They headed to Tom’s desk, where he sat down and read through his notepad. Carl lit a cigarette and chewed the fat with Duong to alleviate the unmistakable tension in the air.
“Any trouble with you?” Carl asked him.
“Not so far. You?”
His gaze trailed off as he spotted Ian’s empty desk. His stuff was still sitting on it.
Duong looked over at it, too. “I miss him already.”
“Same. I guess we all gotta go sometime. But I didn’t want it to be now.”
Duong plucked a cigarette from the pack in Carl’s hand and lit it with a zippo. It was alright with Carl. They both owned one another a thousand times over for “borrowed” cigarettes and whiskey shots.
“I don’t like how there’s nothing happening today,” Duong said. “We haven’t seen nothing. It’s like they’re planning something, and we have no clue.”
“That was yesterday. They got lucky. Today, we’re alert. You can’t spit in this part of town without one of our people knowing about it.”
“Isn’t that the trouble? We’re perhaps too confident.”
Carl shrugged. He dipped his hand into his pocket again to touch the ring box. He envisioned putting it on Kaylyn’s finger, the look of joy on her face while he did it. He wanted to rehearse what he had to say, but it felt best to speak from the heart.
He shivered not from cold but from a fear he had never known.
“What’s up with you?” Duong inquired.
“Huh?”
“You look distracted. But not in a bad way.”
“I’m just optimistic about the whole thing.”
“He’s stuck on cloud nine,” Tom remarked. “It’s blinded him like a bat.”
Duong raised his eyebrows and laughed. “I see.”
“No,” Carl said. “I just trust Norton to handle this. That’s about all we can do, isn’t it? That, and pack plenty of ammo.”
He turned and inspected Tom’s notes for the day. With Childs dead, Norton was still searching for his replacement. Although the editor role was empty, the newsroom was operating as it always did. Each man knew his assignment and the consequences if he failed.
“What have we got?” Carl asked.
“A bunch of rumors to check out,” Tom replied. “It’ll be hard with this fighting. Some of our sources don’t want to chat until it’s resolved.”
“Anything that stands out?”
Tom pointed at one line in his notepad. “Word has it there’s a new drug Big Pharma wants to put on the market, but the feds haven’t approved it. They’re in the middle of clinical trials, but they’re selling it here to turn a profit until the drug is approved. It’s some antidepressant that apparently is a big hit in some libraries, because customers crush it into powder and then add it to liquor to make some kind of alcoholic drink.”
“Usher should be able to help us find out which libraries.”
“I’m sure he―”
Tom froze. He looked behind Carl, then stared at him. His dark skin turned pale.
“What?” Carl asked. “What did I say?”
Perplexed, he glanced over at the entrance to the room where Tom had been looking. The typing in the room suddenly ceased. Voices fell into mutters.
All eyes were fixed on the sight in the hallway as the publishers of the five largest newspapers in Seattle entered in a single file line. Marconi was at the head, dressed in one of his dark blue silk suits. His handkerchief was sticking out noticeably from his lapel pocket.
The men didn’t move, but their angst was undeniable. Each of them thought of reaching for their gun. None did. The only way the five could have entered was under a truce approved by Norton. Three accompanying guards confirmed that as they appeared behind the publishers.
Norton arrived and quietly greeted Marconi with a polite, yet reserved handshake. He then led them back down the hallway toward his office. They marched off with their heads high, but their eyes cast down like soldiers returning home from a war they had neither won nor lost, only survived.
Marconi’s demeanor was the most telling. He walked solemnly, but with self-dignity. He had not come to beg hat in hand, but it was clear he had not come to make demands, either.
As soon as they were gone, the newsroom silence broke into small conversations. Writers leaned one another’s desks as they traded theories.
Carl wasn’t nearly as fascinated as he should have been. His mind shifted from blissful thoughts of Kaylyn to painful recollection provoked by Marconi’s presence of his failed attempt to kill Tony. He tilted his head back and puffed on his cigarette, tormented over what Tony might have told others. He decided to let it be and refocus on Kaylyn. He wrote off her standoffish behavior as a coping mechanism in the event he had turned up dead. She must have recovered by then. She had to be in a more receptive mood to answer the question he had been wanting to ask for months.
“What do you think is going on?” Tom asked him. “Is Marconi trying to strike a bargain? Maybe get Norton to agree to a deal?”
“No idea. Couldn’t tell.”
“Doesn’t make sense for him to come to us so soon after firing the first shot. I doubt Norton is in a compromising mood.”
“I’m sure he isn’t.”
“Then why the meeting?”
“Again, no idea.”
Tom scowled. “You’re still not thinking of going through with―”
“Yeah, I am. And I don’t want to hear about it, alright?”
One of Norton’s men appeared in the room. He approached Carl discreetly and whispered in his ear. “He wants you, but don’t make a fuss about it, got it?”
Puzzled, Carl got up and walked out into the hallway. Half the errand boys were moving deliberately past Norton’s office door in the hopes of picking up a word or two of the conversation. The guard barked them away and allowed Carl in.
