Gathering String (6 page)

Waterman came awake gulping for air. Propping himself on an elbow, he gasped the ghostly smell of burning gasoline back into his memory, hoping his hammering heart slowed before it threw a valve. Brushing his hair back from his damp forehead, still breathing hard, he squinted into the dark, knowing he was in a hotel room and trying to remember where. When it came to him, he rose and pulled on some jeans, jerking a sweatshirt over his head.

He rummaged in his computer bag and pulled out the pouch that held his laptop power cord. Inside there was also a tiny, plastic case holding two cigarettes and a book of matches. No matter which airport, the TSA agents never caught them.

In spite of the cold, Sam opened the door of the Tall Call Inn’s non-smoking room and propped it with his hip. Cupping his hands, he lit the Marlboro and shook out the match as he looked up into the night sky. The clouds were clearing. The stars were bright, out here on the edge of town. And on the rustle of wind in the bare trees, Sam could have sworn he heard her whisper, “I think we’re going to be frightened dreamers.” Raising the cigarette back to his lips, the past pressed down on him.

**************************************************

He noticed her the first day she appeared in the
Washington Tribune
newsroom. Slim, with short, blond, curly hair, and wide blue eyes, she had the shiksa looks that always caught his eye. He figured her for an intern, but Rick Higgins told him she was Tess Benedict, Arnie Baxter’s new hire. The photo chief always kept an eye out for cheap young talent, and she’d made a quick mark for herself at the Portland
Oregonian
.

Watching her swing through the newsroom every morning, toting her camera equipment and a giant cup of coffee, Sam was intrigued, not just by her looks, but with her vitality. Her energy for the work seemed boundless and he was always drawn to others who loved what he loved best. But he kept any interaction to a quick nod in the hallways and aisles. She was a little too tempting for the workplace.

She’d probably worked there about four months before they had an assignment together. The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee had called a press conference at the Russell Senate Office Building to announce that Republicans had the votes needed to block the President’s nominee for the Supreme Court. They’d hustled over together, Tess listening silently as Sam groused the whole way.

“Just one more bloody clusterfuck,” he’d muttered as he slammed the door of the cab. “Everyone writing the same story and shooting the same pictures.”

She heaved the equipment bag to her shoulder. “But that’s the way news happens on The Hill.”

Sam shook his head as they ran up the steps. “Bullshit. This isn’t news. It’s just confirming what everyone already knows. It’s about as interesting as spit. Nothing’s better than breaking the story, finding the fucking skeleton in a senator’s, or a congressman’s, or a candidate’s closet. News is telling people what they need to know but don’t.”

Taking the steps two at time to keep up with his long strides, she asked, “So is it hard work?” He glanced at her aghast, ready to snap, “You bet your ass,” but before he could speak she added, “Being the renegade all the editors complain about?” Used to the deferential treatment of younger staff members, Sam pulled open the door with the narrow glare that quelled most people. She laughed, “I hope I get to take the picture: Sam Waterman with a politician’s bloody scalp in one hand and a Pulitzer in the other.” He couldn’t quite stop his lopsided, answering grin.

She glanced around the rotunda, then looked up. “I’m going to take a quick look from upstairs.” She jutted her dimpled chin up at the gallery. “I like to get an overview.”

Sam frowned as she hurried away. Most photographers thundered right into the pack, and he wondered if she actually knew what she was doing. Good art meant better play for his story, and he hoped to hell she wasn’t screwing this dog up for him. The press conference was over before they connected again. “You get what we need?” he asked tensely.

She shot him a glance that showed she understood he was questioning her work. “Look for yourself,” and he was startled as she tossed him one of the cameras.

“I trust you.” He handed it right back.

She snorted, “You don’t even know how to review pictures on a camera, do you?” At his shrug of admission, she tucked the camera into her bag. They started walking at a good clip back to the newsroom. Huffing with exertion, she said, “Sam, there was a guy up in the gallery who hit on me.”

“So?” Did she expect him to go defend her honor?

“So, he said he was there to watch the press conference.” She slowed and Sam moved several steps ahead of her. “And he said he was an aide in Judge Barbara Evans’ office.”

