Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  Jack shrugged. “Sounds like a reasonable theory.”

  Delevan nodded, but frowned, “Only there are a few things that just don’t square with me.”

  “Like?”

  “Well, I don’t care how stupid you are, you just don’t throw a match on a gasoline-spattered floor when it’s between you and the way out. Anybody’d make sure they had a clear shot to the nearest exit. That fire started near the front of the store, about 15 yards from the front door. No matter how fast the gas went up, they should have been able to get out.”

  “There had to be a back door,” Jack said. “They must have planned to get out that way.”

  Clint nodded. “Maybe. The back door was unlocked. But if you were going to make an escape from a fire you set, and it went up so hot and fast that it threw you into a panic, wouldn’t you hightail it out that door pronto? You sure as hell wouldn’t have run into a little room set about as far from either exit as you could get.”

  “So what do you think they were doing there?”

  “Hiding. I thought that when I first saw their bodies, and I still think that today. And the surviving kid’s story fits. They cut through the screen and came in through that storage room window. The kid said they were tossing shit around, kind of trashing the place when they heard someone come in through that back door. They ran back to the storage room and hid behind some shelves. But then they smelled the gas. The kid said he snuck around to the hall to try to see what was going on. That’s when the flash came …”

  “The blue ghosts?” Jack asked, and Clint nodded.

  “Right. It was most likely those burning fumes that singed him. Something brought the shelves down on his friends, probably knocking them unconscious. He tried to get them out, but the smoke and heat were intense, almost immediately. So the kid said he went back out that window, scraping the hell out of his arms and legs, to try to find help. And they did find fibers, skin and blood on the frame that all came from him.”

  “If the smoke and heat were so bad, couldn’t they have gotten confused and ended up in the storage room when they thought they were near the back door? The shelves could have been overturned in their panic.”

  “That’s a possibility. People do get crazy with fear in fires, and the kids that died weren’t that familiar with the back end of the store. I suppose it might have happened that way.” He paused, considering it again for a long moment, but then he shook his head. “But the fact that the kid’s story was at least partly true carries some weight with me. We found those poor boys right where he said they’d be. And he never tried to deny he was up to no good.” The big man sighed. “I guess it’s just hard for me to believe that two boys watched their friend pour gas all over the floor and walls, but ended up trapped.”

  “Maybe they were always in back, making mischief, and didn’t know what their buddy was up to in front.” Jack was searching for a plausible explanation himself.

  Clint’s mouth screwed down into a frown. “Don’t you think they’d have noticed the gas can he would’ve been carrying? If no one else came in, they all should have had a shot at one of the doors. And if they weren’t hiding, why did Andy squeeze out that window?”

  Jack was silent, unable to think of a single reason the boys wouldn’t have made a straight run for either the front or the back doors.

  Delavan sighed. “Of course, we’ll probably never know just what really happened. With kids anything is possible. We never did find any evidence that anyone else was there that night. But we also never found any kind of container that held the gas either. If Brubaker had it, where do you suppose he got rid of it?” Delavan looked at Jack, who could only shrug, and then shook his head. “It’s one of those fires that I still think over, trying to figure out some nights when I can’t sleep.”

  “Did this Brubaker kid go to court?” Jack asked.

  “No, he copped a plea. He was a juvenile, so I don’t know the details. They must have convinced him they had a pretty good case against him. But if you ask me, there was some room for doubt.”

  Late as it was, Jack stopped at the Journal on his way back through town. His curiosity had gotten the better of him and he wanted to check his original story. Walking through the production room, he went stiffly down one set of steps, past the huge room that housed the press, then down another narrow flight of stairs into the basement.

  In Lindsborg’s early days, the building had been a bank, and at the end of the hall, tucked deep into a thick, fireproof wall, was a room that had once held the safety deposit boxes. Two years after he bought the Journal, Jack began archiving back issues digitally. Prior to that, printed copies were saved in bound books. Snapping on the light in the tiny room, he saw row after row of these books, the copies dating to the early 1900s, each book a six-month increment. Over his first lonely years at the paper, he’d gone through every one, learning the background of the area that few of its residents ever grasped.

