Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  Her dark eyes held his, perceptive and searching. Jack knew why she could be so sure Andy Brubaker hadn’t lied to her. It wasn’t easy to do.

  “Clint’s right. It’s a story about Ralph Miller.” He gave her his quick, easy smile, but then looked away, down at the table top, making a pretense of checking his recorder.

  “But there’s more to it,” her voice was soft, and reluctantly he looked back up, nodding. Crossing back to his chair, she touched his shoulder, looking at him even more intensely. “Do you think you know who else was in that store that night?”

  For a long moment Jack couldn’t speak, lost in the grief, hope and expectation in her face. At last he whispered tightly, “I’m not sure. I can’t prove anything.”

  “Tell me.” It was a command, from a woman used to being obeyed.

  “I …” he shook his head, and stood, suddenly swamped with the need to let his own anguish out, and he thought blindly, that he might have to run for the door before it all came spilling out. What a relief it would be to actually give voice to all his suspicions, his fears. Her face was tense with anticipation, and he clamped his jaw tight, nearly undone by the sheer power of her need to know. “I, I can’t. I’m sorry …”

  She turned away, her hand going to her mouth to stifle a sob. He watched her shaking shoulders, and finally, lamely, he patted her arm. “I have to nail it down, you see? I can’t say anything until I know for sure.”

  She nodded, and for a long moment stared out the window over the sink into her lovely back yard. Finally, she turned again to look at him, and when she spoke her voice was still quiet, but with a steel sharp edge. “I loved those boys. Not just my Bobby, but Jeff and Andy too.” Looking up into Jack’s face, she saw suffering that was nearly equal to her own. But it didn’t stop her admonition, “I deserve to know what happened that night. Don’t you forget that.”

  His last stop was at a tiny ranch-style house just up the hill from Main Street. Wendell Carlson was retired now. His wife had put working at the Wal-Mart behind her. He was mowing the front lawn, using an old relic that had taken nearly an hour of cajoling to start, when Jack’s truck pulled up. Wendell walked toward the drive, leaving the mower running.

  “I don’t want to shut it off,” Wendell spoke through Jack’s lowered window. “I’m afraid I’ll never get it going again.” Jack grinned, but the corners of his mouth remained white. “It’s got plenty of gas for this tiny yard. How about if I just hop in, and we’ll talk a minute?” Jack nodded, and as Wendell settled his considerable size into the passenger’s seat, he said, “Well, you don’t look much different than the last time I saw you. I was watching on TV the night you fouled out of the NCAA tournament. Damn, no one could draw a charging foul like you. I thought you’d take the ref in.”

  Jack shook his head. “Not that time. You know, Annie Fowler and I were talking about that same play just a few hours ago.”

  Carlson’s smile faded. “You been to see her?” Jack nodded. “I tell you, that night those boys died, it was the worst night of my life. Knowing they were somewhere in that building, but the flames already so high, there was no going in for them. I just wanted to die myself, because I knew there was no way they’d be coming out alive. I still dream about it sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack pulled out his notebook and pen, clicked on the digital recorder, and tossed it up onto the dash. “I hate like hell to make you go over it for me. I wouldn’t unless it was really important to what I’m working on.”

  “And that’s a story about Ralph Miller?” Carlson asked.

  Jack didn’t look up as he flipped through the notebook pages. “Right.” There was a long silence, and when his eyes finally came up, he found Carlson staring at him hard. “What? What is it?”

  “Would you mind shutting that off?” Wendell nodded toward the recorder, and without hesitation, Jack hit the off button and put it in his shirt pocket. Wendell sighed and then asked solemnly, “Are you doing this for Governor Erickson?”

  Jack’s chest suddenly hurt. “Why would you think that?”

  Wendell’s brow furrowed. “Well, he’s been in the news a lot because of his campaign, you know? And there’s been some national stories, trying to raise questions about him and Webster ... ” Wendell’s voice trailed away, ending with a muttered, "oh, never mind.”

  Jack cleared his throat. “Can you tell me how it played out that night?”

