Gathering String

by Mimi Johnson

  Jack shrugged as he dipped his card through the reader and opened the door to his undisturbed room. “No smoking on this floor, by the way.”

  Sam winced and asked, “What makes you think he’s keeping tabs on me?”

  Jack tossed the key card onto the table and pulled back the drapes to reveal a rainy and unseasonably cool day. Sam propped his bags in a corner. “He mentioned that Politifix had sat on you, said you hadn’t covered anything more important than the House Transportation Committee for the last few weeks. I believe those were his words.”

  Sam laughed grimly, his back to Jack. “Well, he’s got that right. But most any slob who reads our web site could spot that.”

  “I suppose,” Jack was still staring out the window. And then he asked, “Your editor is a guy named Johnson?”

  “Yeah?” Sam looked at Westphal over his shoulder.

  “Swede said you guys are pretty tight friends. Does he have that right too?”

  There was a fraction of a pause, and then Sam answered cautiously, “Yeah. But a lot of people know …”

  “And your divorce? He seemed to think that would be final today.”

  Sam frowned sharply, and he bent down to his laptop case, rummaging in one of the side pockets and fishing out a slim folder. Pulling out the papers, he studied one carefully, reading fast. Jack rolled his eyes as Sam muttered, “Holy shit, it became official at midnight. I didn’t think about … I knew it would be this week, but I guess I never bothered to check the exact …” He looked across the room, his mouth gaping a little.

  Jack frowned back at him. “Imagine what he’ll be up to if he ever does have the CIA at his disposal.”

  They spent hours going over everything again and again. In the early afternoon, Sam could see that Jack was exhausted, and suggested they order room service, even while he pushed him with more questions. Sam was starving. Jack could barely eat. And when the repetition finally became too much for even Sam, sometime after four o’clock, he finally flipped on the TV to watch CNN’s afternoon convention coverage.

  Jack had tried Tess several more times, but still got no answer on her cell or at the house. He settled back in his chair, worried, wondering where she was.

  When film footage of the Erickson family having lunch at Arthur Bryant's barbecue joint came on, Sam cocked his head to one side, saying, “Well there’s a happy family scene." He laughed a little. "The wife and daughter both look like they want to run for the door as the nominee tucks into a side of beef. Huh. No one would ever guess the man’s covered up murder. Hey, where’s his schmendrick brother?”

  “What?” Jack had actually been dozing in his chair.

  “The brother? What’s his name? Peter? They’re all there but him.”

  Jack watched the screen. “I don’t know. Swede mentioned he was here last night. He must be around somewhere. Hey,” he sat up suddenly. “I did forget to tell you something.” He told Sam about Pete seeing to it that Carl had the way and the means to drink himself to death.

  “Christ almighty,” Sam was writing in his notebook furiously. “How many times did I ask you if we’d covered everything? Now you’re telling me the younger brother pretty much killed the old man. Didn’t you think that was a little bit fucking important?”

  “Give me a break!” Jack snapped back. “I have had no sleep, and I’ve spent hours combing through every detail with you.”

  “And you’re obviously still missing some mighty big ones.”

  “Well, maybe if I could just get an hour or two of sleep …”

  “Fine,” Sam snapped his notebook closed. “Get some shut eye while I’ll grab a shower.” He realized suddenly that he was only there by Jack’s tolerance, and amended, “If you don’t mind.” He pointed toward the bathroom.

  “Just go on,” Jack shut his eyes again, and wondered at the irony of being saddled with Waterman. He knew if he went to any other newsperson to out Erickson’s secrets, Swede would know immediately who the leak was and carry out his threats. But after the way he’d taunted Jack about Sam and Tess, Jack also knew Erickson would never dream that he would go as a source to Waterman. And it hadn’t been easy. Every time Waterman opened his mouth, he was tempted to push his fist down his throat. It had been his intention to just tip Sam about the Sheffield fire and move on as fast and as far as possible from the whole convention. Now somehow they were roommates for the afternoon. He slumped in the chair, wishing he was home; wishing he could turn back the clock before any of it had happened.

