Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  She looked taken aback a moment, then said, “I’m telling you right now, Sam, if I take the position, you and Politifix will get nothing from me.”

  He grinned. “I just did.”

  “You’re not really going to call this in,” outrage raised her voice.

  “No, Keller’s small pickings, and I’m not going to blow you out of the water with someone as powerful as Morton. But don’t think they wouldn’t hop on it if I did. I just want you to see how easily this position would compromise …”

  “Wait a minute,” and Sam saw a look of cunning come to her face. “All this concern for me is a little out of character for you.” He dropped his eyes. “Let’s just say for a minute that I told you something really plum, but on background. What would happen to your standing at Politifix when it came out, and everyone realized you’d probably known for awhile?” Her sharp eyes studied him closely. When he didn’t reply, she said, “It’s not my job you’re worried about. It’s yours. Having a spouse on the committee would be a goddamned conflict for you, wouldn’t it?”

  There was no point in denying it. “It could get awkward, yes. These days I need to hang on to every advantage I’ve got. I’ve written a lot about tax laws, and I’ve got some good sources on Finance.”

  “And you know they won’t keep talking to you if they work for your wife.”

  He sighed. “They wouldn’t have a chance to talk to me. Johnson and Dodson would steer me clear of Finance.” He looked down into his drink, trying his best to hold his temper, adding quietly, “And I don’t want that to happen.”

  “Well, looking out for your job isn’t my concern. Besides, you’re covering the presidential race now.” She’d given him an opening, and he jumped on it.

  “Right. And one of the candidates is the ranking Republican on that fucking committee. Freddy Morton is one of the men I’m writing about. You’re absolutely right. It would be one hell of a conflict. For both of us. Morton certainly knows whom you’re married to. Did it ever occur to you that by giving you the job, he gets Politifix’s top investigative reporter off his back?”

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourself that you’re such a threat. I wouldn’t have that much contact with him while he’s campaigning. After that, he’ll either be president, or he’ll just be an ordinary, run-of-the-mill senator.”

  “That’s not the point. I’d still have to tell my editors,” Judith rolled her eyes, and Sam’s mouth narrowed. “They’d hear about it when you took the job, so it would be better if I told them first. And if we sink under the profit line, when they wield a long-knife through the newsroom, a conflict like that might make it that much easier to cut me loose.”

  Her face and shoulder muscles tensed. “Are you telling me to turn down the offer?”

  His laugh was bitter. “Come on, I know you better than that. The one sure way to get my ass in a wringer would be to try to tell you what to do.”

  “So what are you saying? Is this the last straw? If I take this job, are you finally out the door?”

  She’d asked before if he thought they should end it, and Sam was never really sure how she wanted him to answer. For him, the thought of the time it would take, and the lawyers and the money involved, was too unpleasant to consider for long. And he assumed that for her, during the last few years, the emotional strain of her mother’s illness had been all she could handle.

  Now he said, “Even if you were my ex-wife, it wouldn’t change things. My editors would still take me off any stories dealing with Morton or the committee. But what about you? Do you want the job so much it seems like a reasonable price to pay?” She looked away, without answering.

  “Look,” he said, “just remember, when something comes out of that committee that’s supposed to be under wraps, and believe me eventually something will, you’re the first person they’ll look at.”

  “How can you be so certain someone on the committee will do any talking out of turn?” She looked skeptical.

  He shrugged. “It’s a campaign year, and tax issues are hot, especially now that Erickson is in the race. Morton’s been on Finance for a long time, and it’s a good place to look for dirt. Not much goes on that we can’t find out. Even if I’m not doing the writing, I can point a reporter in the right direction. Like I told you,” his eyes went hard, “I’ve got some great sources there.”

  She leaned toward him, her brown eyes just as stony. “Well, Ace, if I take the job, you’ll find that all your great sources have suddenly dried up.”

