Authors: Mimi Johnson
“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.
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 Nordqui
st? 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 them 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.
Sam woke with a start as the Jeep hit the shoulder of the road, braking hard. The loose pebbles spattered, and he looked over to see Jack staring into the rear-view mirror. It was dark now, and the flashing lights of the patrol car cast eerie reflections on the windows.
“Jesus!” Sam sat up and looked out the back to see the cop pulling over behind them. “How fast … ?”
“Fast.”
Sam looked over at him and suddenly grinned. “I guess they moved the speed traps. Wanna bet this is one ticket you’re going to have to pay?”
Jack’s eyes dropped from the mirror at Sam’s laugh, and his mouth became a thin line. “I’m not the one who’s got a summons out on me. What’ll we do if he wants to see
your
ID?”
“Fuck!” All amusement in Sam’s face was gone in a flash of the flickering lights.
Jack looked into the rear-view mirror again and bent forward slightly. “Here,” he reached under the seat and flipped a seed corn cap in Sam’s direction, “put this on.” Sam caught it and did as he was told. Jack frowned. “Try to keep your face in the shadows.” Sam hunkered down a little, but Jack muttered, “You still look so …”
“What?” Sam snapped, “Jewish?”
“I was going to say ‘out of place.'”
“I can’t help it if I stick out in this land of white bread.”
“Well, pull it down more, and for God’s sake, try to keep that Boston yap of yours shut for a few minutes.” He looked at the side mirror and saw the patrol car’s door open. “Here he comes.” He put down the window and shut off the engine, then put both hands on the wheel to be seen.
With a crunch of cinders, the officer bent down, shining his flashlight on them. “License and registration.” The voice was stern. Sam couldn’t see the face beyond the bright light, and he looked down to keep from being studied too closely.
Jack reached over and took the registration and insurance card from the glove box, then pulled his license from his wallet. The cop studied them and then looked back at Jack. “So you’re Jack Westphal.” It wasn’t a question, but Jack nodded. “And this gentleman?” The light wavered back toward Sam.
“My employee, Quincy Nordquist. We both work at the …”
“
Lindsborg Journal
,” the cop finished for him. “Yeah, Mr. Westphal, you’re kind of a highway legend. I thought you might be flying low through here some time tonight. Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
Jack rubbed his ear and squinted up at him. “Not really, officer.”
The cop looked them both over for another long careful moment and then said, “Step back to the patrol car with me, sir.” With a glance at Sam, Jack opened the door and got out. The dashboard clock read 10:12.
They’d been gone quite awhile when Jack’s cell phone, which was plugged into the lighter, went off. Sam looked at the screen and saw that it read “Tess.” If he hadn’t been worried about her himself, he probably wouldn’t have picked it up, but maybe she needed help. He flipped the answer bar. “Tess? Everything OK?”
There was a pause, and then she said softly, “Sam?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Jesus, you really are with him.”
He laughed grimly at her shocked voice. “He told you, huh? Looks like we’ve got an unholy alliance going here. Toughie, are you OK?”
“Yes. But he didn’t tell me much. Where is he?”
“At the moment?” Sam twisted the mirror around, and could see Jack listening to the talking patrolman, under the dome light. “He appears to be having a discussion with very solemn state trooper. He’s in the patrol car.”