by Mimi Johnson
“And think how hard things could get for your wife,” he went on. “It was common knowledge around the Trib, the way she and Waterman carried on. It wouldn’t be hard to let the word out about what happened between them. Folks around town don’t put much beyond her as it is. But once they find out about her and a married man, one everyone saw her running around town with just awhile back? Hell, that old crone Thelma will be delighted, saying she knew all along and that your wife is just a ... Well, it would get awfully hard for Tess to show her face in Lindsborg, don’t you think?
Jack watched his own mouth form the words, “I’ll put you in jail first.”
“Would you? Shit, Jack, you’ve got some balls, thinking you can bring down a big gun like me. Oh sure, you talked to the Fowler woman and that poor slob Wendell Carlson, but they can’t prove what happened. You’ve got to know I can take care of that problem with Carl’s passport. Where’s your evidence? ”
“You’ve admitted everything.”
“Have I?” There was an odd, almost kindly look in Swede’s eyes. “It looks to me like there’s just you and me here. Once you walk out, who’s to say what we talked about? Where are your witnesses?”
Jack didn’t say anything, just continued to look into Erickson’s face, watching the hard-edged anger drain away, replaced by a surprising, weary sympathy.
“Ah, I hate this like hell, Jack. If it had done any good I’d have lied to the Lord God Almighty to spare dragging you into this. But like you said, you knew when you walked in here what happened and why. You remember that time. I’d just been elected governor. I hadn’t even been inaugurated. There was no way I was going to let that son-of-a-bitch ruin me before I even got started. My whole term would have been tainted by his trial. And I would have never had a second. So I did what I had to do. It wasn’t that I wanted that poor kid to go to jail. His father is a drunk too. Every time I looked at the boy, I saw what could have happened to me if it hadn't been for your dad."
"And what do you think he would say if he was standing here instead of me?"
Swede looked blank and then his mouth turned down. "Jim was the who told me again and again not to let Carl drag me down. That's all I was trying to do. Hell, I didn't want anyone else to be hurt, but I couldn't help it. Carl was the Typhoid Mary of pain. I would have been delighted to see him rot in prison. But the cost to me was just too high.
“There were just the three of us, Pop, Pete and I, who knew exactly what happened in the store that night. Webster and Miller each had parts of it, so I took care of them. But only the three of us knew everything. And for a long time, that’s the way it stayed. Then we had to put Pop in the veteran’s hospital, and he started losing it. Pete was terrified when he started babbling. I tried to tell him no one would pay attention to the ravings of a sick old man, but Pete decided to put a stop to it.” Jack caught his breath, and Swede nodded. “Yeah, that’s how ill Pete was. And still is. He lives with fear every day. Try to imagine what that does to a man’s mind. He was the one who snuck the old man out and gave him all the liquor it would take. Funny, that it was Pete who finally brought him down. I’d have never thought of it.”
In the reflection, Jack could see Swede’s head cock toward him. “Well, it looks like there are three of us who know it all again. Jack, I didn’t let a crazy bastard drag me down, and I don’t think you should either. You’ve got a great life going. Neither one of us wants to see the Journal fail. You’ve worked so hard, for so long. It would be a shame to lose it all. And neither of us wants to see your wife hurt. She’s made you happy, and the thing with Waterman was over before she even knew you. It's all in the past.
“So go. Go to your room and get some shut-eye. Sleep late for a change. Then go on home tomorrow and stay there. We’ve always understood each other, and now we’ll understand each other even better. We’ll still be close. We’ll still spend our Thanksgivings and Christmases together. Only for the next few years, you’ll help us celebrate at the White House.”
He reached up and gently patted Jack on the back. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. All this is ancient history, over so long ago. You don’t need to worry about it. We won’t ever talk about it again. And Jack, your paper’s going to have a great year. The Corner Grocery Store chain will pay a special ad rate. We'll even increase the number of coupons offered online. Bump up those printing costs too. I want you to have everything you need.
