Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  "About time you surfaced, Sam," Sarah snapped as they passed his pod. He grunted in return, elbow on the desk, his forehead resting on the heel of his hand.

  "I tell you what, Sam," Bundy's voice made his eyes wince shut, "why don't you make the cigar run this year? It'll give you something to do until you get to the convention, and it'll really help out with the rest of the team so busy."

  "That's a Trib tradition, Evie," he growled. "Neither one of us work there any more."

  "Well, right now, you're hardly working at all. Just trying to keep you busy." She giggled the remark and kept moving, not noticing the sullen, blood-shot eye that came open to watch her departure.

  If it hadn't been for the goading, maybe he wouldn't have done it. The idea had been niggling at him for days as he mulled over and over the conversation he'd had with Westphal about using Facebook to crowdsource information. As the women's footsteps receded, he straightened up with an audible groan and reached toward his laptop, glancing around to make sure no one was looking at his screen.

  First he went to Gmail and created an account for “Quincy Nordquist.” Then Quincy created a Facebook account. Sam opened another browser tab and searched Westphal's Journal site for local Facebook groups, and Quincy immediately joined the one called Taft County History Buffs.

  “Doing research on the volunteer fire departments in the area for book project,” Quincy typed. “What are some major fires from the past that I should look into?"

  He minimized the browser without hitting post. For a while, he read through his Twitter stream. Then he browsed the Trib online, all while turning the possible consequences of the post over in his mind. This was crossing an ethics line. Just two weeks ago, he'd never have considered it. Sam knew that creating a bogus social media profile and misrepresenting himself online was out of bounds. It would give Dodson easy grounds for firing him, and Sam wouldn't have one word to defend what he'd done. But he also knew it might give him a lead without tipping his hand to other news sites. Or Erickson. Or that prick Westphal. And he was pretty sure it would never track back to him. He opened the browser page again and stared at it. Delete or post?

  From the hallway, he heard the sound of Evie Bundy's chihuahua-voice and clacking heels as she returned from lunch. Shutting his eyes, he hit return. Quincy's question posted.

  Chapter 35

  He heard them coming long before they opened the door. Sitting at a table, staring at the empty folding chair across from him, Jack listened as a distant a set of heavy doors rumbled open on an electric track, and then came together with a hollow clang.

  Jack had done interviews at the Fort before, and from the first one on, it was something to dread. He’d never understood how some people could go on about how pleasant prison life had become these days, with cable TV and inmates spending their time lolling in the library, filing nuisance suits against the state and watching porn in their cells. It was clear they’d never stared through windows at the tangles of razor wire while their paperwork was checked, or stood passively through a patdown before being allowed to see a prisoner. Even though the guards were perfectly polite, he never failed to feel a chill down his back as he was locked in to wait for them to bring the inmate. It had taken over three weeks to get this interview, and even now he was surprised that Andy Brubaker had agreed to see him.

  It had been an uneasy time for Jack. Swede called twice. The first call came to the house, and Tess had covered for him, telling the Governor that Jack had run out for a story and forgotten his cell phone. But a week later, Thelma caught the call that came into the office and scurried to the production room to find Jack.

  “You’re a hard man to reach these days,” Swede started as soon as Jack picked up. “I never really heard why you didn’t make it out to California, but I missed having you there. Now this campaign business is getting really fun, and I wanted to make sure you’re still planning on the convention.”

  “I’ll be there.” It wasn’t all that hard to sound normal. With surprise, Jack realized that on some level, he was still glad to hear Erickson’s voice. “How you doing, Swede?”

  “Good. Really good. So good, I’m almost giddy,” he answered with a laugh.

  “That’s hard to picture.” Jack wondered how Swede could be so jovial with Sam Waterman breathing down his neck.

  “Well, I’m rolling and I’m going to ride this train right into D.C., buddy. I want the family in Kansas City when I take the nomination, and that means you and Tess too.”

  An icicle of pain stabbed at Jack’s stomach. “Sorry, not Tess. She’s buried in work here. She’s starting that new series, and she’s pulling together some of her originals for a gallery opening in Boston in the fall.”

