by John Luciew
Cassie raised her wineglass and I joined her. “To finally being together again in Harrisburg,” she said, then added, “I never thought I’d be toasting to that.”
We touched glasses and drank. The wine was all right, but nothing like a Yuengling.
“Seriously, it’s good to be back,” Cassie said after fully appreciating her mouthful. “Seems like I’ve been away for so long. When I was here, all I wanted was to get out. Coming back like this, I can appreciate it more.”
“Another week or two would cure you of that,” I said.
“Probably. But this story’s so interesting. And I just know there’s more to it. Too bad no one’s talking.”
I felt Cassie’s eyes on me.
“Don’t look at me,” I protested. “I’m out of it, remember? I’m off the story.”
Cassie narrowed her focus. “The only reason you’re off the story is because you’re part of the story. You know something, Telly. You know it and I know it.”
I dropped my head, exasperated. “Can’t we just eat for once? One time, can’t we get away from the news? I hope you didn’t ask me to dinner just so you could pump me for information. I thought this was so we could enjoy ourselves and catch up.”
Cassie hummed acknowledgement. “Time was, me pumping you would have been your idea of enjoyment,” she teased. Cassie was never above flirting to get what she wanted.
I cracked a grin, despite myself, then proceeded to lecture her anyway, complete with a wagging finger. “Don’t try your moves on me, Cassie. Don’t even. I know all about you. Your act won’t work on me anymore. I know you’re just trying to get what you want.”
“Whadda you care, long as you get what you want?”
“Cassie. No.” My voice was firm.
She pouted. “All right. I was just testing you. I wasn’t serious.”
I didn’t know if that was true. One of these days, I’d have to find out. But not tonight. Not with all that I knew. Not with lives at stake.
Cassie unfolded a menu. “You older men are so serious,” she complained, as she pored over the high-priced entrees. “Ridley’s the same way. I can never kid with him.”
Was she really complaining? Or simply reminding me that she was open to sex with older men? One never knew with Cassie.
“Geez, look at the prices,” she sighed.
I opened my menu, which was large, heavy and pretentious. The prices were criminal. I felt guilty just looking at them. Even worse, I couldn’t figure out what they were selling. The fancy entrée names were meaningless and the wordy descriptions were confusing.
“If you think this will get you into trouble with your editors, we could go somewhere else,” I volunteered.
Cassie laughed. “Relax. This is the New York Times. Harrisburg prices are nothing. This is cheap.”
“In that case,” I said, shutting the menu with a loud clap. “I’ll take a steak. Rare.”
“Sounds good. I think I’ll join you.”
Cassie ordered two of their best filets and some kind of expensive appetizer involving lump crab meat and sushi-grade salmon and tuna. I nibbled on the sourdough rolls. They were warm and delicious, just from the oven.
Dinner was fantastic. I went through beer after beer and Cassie started on a second bottle of wine. After finishing our steaks, we each had a glass of 18-year-old scotch, no ice but water on the side. Cassie used her fingers to fling a few drops of water into the glass.
“Just to open up the flavor,” she explained. I did the same. Then we sipped. The scotch was smoky and savory, and it rolled over the tongue, tingling every last taste bud. It was wonderful. Finally, we moved to coffee spiked with Jameson and Irish cream liqueur, and split a cheesecake.
It was officially the best meal I’d ever had. At those prices, it better have been. Cassie let me sneak a peek at the bill. It was north of $270, and that was before Cassie tacked on a healthy 25 percent tip. I still didn’t know why she was doing all this. Maybe it was just to show off how far she had climbed. She had a big job at the best newspaper in the world, a rich boyfriend, fancy clothes, the best assignments, the top rental car and a seemingly unlimited expense account. Was I jealous? Hell yes. But I was jealous of Cassie long before this.
“I hope this wasn’t a bribe,” I said as Cassie scrawled her signature on the credit-card receipt. “If it was, you’re wasting your money.”
“Noooo, for the lass time, this isn’t a bribe,” Cassie said, sounding more than a little a drunk. “Like I tole you, I just wanted to spenn some time with my formber par’ner. Can’t I do that? Can’t a girl juss say thanks?”
“Yes,” I said, amused at her insobriety. “And thank you, Cassie. The meal was wonderful. The best I’ve had. Seeing you has been wonderful, too, that front-page story of yours aside.”
She dipped her head approvingly. The movement was exaggerated, like everything else about Cassie right then. “Thass better.”
I smiled at her, but Cassie’s attention was elsewhere. She was looking across the empty restaurant to the bar. I traced her focus.
“I don’t think we need another drink,” I said. “I know you don’t need one.”
Cassie waved a hand at me. “Iss not that,” she said. “Look. Sumthin’ happened.”
I turned back to the bar to see the bartender, three waitresses and the wine steward, all huddled under a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. The bartender raised a hand to point at something on the screen. As if on cue, the female waitresses recoiled. One covered her eyes; the other two cringed. The bartender shook his head in disbelief.
I got a cold feeling and slowly rose from my seat. “Let me see what’s going on,” I said.
Cassie looked up at me, offended that I’d abandon her at the table. She scooted out from the booth and stood up unsteadily. “I’m comin’ too.”