“You don’t need to stay to cover the acceptance speech. I’ll be sure to email you the whole text so you'll have it before everyone else. But go on home tomorrow. I’ll be checking to make sure you get there safely.”
Jack and Sam
Chapter 38
Evie Bundy was an early riser, and this morning she was particularly anxious to see what the competition had done with last night’s Politifix story saying Erickson confirmed Tami Fuller as his running mate. She was itching to read “according to a copyrighted story in Politifix” in the Times, the Globe and especially the Washington Tribune. She was giddy at the prospect of the Trib eating her shit after they'd cut her loose.
But to her frustration, she couldn’t link up to the wireless connection in her room. Just a little after six, she decided to chance that the press area above the convention floor would be largely deserted. She could use the Internet connection in the Politifix booth, and hurried out in a T-shirt and yoga pants, not even bothering to brush her teeth.
Except for the morning television shows, which were way down on the other end, the press booths were dead. She scanned all the major papers’ websites, finding exactly what she expected and enjoying it much more. She didn’t hear him come in, and had no idea how long he’d been standing a few feet away before saying softly, “Excuse me?”
She jumped, and turned with an annoyed frown, expecting to see a drunken delegate who had wandered into the press section. But her mouth went wide with a smile at the sight of the fantastically tall and classically featured man. Bleary-eyed and rumpled, it only made him more appealing, and she noticed the press credential around his neck. His hair and the light jacket he wore were damp. Running her tongue over her gritty teeth, she ducked her head and asked, “Is it raining out?”
He looked surprised at her question, and then answered in a deep baritone, “Misting, since about four o’clock.”
She figured he’d been out partying with the rest of the people from whatever organization he was with. Ragged as he was, he certainly had the looks for one of the TV news outlets. She regretted not bothering with make-up, but tried her most becoming smile. “Rough night, huh?”
Small lines creased his forehead as his brows drew together, and self-consciously he ran a hand through his hair. There was tension in his words when he asked, “I don’t suppose you can tell me where I can find Sam Waterman? Is he supposed to be here later today?”
“Sam?” She gave him another hard look. In spite of his off-the-charts looks, his face was pale, and there was an uneasy look to his brown eyes. She began to wonder if something was wrong with him. The guy didn’t look like he’d had a night out on the town. He looked upset. “I suppose he’ll slime his way in here some time …” she stopped abruptly and sat forward trying to get a good look at the credentials he wore, suddenly realizing this could be the summons server they’d been warned about. Much as she despised Waterman, even Bundy would give him fair warning of a subpoena.
“Look, I just need to see him,” there was impatience in his voice as he stepped closer, reaching for the notebook on the table next to her. “Would you see he gets my cell number? Ask him to call me?”
She could read the name on the press badge then and caught her breath. “Oh my God, you’re, you’re, ah …” she struggled to cover her gaffe. “You’re from the candidate’s hometown?”
His eyes dropped to the lanyard around his neck. “Yeah, I’m with the Lindsborg Journal.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I should have told you that. But this, it’s just …” He hesitated, and she realized he was
struggling to be polite while keeping a hold on his straining emotions. “It’s a personal matter, and Sam …”
“A personal matter?” And she was certain that someone here had just clued him in about Sam and Tess. Her face lit up at the mental image of Waterman opening his door to Benedict’s big, tall, and colossally pissed-off husband. “In that case, here,” she giggled and called up a roster of the Politifix convention team on her laptop. “I’ve got his room number.” Westphal’s eyes widened with surprise. She grabbed the notebook from his hand and scribbled it down. “Just keep it to yourself where you got it, OK? He’s not exactly a morning person.” She ripped out the page and handed it to him.
Sam was dead asleep when the knocking started. For a few confused moments, he looked around, trying to remember where he was. The knocking came again, more insistent, and finally he sat up, ran his hand over his face, and checked the bedside clock. There had to be some mistake. No one could possibly need him this early in the morning. But the knocking came again. Pulling himself out of the bed, he struggled into a pair of sweatpants, and groaned as the knocking increased, reverberating in his hung-over head. He pulled on a tattered T-shirt, and stumbled to the door.