  “It was cold; I seem to remember that it was near about five below that night. And I came out to put my wife’s car in,” he nodded toward the garage. “Before I could even get in it, Andy Brubaker came running around the corner shouting. He smelled of gasoline, was pretty singed up, no coat, arms all scratched deep. He was screaming that his friends were trapped in the building. Once I got down the street a bit, I could see the fire. I saw the front window blow out, and once that fresh air hit, the flames were unmerciful. I ran back and called it in. The volunteers got there in just minutes, but it was out of control. There just wasn’t anything to be done.” Wendell’s voice was soft, matter-of-fact, but his mouth was scrunched down.

  “And Andy?” Jack prompted.

  “Like I said, he had no coat. He was hysterical, and, and, he had no coat.” As Jack watched, the older man’s eyes took on a faraway look. “After I called, I went back out and carried him into the house. I told Doris to watch him. Even before I could get back to the corner, the fire alarm went off. With the volunteers there, I guess I just didn’t want to see. I came on back. Andy was at the kitchen table, rocking back and forth, babbling, wild. My wife, she just couldn’t listen. She went to try to call his father, but couldn’t reach him. So I stayed with him until the police came and took him.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Slowly, Wendell’s eyes came back to Jack.

  “What was the kid saying? What was he babbling?”

  “He was praying,” the eyes were sad, “for his friends. He was praying out loud. He kept pleading over and over, ‘Please don’t let them die.’”

  Jack steeled himself. “That’s all?”

  Wendell looked out the window. “Look Mr. Westphal, I know you’re real close to the Governor. I’m still wondering if Swede Erickson put you up to this, just to see if I’d talk to the press.”

  For a moment, Jack wondered what he could say to convince the man that Swede wasn’t directing the interview, and suddenly he knew there was nothing. So he said, “And if he did?”

  Carlson looked back and said sincerely, “Just tell him I ain’t talking to anybody. All I’ve ever said was that Andy Brubaker came screaming down the street for help and I called in the fire. And that’s all I’m ever gonna say about it.”

  “And you’re the only one …” Jack’s voice trail away suggestively.

  “Just me and, well, Andy, of course.” Wendell spoke to the window. There was another long stretch of silence, and then he said, “I really ought to get back to my lawn now. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Jack slowly shook his head, and then realized Wendell wasn’t looking at him, and said, “Thanks. I'm finished.”

  He stopped at the Journal just long enough to put together a letter asking for approval to interview Andrew Brubaker at the Fort Madison penitentiary. He knew Swede Erickson could check the records of any visitors Andy had. But it was the only way to see him. And at this point, Jack knew he had to go to the source. It was a risk he’d have to take.

  Chapter 34

  When Jack got home, the house was silent and empty. Tess must have gone on one of her photographic missions. Or maybe she’d just needed to get out and away from the bleakness that had set up residence in their home.

  He stared into the fridge, thinking he’d take a beer, but instead he straightened and shut the door. Reaching up into the cabinet above, he pulled down a bottle of Jim Beam. It wasn’t something he normally drank, but filling a glass with ice, he took it to the table and poured a healthy shot. Then he just sat there. He didn’t turn on hi
s music. He didn’t let Rover in, even when he scratched at the door. As it grew dark, he didn’t bother to turn on the light.

  When Tess came in it was on a mild evening breeze, the fireflies winking in the dark yard behind her, the dog rushing past her to his water bowl. She’d seen Jack's Jeep and wondered why the house was dark, but when she flipped on the kitchen light and turned, she still jumped to find him at the table watching her. “Jesus! Jack, what are you doing?”

  He just looked at her, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light.

  The ice in his drink had melted. But there wasn’t much whiskey taken from the bottle, and his glass was still full. She could see he wasn’t drunk. She asked again, “What are you doing?”

  He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped, and finally just shook his head, as if explaining was too much for him. With a sigh, she moved on, but at the doorway she stopped and turned back to him.