  He couldn’t have slept long. The shower was still running when his cell phone went off. It was Tess’s ringtone. Groggy, he answered, “Where have you been?” He knew he sounded angry, but he couldn’t stop the worry that roughened his voice.

  “I had to shut off my phone for an appointment, and I just now realized it was still off.” Her voice sounded odd, strained and edgy. “I tried to call you a couple times before I left this morning, but you didn’t pick up. Did you talk to him last night?”

  “It didn’t go well,” Jack began slowly, wondering how to tell her what had happened over the phone. And then the shower cut off, and he realized that he could faintly hear raggedness to her breathing, as if she were winded. “Are you OK?” He sat up. “Tess?” All he got for an answer was a rough clearing of her throat. “What’s wrong?”

  “I, I ran down to Des Moines this morning,” he could tell she was struggling to keep her voice as steady.

  “Why? I thought …”

  “I needed to see someone.” He caught his breath. She’d been so tired and pale. But before he could ask, she said, “Everything was fine when I left, but when I got back to the house things were …” Her voice faded.

  “What’s happened?” He felt the adrenaline of fear pump through his sluggish brain, and he came to his feet.

  “Someone’s been in here.” It came out as a shaky whisper.

  “A break-in?” He heard the bathroom door open.

  “Nothing’s been taken. But things have been moved around. And my workroom … ” he felt cold as a quiver shook her voice, “Someone threw some paint and stuff around in there.”

  His stomach rolled over. “Your work?”

  “It’s fine, no damage, just a mess on the walls and floor. But Jack, the door wasn’t broken. No windows either. Whoever came in had a key or something. But, but … even before I went in ... ” her voice broke and she couldn’t go on.

  “Tess? Tess?” He gripped the phone, listening helplessly to the jagged sound of a stifled sob and looked up to see Waterman, hair wet and holding a towel, watching him with a frown of concern. “Try to …”

  “It’s Rove … it’s Rover,” he shut his eyes at the broken words. “He was on the p–porch, and,” She cleared her throat, then caught her breath and spoke clearly, “and he was lying dead, right by the front door. I think it looks like someone shot him.”

  “I’m coming home,” Jack’s voice was firm, and he started looking around the room to gather his things, trying to keep his voice calm as he spoke. “And I want you to get out of there, right now.” At these words Sam dropped the towel, moved to his own bag, and began stuffing things back inside. “Drive over to Dolly’s for the night. Don’t stay there.”

  “Dolly and Drake left for Europe a week ago. I can’t go there. But I’m OK." She sniffled, but her voice was steady again.

  “Get out. Go back to Des Moines. Stay with a friend or get a hotel room. The farm’s too isolated, damn it.”

  “I’ll be fine, I promise. I just feel bad about poor old Rover.” There was a pause, and a gritty edge came to her words. “Jack, besides yours and mine, there’s only one other key to our house, and the last I knew it was at Augusta’s. This has something to do with …”

  “Yes.” The one word was enough.

  “God damn him,” her voice rose not with fear but with fury. “He’d do this to you? Just to hurt us? Or to scare … Oh my God,” the chill in her words caused a shiver down his back. “He’s
threatening you. He’s threatening us. Oh my God …”

  “Tess, a lot, well, a whole lot has happened. Look, I’m leaving here in just a few minutes. I’ll explain when I get home. But I want you to get out right now. I don’t want you there all alone.”

  “I’ll go to Wal-Mart and buy new locks, good strong deadbolts. I’ll put them on. I can figure out how.”

  “Stay in town then. Eat dinner in town, at the Wishbone where a lot of folks will be around. Then go over to the Journal and wait for me there. I don’t want you out there miles away from anyone.” He realized suddenly that Waterman had come to stand next to him, acting as if he wanted to take the phone. He frowned down at him.

  “No, I’m not letting anyone scare me out of our home, especially that rat-bastard.” Her angry voice was so clear Sam could hear, and one corner of his grim mouth turned up. “Come on home. I’ll be here waiting.” She hung up.

  “Damn it, she is so stubborn,” Jack spun around and started pulling his bag out of the closet.

  “What happened?” Sam’s lips were white.

  “I think I know where Pete went.”

