Gathering String (52 page)

“Will we? Put it out there, if they don’t call him off?”

“Waterman’s already looking at jail. I’m betting this will fall under the category of ‘who needs it’ for his bosses. It’ll be easier to have a different reporter covering my campaign than buying more trouble for a site where they're trying to build a solid reputation.”

When they hung up, Erickson switched phones and immediately hit another speed dial number. Carly Taylor’s little-girl voice drifted over the line. Swede told her to release to the reporters from the
New York
and
LA Times
that Tami Fuller was dropping out and swinging her support to Erickson.

After she left, Jack sat in the study, staring out the windows at the growing dark for a long time. Then he got up and cleaned up the broken lamp. He couldn’t keep his mind from the image of Sam Waterman, in this very room, knowing he’d spent time alone with her here, knowing now what they talked about. He remembered Waterman roaming his bookshelves, picking up the framed pictures. Jack’s eyes fell on the one of him and Tess on their honeymoon, and suddenly he scowled, the look on Waterman’s face coming back to him clearly, as he muttered, “Pacific Rim,” through white lips.

Jack went up the stairs two at a time, and then into Tess’s workroom. Keith had told him Tess had gone to Vancouver Island right after the plane crash, saying, “She just needed a little time.” He stared at the empty space on the wall where her picture, her first painting, the one of Tonquin Park, used to hang. What had she told him about that? She hadn’t said she’d sold it. She’d told him, “Tonquin Park went today,” and he assumed, with some surprise, that she had sold it. But he knew now what she’d done.

She kept all the original prints of her work in a file cabinet in the corner of the room, and he pulled open drawers until he found the thick file labeled “Vancouver Isl.”

He’d seen many of the pictures before. They were all beautiful, and she’d used several for paintings. He came across the original of Tonquin Park, but the vague figure wasn’t any clearer in it. But then, sifting to the very bottom of the stack, he confirmed what he already knew.

There was the picture of Sam Waterman in the rain, his wet hair slick to his head, laughing and looking happier than Jack would have ever imagined him capable.

He was in bed, wide awake, at nearly one in the morning. The window was open, and it was so quiet he could hear the engine of the car approaching long before it drew close, slowing to make the turn into the drive. He heard her key in the door, and a sleepy yip from Rover in his basket in the kitchen.

He waited. But she didn’t come in. She didn’t even come up the stairs. He lay flat on his back, his hands behind his head. Waiting. After a very long time, he got up, and padded down the stairs. Everything was dark. He flipped on the hall light, and went to the study, but she wasn’t there. He went back the other way, and cracked open the door to the downstairs bedroom.

She was asleep, fully clothed on top of the bed, her arm over the dog curled next to her. Rover lifted his head as he came closer, and whimpered guiltily, knowing Jack never allowed him to come any further into the house than the kitchen. When Tess opened her eyes, he could see they were red and swollen in the dim light from the hall.

“I was afraid,” he started, but had to clear his throat. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”

“Of course I came back.” Her voice was muffled and thick. She rolled onto her back, and Rover slipped down to the floor and scuttled out the door.

“Where did you go?”

“I drove around for a long time. Went out to the lake. When it got late I went to the darkroom at the
Journal
,” she shifted a little, and sat up. “No one was there. No one saw me.”

He shrugged. “You, ah,” he cleared his throat again. “You don’t want to come up?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought, maybe it would be better if we both got some sleep.” It was a whisper.

“I wasn’t, I couldn’t,” he clenched his jaw to try to keep the tremble from his voice. “I lost my temper, Tess. I frightened you when the lamp … That was an awful thing and I shouldn’t have … I would never hurt you. You’ve got to know I would never …” his voice broke, and he hung his head. He hadn’t cried since his parents died.

She came to her knees. “I know. But it had to stop.”

He nodded. And then slowly, she put her hands on his shoulders, and allowed him to pull her close. He buried his face in her curls and whispered, “He was in Tofino with you.” He felt her nod. “That’s him, in the background of the picture.” Again, she nodded. “And you sent him your painting.”

This time, when she nodded, he drew her so close and tight he felt her tears roll down his neck. “I needed to give it to him,” her words came slowly, broken. When she finally pulled back and looked at him, her swollen eyes met his without flinching. “I needed him to have it.” She could see that he didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, but he stayed silent, his eyes miserable. “Jack," his name was a sigh, “he is a fact of my life. For good and bad. So are you."

Instead of going back upstairs to their room, he climbed onto the bed without releasing her. Exhausted, there were no more words. They fell asleep, troubled but close, both aching with guilt and blame, remorse and forgiveness.

Sam got the call to come back to Washington the next morning. They put Bundy on Erickson. She’d cover him for the California primary, which now, with Fuller’s support, looked likely Erickson would take, putting the nomination in his hands. If that was the way it went, Sam would still be part of the convention coverage team, but in a lesser role.

“You know this is exactly what the dickhead wants you to do,” Sam snapped at Johnson and Dodson the evening he got back. They were in Dodson’s office, and Sam could see several of his colleagues glancing through the windows from time to time to check out what was going on.

Johnson nodded. “Probably. But it does look bad, Sam. Webster could make a hell of a case that this is a smear campaign. Judith’s your wife …”

“Not for …” Sam started, but Johnson shook his head.

