Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  The fact that Swede had gotten his Purple Heart from a Jeep wreck rather than in the firefight had the older Lindsborg set buzzing, but if that had been the only thing, Jack would have been able to roll with it. After all, Swede’s handlers were always trumpeting his war record, and it might not have been the Governor himself who connected the injury to the firefight. They were, after all, on the same day. Besides, it was a fine point, since Erickson really had served with distinction.

  But at odd moments of his day, Jack couldn’t help remembering all the times he’d heard Swede say about cranky or unreasonable Corner Store customers, “Let ‘em do their shopping at The Pantry. I don’t give a shit.” And all the while, he knew their grocery dollars were still finding their way into his pocket. The fact that the lunk-headed Rolf Olsen had kept the secret so well pissed off Jack even more.

  And then there was the way Carl Erickson died. Jack been at Augusta’s house when the family was notified the body had been found. The first thing Augusta asked was if drinking had caused his death. Immediately Swede had assured her it hadn’t. Jack remembered wondering at the time how they could know already, but he didn’t ask, not wanting to add any more upset or tension to the sad situation. But looking back on it, he had no doubt that it wasn’t a different interpretation of the autopsy report that accounted for the cause of death on the death certificate. Swede had decided that day what it would read, and he knew how to make it happen.

  It was a new insight into his friend. While Jack couldn’t deny that he himself had taken advantage of Swede’s considerable sway to tweak a problem, he never stopped to think of the broader picture and what it said about the man as a leader or a candidate.

  From the day Swede Erickson became a public man, Journal readers had a right to know who he was, and how he got things done. And now they had a much clearer picture. But they’d read about it on Politifix.com. Worse, Jack could see now that when it came to the Governor, the people of Lindsborg didn’t even expect Jack to serve as the journalist he was supposed to be. It galled him to know they assumed he had known about all Swede’s under-the-table dealings, but didn’t report them. And he hated Waterman for pointing out his own role in such dealings.

  Tess shrugged off his tight-lipped consternation. “It’s a matter of perspective, Jack. You’ll never see Swede with the detachment another reporter does. Most reporters don’t write about family, and that’s really how close you two are. You’ve been up front about that, so readers don’t expect you to bear down on him with the tough questions. Besides, even if you knew the other ways Swede uses his influence to fix things, how could you report about it when you were taking advantage of it yourself?"

  Her accurate assessment only made it worse. Jack knew that Sam Waterman had beaten the Journal like a drum. And no one but him was surprised.

  When Swede had called that morning to say Merry Christmas, it was the first time they’d talked since the profile came out. Erickson knew immediately from Jack’s tone that he was unhappy and why.

  “What is it, Jackie?” he’d asked. “You got a bug up your ass about that Politifix profile, right?”

  With the Benedict house crowded as it was, Jack didn’t want to launch into a difficult discussion, and only replied, “A heads-up would have been nice.”

  Swede sighed. “I meant to call you, I really did. But you’ve got to know how nuts it’s been. My God, I’ve been in eight different states in the last three days. It’s Christmas morning, and we’re celebrating in a lousy New Hampshire hotel suite. You’ll be here in a few weeks, and I’ll sit down with you then and explain everything, OK?”

  “It’s plain enough,” Jack frowned as Caitlin and Ian went squealing by, chasing each other with soft rubber swords.

  “Ah, don’t pull this shit with me. Waterman spun things to look as bad as possible. The guy made it sound like you came out of that accident with brain damage, for Christ’s sake. At least give me the chance to give you my side.”

  “Jack?” Tess was calling from the other room. “Family pictures!”

  He got off the line with a cool, “We’ll talk later.”

  But he didn’t feel any better. Everything in Jack’s competitive nature rebelled at being shown up. In the two weeks since the profile ran, he spent more time than he’d admit wondering what else he didn’t know about Swede Erickson. And he was determined that no one, especially Sam Waterman, would beat him again.

