Gathering String (51 page)

“Jack?” Thelma’s voice seemed to be coming from far way. “Jack?” He was unaware of the sick pallor that had come to his face. Slowly he raised his eyes, and put the medal back into her hand.

“Give it back to him. Give him his copies. Give him his money. And get him out.” Jack’s mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line.

“Don’t you want to …”

Jack shook his head, his voice almost inaudible. “Just get him out.”

Sam didn’t think a thing about it when Thelma came from the back and handed him the copies and the fistful of change. “Here. He said not to charge you.” He nodded, and looked over her shoulder, but Westphal hadn’t followed. Putting the money back in his pocket, he called, “Thanks,” and went to the front door. He couldn’t know that Jack didn’t hear him. He’d already gone out the access door in the pressroom and was nearly to his truck.

She was standing at the kitchen sink, peeling an orange when the Jeep pulled into the driveway, a plume of gravel dust settling around it as it jerked to a stop at the front gate. Surprised that he was already back, wondering if he’d stopped at the paper and found Sam there, Tess still smiled, glad he was home. Hearing the familiar sounds of his arrival, Rover bounded to the door, his tail wagging.

Without turning, she heard it open and said, “You’re back early. How did it go?” When she looked over his back was to her, as he bent and shoved Rover out the door. “Oh, poor guy, he was so glad to see …” She stopped when he turned to her. For the second time that day, she looked into the face of a man she loved and asked, “What’s wrong?” His color was gray, the muscles of his jaw line set tight. Seeking his brown eyes, she saw the coldness there and her hand went to her throat. “Jack?”

“Tell me …” his voice was ominously soft, as he came slowly toward her, raising his hand, and catching the fine chain around his neck. With a quick, brutal jerk he broke it between his two fists. Grabbing her sticky hand, he let the St. Francis medal fall into her palm, and hissed the words, “Tell me why Sam Waterman carries one of these in his pocket.”

Swede Erickson’s driver was taking him to the airport for his flight to California when the cell phone registered to Rolf Olsen vibrated in his pocket. His brother’s voice immediately set his teeth on edge.

“Swede, I just ran into Thurm McPaul uptown, and there’s trouble.”

“This about Jack and his story on Miller? Because I’ve already dealt with that.” If there had been anyone else in the car, Erickson wouldn’t have spoken so freely, but his campaign aides were meeting him at the gate. He stared at the back of his driver’s head. Herman had been with him for years, and had never blabbed one word of the governor’s business. Besides, he was deaf as a post and too proud to wear a hearing aid. Swede doubted the old guy even knew he was on the phone.

“I wish that was it,” Pete’s voice quivered a little as he spoke. “It’s that guy from Politifix …”

“Waterman?”

“Yes. He showed up today and was asking Thurm if he remembered anything about a fire Pop might have been involved in. Swede, he told Thurm he thought some young guys might have been hurt or killed in it.”

Erickson felt the blood drain from his face. “What did Thurman tell him?”

“That he’d never fought a fire like that. But while we were talking, Swede, Thurm started to put it together. He said, ‘Hold it, wasn’t there a fire at a different one of your stores a long time ago? Which town was it in? Didn’t it happen around Christmas time?’” Pete’s voice fell all over the words, strident and panicked.

Tess walked away from him, staring down at the medal in her hand, and saying jerkily, “We … should … sit down.”

She led the way to the study, and found the closest wing chair, sitting rigidly. He couldn’t. He went to the window, not able to look at her. Her fist closed over the disk and chain so tightly they bit into her fingers, but her voice was very soft. “He has one, Jack, because I gave it to him.”

He waited for her to add something, but there was only silence. When he turned toward her, any thin hope that her words didn’t mean what he feared was snuffed out by the look on her face.

“He was married, Tess.” She nodded, watching him carefully. “You knew that when …?” She nodded again. He didn’t need to ask how she had felt about him. It was right there to see. He felt an anger that turned him cold. “When you said you had to wait in line for that man back in D.C., I knew what you meant. I just had you pegged as the one he cheated on …” the thin line of his mouth pulled down, “not the one he cheated with.” She couldn’t reply, dropping her eyes. “Why?” She shook her head miserably and his voice rose abruptly, “Tell me why.”

She took a ragged breath. He braced himself. And she said, “No.”

For a heartbeat they only looked at each other, and then his face flushed darkly. “He was on that plane with you, the one that went down. Is that when …”

“He told you …”

“He didn’t tell me shit." The sound of his voice was barely familiar as he punched out the words. “You think I didn’t notice how well he knew you? You think I didn’t see every time he did something like toss you a roll of goddamn candy? But today, in a handful of change, and now I need to know why …”

“No,” she said it again, her voice firm, although her hand shook as she held it up to stop his words. “I can’t explain. It happened … and I’ve never been … comfortable with …”

“Not comfortable? Oh, that’s a relief. Not comfortable. The woman I married used to sleep with a married man, but it made her
uncomfortable
.”

“I know,” she struggled to keep her voice from rising, “it has to be upsetting to find out that, that I …”

“Upsetting? For the first time I’m standing here looking at you and wondering who you, who my wife …” his voice cracked with anger.

