” Righty said, probing Janie’s mood.
He was rewarded with silence, which meant on a scale of one to ten of moods she was probably at a three or four.
Righty entered.
“Babe, I’m so sorry,” Righty began.
“Back to drinking?” Janie said, trying to sound calm, but a tear rolled down her cheek.
“No . . . nooo,” Righty said, moving towards her and kneeling. In his drinking days, he would have said “no” while moving in the opposite direction.
Janie didn’t deign to look at him, but if he wasn’t mistaken her nostrils flared momentarily, perhaps signifying she was taking a whiff. That would mean at least she cared. On the other hand, perhaps that was just a sign of fury.
“I’ve been meaning to surprise you, honey, but everything ended up taking much longer than expected.”
“Hmmphhh,” she said, still not looking at him.
“Janie,” he said calmly, resting a hand on each knee lightly and looking at her yearningly.
She now gave him a stormy stare, but this was still actually a sign of hope.
“I’m buying us a new place, Janie.”
The storm was replaced by a skeptical look, which was yet one more step up the ladder towards reconciliation, but it also meant that whatever came out of his mouth in the next few seconds better be convincing, or he was going to fall all the way down the steps.
“It was supposed to just be a trip out to the ranch to sign some papers, but then the guy started playing games to size me up. Let me start from the beginning. I heard from a customer at the store a couple months ago that a rancher, just an hour or two ride from here, was wanting to sell and that the price he was asking has been going down month after month because he hasn’t found any takers.
“It sounded too good to be true, so I went out there to have a look at the place about a month ago, and I knew right then and there that this would be the perfect place for us. It’s got a beautiful house with a white picket fence. But stupid old me—I had ‘I want this house!’ written all over my stupid face.
“The seller’s a sly old dog, and he told me I should come out again so that we could sign. Well, I went out there ready to sign and buy, and he tells me that in the meantime he’s gotten several other offers. Now, I know this guy’s lying right through his tobacco-chewing teeth, so I told him, ‘Well, I’m happy for you, but I can’t talk about this anymore unless we go back to our original price.’
“Now, he sized me up like I ain’t never seen a man size up another, and I tried my best at a poker face, and I think I just might have pulled it off because he said, ‘Well, those other fellas have only talked so far, so maybe you should come back soon and see.’
“I decided to be a bit of a sneak, and I hid in the woods near his house. I watched two days and nights, and not one soul came by. So, I worked up my courage, and today I approached him and told him what I did, and I said, ‘I’m sorry for being a sneak, but I’ve got a store to tend to and a new daughter, so if you’re looking to sell, I’m looking to buy at our original price. But you decide in forty-eight hours, or forget it.’
“He told me, ‘Come by in two days. If those other fellas haven’t shown their faces, I think we can talk about the original price.’
“Baby, I think it’s going to happen. Heck! I know it is! I didn’t tell you—because I wanted this all to be a surprise—but things are going really well at the hardware store, and I’m on the verge of opening up another one in Sivingdel. We always talked about getting out of this miserable shack! I’m talking about a real house!”
Janie had silent tears rolling down her face, but she looked happy.
“You know I don’t need a new house to be proud of you,” she said in an earnest tone, while feeling proud of him for the first time in quite a while.
“You deserve it, babe, and that’s all there is to it,” Righty said softly.
He was worn out from the lies and the new chores these lies were going to entail to make them reality, but he felt relief as well. A family ranch had many benefits—one of them being that you didn’t have to get the news every day.
“May I?” Righty asked, glancing at Heather.
“You’re the daddy,” Janie said, a hint of a smile.
Righty picked up Heather, and she looked at him with an innocent smile. As soon as his hands came in contact with her, he felt a purifying sensation as if she could do to his guilty soul what water had done recently to his bloody hands. It seemed as if all the purity of the universe was concentrated into this one tiny being and that by holding her long enough and gently enough somehow all the evil inside of him would ooze out of his pores and evaporate into thin air.
“Hi there,” Righty said joyfully, as he put his pinky finger on her nose and gave it the lightest little push, prompting Heather to make a sound that seemed to be giggling.
He saw Janie smile out of the corner of his eye.
He sat down on a chair, held Heather in his arms, and only with great restraint refrained from sobbing, the consequence of his grim inner resolve melting before this seemingly powerless infant. He would have liked to stay there all afternoon, that evening, and every day for the rest of eternity.
But like a weary man hearing the torturous sound of an alarm clock, the rock climbing coach looked at him and said, Sure, rest a few. You’re gonna need it because you’ve got some of your most difficult climbing ahead this afternoon and this evening. Otherwise, all the climbing you did last night and earlier today is going to come back and bite you reeeeal hard. The only way is up. Either that, or you’ll never see your daughter again except maybe while you glance down from the scaffold.
