The unmistakable rattle of the security guard’s key ring resonated from the back stairwell. Of course. She smiled. George usually hummed the theme song from old TV sitcoms on his rounds. She listened for the man’s warbly voice. No singing tonight. Funny. It must have been a touching episode. Something nagged at her. She could have sworn the silhouette she’d seen was that of a taller man.
Enough already.
She went back to her calculations. Every year of service should be worth a percentage of the shares. If she counted his years working as paperboy, David had been there for seventeen years. Seventeen years.
The thought someone might be slinking around nagged at her. David wouldn’t creep around like that, and few others were allowed in the building after hours. Besides, David would have walked in and turned on half the lights in the place. Intrigued, she got up to investigate.
“Miss Cameron.” Startled, Leigh gasped, and a wave of uneasiness coursed through her veins. The voice was young, edgy — and strangely familiar.
She chanced a look behind her and found herself staring into the bright, nervous eyes of a young man with short cropped black hair. Fred Red Cloud Wallace? What on earth? John Blackbear’s cellmate stood in the Bull Pen, fidgeting with a set of keys. A shiver of alarm traveled from the base of her neck down her spine. She turned, her movements slow and deliberate, arming herself with what she hoped was a natural-looking smile. “Fred? What are you doing here?”
“My name is Red Cloud.” The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I came to fix things.”
No one had told her the inmate would be getting out so soon. How could he possibly have known she’d be at the newspaper that late at night? Unless he’d followed her over. The quick, disturbing thought gnawed away at her confidence. “I didn’t know you were getting out today.”
Red Cloud pulled out a folded pad of yellow foolscap from the side pocket of his army pants. “You have to print this.”
Leigh recognized the notepad. The list he’d brought to their last meeting had been written on the same color and stock of paper. Confused, she tried to make sense of the inmate’s visit. If he’d been due to be paroled the last time they met, surely he would have mentioned it. Wouldn’t he? He must have escaped. Was that even possible? Could inmates break out from a medium security prison? “Does John Blackbear know you’re here?”
“I’m doing this for John.” Red Cloud shifted his weight again. “It’s the only way.” He moved the keys from one end of the ring to the other, the way one would prayer beads.
John wouldn’t ask him to do this, would he? Regardless, Fred didn’t look like he was in the mood to talk. She examined him more closely. Diluted pupils, jaw grinding, and compulsive fidgeting. She’d watched enough episodes of Intervention to know a tweaker when she saw one. Her visitor was seriously hopped up on something. “Red Cloud, we talked about this,” she said, her tone soft but firm. “It’s not that simple.”
“Screw that.” His expression clouded with anger. “We have to set the record straight.”
Leigh shook her head, apologetic. “I can’t print this without verifying your sources.”
“You think I’m lying?” Red Cloud’s accusing tone stabbed the air. “You think I made this up? Do you?” He slammed the notepad on her desk.
Leigh flinched and warning bells sounded in her head. “No, no. Of course not.” She picked up his notes, careful not to make any sudden movements. The inmate’s forehead was shiny with sweat. She had to find a way to calm him down. “Why don’t we just step outside and get some air while I look these over?” She rose from her chair. “Can I get you anything?”
“No. We’re not going anywhere.” Fred blocked the exit to her office, shaking his keys, increasingly agitated. “We’re running out of time. We have to do this now.”
She stared at the large metal ring bursting with silver and gold keys. Something about the set nagged at Leigh. Then it dawned on her. Those belonged to George. And the security guard would not have given them up without a fight. She imagined the man beaten to a pulp on the cold hard floor. Icy fear twisted around her heart, and she fought the urge to retch at the fearful images building in her mind. Oh, God.
“Okay, okay,” she said, in as soothing a tone as she could manage. “Then, let’s do this the right way. Come into my office, have a seat, and I’ll interview you.”
“It’s too late for that. You have to print this tonight.”
“I can’t. We’ve already put the paper to bed. There’s no way. The presses are already running.”
His lips thinned with anger. “Then stop them. This is your paper, they’ll listen to you.” Red Cloud pulled out a heavy duty exacto knife from his pant pocket and drew the blade. “Call them, now.”
Momentary panic clouded her thoughts. She searched Fred’s eyes for the young man who worshipped John Blackbear in the hopes of finding just an iota of sanity to appeal to. All she saw was an empty shell of a man, his body vibrating, like a volcano on the verge of erupting. She picked up the phone.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast. I’ll make the call.” Red Cloud took the receiver from her and cradled it under his chin. “What’s the number?”
“Just press 2276.”
“If this is a trick — ” Red Cloud’s voice dropped, full of meaning, knife at the ready. He dialed, never once taking his eyes off her. After a moment she heard the night printing press supervisor answer and the inmate handed her the phone.
She breathed deeply and spoke as normally as possible. “Hi, Dennis, it’s Leigh Cameron calling.”