I held out my arm to her, and she took it for balance. We walked slowly toward the bar, where a growing number of restaurant workers were gathering underneath the TV. The bartender was pointing again.
As we drew near, I saw video of a snowy roadside scene. It was the familiar winter shot of a TV reporter doing a live traffic report. Only it wasn’t live. There was a small graphic at the corner of the screen that read, “recorded earlier.”
The reporter was bundled in a parka emblazoned with a network symbol and the call letters of a local television station. He was standing next to a highway, gesturing at the nearly abandoned, snow-covered roadway. In the distance, the flash of yellow emergency lights streaked the night sky as a plow truck lumbered up the highway. The reporter kept talking into the camera as the truck loomed closer.
Then the unimaginable happened.
Chapter 41
The man flew out of Harrisburg International Airport a few hours before the weather set in. It was a close call, closer than he would have preferred. It was a good thing the third-rate airport was far smaller and less busy than its important-sounding name implied. There were no lines and he sped through the gates.
Attendants were surprisingly helpful and good-natured. But he also knew that with fewer people around, chances were better of someone recognizing him or remembering him later. Those were the risks. At least he was using a different name now, one he hadn’t used for years. Since he was a boy, in fact.
The man could have departed earlier. He had known of the weather reports. And he knew the time was coming to create the next story. But he just could not resist becoming a part of the media circus outside of Tellis’ house. He went there, along with the rest of the media. He couldn’t help but smile at the sheer misery of the man. How the media rudely awoke him from his whiskey nap on the couch. How Tellis’ once-promising career had become a dead-end. How he needed to numb himself with alcohol just to sleep at night. How his marriage and family fell apart. How a forty-something man was still living with his mother. The media had captured it all for the world to see.
But Tellis was smart, too. And he had friends. Friends on the police forc
e. They came to his aid. They rescued him from the press. But they could not save him. The man had already proven this, hadn’t he? He had reached out and touched Tellis even with the cops right there. He had reached out and squeezed the reporter’s arm, pulling him close enough to whisper in his ear. It was a warning. A gentle warning. The next time they met, he would not be so gentle.
That was why the man was running late. He wanted to bear witness as the reporter received his first dose of comeuppance. He wanted to see the tables begin to turn. The story -- his story -- was beginning to play out.
But there was more to do, much more, before the final chapter. There was the big story in Buffalo. Even the weather was cooperating. The storm promised to be spectacular. And so would the story. The best one yet. A stroke of genius, really.
He landed in Buffalo but did not proceed to baggage claim. He was traveling light. Everything he needed was already in the city. After all, this wasn’t his first trip here. He had visited before to conduct research, just as he had spent time in Philly, Baltimore, D.C. and Harrisburg. Of course, Harrisburg.
As in the other cities, he had a beat-up car and a cheap room at his disposal. None of it could be tied to him. The cars were registered under his dead name. And he preferred rooms in places where they took cash and one could pay a month or two in advance. Places where no one asked questions.
He took the shuttle to long-term parking. His snow-covered car had been there for quite a while. The parking bill would be astronomical -- nearly as much as the car was worth. But it was far better than a rental. Far more private.
The old Caprice started on the second try. He allowed it to warm up for a full ten minutes. He didn’t mind the cold, nor the snow, which was falling at a steady clip. The weather was welcome. In fact, it was necessary. A key ingredient of his story.
* * *
He drove to the rooming house downtown. The place was dark and stale. The old lady at the desk barely looked at him. The stairs creaked as he mounted them. But the locks on the doors were pretty good. And he had insisted upon one amenity. He wanted a phone in his room. Most residents used the pay phone in the hallway, but he wanted to call from the privacy of his room. He paid extra for it, yet had never used the phone until today. It would be his first and last call. He dialed the WBNY newsroom, and a receptionist answered.
“Brandon O’Connell, please. I have a tip for him,” the man said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Connell’s in the field. Probably will be all day. Can I take a message?”
“Ah, right,” the man said. “The weather. I should have guessed. On days like today, I guess it’s not so good to be a TV reporter in Buffalo.”
There was a pleasant exchange of laughter.
“You’d never know it with Brandon,” she said. “He seems to love it. He’s anchoring the storm team, in fact. He thinks nothing of being out in weather like this.”
And why would he, the man thought? That way, O’Connell could drink all he wanted and no one would be suspicious of his red nose and rosy cheeks. The reporter had drunk and snorted his way out of a top job in LA. But the cold of Buffalo was far better cover.
“I guess that’s why he’s the best,” the man said brightly. “Where might he be reporting from? I’ll watch for him -- on TV, of course. I’m not about to go out in this mess. I’ll leave that to the professionals.”
Another chuckle.
“He usually sticks to the main routes. Usually I-290 or 190. Maybe Route 33.”
“Ah, yes. Those highways can be quite treacherous in weather like this. I’d venture to say that going out on a day like today is practically risking your life. I suppose I’ll catch him another time.”
“Sure you don’t want to leave your name?”
“No, I’d rather surprise him.”