  It was nearly midnight before the house was finally quiet, and Tess and Jack had their living room sleeping quarters to themselves. Jack had already pulled out the bed and was under the covers when Tess came in from the bath, unplugged the Christmas tree, and slipped in next to him.

  “I’m exhausted,” she sighed. “How about you?”

  “Um-hum,” he pulled her close.

  “Is it too much? All the family hurly-burly?” she whispered.

  “No,” his voice was a murmur, and his eyes were shut. “Your family’s great. You know that.” She felt his lips brush through her hair, and he added drowsily, “But I could do without the baby questions.”

  Shortly after the wedding, she’d switched from the pill to a diaphragm, wanting her body chemistry clear when they decided to start a family. Now she waited, wondering if he’d finally say something about being ready. But when he didn’t, she asked, “Is that what bothered you?”

  “Bothered me? Nothing bothered me.”

  “Really? Because you seemed a little quiet. I thought maybe it was Danny and Will digging you about that profile. Or was it the call from Swede?”

  Jack sighed, “It wasn’t the profile. It wasn’t anything except maybe a short night. Caitlin’s a sweetie, but she did get an early start this morning.”

  “She’s a little firecracker.” Tess shifted a little, putting one long, smooth leg over his. “I love being with the family, but I won’t be sorry to leave tomorrow. It’ll be good won’t it, having our privacy again?” Her fingers slid under his t-shirt and tickled softly.

  He smiled, his eyes still closed. “There’s something to be said for a bedroom with a door.” Her fingers wandered lower, and he caught her hand. “Better watch it. This is a pretty squeaky sofa bed. My in-laws could get an earful if you’re not careful.” She giggled, and he kissed her fingers.

  She sighed the word, “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” It was a promise.

  But tired as he was, sleep didn’t come. And in the quiet house, with no interruptions, the conversation he and Tess had that first night at her house finally worked its way up from his memory. She’d said she’d left Washington because her relationship ended. And when he saw the picture of the burning plane, he’d asked if she’d been hurt badly. She’d said no, but added, “I didn’t make the best decisions for awhile.”

  His eyes came open. He could just make out the rise of her high cheekbones and the short, straight line of her nose in the dim light, her tousled hair a halo around her face. Her deep, soft breathing told him she was already asleep.

  Chapter 24

  Sam Waterman had Christmas dinner at Rick Higgins’s house with his mob of five children, his harried wife, his mother-in-law, and three other former Triblets who had no place else to go. The invitation didn’t hold much appeal for him, but the prospect of sitting alone in his sparsely furnished apartment had less. And it was good of Higs to think of him. So Sam bought a bottle of Jameson’s at The Press liquor store as a gift and headed to Arlington.

  To his surprise, it was really nice to be there. The mother-in-law was an old dame, outspoken and funny as hell. And Higs had good kids. When they settled down at the table, Sam was amazed at how polite they were.

  The oldest, a boy just starting high school, had a lot of questions about Sam's work, and he was flattered by the kid's interest. He was a sharp young man, especially when it came to politics, and he wanted to know all about the information Sam had dug up on Swede Erickson and how he had found it. When Sam told the boy he couldn’t say anything abou
t his source for the autopsy report, the boy’s eyes had widened, and he asked, “Really? Not even here, where it doesn’t matter?”

  “It always matters,” Sam answered taking the mashed potatoes from him. “I can’t tell anyone. Ever. That was the deal.”

  The meal was great, both Higs and his wife, Sadie, pulling it together with well-timed experience. Sam tried to imagine what it would have been like if he and Judith had ever tried to work together like that, the thought giving him a grim laugh. But if it had been him and Tess? He mulled that a moment and knew it didn’t fit either. Tess couldn’t boil water nor did she care to learn.

  When Sam was leaving, Sadie tried to load him up with leftovers, but he insisted she keep them for the kids. He remembered what it was like as a boy, looking forward to enjoying the remains of a feast. Besides, he was going straight to the newsroom.