“Well, good evening Miss Cameron.” Leigh held the phone away from her ear so Red Cloud could hear, too. “What can I do for you? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Everything is fine.” She glanced at the stainless steel blade in Red Cloud’s hand. He ran his index finger across his neck indicating he would slice her throat if she alerted anyone. Her heart skipped a beat. “We need to stop the presses.”
“Stop the presses?” The voice on the other end muttered something to someone else.
“Yes. Stop the presses. We need to change the front page. I’ll send you the material as soon as it’s ready.”
“Hang up.”
She did as Red Cloud ordered.
“Now, tell me how you’re gonna get my message out.”
Anger began eclipsing her fear. “I have to pull up the front page, take out the existing article, and type the new one in.”
“Then, start typing. I don’t have all night.”
• • •
David lay in Serendipity’s sleeping berth in that brief dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep. The distant ring of a phone nagged at him, gradually pulling him from the borderland state. He rolled over onto his side, squinting through the darkness. The glow in the dark hands of his wristwatch told him it was ten thirty. He must have drifted off while reading. Only two people ever called him after ten. Geoff and Leigh. Longing tugged at his heartstrings at the thought of her. They hadn’t spoken since their last argument so it was probably Geoff trying to get him to come out for a nightcap. He scanned the sides of the berth for his phone. The number on its face said the call was from the paper. What on earth could Geoff be doing there at that time? David reached over and picked up on the last ring.
“Stone, here.”
“Mr. Stone, it’s Dennis calling from Printing.”
“Dennis. Right.” The night-shift printing press supervisor. “What’s up?”
“Miss Cameron just phoned. She said to stop the presses. Apparently we’ve got to reprint page one. Just calling to confirm.”
What on earth was she up to? She had to know they’d call him. She had to. The printers always phoned him before stopping the presses. Of course she knew. She’d been upset with him the last time they’d him call
ed to confirm. Was this some kind of ploy to get his attention? The thought disturbed him.
“Mister Stone. Still there?”
“Yes. Dennis. I’m sorry. I think we were cut off for a moment. Did anything Miss Cameron said sound out of the ordinary?”
“No. Not really. Is everything okay, sir?”
Leigh wouldn’t resort to stopping the presses just to get his attention. Something fishy was going on. A wave of apprehension spread though him. “Yes. Everything’s fine.” If he was wrong there was no sense in alerting the whole town. And if he was right — he shuddered at the thought of what might be going on. “Go ahead, and stop the presses. I’m on my way.”
• • •
The presses ground to a halt like a giant computer powering down. Leigh hadn’t realized just how constant and loud the noise was until it stopped. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Startled, Red Cloud brandished the knife around, mere inches from her face. “What the hell was that?”
She gasped at the closeness of the blade. What if she tried to escape? She tried to gage his size and strength wondering if she should risk it. Not a chance. She was better off keeping him calm. “I stopped the presses, just like you asked.”
“Fine. Stop looking at me like that and keep typing.” Red Cloud stationed himself behind her, mouthing each word as she typed. “The sovereignty of the First Nations people comes from the Great Spirit.”
She breathed in shallow, quick gasps. The printers wouldn’t stop the run unless they’d gotten a hold of David. He was bound to show up demanding an explanation. She forced herself to remain calm. Someone would be there soon.
“It is not subject to the approval of any other Nation,” Red Cloud read on. “C’mon, pick up the pace. I don’t have a lot of time.”
Leigh typed, her speed hindered by her shaky hands. As First Nations we have the sovereign right to rule within our traditional territories. Our lands are a sacred gift. The land is provided for the continued use, benefit, and enjoyment of our people, and it is our ultimate obligation to the Great Spirit to care for and protect it. She recognized those words. “That’s from the Aboriginal Title and Rights Position Paper, isn’t it?”
He stared at her in silence, hesitation in his eyes. “You know the Title and Rights Paper?”
She might still be able to get though to him. “Yes. I think I’ve got an electronic copy of it. I could just cut and paste it in — it’d be a lot faster than typing it over.” She looked into his eyes and saw nothing but the lunacy brought on by the drugs. The reasonable man she’d glimpsed was gone.
Biting his lower lip, Red Cloud walked to the door and back. “I know what you’re doing. Play along with the crazy Indian until the cops show up.” He paced to the door and back, again. “Think I’m stupid? Let me see that.” He grabbed the back of her chair and shoved her out of the way.
Before she could answer, her chair slammed into the wall and she smacked her head into the bulletin board behind her desk. White hot dots danced before her eyes, and a muffled whimper escaped her lips. Please, let David be on his way.
• • •
David stepped into The Sun’s lobby. Everything was quiet — too quiet. He scanned the entrance for any sign of the security guard. His booth was empty. David crept up and realized the station’s surveillance cameras were off. A chill of warning tingled at the base of his neck. He inched his way closer, keeping his back to the wall. Something on the floor caught his attention. He looked again and realized a pair of feet stuck out from under the counter. On the floor, an old man lay on his back, moaning. George. Shock yielded quickly to fury.