  Jack knew that the story was written in the early months, before he had swung the process around to publishing digital before print. The easiest place to look for the clip was in the back issues. Without hesitation, he walked to the appropriate shelf and, running a finger over two or three bindings, came to the second half of the year he needed. There was no room for a chair, and jerking the book free, he sank to the floor, groaning softly as the muscles at the top of his thighs ached in protest.

  Flipping to the month of December, he began scanning the front pages, but didn’t find what he wanted. He went through again, working backward from the end of the month, opening each paper and checking the inside pages. And on the day of the 19th, he found what he was looking for, appalled that he hadn’t put the story on the cover.

  The dead boys were named, but Andy Brubaker was not, since he was a juvenile accused of a crime. As he read the details, Jack finally began to vaguely remember writing it, and frowning, he realized uneasily that Swede had been his major source for most of the information. He’d never talked with Clint Delavan or, apparently, Ralph Miller. Shutting his eyes, the big book resting on his drawn-up knees, Jack tried to remember. The more he thought about it, the more clearly it came back.

  “After all, Jack,” he remembered Swede telling him, “the boy is under age, and it was a fatal fire in my store. Frankly, I’m worried about the possibility of lawsuits. And really, what good does all this publicity do anyone? It won’t bring those dead boys back. And that poor, stupid bag boy is going to have to live with this the rest of his life. That’s bad enough. Wouldn’t it be better to downplay the whole thing?”

  Jack had complied, burying the story.

  It had made sense at the time, but now Jack frowned, aware of how easily he’d been swayed by Swede. He realized it was the kind of small-town behavior that made Augie Sanderson confident in suggesting writing columns to influence property owners.

  He looked back down at the story, his mouth compressed to a thin line, knowing not even half of what should have been printed was there. Discouraged, angry with himself, he lifted the right side of the heavy volume to slam the book, the yellowed copies fanning forward. A small print headline caught his eye, and stopped his breath.

  “Carl Erickson on Visit to Sweden.” For a long moment Jack only stared at the words, then slowly, reluctantly, his eyes moved down. According to the little blurb, Carl had left for Sweden early in the morning of December 20th. His only surviving Swedish relative, a great uncle, still farming in Väderstad, was ill, and had requested a gathering of all the Erickson clan. Swede was quoted as saying his father would spend at least a month there, adding it was too bad he would miss the Governor's inauguration, "but this is a time to put family first."

  Softly, Jack shut the book, his throat suddenly dry. He stared at the wall straight ahead, and the only sounds in the room were the soft hum of the fluorescent light and his own breathing. He didn’t want to believe what he was thinking. Like a dreamer in a nightmare, his mind searched for a way out, a reasonable, acceptable al
ternative. But he couldn’t escape the facts.

  He knew Carl Erickson’s last gasp in the family business had been running the Sheffield store. Clint Delevan had just told him the Brubaker kid always claimed someone else was in the store the night it burned. Carl Erickson suddenly disappeared the next day. And Jack knew there was no way he'd gone to Sweden.

  Shutting his eyes, Jack let his head drop back against the brick wall behind him.

  Chapter 29

  Sam Waterman was reading the New York Times. Over the last few months, he'd come to realize he really hated seeing his name in a news story when it wasn't a byline. The HIPAA investigation was picking up steam for the Times to run another story on it. Not only that, for some reason, Tami Fuller seemed to take it up as a cause, working it into her goddamn stump speech. In the eyes of her fanatic followers, he'd become the poster boy for the evil, elite, "gotcha" media. Why the hell wouldn't this Idaho flying monkey just shut the fuck up? When the phone on his desk beeped, he grabbed it with a grunted, “Waterman,” his eyes not even leaving the screen.