  “What a shame,” she said sympathetically, “going to the office on Christmas.”

  “What else have I got to do, Sadie?” he asked with a shrug. “No family, no kids. Work is what keeps me going. Besides, I’m Jewish, remember? This baby Jesus stuff has always been outside my circle of reference.” She laughed with him.

  The newsroom was dead with just a skeleton crew. As Sam walked to his cubicle, he hoped it would stay quiet. He could use the night to get in a little research. He needed to catch up with the Erickson campaign in the next few weeks, and then there wouldn’t be much time for gathering background information. But he stopped in surprise when he noticed a large box jutting from behind his chair out into the aisle. “What’s that?” he asked, looking over at Sarah across the aisle. She was sitting with her feet up on her desk, posting a story and picture of Tami Fuller with a headline that read, "Fuller: I Didn't Want to Run, But God Has Called Me to the White House."

  “How should I know?” She glanced at him sullenly, unhappy with minding the desk on Christmas, and not thrilled to see Sam come in. “The guard brought it in after you left yesterday. The address says Lindsborg, but it’s not ticking, so I figured it couldn’t be from Erickson.”

  Sam leaned it back and recognized the handwriting on the label. When the phone on his desk rang, he didn't look at the caller ID, just cleared his throat and answered it.

  “Sam, why haven’t your returned my voice mails or my emails? Jesus, I even resorted to texting, but you ignored that too.” It was Judith.

  “And Happy Holidays to you, Hon.” He cringed, but his eyes were still on the box.

  “OK, the timing’s not great, but you’re incredibly hard to reach, and I figured you’d be working today.”

  “You always had me nailed.” Sam knew he wanted to wait until he got home to open it, but it was hard to stop staring at it.

  “My attorney contacted the guy you said was going to represent you. She called me back to say his office had never heard of you.”

  “Yeah, well …” Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to focus. “Johnson gave me his name, and I meant to call and set up an appointment. But I’ve been swamped.”

  “Who isn’t swamped? This is D.C. Everyone is always swamped, me most of all since I’m learning the ropes of a new job. I had to bend over backward to get in to see my attorney, but I got it done. I won’t have you dragging your feet. I want this moving.”

  Sam set his jaw. “What’s the rush? After nearly eleven years …”

  “Isn’t that enough wasted time?” she snapped, and in the tense pause that followed, she sighed. “Look, I could be more civil if you’d just cooperate a little. The faster we iron out the details, the less hassle for us both. I thought that’s what you wanted, to make this as clean and easy as possible.”

  “Sure, OK, I’ll call the shyster’s office tomorrow.” He used the word just to annoy her. “I’ll try to get in to see him before I leave for New Hampshire. I’ll shoot you an email when things are set.”

  “You still covering Erickson?” she asked.

  Sam looked at the receiver. He couldn’t remember the last time Judith had asked about his work. “Yeah. You, uh, read the profile?”

  “I saw it, yes. You were a little soft on him, don’t you think?”

  Sam’s frown deepened. “Well, I didn’t find anything he could be recalled for, if that’s what you mean. But I thought I gave him a pretty good going over.”

  “Oh come on, there’s more sleaze to this guy than fixing a few parking tickets.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her, admitting, “I think you’re probably right,” with growing curiosity. “But my impressions don't count for shit. I can only use hard information. My bosses are very fussy that way. So unless you know someone, or something that …”

  “Look at the Webster thing again.” She said it with a hushed voice, and Sam’s eyes went wide with surprise.

  “Judith, is this just a shot in the dark or do you …”

  She cut him off again, her voice still low. “Check Webster’s campaign contributions. I’m surprised you didn’t think of that.”

  There was a long pause, Sam considering what she was saying, before he answered, “OK. I’ll do that.” And then he added with soft laugh, “I thought you told me all my sources on Finance were going to dry up, kid. Can I add you to my list?”