Sam looked back over his shoulder. “Evans? She’s a judge …”

“In New York. Handed down that big RICO ruling just a few months ago.” Tess stopped walking, and so did Sam. She raised her eyebrows. “Kind of interesting, that he was down here …”

Sam was already nodding and grabbed her elbow, putting his fingers to his mouth and hailing a cab with a whistle. With just a few phone calls, he broke the story that Barbara Evans would be President’s next choice for the Supreme Court.

That’s when he started to follow how things went for Tess. If there was a rumor of a hot assignment on the horizon, he’d often give her a heads-up and encourage her to make a bid. He’d frequently suggest her to an editor in planning meetings. And as the months went by, he developed a habit of looking in at photography. If she was there, they’d chat, and if a little flirting went on, well, it seemed harmless.

It wasn’t until one night over a beer with Higgins that Sam realized others had noticed. They’d just finished ripping apart Steve Johnson’s latest divorce and his penchant for tying up with online editors, when Rick abruptly said, “So, you and Benedict seem to hit it off. What’s the deal there?”

Sam was genuinely surprised. “No deal,” he shrugged. “She’s good at her job. I like working with her.”

“Yeah,” Higgins frowned at him, and Sam realized his friend disapproved. “And?”

“And she’s a kid.” Sam’s sharp face pulled down into forbidding lines. “She’s new and she’s hungry. Why shouldn’t I steer a few assignments her way? Christ, Higs, you’ve got a dirty mind.”

“Maybe.” Higs raised his beer to lips. “But I’ve never noticed you waving the flag for any of the young
guys
in photography. You telling me your philanthropy doesn’t have a thing to do with her being so goddamned cute?”

“Well, I’m not blind,” One side of Sam’s mouth went up. “But …”

“But nothing. She’s a comer, Sam, and works really hard. Don’t go all horny and fuck it up for her.”

“Come on, Rick, I’m a married man, just like you.” Higs gave a droll twist of his mouth at that. Sam’s intermittent fidelity had been newsroom property for years. Sam rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. “Well, I steer clear of newsroom women. You know that. With the bean-counters sharpening their axes, do you think I’d risk my job on a shiny bit of tail? Besides, she’s not even glancing in my direction. All the young bucks are getting in line.”

That was true. She dated a lot of different guys. Sometimes, writing late for the metro edition, he’d catch sight of her going out. Meeting some date who was waiting impatiently in the lobby, she’d dash past, having changed in the restroom into some tempting little dress, all long legs and curves. Eyes following her, Sam told himself to be grateful to any guy who could get her to wear something like that. As for taking her out of it ... Sam shook his head and looked back to the words on the monitor.

Flooding in the Midwest that spring was devastating. Following an exceptionally snowy winter, the ice jams of spring swelled under drenching, unrelenting rain. From the upper reaches of North Dakota and Minnesota down through Iowa and Nebraska, the whole Missouri River watershed was carrying off livestock and precious topsoil while threatening to overwhelm states to the south. A huge swath of the nation struggled to hang on as the water rose.

Sam was tapped as senior reporter to go into the hardest-hit areas. He knew she wanted the trip, and he made sure she got it. “Benedict!” he’d snapped at Baxter, the photo chief, jabbing his finger to emphasize the name. “She’s good, she’s got a fresh eye.” If it seemed extraordinary that someone as new and young as Tess got the trip, Sam ignored the speculative glances.

They landed in Omaha at a heavily sandbagged Eppley Airfield on the overwhelmed banks of the Missouri. He planned to focus on the devastation in western Iowa, where swollen rivers had cut off interstate highways in all directions, tying up the nation’s trucking. But then Steve Johnson, the National Editor, called about an explosion in Remington, South Dakota, north of Rapid City. Cheyenne River flooding had isolated the town, and they’d evacuated people in boats. But the pressure on the gas mains was too much. One home had blown off the map, and now the empty town was burning, inaccessible to fire equipment. Johnson had a single-engine plane lined up to take them in as close as they could get. Sam left the rest of the team to deal with the trucking crisis, deciding he would cover South Dakota. He took Benedict with him.