  “What?” Sam asked again.

  “Swede must have sent him home on a very early flight. He was in the house while she was out. And he shot the dog.”

  Their eyes met, and Sam’s narrowed. “That ugly dog? What kind of a whack-job ... ?” The fear in Jack’s eyes was suddenly plain, and then Sam felt it, too, a hot sting along his nerves as he really took in what Jack said. Peter Erickson was probably still in Lindsborg, and he was running around with a gun. “I’ll help you pack so we can get going."

  “We?” Jack had been unzipping his bag, and stopped abruptly. “You’re the one who’s crazy. Not my house. No way.”

  “Fuck that,” Sam said. “I’m not done with you yet. You may be off the record, but that doesn’t mean I can do this alone. We’ve talked about what Erickson said to you last night, but I still need to know your sources. I want their names, connections, contact information; we haven’t even touched any of that. And I need to figure out how to reach them without getting nailed with that subpoena. If you want Erickson off your ass, then you better help me get this story pretty damn quick.”

  Jack just stared at him, dumbstruck. Sam moved to the closet, pulled out the few things that were hanging there, and tossed them toward the taller man. “Here, keep packing. Erickson wants you to get your ass home in a hurry and knew a damn good way to light a fire under it. Let’s give him what he wants. I sure as hell can’t stay here and your farm is the last place anyone’s going to look for me.”

  Jack hesitated for one more second and then went for his shaving gear.

  Chapter 39

  It was an excruciating trip. Jack hoped they were leaving late enough to miss rush hour, but an accident and some construction clogged the downtown streets and brought I-35 down to a crawl. He bobbed and weaved from lane to lane, finally coming to a full stop and muttering, “Goddamn it.”

  As frustrated as Westphal, deeply aware of the fact that Tess was alone where a dangerous man was probably lurking, Sam could almost see the thick cloud of tension filling the Jeep. Deciding the only way they’d both survive the drive was to fall back on work, he reached down and dug around in the laptop case at his feet, pulling out a notebook and a pen. “Tell me what first got you rolling on the Sheffield fire. Where did you start?”

  Jack sighed, as the lane began to slowly crawl again, trying to remember. “There was a fire at the Lindsborg Chamber of Commerce.”

  Sam nodded. “I remember the Record ran a hell of a picture of a firefighter, with icicles hanging all down …” He glanced up to see Jack looking over at him, his face pulled down in stern lines, and Sam shut his mouth.

  “It wasn’t handled well by the state’s fire marshal’s office,” Jack went on. “As I looked into it, it was plain that the place is badly administered. I started to wonder how Miller got the job. Then Augusta let it slip that he was one of Swede’s appointments, and that Miller had been real helpful when their store in Sheffield burned.” He glanced over at Sam, who was writing with raised eyebrows, nodding in appreciation.

  As the traffic thinned, Jack’s truck picked up speed, and he told, bit by bit, how the details came together. He explained about Swede’s slip in the New Hampshire speech and how he contacted the insurance investigator to find out if Carl had ever been issued a passport.

  "An investigator?" Sam stopped writing. "Was that all you had him check on?"

  Jack shook his head. "No. He also checked on the financial condition of the chain at the time of the fire. He found they were all in good shape, except for the Sheffield store. That one was heavily overstocked. A management error."

  "That all you used him for?" Sam asked. Jack nodded and Sam muttered, "An investigator. Jesus Christ."

  "Look, you want me to go on or not?" Jack snapped. Sam sighed and made a circular motion with his pen. Jack picked up the story, explaining that, after interviewing Clint Delavan, he stumbled across the fact that Carl Erickson supposedly left for Sweden the day after the Sheffield fire. “I knew he couldn’t have gone on that trip. After that, it was more a matter of confirming what I suspected than uncovering things.” He told of Swede calling him off the Miller story, and then, slowly and in great detail, about his conversations with Ann Fowler and finally Andy Brubaker just a few days ago.

  When he stopped talking, Jack realized his throat was dry and tired. With Sam only giving small questions to encourage him, they were approaching the Iowa border, even after another construction slowdown, and Jack had talked nearly the whole time.