Cracking it, he peered out through the one eye he could get open. Slowly it rose to Jack Westphal’s face. “OK, I must not be sober yet,” he mumbled. “Because there is no reason in hell for you to really be outside my door.” Sam swung the door to shut it in the tall man’s face, but Jack’s hand caught the edge and held it firm. Sleepy, queasy, but always bold, Sam barked, “What the fuck do you want? Do you know what time it is?”
Jack’s voice was a deep, hushed whisper, “You want Swede Erickson? I can give him to you.”
Waterman stared at him through bloodshot eyes, his face screwed up with skepticism. “What bullshit is this? You think I forgot you spend holidays at Terrace Hill? You think I forgot you got married in the cocksucker’s office? How fucking stupid do you think I am?”
“Enormously. But I know why he's paying off Webster, and I know you need that information real, real bad.”
Sam shook his head. “This is some kind of campaign dirty trick, and I’ll burn in bloody hell before I fall for it.” He leaned heavily into the door, and it started to close, but Westphal pushed back hard. It grazed Sam’s shoulder as it flew back and hit the doorstop with a shudder. Then Jack’s hand shot out again, the tips of his fingers hitting Sam’s chest just hard enough to make him stumble back a few feet. As he came into the room, Jack slammed the door shut with a slam behind him.
In spite of the younger man’s size, Sam felt his fist bunch, and he wanted nothing more than to send it flying toward that hard-set jaw. But never a fool, he caught his breath and growled, “So you are giving me what I need?” Jack nodded. “Tell me why, and tell me quick, before I throw you out of here on your ass.”
With a nasty grin, Jack said softly, “He threatened me. He threatened my Journal. And I’m going to see him in hell for it.”
There was a strange, hard glitter in Westphal’s eyes that made Sam pause, releasing his fist and asking, “You know everything about the Sheffield fire and how Carl Erickson is connected?” If Jack was surprised that Sam had that much information, he only nodded. “You’ll answer all my questions?” Jack nodded again. “On the record?” When Jack shook his head, Sam didn’t hesitate. “Then get the hell out of here, you son of bitch. If you can’t say it on the record, I don’t need to fucking hear it.” He would have pushed past Jack to open the door.
This time, the big hand locked into the fabric of Sam’s shirt. Jack nearly pulled him off his feet, fighting the urge to shake him like a dog shaking a rat. “Yes, you do.” He opened his hand with a flick, and Waterman stumbled back farther into the room. “So sit down, shut up, and try to listen.”
Over the next hours, Sam filled three notebooks with his scrawling notes and the air with haze from his chain smoking. The table between them was littered with four or five little bottles, the remains of Sam’s raid on the mini bar after he left Bundy. The rumpled bed, the explosion that was Sam’s bag in the corner on the floor, the heavy curtains shutting out the light, and the two grubby men, red-eyed and whisker-stubbled, all added to the grimness.
As Jack talked, he flicked one of the empty bottles, watching it spin on its side, twirling it again and again as he told of his confrontation with Erickson the night before, and then painstakingly answered every one of Sam’s questions.
But he didn’t say anything about Erickson’s references to Waterman or Tess.
Sometime around 7:30, Jack’s cell phone started ringing. It was Tess’s tone, and it went off every 15 minutes for an hour. He knew she must be beside herself, but he wasn’t about to talk to her with Waterman sitting right there. He didn’t answer. Around nine, the phone in Sam’s room started to ring periodically. And right after, his cell phone would go off. He let them both go.
“OK,” Sam sighed, as he leaned back and stuck his finger down into the soft-pack of Marlboros for another. With a grunt, he realized his last pack was empty, and crumbled it in his hand. “Tell me again what he said about your paper?”
“No revenue, no Journal,” Jack rubbed his eyes. “I believe those were his exact words.”
“And that’s what pushed you to me? The threat to your paper?”
Jack blinked across the table. “He was right about one thing. I’m not about to let a bastard do me out of the things I’ve worked so hard for.”