Inside, the five publishers sat at a long conference table. Norton was at the head, Marconi sitting opposite to him. They acted as though they had just concluded their discussion. Yet, there were no papers or documents on the table. Nothing had been signed.
Norton was staid as he motioned for Carl to come forward. Looking at Marconi, he pointed at Carl. “That’s him.”
The other four publishers showed no emotion. They knew who he was; his notoriety made him instantly recognizable.
Marconi rose from his seat, buttoning his suit jacket. His light, thoroughly combed hair was now tussled. Thick eyebrows gave him a severe expression, his stern disposition unnerving. However, his eyes glistened with sadness.
“Carl Farrington,” he uttered.
Carl eyed Norton, looking for direction. His boss did nothing. Marconi moved toward him slowly. Holding out his arms, he came close to Carl and then abruptly embraced him as though a long-lost son. Carl awkwardly held his hands down at his side, waiting for the man who had killed so many of his friends to explain himself.
The older man then spoke softly. “I know your secret. You’re alive only because my son spared you. Only I know.”
Terrified, Carl looked over at the other men. No one appeared to have heard Marconi, including Norton. Their heads were cocked to the side as they wondered what it was all about.
“You didn’t come to tell me this, did you?” Carl said.
Marconi stared at him, his eyes now dry. His voice was still a whisper. “This is how God deals out our fates. My son got the better of you, but you lived, and he fell.”
“What are you talking about?”
Marconi’s chin rose as he adjusted his suit. His voice could be heard by all now. “My son is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“An ISA raid,” Norton said as he stood up and approached them. “They hit his place last night. They came prepared. Either they didn’t come for prisoners or Tony didn’t think surrender was an option.”
“He died like a man,” Marconi insisted, his voice cracking. “They shot him…like an animal.”
Turning a
way, Marconi faced the wall to weep in private. The men thought nothing of his tears. They knew his mourning was not out of weakness, but legitimate grief. Those same feelings he had experienced with Fred’s passing, and it comforted him to know that a man could express loss without surrendering his self-respect.
Norton cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “The war is over. Marconi here has called for an armistice of sorts. He’s not surrendering, but he wants the war to end.”
Carl remained in a state of disbelief. First, Tony was dead. Now the war had ceased after only a day. Was that all it took for Marconi to call it quits?
Sensing his incredulity, Norton went on. “What happened to Tony is just the beginning. Marconi’s got word that they’re launching other raids. They want to take advantage of our squabbling. We can’t allow that. I won’t let them to exploit our quarrels.”
The four publishers at the table nodded and grunted their concurrence. Finished with his private moment, Marconi shook hands with Norton, then with the other publishers. He then walked up to Carl again and offered his hand. Carl glanced down at it, doing nothing.
“My son spared you for a reason,” Marconi whispered, his face full of pleading for understanding. “He would not have done it you were not someone he admired.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Promise me you will never forget what he did for you.”
“It would be impossible to forget.”
“He was all I had. Now, he is gone, and I have no one. He decided leaving you alive was worth the risk. He traded your life for his. He died, and you lived. Don’t disgrace his sacrifice. How you can honor him, is for you to decide. But I want your word you will do it.”
Mystified, Carl accepted his hand. The gesture seemed to bring new life into the older man, his face brightening. He left to converse with Norton for a brief second and then gathered the four publishers with him and headed for the door. Norton had the guards escort them back downstairs before hurrying back to his desk for a cigar. He smoked on it for a short moment before placing it in the ashtray.
He gazed at the liquor cabinet in the corner. “I had some good cognac reserved for this occasion, but I don’t think it is appropriate anymore. You agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did Marconi say to you?”
“He thinks I’m more like his son than he thought.”
“I thought it might have to do with the assignment I gave you to take him out.”
“So, did I, at first.”
“Grief does things to a man. It makes him forgive a lot of faults, but also makes him never forget offenses. It gives him clarity of mind and reminds him of what’s important.”
“I’m surprised you agree to the truce,” Carl replied.
“Why?”
“It would have been a good opportunity to force some concession from him.”
“Another thing you should learn: Never exploit a man’s grief. Marconi will mourn for now. However, eventually he’ll return to his former self. When he does, he’ll remember how he was treated. He’ll know I agreed not because we couldn’t win, but because I value what we’re doing as a collective group more important than personal feelings. I would have loved nothing more than to bring him to his knees and force him to kiss my hand in defeat. But it’s not worth the price.”
Norton waved to the door, grinning. “Don’t you have an assignment to finish?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get it done.” He pointed at the bulge in Carl’s pocket where he had the claddagh ring tucked away. “Oh, and by the way. Good luck with that later today.”
Carl paused, sheepish. He felt his face turn red.
“You’ll do fine,” Norton reassured. “Just don’t die before then.”
“It’s not the day for it.”
Back at his desk next to Tom, Carl phoned Usher’s house. He had to know about the antidepressant running around town. Strangely, no one answered.
He tried the Ming Dynasty. One of the workers answered, saying he wasn’t there.
“Could you doublecheck?” Carl asked.