  They still lived in the small, tasteful townhouse Judith bought before she and Sam met. When Sam moved in, he’d sold or given away nearly everything but his clothes. There hadn’t been much. He’d always lived in the smallest, least troublesome apartment, as close to work as he could find.

  She went straight up while he made sure the lock was set and punched in the alarm code. He wondered if he’d swayed her about taking the job, but knew there was nothing more he could do. She’d tell him what she’d decided when she was ready.

  He took his bag and went to the spare room where he kept his things. The three large closets in the big master bedroom were full of her things, hanging on color-coded padded hangers: black for work suits and blouses, blue for casual, white for T-shirts and workout clothes, pink for slips and nighties, each color segregated into sections. When he’d moved in, Sam had taken one look at her ethnically cleansed wardrobe and suggested he hang his things in the other room.

  Emptying his suitcase, tossing out separate piles for the dry cleaner and laundry, he thought again about calling Higgins, but checked his watch and knew it was too late. Quickly he began gathering what he’d need for the trip, throwing stuff in the general direction of the still-open case. Then, sensing her presence, he glanced up to find Judith standing in the doorway.

  “Are you packing?” She was wearing a short, cream-colored nightie he’d always been particularly fond of, and he smiled. Sam never failed to be stirred by her. She was easily the loveliest woman he’d ever been with, and she was an exciting lover. It wasn’t lack of sexual fulfillment that caused Sam’s wandering.

  During much of her mother's illness, his physical attention had seemed to comfort her. But then Judith's receptiveness seemed to fade with the old lady. It had been a long time, and looking at her now, Sam was suddenly hopeful the dry spell was over.

  “Yeah. I’m going to New Hampshire tomorrow. Erickson’s playing catch-up there, and I’ve got to get moving on his profile. I’ll probably go right on to Iowa without stopping back.” He pulled several folded shirts from the drawer and grabbed a handful of socks.

  “You’ve forgotten that you agreed to go with me to Ralphina Holm’s dinner tomorrow night.” It was a statement, and he didn’t bother to respond. “You know, I’m going to have to call her tomorrow, and she’ll have to find another man for the table.” He couldn’t think of a damned thing to say about that, and after another long silence, she said, “I gave you the newest BlackBerry for your birthday last month, and you’ve never even bothered to charge it. It would help you keep track of your commitments.”

  He shrugged. “I use my work iPhone. Besides, I’m keeping my commitments. It’s my job. I have to go.” She watched him, breathing deeply, until at last he stopped what he was doing and stared back at her. Finally he asked, “What?”

  “I’m tired, Sam.”

  “OK,” he said, turning back to his packing. “I’ll be right in.”

  “No.” He looked up again, frowning slightly. “I’m tired of you. Endlessly tired. And I’d rather you slept in here tonight.”

  He sat down on the bed. He’d been banished before when he’d given her good reason to suspect there was another woman in the picture. But that hadn’t been the case for a long time, and Judith hadn’t objected to his presence in the bed next to her, even if she wasn't interested in anything more. But something about her request now felt inevitable, and he gave her a searching look. “Whatever you want,” he answered. “Can you give m
e a ride over to Reagan in the morning?”

  She shook her head. “You should get a cab.”

  Bag packed, alone in the room that night, Sam stared up into the darkness, his arms behind his head. Normally he could drop off instantly, especially after he’d had a burning plane dream the night before. But he knew sleep would be a long time coming.

  Chapter 13

  The freezing rain came in sheets driven by a wicked north wind. Snatching the breath and stinging the face, it was the fiercest of Iowa’s weather; icy particles clung to garments and soaked through layers till the wet and cold went bone deep.

  But Jack Westphal stood with sweat trickling down his face. Heat from the monstrous furnace, which earlier in the day had been the office of the Lindsborg Chamber of Commerce, washed over him. He watched from a half block away, awestruck, as the building was consumed. Wild tongues of red and orange, wind-driven and gluttonous, licked up past the roof, lolling into the black, starless night. It could be seen for miles out into the countryside, a weird, lurid glow low on the horizon.