“Stop it,” she broke in, rising to lean over the desk, “Please don’t do this. You need me to say it was wrong? Of course it was wrong. But please …”

Jack couldn’t hold still any longer and began pacing in front of the wide bank of windows. “I need to know why,” the words throbbed in the quiet room. “I need to understand how it happened. And I really need to know why you never told me.”

She pulled herself up straight. “Jack, you were crystal clear that there wouldn’t be any discussing our pasts. No talking about who or when or how."

“I didn’t,” she gulped. “I didn’t let him in. Don’t you remember? It was you, Jack. You let Swede talk you into that interview. I told him not to come …”

“That’s who you were talking to the night of the Chamber fire, wasn’t it? You were yelling over the phone at someone that night, when I came in. You said it was an old friend. He called from the Sheraton. He was there covering Swede.” He nodded as he spoke.

She didn’t need to confirm it. Gripping the edge of the desk, she said defensively, “You do not get to change the rules now. You were the one who made them. When it was your past, your women, there was no need for any explanations …”

“But none of them,” he leaned over the other side, “not one of them, ever, was
married
.” The last word was a cry.

She took a step back. “Yes! You’re right. It was wrong, so of course I didn’t want you to know. You are the morally superior one here, Jack, OK? Is that what you need to hear?”

“And when you were alone with him in Des Moines? When you were working with him again? I finally understand why you didn’t want the photo credit. You got back so late that night. You said you were Christmas shopping. Jesus Christ," he hesitated, looking down at the desk his face dark, "did you take our vows as lightly as you took his?”

“No,” it was a bitter whisper, and she swallowed, trying desperately to catch her temper and despair. “I almost told you so after he left here, I really did. But, Sam,” she forced the name out, “was finished gathering string …”

Anger became her defense. “You were the one who said you wouldn't explain your single years. You were the one who said you never discussed one lover with another. But now that I …”

“What happened? When he moved on, the way men like him do, what did you do? Pick yourself up and go looking for the complete opposite? He’s the big time writer, journalism’s prince of darkness that has all the politicians running scared, so you what? Picked the small-time guy? The hack from the back country who …”

“What happened between Sam and me is none of your business.” There was a hardness to her face he’d never seen before. “Besides, that’s not the real problem here and you know it. Be honest, Jack and admit …”

"I wasn't your wife then. You're in a rage because he showed you up with that profile, and this gives you an excuse to let it out. It’s still stuck in your craw, and you should ...”

“I
should
have known about him and you. You had opening after opening to tell me. But you let me sit here with him like a fool …”

"No, not a fool. Even Sam said, …” She stopped abruptly, her mouth slightly open, sickened by her own traitorous tongue.

He caught his breath, his face going stark white, the muscles so taut the bones beneath seemed to threaten to break through his jaw line. “What did Sam say?” It was a thin, vicious whisper.

Trapped, her anger broke, furious with herself, with him, with Sam for being so careless, and she snapped, “That telling you wouldn’t be a favor.”

His arm sent the desk lamp flying into the corner, shattering the fragile glass shade, shards skittering across the shining hardwood floor. She cried out and jumped back, her arm going up, the shining medal and chain falling from her hand. With a gasp, he pulled his arms in, across his chest, his hands tight against his ribs. In the abrupt quiet, they watched each other, the only sound their ragged breathing.

And then, he pointed a shaking hand to the floor, where St. Francis gleamed up at them. “That meant something to me. And now I’m wondering how many more are out there.”

She shut her eyes, the flush of anger draining from her face. “There’s only the two,” she said it softly, almost gently, and she ducked her head away, not wanting to face him with tears as she bent down and picked it up, “It was a gift, sincerely given.”

“To which one of us, Tess?”

She still didn’t look at him, but he could see her set her chin to keep it from trembling, her voice nearly inaudible, “Both.” She cleared her throat. “I need to step out Jack. I can’t …” She broke off, and walked quickly toward the kitchen and the front door. He didn’t stop her.

At the Des Moines airport, Swede Erickson stopped in the hallway of the VIP lounge, making sure he was alone. Pulling out his special cell phone, he punched the speed dial.

“Webster.” It was the judge’s deep voice that answered.

“I have a little job for you, your honor,” Erickson said softly. He explained all he knew about Sam Waterman’s soon-to-be ex-wife, her employment as Frederick Morton’s chief counsel on the Finance Committee and her quiet relationship with his campaign manager. “I want you to pick up the phone and spill it all to the general manager at Politifix. His name is Michael Dodson. If you can’t get to him right away, ask for Steve Johnson. Tell either of them to call,” he checked the note from Max, “Justin Alumbaugh. He’s a clerk for the committee. The kid will insist on staying anonymous, but he’ll confirm that Waterman’s wife is boinking Carlin. Stress over and over that you know she’s pulling Waterman’s strings to conduct this smear campaign.”

“You think this is enough to call him back home?”

“Probably, but I’ve got another small iron in the fire. You might also mention that you’ve had a few calls from a woman named Annabel Morales, at the
New York Times
. Tell the boys you’d rather not call her back. Tell them it’s not your intent to make an issue of this in the press.”