  “Boston? Jesus, good for her! That’s a long way from illustrating kiddy books. Remember that first little showing in Ames?”

  “Yeah,” Jack felt the pain deepen. “Listen, Swede, I could really use a sit-down with you sometime before Kansas City. Any chance you’ll be back before …”

  “None,” Swede’s voice was definite. “But if something’s wrong, Jack …”

  “There’s a problem, yeah.” The open letter with the clearance for his interview with Brubaker was on his desk, and he stared at it as he spoke. He certainly didn’t want to broach any of it over the phone.

  “You and Tess.” Jack was startled at the sudden sharpness in Swede’s voice, and he hesitated for just a second too long. “Damn it,” Swede’s voice rose sternly, “that little snip better be behaving. You’re too good a guy …”

  “No, no,” Jack broke in, “it’s nothing like that. Oh, we hit a rough patch a few weeks ago, but we’re good now.” It was only the truth. “But I thought …”

  “I’ll make time for you, Jack. Count on it. I’ll have Deb put you on the schedule. You get in when? The day of the nomination?”

  “Yes.”

  Jack could faintly hear a muffled voice telling the Governor something, and then Swede said, “Me too. I’ll see you that night. You’re right. We need to talk. You and Tess have been on my mind.” Jack frowned in confusion, but Swede hurried on, “Look, I’ve got to get rolling here. Did I tell you I’m in New York? Christ, sometimes I have to stop and think to remember which city I’m in. I’ll see you in a week, Jackie. Keep your chin up, and don’t let her give you any shit.” The line went dead.

  For Jack, his marriage was the salvation of the intervening weeks. Nothing was hidden. They each knew the other completely, the good and the bad, and they were still together, still there for each other. And the comfort he found in her taught him a whole new level of gratitude.

  But Jack couldn't say what happened didn't make a difference; the thought that Waterman had ever touched her was still enough to make him flush in anger. But he understood that was his problem. She was right. He'd made the rules. And in his most honest moments, Jack knew Waterman had been right too. Jack hadn't wanted to know, even when he pretty much already did. If it hadn't been for the St. Francis medal, he'd probably still be pretending he didn't.

  When Jack tossed the permission letter for his visit with Andy Brubaker on the kitchen table the other night, Tess squared her shoulders, as she looked it over. If there was concern, even fear, in her eyes when she looked back up at him, he knew both were reflected in his own. It meant everything that she was there with him.

  But he hated the toll it took on her. She’d been tired, her usual energy failing for the first time since they’d met. He’d noticed, also, since he did most of the cooking, that she was eating even less than usual. When he asked, she said she just wasn’t hungry. He knew she must be sick at heart.

  Now, he wondered again what Swede had meant when he said he and Tess had been on his mind. God knew the man had more important things to think about. The convention started on Monday.

  But footsteps were coming down the hall now, and he needed to focus on the interview he’d been dreading. The door swung open and three men walked in. Jack stood as he stud
ied the young man between the two prison guards.

  Andy Brubaker was now in his mid-twenties, but looked older. Much older. His eyes had a dull, empty look that made Jack think of the trophy animals hanging on the walls of T.J.'s Tavern. They were devoid of any curiosity or even interest. Painfully thin, Brubaker's skin was pasty white, as if there could be no warm blood in him, and his hair was a pale, almost pinkish blond that hung limply around his collar. A dark, cryptic tattoo crept from his collar up the right side of his neck to the edge of his jaw. But he didn’t look tough. He looked beaten. Actually, Jack thought, worse than beaten; he looked dead, like a walking corpse.

  Coming to the table, he sat down and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, watching Jack as he took his seat. “Thanks for seeing me,” Jack began. “I know talking about the fire must be …”

  Andy didn’t let him finish. “You got a light? They don’t let us have matches.” His voice was soft, almost whispery.

  “No, I’m sorry I don’t …”

  Silently Andy waved the cigarette at the guard who came forward with a lighter. Andy said, “I suppose I should have guessed you don’t smoke.” He bent his head and took a deep drag, then picked a little flake of tobacco off his tongue. Jack realized the cigarette didn’t have a filter. “Being an athlete and all, I mean. A couple guys on the block wanted to know if you were the same Westphal that played for Iowa State. I don’t remember it, but you must be, tall like you are.”