  Fire equipment and volunteers had come from four other towns, to fight desperately to keep the blaze from spreading. “That’s the most we can hope for,” Thurman McPaul, the Lindsborg fire chief, shouted over the wind and the roar of the fire as Jack recorded him with a video camera. “And only if God’s willing. With this wind, it’s tough to keep it contained. I’m praying we don’t lose the whole block.”

  When he hurried off, Jack turned the camera back to the flames. Through the viewfinder he saw a hooded figure, one of many silhouettes in the eerie glow, dart around the stanchion. Smaller than any firefighter, the figure dashed in among them. Jack whispered, “Damn it!” and lowered the camera.

  A low hissing that rolled into a ominous rumble came from deep inside the building, and the firefighters quickly moved back, as what must have been part of the floor crashed down into the basement, sending clouds of smothering smoke and brilliant sparks high into the air. In the gusting wind, the engulfed building began to sway. Heart in his throat, Jack sprang forward, brushing aside the spectators in his way. With one hand on the stanchion, he vaulted over with ease. Running, he caught Tess around the waist, lifting her clear of the ground, not setting her down until they were both behind the barricades. Her feet came down in an icy mix of water and slush, and she went down with a splash, the camera around her neck striking her chest with a hollow-sounding thump.

  “Owww!” For a second she sat there, shocked and speechless, several of the townsfolk around them either laughing, or jumping forward to help. She saw Jack’s hand reach down as the cold wetness seeped into her jeans, and she slapped it away, bounding up, her chin jutting forward, her blue eyes narrowed by the smoke, but full of outrage. “What are you trying to do to me?” She gave him a hard shove, which barely moved him, but almost caused her to fall again.

  “You were getting in there way too close!” he shouted against the roar, and saw her shake her head furiously, her face streaked with sweat and soot.

  “You didn’t see …” Whatever else she was saying was lost in the roar of the west wall of the building falling in on itself, the blast of heat causing the firefighters to move back even more, and the spectators to avert their faces, their noses and eyes streaming from the smoke.

  Silently they all stood and watched as the frenzied display consumed itself. With surprising speed, the flames lost their brilliance, starving from lack of fuel and the relentless water from the freezing rain and the fire hoses. In the waning light and diminishing warmth, the bitter wind made them all shiver. With the tide turned, the first small group of firefighters detached and headed for the nearby parsonage of the Baptist church. The minister’s wife was offering hot coffee, steam heat and a place out of the wind for calling anxious families.

  Jack’s eyes followed them, and he said, “I’d better find out what they can tell me.” He faced her, obviously trying not to smile. “And I want to post the video still tonight. Maybe you’d better head home. You’re soaked through, and I doubt Mrs. Crenshaw wants you dripping on her carpet.” Tess had been trying to pull the clinging, icy denim away from her legs. As her snapping eyes swung up at his words, Jack took a few steps away, now grinning openly. “Go ahead and take the Jeep. Rover’s old blanket is in the back. You can sit on that. I’ve got Dad’s pickup parked in back of the Journal. It’ll get me home.” He hurried off to the sound of muffled swearing.

  The wind pushed him up to the parsonage door, and once inside the dimly lit hallway with its clanking radiator, Jack unzipped his wet coat to let in the warmth. From the kitchen, he could hear the excited babble of voices, rising higher and higher to be heard above each other. He shook his head as he listened, realizing it was various spectators who were talking. The actual firefighters could only sit and drink coffee, too exhausted to follow, let alone join, such lively conversation.

  Thurman McPaul came out of the study, where he’d been using his cell phone. In his stocking feet, he was much shorter than Jack and looked up with a tired smile.

  “Well, we sure had our work cut out for us tonight. I just got done calling my wife to tell her not to look for me till morning. A few of the guys and I will stay on to keep the water going and make sure the wind doesn’t kick up any sparks from what’s left out there. Boy, I thought we had some serious trouble on our hands. We’re lucky we only lost the one building with the wind as strong as it is.”