  “Hi,” it was Judith’s voice.

  He hadn’t talked to her since Christmas night, hadn’t seen her since the day he’d moved out. Their lawyers did all the communicating now. Even though there had been no pre-nup, things were slowly moving forward. Beyond a joint savings account, there was little to divide. Judith had bought the townhouse, it had stayed in her name, and she had always made the payments. Each kept their own checking accounts, investments and credit cards. Judith’s inheritance from her mother was in a trust for her sole use. Monica had seen to that. Sam’s lawyer continually reminded him he could probably lay claim to more, especially since his assets were far less than hers, but Sam didn’t want to muddy the waters. He only wanted out as easily as possible.

  “What’s up?” Reluctantly he minimized the browser, his voice wary.

  “I’ve got a meeting with my lawyer this afternoon to tie up a few details, so I thought we should talk about your balls.”

  Even though he knew what she meant, Sam couldn’t stop his barking laugh. “It’s been a long time since you’ve shown any interest in them, Honey.”

  She sighed and said, “Well, as often as I wanted to put your balls on public display, Sam, I meant the baseballs.”

  In the first years of their marriage Judith had given him four baseballs autographed by Red Sox greats: Ted Williams, Carl Yastrzemski, Carlton Fisk and Jim Rice. Besides his clothes, shaving gear and iPod, they were the only things he’d taken when he left the house.

  “What about them?”

  “Would you like to have them appraised, and pay me for half of their combined value, or would you prefer to sell them and give me half of the proceeds?”

  Sam frowned. “Neither. They’re mine.”

  She sighed again. “No, they are joint property.”

  “No,” Sam was surprised at the sudden shot of anger he felt. “They were gifts, from you to me. You gave them to me.”

  “Right, one for each of our first four anniversaries. They were purchased in recognition of the marriage. Since I was half the marriage, they are half mine.”

  Sam’s forehead creased at her tortured reasoning. There was no way that would hold up in court, and he knew she knew that. “OK, does that mean I’m legally entitled to half the worth of that 2½-carat diamond you picked out and I paid for when we got, engaged? Because that was in recognition of our marriage too.”

  “No. The woman is always entitled to keep her engagement ring. There’s legal precedent on that.”

  “Damn it, Judith, those are my balls.” He saw Bundy’s face peek out from around her computer screen, her eyes wide. He turned away and lowered his voice. “You can’t be serious about this.” The worth of the balls was a chump change compared to what Judith was walking away with, uncontested.

  “Well, I tell you what, how about if I keep the espresso machine, and you keep the balls. Does that seem fair?”

  Sam sat for a second, nonplussed. Had she called just to jerk his chain? He didn’t give a shit about that coffee maker, and she knew it. He didn’t even know how to use it. “Sure. Keep it. Fine. Are we done?”

  “I guess. Hey, what about that story in the Times? There’s some whispering going on in the halls about it. The buzz is that you’re in for some trouble.”

  Sam winced. So people were already talking about it. “I was just re-reading it when you called. It’s not good.” He didn’t see any reason not to be frank. The article quoted several people he had interviewed who had recently been subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury. Their appearances would take place over the next few weeks. Sam saw the doctor’s name among those served, along with Jack Westphal’s. Neither had commented to the Times.

  The article went on to quote several legal pundits speculating that once everyone testified, a subpoena would be issued for Sam. And then, Sam knew, he’d be on the hot seat. There was no way he could give up the name of his source. “The Politifix lawyers are watching it. All I can do is sit tight.”

  “Will the source step up?” she asked, sounding almost concerned.

  “I doubt it. I can’t believe an investigation this full of chicken shit has taken off like it has. Fuller keeps barking about it like the Hound of the Baskervilles, which is downright odd. I'm wondering if Erickson's promised her something, maybe the VP slot, if she'll keep me in hot water,” he said.