Righty lost the battle with his tears. They streamed down his face, and he began to sob.
Alarmed, he handed Heather back to Janie, almost terrified of her effect on him.
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said, still sobbing. “I’m going to make all of this up to you. But as for right now, I have to go back to the store. I’ve got mountains of paperwork. But I think by tomorrow things will be back to normal.”
Never before had he wished so much that he had called it quits a few days ago. Tats’ problems would have been his own then. Righty would be a rich man with a wife and daughter he loved dearly. He could have burned the Smokeless Green at his ranch or handed it over to the ranchers to do with as they pleased. Perhaps he could have sold the ranch to them.
While he would later realize those exit points were nearly as impossibly fraught with danger as his current situation, he did at least have the perspicuity to realize he had begun one nasty spider web yesterday, and it would be his following steps that would determine whether his pursuers—existing or latent—ended up suspended helplessly in this web or he himself.
Chapter 23
“Whether by land or by sea!” bellowed Mayor Roverdile, pausing for dramatic emphasis while surveying the large crowd assembled before him at around 2:15 p.m. in the city square.
“Whether by land or by sea,” he repeated, this time in a near-reverential whisper. “We will spare no expense, leave no corner unsearched, and not quit until the vile, cowardly perpetrators of this misdeed are brought forward to justice!!”
The crowd clapped enthusiastically.
“JUSTICE!” a man yelled. “THE GALLOWS!” opined another. Soon a tumultuous chorus of punishments for the perpetrators was being
recommended loudly by the insatiable mob.
“We have captured one malefactor and killed another who tried to escape. Your heroic police are to thank for this tremendous progress we have made thus far!”
“HANG HIM!!” cried a man.
“All in good time,” promised the mayor. “But we must first learn who his accomplices are and, most importantly, who the ringleaders are!”
“FIND THE RINGLEADERS!” shouted another man.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” said the mayor, who then promptly left the stage.
The police station was a smoldering ruin. The entire city might have been set ablaze if not for the fact the police station had been constructed hundreds of yards from any neighboring buildings. An infamous jailbreak at the prior police station, accomplished by tunneling from nearby buildings around a century ago, had been to thank for that.
The mayor was telling the truth that they had caught a suspect. He was a skinny runt underling too slow to escape from the swift pursuit of an officer who saw him fleeing from the front doors after the chain was tied and too puny to put up any effective resistance once apprehended. He was now being kept in a makeshift jail whose location was kept top-secret.
So far, he had refused to talk, but the mayor planned on putting the screws to him tomorrow. Today, he planned to focus on crafting his public relations response and seeing if any other suspects turned up. What was left of the police force—approximately one half—was told to focus on nothing other than rounding up suspects related to the terror attack.
Although no one besides those involved in the attack had been directly informed by Tats of the operation, and those who had refused to participate had been massacred, Tats had ordered the word to be passed down the chain of command that all criminal operations were to cease entirely for three weeks, during which time every member of the gang was to stay indoors. It was also made clear that anyone who violated this order would be dealt with most harshly.
Chapter 24
“Today was historic, and I only hope tomorrow’s publication will satisfy its moral, civic, and intellectual obligations,” Mr. Harry Felden said, helping himself to a large serving of mashed potatoes, while seated at the head of a small army, also known as his family. His wife, six sons, and eight daughters sat dutifully around the table, listening with spellbound attention to the man who commanded their small universe and did so with no less sway at The Sivingdel Times, the largest, oldest, and most respected newspaper in the city. No less could be expected of the man who was not only the executive editor, but owner, of the august newspaper.
“It will be—I just know it,” his wife said, patting him on the shoulder, while looking amorously into his eyes.
“Who did it, father?” asked Samuel, a serious-minded youth of seventeen years of age. He was the oldest son and planned on following his father’s footsteps.
“The drug peddlers, most likely. Only they could be so brazen. Our city’s more historic criminal class—robbers, forgers, extortionists, et al—would never dare carry out such a . . . military-style attack. But my sources—and they are legion—say the drug peddlers are acquiring unprecedented wealth. Adding to the nasty equation is the fact that, ironically, this new criminal class is subjected to far severer penalties than the average robber or forger, etc. Thus, when faced with the unrelenting hand of justice, you have the perfect storm of a group of desperate men with heretofore unthinkable resources with which to wage their bloody resistance.