  The acrid smell of smoke was so strong on the fire chief’s clothes that Jack’s eyes watered just standing next to him. “You did a hell of a job, you and all the volunteers. I don’t envy you being out there for the rest of the night, especially in this weather. But every shop owner on the block will appreciate it. Come on, you’ll need some coffee.”

  In the brightly lit kitchen, Mrs. Crenshaw poured two more steaming mugs. When Jack pulled a notebook and his digital recorder out of his pocket, voices quieted so they could hear Jack and the older man talk, knowing there were privy to an “official” interview that would be part of the story on the website and in tomorrow’s paper.

  “Any thoughts on the cause, Thurm?”

  “I have got no idea. That fire was so hot by the time we got there, I knew right away the building was gone. It’ll be a while yet before an investigator from the state fire marshal’s office can get in there to look around, and until then, I can’t tell you anything for sure. I talked to the fire marshal himself before I called home, and told him it might be suspicious, but I can’t say he seemed too interested.” At this, a volunteer from one of the neighboring towns roused a bit.

  “That guy always acts like he just doesn’t have the time for you. We had a sticky fire two years ago when the movie theater burned down. A few people got hurt, and there were lawsuits to settle, but those state boys had to be nagged to hell and gone for every damn thing. When the report finally did come out, it was just poor. You ask me, the fire marshal’s got one pretty screwed-up outfit.”

  “You know, Walt Hayslett had a run-in with those folks a while back,” piped up Rev. Crenshaw. “You probably remember, Jack, when those kids set fire to his machine shed, and a lot of his farm equipment burned?” Jack nodded, unconsciously brushing his fingers over the well-healed scar buried above the hairline over his left ear. “Well, the state inspectors took way too long about getting out there to look things over. Walt told me that the bad thing was, when the insurance company got the report it said that because of the length of time between the fire and the inspection, no conclusive evidence was available. They were that brazen about not doing their jobs.”

  The men talked on, the conversation turning to the red tape of filing insurance claims, but Jack and McPaul finished their coffee and headed back toward the front door.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I know folks would like some idea of what happened, but I just don’t want to make any guesses. That’s what the experts are for.” Thurm spoke as he pulled on his fire jacket and Jack clicked off the recorder.


  “I understand. But just between you and me, what do you think?”

  McPaul fished out his sodden leather gloves from his pockets, his lips a thin line of consideration. “Well, a fire that goes bad that fast is always suspicious. But, so long as you don’t quote me, I’m thinking we’ll find an accidental cause, probably wiring or maybe a space heater. Hell, someone might have just forgotten to shut off the coffee pot. It started after the office closed, so it could have been smoldering for a long time before it took off. And like I said, the wind was really what did us in. Still, I’ll be anxious to hear what the inspector says.”

  “If we can get him out here.” Jack jerked his head back toward the men in the kitchen. “It sounds like that office has some real problems.”

  “Could be.” Thurm sighed and bent to jerk on his tall, muddy boots. “Much as I’d like to stay in here where it’s warm, I better get out there and give some of the other fellows a chance to get a rest. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

  The two men went out the door together, Thurm tossing a wave over his shoulder as he hurried carefully down the icy walk toward the watchful men and glowing ruins.

  The wind hadn’t calmed one whit. Jack flipped the hood of his coat up against it, and pulled on his gloves as he hurried to the Journal. It didn’t take him long to post the video with a voice-over from his interview with Thurm. Then he hustled out the door, anxious to get home. The freezing rain had stopped, but a thick, shiny glaze of ice covered everything. He chipped off a spot just big enough to see through on the windshield of his father’s rusted Chevy pickup. Pumping the accelerator, the engine finally turned over with a groan on the third try. The heater was long gone, and the three-mile drive out to the farm was slow and tricky over the slick graveled hills. He hadn’t realized how bad it was. In some spots the drop-off into the ditch was deep, and he regretted sending Tess off on her own, even with the new Jeep, remembering how his first one looked after it had rolled.