Sam squinted at him. “Yeah, but this is a pretty cagey guy. Won’t he put it together that you’re my source? If he does, then you’re still screwed.”
With a chilling smile, Jack shook his head. “No. I’m not sure of much about him anymore, but I’m positive he'd never think that I'd come to you.”
Still skeptical, still wondering if he was somehow being used, Waterman’s eyes held Westphal’s over the table, and he asked simply, “Why?” But as Jack hesitated, there was a knock on the door. Sam glanced at it, and stood up. “It’s housekeeping. I forgot the …”
But Jack sprang up right behind him. “Don’t,” it was a low mutter. “Let me …”
Sam frowned at him and would have spoken again, but Jack shook his head quickly, and then inclined it toward the bathroom. For a second Sam hesitated, then Jack gave him a little shove, whispering, “Leave the light off.”
Standing in the dim room, Sam heard the door squeak as Jack pulled it open. There was a pause, and he heard Jack say, “Yes?”
A man’s voice came back with a doubtful, “Samuel Waterman?”
“Sorry. You have the wrong room.” Sam smiled reluctantly. Jack’s voice sounded bland, only slightly annoyed. Not a bad bluffer.
The door squeaked again as he went to close it, but the man on the other side said, “The front desk gave this as his room.”
Sam couldn’t see Jack shrug. “They made a mistake. I checked in here yesterday. Are they supposed to give that out anyway?”
“This is a legal matter, sir, and they were bound by law to provide the information I asked for. Do you know Mr. Waterman? Tall, well not so tall as you, dark hair, going gray, pushing 50.” Sam’s frown came back. He wasn’t quite 45. “Works for something called Politifix?” The man’s voice asked.
“Never heard of him,” Jack’s voice became ever so slightly more aggravated. “I’m with the Des Moines Record. Look, there was some mix-up with rooms when I got in. The front desk is probably still trying to sort it out. You might check with people down in the press area.”
“I’ve been down there already. It’s imperative I find Mr. Waterman.” Behind the door, Sam closed his eyes.
“I can’t help. Try calling Politifix. They should know how to reach him.” This time Jack succeeded in closing the door.
It was quiet, and Sam realized his heart was hammering. Slowly he looked around the door, to find Westphal with one hand still on the doorknob, rubbing his eyes with the other. When he dropped his hand, he fixed Sam with a hard st
are. “Still think I’m here to hose you? Because it would have been real easy for me to let that guy in. He had the summons right in his hand.”
Sam frowned. “I’ve got to get out of here. He’ll be back.”
Jack nodded. “My room? I made a point not to let him get my name.”
As he gathered his things, Sam checked in with Politifix's center above the convention floor; they had been on the other end of the calls he'd ignored. Rick Higgins, who had been hired permanently just a week ago, had been the first one to peg the summons server, and several had seen him since. Sam called Steve Johnson back in D.C. to let him know he’d managed to dodge the guy so far, and that the convention team would have to get along without him.
“Where’re you hiding out?” Johnson asked. “Are you still going to try to make a run back to Iowa?”
“Let me get back to you on that,” Sam shot a guarded look at Westphal across the room. He was also holding a cell phone to his ear. “I’ve got my cell, and I’ll try to keep it charged so you can reach me. But something new has come up. Give me awhile to sort it out.”
Meanwhile Jack listened in frustration as the voice mail on Tess’s cell phone came on. She’d been the one calling while he and Sam talked, but now he couldn’t reach her.
They took the elevator up three floors to Jack’s room, and Waterman turned to him. “How did you know?”
Jack knew he was talking about the summons server. “Erickson mentioned you last night. I told him you were getting close to connecting him with Webster, and he said you’d be served before today was out.”
Sam nodded. “Anything else you’re holding back?”
The doors opened. As they walked down the hall, Jack said softly, “I think maybe he’s been having you watched.”
“Oh, come on,” Sam laughed. “That’s a little paranoid. It’s not like he’s president yet. He’s hardly got the CIA at his disposal.”