Gathering String (55 page)

“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.

"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.

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 studied 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.”