After ascertaining no one else was in the booth, David ran up and put his hand against the guy’s throat, checking for a pulse. A faint flutter responded to his touch. He leaned in and spoke into the man’s ear. “Hang in there, George. I’m going to get you some help.”
He flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911.
“Emergency Services?”
“This is David Stone calling from The Watford Sun.”
“What’s your emergency?”
“I’ve got an unconscious man here in the main entrance. It looks like he’s been assaulted.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yes. I’m at four eight zero Princess Street. Hurry.”
“All right, Mister Stone, stay where you are. We’ll be right there.”
David pulled his jacket off and put it under the security guard’s head. Poor George. The guy had been on the night shift for as long as David could remember. The injured man stirred and moaned. David gave his hand a squeeze and spoke in a soft reassuring tone. “George, it’s David. The police and an ambulance are on their way.” The man lifted his head and lifted a trembling hand.
“Please, George, don’t move. Try to relax.”
The night watchman raised his hand again and pointed a shaking finger toward the stairs.
“Upstairs. The man went upstairs?”
The man closed his eyes and nodded in the affirmative.
“Is anyone else up there?”
Again, the man acquiesced and spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Leigh.”
The force of his fear for her safety took him off guard. Leigh was in the building, and so was the man who did this. His arm muscles tensed under his shirt. If the burglar just as much as touched one hair on her head, he’d, he’d — his mind went blank with red-hot fury. He stood. “Hang in there. I’m going up to check on things. I’ll be right back.” With one final look to the crumpled body at his feet, he bid the man to be quiet with a finger held to his lips and headed toward the side stairwell.
Keeping in the shadows, he ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. Two voices echoed in the old service stairwell. One male, his tone a low angry grumble, the other female, soft and afraid. Leigh. The thought of losing her twisted his insides. If they got out of this alive, he’d never ever let her out of his sight again.
Cold sweat trickled down his back. Just a few more steps. He rounded the second floor landing and pulled the door open with a soft click. Through the glass partition at the other end of the room, he glimpsed a man standing in Leigh’s office, his back to the entrance. He was tall, maybe six feet, with a shaved head and a red-and-black tribal tattoo on the back of his neck. Probably one of the men she’d interviewed for her Behind Locked Doors series.
He’d told her meddling with the system and talking to prisoners would bring them nothing but trouble. For once he wished he’d been wrong.
Snippets of Leigh’s conversation with her captor drifted his way. “If they … near … slice your throat.” The kidnapper brandished something at her and cursed. Sweet Jesus, the guy was armed. His pulse drummed in his ears. He couldn’t lose her. Not Leigh. Not ever.
She replied something David couldn’t hear.
The perpetrator’s angry voice resonated across the Bull Pen.“ … shut up.”
David ran into the Bull Pen, knocking over a book in his haste. At the dull thud, the guy stopped talking, and for an instant, the place was completely still. David held his breath, and ducked behind a filing cabinet.
Leigh’s uninvited guest stepped out, an exacto knife at the ready.
David was disappointed to realize he’d been right. The man looked Native American and judging by the way he was pacing and fidgeting, he was tweaked out on something hard core. Great. Way to play into the stereotype. What the hell did he want with the paper? A retraction?
David inched his way closer until he was mere steps from Leigh’s office. Her captor paced, his back to the glass partition. Leigh glanced up to see David steal across the last few feet separating him and her office. Surprise and relief registered on her face. The guy clocked the look in her eyes and whipped around blade at the ready.
David froze. By running i
n to help her, he’d put her in more danger. Crap.
“Stay back.” The assailant grabbed Leigh, put the knife to her throat, and backed up against the wall, placing her between David and him. “Stay back.”
“Relax.” David took a step back and raised his hands in a show of surrender. “It’s okay.”
Leigh’s assailant tightened his grip. “I mean it. Back off.”
David stood his ground. “Not gonna happen.” Then, turning his glance to Leigh, he added, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Leigh conjured up a weak smile. “Please, Fred,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Let me go and we’ll tell them it was all a big misunderstanding.”
“It’s Red Cloud,” Fred snapped. “Red Cloud.”
“Whatever you want, Red Cloud,” David said. “Money, a car, clothes, ID, anything you want. You can have it.”
“I only want the truth. It has to come out.”
David examined Red Cloud’s clothes for a clue as to who he might be. He wore a nondescript pair of jeans and a white T-shirt under an oversized hoodie. Tribal tattoos graced his knuckles and peeked out from his shirt collar. Indian Movement activist? Paroled inmate? Escaped convict? “Tell me. What truth?”
Red Cloud grabbed a pad of yellow foolscap from Leigh’s desk and threw it at him.
David scanned through the first few pages catching the words First Nations, spiritual practices, and prisons. “I can help you with this. My name is David Stone. I’m the managing editor, here.”
The inmate’s right eye twitched and he blinked as though willing it to stop. “I know who you are, half-breed.”
He had to find a way to connect to this guy. He nodded his head in the direction of Red Cloud’s tattooed hands. “Those prison tats? My father was inside.”
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