  Sam tucked away the notebook. He rubbed his eyes as he said, “That day I was at the Journal, I was looking at back issues for a story about an injury fire at the Corner Grocery Store.”

  “I knew that,” Jack admitted quietly. “Thurm McPaul left me a voice mail that you’d been asking about a fire. I listened to it right before I came down.”

  Sam’s mouth was tight. “I checked every fucking front page for decades. Where was it?”

  “Buried inside, the fourth page.” Sam looked over at him sharply, waiting, and after a long pause, Jack said, “Swede asked me to play it down.” Sam snorted, shaking his head. Jack asked, “When did you put it together, that the fire was in Sheffield?”

  Sam didn't answer for a few seconds. But Westphal was certainly playing straight with him. He drew a deep breath and said, "I took your advice and decided to do a little crowdsourcing. I found a Facebook historical group listed on your site and opened a Gmail account ...”

  "Oh my God," Jack's eyes left the road to drill Sam. "You're Quincy Nordquist? You're the guy doing 'research' on volunteer firefighters?"

  "You monitor the lists?" Sam was surprised.

  "Damn straight. I watch 'em for news tips, and that question sure as shit caught my eye. Jesus, you misrepresented yourself."

  Sam barked, "Well, it looks like we both have a few sins to answer for, Hoss. You were going to give Erickson a pass if he dropped out. At least I was hell bent for the story. I was heading for Sheffield just as soon as the convention was over.”

  “No you weren’t.” Jack smiled a little.

  “I sure the fuck was. I …”

  “No,” Jack cut off Sam’s protest. “You would have opened your door to that guy with the summons this morning. You’d be on your way back to D.C. right now, to meet with lawyers.” Sam’s eyes went wide.

  And neither of them seemed to have anything more to say. Sam settled back in his seat as the construction zone widened to two lanes, and Jack flipped on the stereo. When they cleared the Iowa border, the Jeep’s speedometer hovered just under 100.

  They stopped for gas at Osceola a little before eight. Jack picked up a couple bottles of Coke. While Sam was in the can, he stood outside and called Tess. To his relief, she picked up right away.

  “I got the locks. While I was in town, I stopped at the Journal. Tom and Laramie came out to help me put the
m on. They, ah, took care of Rover too. I didn’t tell them about anyone being in the house. They thought some hunter nailed the poor dog by mistake and left him on the porch to be found.”

  “Yeah, that happens sometimes. Tess, please, won’t you go over …”

  “I’ll be OK, Jack. The boys just left and everything’s locked up tight now. Anyway, with the way you’re driving, you’ll be home soon.”

  “Well, we got hung up in Kansas City rush-hour, but since then …”

  “We?” She interrupted.

  He’d been trying to figure out how to tell her who was with him, and why. He certainly had to say something before Sam walked through their front door. “I’ve got Waterman with me,” he blurted. There was silence on the line. “Tess?” Still silence. “Are you there?”

  At last she said, faintly, “Sam? Are you joking?”

  “There’s nothing funny about it.” He watched Sam at the checkout.

  Nearly breathless with surprise, she asked, “Why in God’s name … ?”

  “It’s complicated. He’s the only one …” He could see Sam heading for the door. “Look, I’ll explain it all when I get there.”

  “But …”

  “Please.”

  With a frustrated sigh she gave up, saying, “I’ll be up when you get here.”

  He was shoving his phone in his pocket when Sam joined him on the sidewalk. “She OK?” Jack nodded. It was a muggy night, the air heavy. To the west sheet lightning jumped between the clouds. A new pack of cigarettes stuck out the top of Sam’s shirt pocket.

  “Don't smoke in my Jeep,” Jack said sternly.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sam sighed. “Well, let’s honk on it.”

  As Jack made the tight curve back onto the interstate, he punched it, the sudden acceleration pressing Sam back in his seat. “Whoa there, Hoss. You’re just begging to get pulled over.”

  Jack shook his head. “I’ve been up and down this interstate a thousand times. I know where the speed traps are.” Sam shrugged, and scrunched down in his seat to sleep. Jack turned up the air and flicked the stereo louder.