The man cracked a faint smile as he hung up the phone. He had never taken off his gloves and his hands were hot. But he wanted to be sure about fingerprints.
After pulling on his coat, he reached for the small portable TV on the nightstand. It was the kind some fans used at football games. The TV was supplied with fresh batteries and had hardly been used.
Finally, the man reached under the mattress for the gun. At first, he didn’t feel it as his gloved hand roamed under the lumpy mattress. His heart raced and he began perspiring. It wasn’t just any gun. It had been his father’s. Now it was a legacy, to be handed down from father to son. He couldn’t have lost it. It couldn’t have been stolen. It would ruin everything. It would ruin the story.
His panic subsided as his gloved fingers found hard steel. He pulled the gun from its hiding place and marveled at its compact, yet muscular looks. It fired a heavy bullet and wasn’t much for accuracy. It wasn’t for target shooting and it didn’t make pretty holes. But at close range, it got the job done nicely. That big bullet could tear through a body, all right. He’d seen its destruction firsthand and knew its reliability. These were the very same reasons his father had counted on the weapon when the time came. And it was why he would, too.
The man slipped the weapon into his coat pocket, grabbed the portable TV and left the room, never to return.
Chapter 42
It was 4 p.m., an hour before the early local news. An hour before Brandon O’Connell would broadcast his first traffic report, gesturing with wild enthusiasm about the crippling effects of the snowstorm. And if the reporter lisped a bit, it would be because it was so damn cold out there. Certainly not because he’d been drinking.
The man was right on schedule, despite his late start. The small TV rested on the passenger seat, but he hadn’t turned it on. Not yet. He had one final stop. One last piece of equipment to pick up. One big piece of equipment.
He drove to a roadside salt dome. It was an enclosed storage area where the department of transportation’s salt trucks and snowplows went to refill their loads. In a storm like this, the drivers would stop by five or six times a shift.
The man pulled off the highway a good 200 yards before the entrance to the roadside depot. He had carefully mapped out the location far in advance. Everything had been planned. It was just a matter of waiting now. He shut off the car’s headlights but let the engine idle in order to feed the heater and run the wipers. He waited.
It was nearly dark when a big plow truck rumbled past, rocking the car. The truck’s yellow emergency lights were flashing, illuminating the snowy, early evening sky. The truck pulled off into the depot area, proceeding to turn around in order to back up to the garage bay of the warehouse. Fresh salt would be loaded when the driver backed his truck inside the building.
The truck’s high-pitched warning signal beeped as the large vehicle reversed into position. The man was walking up just as the driver was stepping out of the truck’s cab to open the building.
“Boy am I glad to see you,” the man said. His hands were deep in his pockets, as if for warmth. “I broke down back there. Thought ol’ Bessy would make it through one more winter. Guess I was wrong.”
The driver smiled uncertainly and nodded. He must get this shit all the time, the man thought. Bad drivers who had no business being out in a storm like this and who had gotten themselves stuck.
“I’ll call you a tow,” the driver said. “Just let me start the load.”
“Gee, thanks,” the man smiled. But the damn driver was still walking away, toward the warehouse door. The man needed to be closer.
The driver turned his back to the stranger as he unlocked a side door of the salt storage building. His plow truck idled loudly nearby. The driver entered the building and pressed a button that operated the automatic garage door. It shuddered, then began rolling open.
The driver was standing inside the small warehouse, just behind the garage door, watching it open. Wind and snow blew in underneath the opening door as the truck’s taillights cast a red glow.
Just then, the stranger dipped under the opening garage door, his arm extending. He pointed the gun right at the driver’s face.
> “Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” the man said.
The driver’s mouth gaped open. But before he could say anything, a loud report echoed shrilly in the warehouse. There was a red spray as the big, heavy bullet burrowed through the man’s forehead.
The driver dropped to his knees, then onto his face. Blood pooled on the cold concrete underneath the driver’s face. In the red glow from the truck’s taillights, the blood looked black. It could have just as easily been oil.
The man held the smoking gun over the driver’s head and debated firing another shot. He decided it would be overkill. One shot was all that was necessary. His father had taught him that.
The man slipped the gun into his pocket and took the spare set of keys from the driver’s hands. He exited the warehouse but did not close the garage. He mounted the truck instead.
It took him just a few seconds to familiarize himself with the controls. They were just like he had read about. Everything had been planned. Researched down to the last detail.
He pulled the truck forward and circled around in the parking lot. He drove the truck through the open garage door and into the warehouse, stopping just in front of the body. He then lowered the sharp, shiny plow. When the blade touched concrete, he revved the truck’s diesel engine and eased out the clutch.
The plow barreled forward, throwing sparks as it skidded on the concrete and swept up the body. The man steered the truck toward a huge pile of road salt just ahead. He used all the truck’s power to push the blade -- and the body -- deep into the pile. The disturbance caused a landslide atop the pile. Salt cascaded down over the blade. And when the man reversed the truck, the body was gone. Buried.
He backed out of the warehouse and hopped out of the truck. He pushed the button on the automatic garage door, then ducked underneath the closing door. He drove the truck to the edge of the parking lot, stopped and walked to his abandoned car.