  Her face was haggard, and her voice was low. “I’ve been trying, Jack, really I have. I know you’re hurt, and you’re right: I should have told you about Sam. I know that you think less of me because …” She didn’t finish and said instead, “But at least, now it's all out. I understand how you feel, and I'm sorry. But I can’t take any more of this. You clearly need space, and I should get out and let you have it. I’m going to go upstairs and grab a few things. I can stay with Dolly. Or maybe I’ll catch a flight to Dad’s.” She watched his face but saw no reaction. “When you’re ready, just call me, and I’ll come home.”

  Finally he spoke. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” The corners of her mouth pulled down, going white. “Don’t come home?”

  He shook his head ever so slightly and whispered, “Don’t go.” It was so much what she wanted to hear that she stood rooted, staring at him, trying to make sure it was what he’d really said and not her mind playing tricks. And then he added, “For God’s sake, Tess, I couldn’t take that too.” His voice was soft and hoarse, almost slurry, and she looked again at the bottle to make sure he was sober.

  “What …” she foundered, “… what do you want then, Jack? What can I …?”

  He sat up a little, and suddenly she was aware of how pale he was. And a new dart of fear made her heart knock. “You can sit down and listen.” His eyes met hers, and the pounding in her chest quickened to a patter. “I need to tell you ...”

  “You’re in trouble.” It was so clear she said it with certainty, even as she moved toward a chair, a sick, strange kind of gliding sensation making her knees shake. “The business? Or, are you sick?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s not about Waterman either …” He groped helplessly, aware he was scaring her, but struggling to find the right place to start.

  She didn’t take the chair. Instead, she went down on her knees, pressing herself between his legs, taking both his hands in hers. Looking steadily into his eyes, she said softly, “Just tell me.”

  He knew that he loved her. He thought he knew how much. But now, held in her strong arms, he felt he’d been naïve as a child.

  She took it all in, the gruff whisper close to her face, like a priest in a confessional. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t ask questions. She held his hands tight against her chest, calmly listening, the soft drumming of her heart a steady backbeat for every anguished word. When he finished, at last she still said nothing. She just stood, drawing him with her. And taking him up to their room, she put herself between him and his pain, her warm body a tightly held compress against the gaping, aching wound in his heart.

  For a long while after, the silence continued, her legs and arms tightly entwined around him. With his eyes closed, as the racing of his heart slowed, all he could think was that finally he understood what it meant, that she was his wife. He wasn’t alone. She’d been there all along, the consolation he so desperately needed. So at last, with her head resting on his shoulder, he whispered, “What should I do?”

  The curls brushed his chin as she shook her head. “We have to figure it out.”

  He sighed and shifted her a little so he could see her face, look into her eyes. “I sent a letter to the Fort asking to see Andy Brubaker. I have to talk to him if he’ll see me. But it’s pretty clear, isn’t it?” He watched her carefully. “I mean, I’m not crazy, am I? To think that Swede …”

  “No,” she said it softly, but the firmness of the word left no room for him to doubt or hope. “You’re not wrong.”

  “But I can’t prove it.” She turned even more, and her deep blue eyes were encouraging as she waited out his hesitation. “Most of the time, I want to just forget it, ignore it, pretend I don’t know what I do. But today, when I was talking to Annie Fowler, I wanted to write it. She was so right. She does deserve to know what happened. He’s a public man. Everyone deserves to know. And God forgive me, at that moment, I wanted to be the person to write it. How’s that for loving him like a brother?” She didn’t look away. She didn’t even blink. “Waterman’s onto this, isn’t he?” She nodded. “He knows it has something to do with a fire. He thinks it was here in Lindsborg?” She nodded again. “How long before he puts it together?”

  “I don’t know. He’s coming at it from the Webster angle, and when he was here last, things weren’t quite fitting. Jack, how does Webster figure into this? Does he?”