  “Look,” her voice sharpened, “if you’re going to be a smart ass …”

  “I’m not. But I do want to give you a little advice about dicking with the media. If Morton has put you on the job of passing shit on to me, keep in mind that dirty business like this has a nasty way of coming back and biting you on the ass. We may be kaput as a couple, but I’d still rather not see your pretty backside in a sling because of something I wrote.”

  “I’m just trying to do you a favor,” her voice was defensive.

  “And I’m just trying to return it, so take me seriously. I’ll let you know when I’ve got things set with the lawyer. And thanks for the tip.” He hung up.

  It was almost midnight when Sam lugged the heavy box down the narrow walkway between two brownstones to his converted-carriage-house apartment. He didn’t have anything in the way of tools, so he stood in the kitchen attacking the package with scissors and a steak knife, sawing desperately into the heavy cardboard. Sweating, his knuckles scratched, Sam pulled away the thick packing, ripping down to the final layer of brown paper and bubble wrap. When it dropped from his hands, he just stood there, staring.

  There was no note, no explanation. Inside was the framed picture Tess had done of Tonquin Park on Vancouver Island. The first of her paintings, the one she’d spent so much time meticulously playing out with watercolors. The one he’d nearly begged her for when he’d seen it hanging in her workroom. Propping it against the kitchen table, he studied his own indistinct figure in the background, and could almost hear the patter of the rain on the leaves, and the rising of their laughter.

  It was a hell of a gift. Sam couldn’t take his eyes off it, his hands buried deep in his pockets, the fingers of his right hand flipping the St. Francis medal over and over. In the first wild, hopeful moment, he’d let himself believe she’d sent it because she wanted him to think of her, because she wanted to stay in his life. But Sam Waterman was too hard-headed a realist to be fooled for long, even by himself. He was glad he was alone.

  He'd given too many kiss-off gifts not to know one when he saw it.

  It was nearly midnight, and Christmas was almost over. In his hotel suite, Swede Erickson sat alone, going over briefing papers for the next day’s campaign stops. But he was having a hard time keeping his mind on his work. It had been a lousy holiday. If he hadn’t been playing catch-up from entering the race so late, he might have been able to steal a couple days back home. As it stood, he was lucky to get the one day free. He’d brought his mother and Pete out to celebrate with Betty and the kid, but it hadn’t helped.

  His mother was upset, although she was doing her best not to show it. Waterman and his fucking profile had been a shock for her. Swede knew he probably should have warned her, but he had hoped th
e Politifix editors, or whatever they were calling them these days, would object to Waterman’s confidential sources and cut the story. Swede still hadn’t been able to uncover how Waterman laid his hands on that autopsy report, but he’d given Newhouse, the hospital director, hell for it.

  One look at his mother’s face when the driver brought them in from the airport told Swede she was struggling with the disclosures and the media attack that had followed. And he swore he would make Waterman pay.

  “She asked me if you lied to her, if we lied to her,” Pete had told him when Swede pulled his brother aside and asked him how she’d taken it. “I told her it had to be a mistake, but I don’t think she believes me. How did that guy find the report? I thought you took care of it.”

  “I did,” Swede shot back. “But someone slipped up someplace and missed a copy. It’s out now, but I’m working on damage control, for Mama’s sake.”

  “For all our sakes,” Pete corrected. “Have you thought,” he swallowed hard, “that other reporters might start looking into things about Pop, Swede?” His voice took on the whining tone that always raised Swede’s hackles.

  “No one is going to find anything else,” Swede clenched his jaw, “because there isn’t anything else to find, right?” Pete looked uncertain. Swede’s voice dropped low. “Think about it, Pete. He’s dead and gone, and he was the only one who might have talked.” Peter nodded. “Now you just keep reassuring Mama, and so will I. It’ll die down. I’ll take care of the reporters, Waterman especially.”

  Pete smiled shakily. “How?”

  “There’re lots of ways,” Swede looked over to the doorway, where he could hear his wife trying to engage his mother in conversation.