  Jack nodded, a little unsure just what to say. “That was quite awhile back. I’ve been a journalist for a long time now.”

  Andy said, “Yeah, I had a letter from Mrs. Fowler. She said you’d probably ask to see me. She really wanted me to talk to you. Otherwise …” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “She’s a nice lady, so here I am.”

  “I appreciate it,” Jack said, not quite able to bring himself to call this boy "Mr. Brubaker," remembering the venomous old man on the Sheffield loading dock. But calling this indifferent shell in front of him the childish name of Andy seemed absurd. “She very much wants, needs, to know the truth about what happened the night of the fire.”

  “I told her the truth. I didn’t start that fire, and she believes me,” Andy drew on the cigarette and seemed to be looking at something above Jack’s head. “She thinks you know who did. That’s what she very much needs to know.” The irritatingly quiet voice didn’t betray any emotion, but the flat eyes dropped to Jack’s and held them.

  “I don’t know anything. Not for certain. But I’m hoping by talking to you, I can find more places to look for proof.”

  “Why?” The question caught Jack off guard, and he hesitated to reply. “Why bother? It doesn’t matter to me anymore, and it just gets Mrs. Fowler upset. Why you stirring the pot now?”

  “Let’s just say I’m concerned about a friend. You must know what that’s like.” Jack wasn’t sure what reaction that would get, but he knew somehow he had to break through the frozen indifference.

  For a long moment the relentless eyes only stared and then, at last, there was a very slight flicker as Brubaker said, “I didn’t want anything to happen to Bobby and Jeff.”

  “I know. I know you didn’t. And I have some good reasons to think you probably didn’t start that fire. I know you guys went there that night to trash the place, and I know that you said you all hid when someone came in the back door. What I’m hoping is that you can give me some clue who it might have been.”

  Andy slouched back in his chair. “I told my lawyer everything I remembered about the guy. He said there wasn’t any evidence to back me up. It’s all in the court record.”

  “It was a juvenile case. I can’t get those records. So you’ve got to help me out. Why do you think it was a man that came in? Did you see him?”

  “No. He knocked some stuff over when he came in, and started swearing. It was a man’s voice. We hightailed it into the storage room. Jeff and Bobby got down on the floor behind the shelves, and I hid behind the door. He stopped just on the other side of it.” The barest trace of animation came to his face as he talked. “I was afraid to look around it, because I didn’t want him to see me. He was so close, I could hear him breathing.”

  “Was he trashing the place too? Another vandal?”

  Brubaker’s face crunched into a grimace that passed for a smile. “He knocked crap over because he was blind drunk. I could smell the booze on him. For a minute I thought my old man had come looking for me. But he was carrying a flashlight, and I could see the guy’s shadow. He was too tall and skinny to be Pa.”

  Jack suddenly felt tired. So tired he just wanted to put his head down and go to asleep. But he forced himself to ask, “What else did you see?”

  “Nothing. The guy moved off, toward the front of the store. That’s when we could hear the splashing and smell the gas. I snuck around the door to try to see what he was doing. Next thing I knew, a hot blast of air hit me, and I fell back. That’s what brought the metal shelves down on Jeff and Bob.” He paused, and Jack waited, watching as the cigarette burned close to Brubaker’s fingers, and still he managed one last drag before he let it drop to the floor. “I couldn’t pull it off them. I yelled at them to help, but I think they were out cold. I squeezed back out the window, thinking I could find help.” For a second the eyes seemed to grow larger at the memory, but they faded as they returned to Jack. “You must know the rest.”

  Jack nodded and asked, “Your defense attorney? His name was Richard Webster.” Sure as he was, his stomach knotted as Andy nodded. “Court appointed?”

  “I sure didn’t have a dime for a lawyer, and my father wasn’t going to help.”

  Swallowing to keep the rising nausea down, Jack asked, “Webster recommended the plea bargain?”