  Jack sighed. “I think I know, but I need to talk to Andy first before I can say for sure.” She didn’t ask him to speculate. “He’s too good, isn’t he, not to get it eventually.” His voice became strangled, and she ran her fingers down along his wrist, a soft caress. She knew he was talking about Sam. “The whole thing with the Grand Jury, that’s Swede’s doing. He’s trying to get Waterman locked up, probably hoping to get him fired too. Jesus, it’s a goddamned race. How close is he? How long before Sam nails it down?”

  Her fingers tightened around his wrist. “Sam’s life is awfully messy right now. He’s not at the top of his game.” She sat up and ran her hand through her hair. “Jack, you do love Swede. You’re sick over what he’s done, but your history together is too long.” She paused and then slowly, reluctantly asked, “You want to protect him from Waterman? It wouldn’t be hard to misdirect Sam. He’d never think that I’d …”

  He pulled back, startled at the suggestion. “No. Don’t lie to Waterman. This god-awful mess might suck me down, but not you too. I’m the one who has to deal with it. I need to talk to Andy Brubaker. And then, I suppose, I’d better talk to Swede.

  For the first time in his professional life, Sam was struggling. The doctor at the veterans’ hospital was ignoring the messages from “Keith Benedict,” and short of showing up on his doorstep, Sam knew there was no good way to reach him. On top of that, he still hadn't pinned a fire to Carl Erickson. He'd done a Lexis-Nexis search for "Fatal Fire, Lindsborg, Iowa" and come up with zip. The last fatal fire in the area had been more than 30 years ago at a farmhouse well out in the countryside. An old woman had fallen asleep, presumably with a smoldering cigarette in her hand. No way that could be the 'young boys burning' that so deviled Carl Erickson in his last days.

  Meanwhile, the grand jury investigation into the leaker of the autopsy report proceeded. It was a given that the doctor had testified and denied he was the source. Sam had spent an unpleasant hour with Politifix's attorneys, telling them what he could and listening to their advice.

  They’d represent Sam in court, and they were doing what little they could to stall the summons for Sam to appear. But there was no doubt now that it was coming and coming soon. They left it up to him to decide if he would just accept the damn thing or try to dodge being served. If Sam couldn’t be found, the subpoena couldn’t be served. If Sam hadn’t been served, he wouldn’t be in violation of the law. Dodson and Johnson made it clear to the staff to give Sam a heads-up if someone came looking for him. Colleagues got a kick out of ribbing him about getting a running start. At least his bosses weren’t going to can him if he suddenly turned up AWOL. But that was the most help they
could give him.

  It didn’t help that Sarah and Steve had insisted on giving him short, quick-hit stories to work on. Of course, he saw their point. How could they count on him to run with something ongoing, or a deep investigative piece, if they couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t be on the lam or in jail from one day to the next? And that held true for the convention too. Sam was still going to Kansas City, but only, he suspected, because Johnson didn’t want to kick him while he was down. He'd be in the last wave of Politifix's team to arrive, and he sure wasn’t doing any of the high-profile stories that required a lot of groundwork and planning. Sam would serve as one of the hod-carriers when things got moving at the end of the week.

  The fact that Erickson had rewarded Politifix for pulling Sam off the campaign by giving Ev’alyn Bundy unprecedented access burned him even more. Of course, Erickson had charmed her to the point of delirium. Every fucking story she wrote on him was softer than baby shit.

  And then there was the divorce. He’d signed the final papers, which bothered him less than he thought it should, and not nearly as much as the enormous check he signed for his attorney. The decree would be filed while he was at the convention. He was sure he should feel something deeper than relief, but so far regret just didn’t seem to be in his repertoire. The fact that there were rumblings all over the Hill about Morton improperly using committee staff during his failed campaign did concern Sam though, whether for Judith’s sake or his own, he didn’t bother to analyze.

  Drinking more, eating less and still smoking, he felt like crap. He always stayed at the newsroom until very late, mostly because he had nothing better to do. But he rarely surfaced before noon. In fact, today he came in just in time to see Bundy and Sarah getting ready to go to lunch. Slumped in his chair, his hangover grueling, he watched from under hooded eyes, as the two chattered about Bundy’s senior role at the convention.