  “To get you off his ass?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe just because I got under his thin skin. Let’s face it, the stuff you tipped me about the Webster family’s contributions was interesting, but not exactly the Pentagon Papers.”

  “Or maybe he’s worried you’ll find more. I think there might be,” her voice had dropped, and Sam understood the real reason for her call.

  “OK, what’s Freddy Morton asked you to tell me today?”

  “Nothing,” she sounded offended but he also heard the defensiveness. “There’s just a lot of gossip about that brother.”

  “Erickson’s brother?”

  “For God’s sake, Webster’s brother.” There was a funny tone to her voice that made him wonder if she was alone. “Take a look at him again. Think in terms of gainful employment.”

  “Judith,” Sam’s voice dropped to a true whisper, “tipping me to help your boss isn’t going to do either of our reputations any good. I looked. I wrote what I found …”

  “Look again,” her impatient voice was thick with innuendo. “I’m telling you there’s more.”

  Sam rubbed his eyes. “Be specific.” He pulled a notebook toward him, adding, “And you should know you just went on the record.”

  “You can’t use anything from me, because I don’t know anything firsthand. But there’re too many rumors for it to be nothing.”

  He sighed. “Do you realize you’re compromising me? Not to mention yourself? I’m your husband.”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “Whatever. You work on the Finance Committee, for Christ’s sake. If it gets out that you’re tipping me, it’ll make us both look like shit. Judith, you’re a lawyer, you know how this …”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I’m trying to help you?” Her voice was strained, and he winced. She was stooping now. No way was concern for him driving this. “If you nail Erickson, you might get clear of that investigation.”

  “And if I nail him, your boss will take the nomination. Do you honestly think something this inbred wouldn’t be fodder for the Capitol Hill grapevine? Sorry, Honey, my balls are on the line here, and like I said, I’m going to keep them.”

  In the Russell Senate Office building, Judith hung up with a frustrated sigh.

  “No deal, huh?” Sitting across from her was David Carlin, the campaign manager for Frederick Morton.

  “He’s always been a contrary guy,” she said with a wry smile. “He says we’ll both look bad. And he’s all bent out of shape about the campaign laws on using committee staff members.”

  C
arlin smiled. “No one will know. It’s not like you’re sitting here stuffing campaign mailings, or using your office for fundraisers. So he won’t check it out?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with Sam. He won’t if it’s just a matter of my suggesting it. But if he really thinks Erickson is dirty, he probably can’t resist at least looking into it, especially after a little nudge. Would he find much?”

  Carlin shook his head. “I don’t honestly know. It really is only rumor that Erickson owes Webster for something awfully big. No one seems to have the goods to back it up.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling at him, “maybe Sam will find it.”

  Carlin cautioned, “Be careful, Judith. He’s not the type to take being used well, and he’s not stupid. That day at your house when I came bursting in, I hated to leave you alone with him.”

  “But I was fine, wasn’t I? Sam’s always been more thunder than lightning. Besides, if there’s something to the Webster-Erickson connection, it’s the media’s job to find it. And deep down, Sam is really slavering to write it.” She laughed. “After all these years, isn’t it about time I put him to good use?”

  “Well, for Frederick’s sake, let’s hope so.” He got up but stopped at the door on his way out. “Nine tonight?” She smiled and nodded.

  Later that day, Sam had a private meeting with Dodson and Johnson. He told them he’d like to pick up the Erickson campaign and travel with it for a while.

  “I’ve got to get back to Iowa, and Erickson’s going there next week to take care of some state business. There’re a few pet bills he’s going to strong-arm through the Legislature before it closes.”

  “You’ll talk to the doctor while you’re there?” Johnson asked. They’d read the Times story. Everyone in the newsroom had. Before the profile ran, both men insisted he tell them who the source was so they could judge the report’s credibility. And now they knew Sam would want to meet with him again, face to face, to ask if he would step forward or waive their confidentiality agreement.