They left the phone to look downstairs. Half a minute later the worker replied he was nowhere to be seen.
“Have you heard from him today?” Carl asked.
“No. No word.”
“When does he normally come in?”
“Not this early. He used to come in around this time, but now he comes in evenings.”
Carl hung up and tried Usher’s house again. Once more, no reply.
“He might be out and about,” Tom suggested. “You could see if he’s at Pike Place.”
“If he isn’t there? Then what?”
“Not sure what to tell you.”
Reaching for his hat, Carl buttoned up his jacket and headed out. In the hallway, he turned around and called out to Tom.
“I’ll try Usher’s first. If not, there’s got to be somebody at Pike’s, but they won’t know as much.”
“Alright. Good luck.”
Carl drove distractedly in his car. He put the ring box in the glove compartment, hoping no one would break in this one time and steal it. He drummed the steering wheel as he fumbled for a piece of chewing gum. His morning cigarette had left a bad taste in his mouth.
Some of that cognac might have helped.
He couldn’t get Marconi’s voice out of his head. He felt no special obligation to the old man. However, the same thing troubled Carl as it did Marconi. Why did some men live, and others die? Why had Carl survived his encounter with Tony, but Ian had not? Why hadn’t the ISA spared Tony the same way Tony had spared Carl?
The strongest was supposed to survive, but that didn’t fit with reality. Tony was the better shot, but he was dead. Was that the fate God had meted out to them? Or had it just been happenstance, pure fortune?
More than anything, it bothered Carl that Tony had died only after demonstrating a genuine sense of honor. It bothered him to think that had Tony’s father not run his own newspaper, they might have worked together at the Cascadian. They might have been good friends, maybe even a better friend than Tom.
Perhaps that’s why Carl had been spared.
Suddenly, he smelled smoke. Clouds spilled down from the hill as he drove up it, growing thicker and thicker. On the road he noticed strong tire trend marks. Among the smoke there was a strong whiff of sulfur.
He moved through it carefully until he reached the top of the hill.
To his right, Usher’s home was an inferno.
***
Carl struggled to get out of the car. He ripped off his seatbelt and kicked the door open. Stumbling out, he was half-paralyzed with shock as he approached the gate to Usher’s property. Thick flames engulfed the whole structure, and nothing except the conflagration was visible. The heat blew out toward him and seared his face.
Covering his mouth, he spotted someone kneeling in front of the gate. The bars to it had been smashed down, the raven statues on each gatepost fallen on the ground.
The person was clearly a woman, and she seemed dead at first. When he reached her, he got down on a knee and touched her. She didn’t notice him until he did so a third time, turning to him with her hands covering half her face.
She was probably tall standing up; she looked down almost at Carl. She had long raven black hair and gray eyes. Her modern clothes marked her as someone from outside Seattle.
“What happened?” he asked.
She was still weeping. He gave her a handkerchief from his pocket. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes.
“They killed him,” she said. “
His jaw stiffening, Carl threw his hat on the ground and screamed at the flames. He then screamed out at the neighborhood, knowing the residents would hear and see him. He didn’t have to interrogate any of them to know they had shut their windows and turned a blind eye to the raid. If only he could prove some of them had been bribed to sell him out. He was in a mood for killing.
&
nbsp; “Who are you?” she asked.
“A friend. And you?”
She started crying again. He told her he wasn’t there to hurt her or do anything.
She pointed at the burning home. “I’m his sister.”
He looked at her hard. She wasn’t lying. She and Usher had the same small chin, the same odd demeanor. The same long black hair.
“The ISA did this?” he said.
“Yes.”
Marconi’s reports were right. Tony had just been the first. Now, Usher had joined him. Who was next?
“They didn’t arrest him?” Carl asked.
“Usher wouldn’t surrender. He shot one or two of them.”
Carl smiled. At least he hadn’t gone down without a fight. A few souls in Hell in exchange for one in Heaven was a fair trade.
“How did they find him?”
“They always knew he was here.”
“So why did they come for him now?”
She had the handkerchief twisted into a knot and looked away. She tucked her head down in shame. A guilty look crossed her face.
Carl slapped her hard. “You sold him out!”
“No! They told me they were going to come for him. They told me he’d get shot unless I talked him into coming out.”
“And he didn’t!”
“I thought he would! I hoped he would! I wanted it more than anything!”
He looked at her with both pity and hate. She seemed genuinely brokenhearted over her brother’s death – and consumed with guilt for her involvement.
It didn’t mean a damn thing to him. She had still let herself be used by the ISA. The agency relied on useful fools like her.
“I didn’t know Usher had a sister,” he said.
“Neither did he.”
“Huh?”
She folded the handkerchief and placed it in her lap as she knelt. “When the earthquake happened years ago, both our parents were killed. We got separated. I was injured and airlifted out. Usher never left. He assumed I had died with our parents. I wanted to get out to him, but I never had the heart to come back here until now.”
“So you thought he’d give himself up for his little sister?”
“Don’t believe me if you want, but I just wanted to see him again.”
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