“The divorce notwithstanding, she’s connected to you. And she’s got a vested interest in seeing Morton …”

“Yeah, yeah, but let’s keep our eyes on the fucking ball. If there was nothing behind this, do you think Webster or Swede Erickson would give a flying fuck? That cocksucker Westphal caught on to what I was looking into, and less than 24 hours later, I get called back home.” At Westphal’s name, Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “Jesus, how can this not smack of collusion to you two? Westphal ran to Big Brother Swede, and probably told him who my ex is and who she works for …”

“So what are you saying? You both want to give up on getting to the bottom of Webster’s stinking appointment? Because I’m telling you it was a payoff. And don't think for a minute Erickson isn't dangling come kind of a carrot in front of that putz Tami Fuller to keep her harping on the autopsy investigation. Jesus, she's even stopped getting my name wrong."

"Oh come on, Sam! You honestly think Erickson's pulling even Fuller's strings?" Dodson's laugh was caustic. "Your ego really is out of hand."

Sam's face was livid. "So you're sold on knuckling under to Webster's fucking threats? Well, here's a flash for you; He wouldn't be making them if there were nothing to find. Back at the
Trib,
that call alone would have brought a whole investigative team right down on him."

"Maybe a long time ago. But you're not at the
Trib
any more and you work for me," Dodson's face went hard, and his eyes flashed to Johnson, who held up his hand.

"Just hear him out, Mike."

“OK, Sam,” Dodson sighed, catching his temper and setting his jaw, “Stop barking and swearing, and let's go over it.” Sam shut his mouth and jammed his hands in his pockets, flipping the St. Francis medal over and over between his fingers, bracing for Dodson’s push-back. “Your nearly ex-wife works on Morton’s committee?”

“Well, Capitol Hill scuttlebutt has pretty much pinned the tail on that donkey. It didn’t occur to you that following her tips might put our news site in an awkward position?”

Sam looked uncomfortable. “It was small stuff. I didn’t think it would track back to her.”

Dodson shook his head irritably. “It sure as hell did, and pretty easily too.”

“I’m telling you …” Sam paused, struggling to lower his voice. “Judith may have had her own reasons for tipping me, but there’s something to it. Something is seriously screwed with Erickson and Webster. Webster helped Erickson’s old man out of a jam somehow, I’m sure of it, and …”

“Tell me about that,” Dodson pointed to the chair next to Johnson. Sam sat down and went over the details of what he’d found, trying not to squirm as he talked. Even to his own ears, they didn’t add up to much.

Dodson sighed, and sat back as Sam finished. “So, what we have here is an off-the-record doctor recalling the ramblings of an alcohol-ravaged old man, and some dead shrink’s notes?” Sam didn’t answer. “You went through the court records of Webster’s cases?” Sam nodded. “Find anything there to connect him to Erickson?”

“No, but …”

“And you didn’t find one bloody thing to connect the old man to a fire, at his goddamned grocery store or anywhere else in Lindsborg, did you?” Sam had to shake his head. “Sorry, Sammy, this doesn’t cut it.”

“Mike, the doctor said the shrink made a handwritten note in the margins saying the old guy was obsessed with Webster’s appointment to the bench.”

shot your wad and didn’t hit anything solid, Waterman. Jesus, if I didn’t know you so well, even I’d be wondering if you were grinding an ax to get back in your wife’s good graces. It’s time for you to sit back and let Ev’alyn take a crack at Erickson. There are plenty of other stories for you that won’t muddy our reputation.”

Sam sat silently, the grim lines around his mouth deep. Watching his simmering anger, Johnson knew his friend was within a breath of saying something that would cross the line with their boss, and he didn’t want to watch Sam die on this hill. He spoke up quickly. “You know, Mike, I think it's fishy too, the way Erickson made a point of shutting us out with the Fuller thing. Normally, we wouldn’t let a pol get away with running a reporter off. I think Sam’s got a point. Maybe there is something scaring Erickson.”

“Well?” Johnson’s calm opened the door for Dodson to keep listening.

“We can keep Sam home until the convention, but what does it hurt to let him work up his research from here? He can cover other things too. And if he keeps gathering string, in a quiet, confidential kind of way, he might drag something in.”

Dodson’s look was freezing cold when he turned to Sam and asked, “Think you can do that without getting me on the phone with any more judges?” Sam knew his friend had just hung his butt out for him, and didn't risk fucking it up by opening his mouth. He nodded. “OK, but I want this real low key. Not your usual loose-cannon approach, you got that? Because so far the only mark of distinction your reporting has brought us is a shitload of trouble.” It wasn't easy, but Sam stayed silent.

They were very careful around each other. “Tentative,” would have been Jack’s word, Tess would have chosen “grim.” But each was aware that even when the music was playing, their house was awfully quiet. When they talked, it was about practical things, each carefully polite. There was no arguing, no barbed comments. There was no laughter. At night in their big bed, he’d lean close for a soft, quick kiss goodnight, roll over on his side, and fall instantly asleep.

But somehow in his sleep, he always found his way back to her and, as it had been from their first night together, she’d wake held close in his arms. It was that more than anything else that held her straining patience with him in check.

As he had in the past, Jack turned to work, allowing it to consume his time and thoughts. He always knew of more stories than he could work, and in the days following Waterman’s last visit, he made a hardy effort, going in early and staying late.