“Ahhh,” he said, letting out a sigh, “it does bring to mind the bloody wars of prohibition fought so long ago. One may question the wisdom of SISA altogether, I suppose, or question the severity of the sentences, but, my wife and children, the law is the law,” finishing like a professor at the end of a profound lecture.
“Will the good guys win, daddy?”
It was little Jenny, just four years old, but already showing signs of interest in matters far beyond her years.
“That depends, pumpkin.”
“On what, daddy?”
“Whether good men stand firm and resist corruption.” Mr. Felden scanned the face of every family member at the table to make sure the enormity of this simple, but decisive, axiom was fully appreciated.
“More wine, Mr. Felden?” a maid asked.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Felden replied benevolently, but not sparing her a glance.
“I believe in you, dear,” Mrs. Felden said, her hand grasping her husband’s and interlocking her fingers with his. Mr. Felden smiled and patted her hand lovingly.
“We all do, father,” Samuel said, with an almost militant look in his eyes.
“Come now,” said Mr. Felden, attempting to inject a bit of levity into the somber atmosphere Samuel left whenever he opened his mouth, “it is the police and the politicians who face those struggles. Let us give thanks that journalism is a safer line of work in such times.”
Samuel didn’t look convinced, but neither did he dare contradict his father.
“Well, I can’t thank all of you enough for postponing your own dinner on my account,” Mr. Felden said, glancing at his watch, which showed the time was slightly after 9 p.m. “I must rest now. Tomorrow may prove to be even more eventful, but let us hope it is not so.”
The family then joined hands and prayed.
Mr. Felden was glad he hadn’t accepted the last offer of wine. Even with the one glass he had drunk, he feared he had pushed his drowsiness to the point climbing the stairsteps would seem like ascending a mountain.
He was practically panting by the time he reached upstairs, but the climb had at least perked up his energy levels slightly. As he approached his bedroom, he saw a note lying on the bed. He knew he was going to have to gently chide his beloved wife, Rachel, later. She was simply too good to him.
As he drew nearer, he saw the envelope was much larger than any dear Rachel ever used, and his energy levels began to rise quickly, commensurately with his curiosity.
He turned it over. It was closed with an aesthetically pleasing seal.
“Hmm . . . must have fallen out of my briefcase,” he said to himself. He almost set it aside to peruse the next day, but his curiosity was too strong now.
He broke the seal, opened the envelope, and found a handwritten letter, as well as another sealed envelope.
Esteemed Mr. Harry Felden:
When you told your assistant editor Abigail Dolther that she should “wage war with words against the reprehensible criminals,” did you take a moment to think about whether your family would like to be in a war—a very real war, where throats are cut, homes are burned, and heads lie rotting on the ground? Did you consider the possibility Abigail receives a weekly stipend to keep an eye on you?
When you said “Good morning” to your coachman, Alexander Risden, did it even cross your mind he could be a spy on the payroll of the drug peddlers?
When you had lunch today at The Grillmaster, did you wonder whether that second steak you ate could have been poisoned by one of my agents if I gave a certain wink and nod?
When you went to the bathroom four times during the workday, did you wonder whether you would meet death in the form of a man’s iron-like grip around your throat, leaving your body in a most humiliating pose for the scrutiny of the investigating detectives?
When you let your eyes wander more than once towards your intern Kelly Barden, did you ever stop to think that she could lure you to a motel under the pretense of romance only to cut your throat while you lay facedown for a massage?
Lastly, when you implied during this evening’s meal that journalists could sit safely on the sidelines during a time of social upheaval, was that merely for the benefit of your servile wolf pack, or are you indeed delusional beyond any hope of redemption?
My agents are numerous. Their eyes are everywhere. You are a mouse inside a small glass cage living under the illusion of security because you have never seen the owner of the cage, who can slip a rattlesnak
e inside of it at any time he pleases.
You will not be the first victim if you defy me. I will start with your wife and proceed downwards in reverse chronological order. Whether it be tonight, or after burying a dozen of your loved ones for vain pretensions of “principle,” you will see reason.
I will inform you in advance of the day each death is to occur so that you will see you and the police—most of whom work for me—cannot or will not stop it.
In the attached envelope is the revised headline and article that you will publish tomorrow on the front page. If you fail to do so, your wife and the next four children in line will be dead before 9 p.m. tomorrow. Any article not fully in conformance with the content and spirit of this article will be either revised as needed or removed entirely.
In exchange for your small service, I have gone ahead and left two million falons on the north side of the large oak tree in your backyard, because I know you would like more than another twenty-four hours with your entire family. You are a clever man; I’m sure you can explain to your family your change of heart without them even suspecting our private agreement.
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