  “Yeah. He said it was the only way to beat a murder rap.”

  “Do you know if Webster met with the store owner?”

  “The owner was Governor Erickson. Well, almost the governor. I guess he hadn’t been sworn in yet. Yeah, he talked with him. Webster said he convinced him not to raise a stink if I’d plead out. And it guaranteed I’d only be convicted of a juvie offense. I was such a scared little shit, I thought I was lucky.” That brought a strange, twisted smile.

  “Time, gentlemen,” the guard, who had stood across the room staring out the window turned to them.

  Jack had what he came for, but he felt too tired to move from his chair. Carl Erickson had been the man in the store that night. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Drunk, he’d started the fire to get himself out of the failing mess he’d made. Two boys had been killed, another had his life destroyed, and Swede Erickson, Jack’s friend, his mentor, had covered it all up.

  Brubaker stood, and Jack could only stare up at him, numb. At last he mumbled, “Thank you. I … I know more now.” He tried to remember what else he should say. “I appreciate your time.”

  The contorted smirk returned. “Like they say, that’s all I got.” The guard stepped toward them. “I’ll tell the basketball fans on the block you said hello.” Jack nodded dumbly, and they took Andy Brubaker away.

  Tess was sitting out on the porch swing when he pulled in the drive. With Rover bouncing around him, Jack came up the walk. She scooted over for him, and the swing creaked as he sat. He put his arm around her shoulders. It was a perfect, soft summer evening. For a few seconds they looked out over the fields in silence, and then she asked quietly, “It was Carl?”

  “It was Carl. Webster was the kid’s defense attorney.”

  Tess closed her eyes. “That’s why Sam didn’t find the connection. It’s in a juvenile file. It’s closed.” Jack nodded. Swinging gently to and fro, they were silent again, watching the sun sink. At last, in the growing dusk, she leaned close, taking his big hand between her two small ones. “And now?”

  “Tomorrow I’ll drive to Kansas City.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  But he shook his head. “No, I don’t want you near him.” She looked so pale and dra
wn. “I’m going to see him, and I’m going to tell him to get out. I’ve got to get him to drop out. It’s the only way. And when he does, I’m going to try to forget this whole thing. I’m not going to help that poor kid. And I’m not going to help Annie Fowler. I want to. God knows they’ve suffered because of what he did. The story should come out. But I just can’t do it. I can’t be the one to do it to him.” He tightened his arm around her shoulder. It wasn’t close enough. His arm dropped to her waist, and he pulled her onto his lap and buried his face in her hair.

  Chapter 36

  The night before he left for Kansas City and the convention, Sam Waterman lingered at his desk checking what the Times and the Trib had to say about Erickson. He certainly wasn’t relying on Bundy coming up with anything noteworthy. But even the Times had nothing to shed light on the shady background Sam was sure lurked behind the all-American façade.

  It was pushing two a.m. when Sam decided he had to pack it in. His flight was early, although, for the first time, he felt no anticipation at the thought of attending a convention. Even at the first one he'd ever covered, his role had been more significant than it would be now. With that bitter thought, he reached to his laptop to begin shutting down, but then reconsidered and opened Facebook instead. No one was around, so it wouldn't be noticed when he checked Quincy Nordquist’s feed.

  The responses to Quincy's question were anything but helpful, and he half-wished he could show Hoss Westphal the crap this foray into crowdsourcing had netted him. Tonight Millie Swenson was going on about a fatal fire at the Page Theatre down in Shenandoah, and Sam groaned, knowing it had nothing to do with Carl Erickson. In another entry, a man mentioned Connie Bjorklund, the woman who died in the last fatal fire near Lindsborg years ago, saying she made the best apple pies he'd ever tasted. "Fucking Facebook," Sam muttered as he scrolled down through more discussion of Connie, who apparently also made great peach pies and outstanding fried chicken. If the old bird hadn't burned herself up in her bed, the fat in her diet sure as shit would have cooled her. Sam was tired, and he knew there was a bottle of Glenfiddich home on the kitchen counter. It was time to go home. He flipped to the last response and gave it a glance.