Sam disliked the pilot on sight. He was a cocky, long-haired kid, who didn’t seem old enough to drive, let alone fly. Sam met him at the charter gate, and after looking Sam over, his first words were, “I don’t know, mister. I just checked with Flight Service. Right now the ceiling is low, and there’s light rain to the west. It’s not bad enough that I couldn’t fly visual, but there’s another storm front coming in from the southwest, probably roll through some time late this afternoon or early evening. ”

“So?” Sam was annoyed at the waffling. “Can’t we make it in before then?”

“You’re not from around here,” the kid said, noting Sam’s Boston accent. Sam didn’t bother to reply, so the kid answered instead. “Yeah, we could get there, but I probably wouldn’t make it back. I meant to fly you into Stanton, about 30 miles south of Remington. I might be stuck in the little burg all night.”

“Like it’d be a crying shame to miss Omaha’s night life?” Sam snorted. “Come on, Junior, you’re getting top dollar. The photographer stopped in the loo, but other than that, we’re ready.”

“I don’t know,” the kid said again. “This air’s mighty unstable and it’ll be choppy up there. So unless you guys have steady stomachs …” He stopped as he saw Tess walking toward them in her tight jeans, camera bag over her shoulder, a giant, steaming cup of Starbucks in her hand. “Holy crap, mister, your work’s not bad, is it? That’s the photographer?” He seemed unable to stop the greasy smile that came to his face.

“A damn fine one,” Sam snapped. He turned as Tess joined them. “Opie here is having trouble deciding if he wants to go.” The kid gave him a scowl.

“The weather?” she asked. “If he has to fly on instruments, we can’t deviate for pictures anyway.” She glanced out the window. “But it doesn’t look that bad.” She turned back to the kid and gave him an encouraging smile. “Aren’t you up for a little scud running?”

Opie looked delighted. “You’re a pilot?”

Tess shook her head. “I just know a few. Come on, we could use a break. If we toss in another $100 and cover the cost if you need a room, would that sweeten the pot?”

"Dinner too if we can't get back?" Tess nodded and Opie leered. “Sure, I’ll take you up. We’ll stay under the ceiling, and I’ll fly you over the worst spots.” His eyes swept her as they started for the door. “I’ll give you everything you need.” At Sam’s muffled grunt, he looked back at him. “Hop in the back, buddy. It’ll help distribute the weight.”

The plane was an older Cessna P210, smaller than Sam had imagined. At six feet tall, he had to duck low to get into the back. As Tess settled into the front, he said, “I hope to hell this bucket is going to hold together up there.”

“What’s the matter, Sam, you getting nervous?” she clicked her seatbelt and looked around the cockpit, then began rummaging in her camera bag. “At least it’s a high-wing. That’ll make it easier to get my shots.”

She peeled open a roll of candy Smarties and offered some to Sam, but he waved them away, saying, “What do you live on, a diet of candy and coffee?”

“Pretty much.”

“But that hard sugar shit sucks.” He craned his neck, “You got any chocolate in there?”

She shook her head. “When I was little, my big brothers always grabbed the expensive stuff, so I just learned to love what they left.”

He was watching Opie walk slowly around the side of the plane, looking things over carefully. “Johnson’s going to shit over that extra 100 bucks, you know.”

She shrugged, crunching the candy and nodding toward Opie. “It got him going.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Sam snorted. “Didn't you see the smirk on that ferret face? You’re what got him going. He’s got plans for you tonight.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to know he’s going to be disappointed until after we’re in the air.” She turned and asked, “Does he?” Sam laughed in response.

But he was still uneasy about the flight. The weather looked ugly. After a few minutes, he sighed impatiently. “I thought Opie said weather was moving in. What the hell is he doing out there, wandering around in the mist?”

“He’s doing the visual check,” she explained, tossing more candy into her mouth. “You know, looking over the ailerons, the flaps, the rudder …”

“The ailerons, huh?” There was an edge to his voice, “So which young stud has been teaching you all about flying?”

“A pretty hot one. But he’s an older guy.” She looked back at Sam again and arched an eyebrow. “Most people address him as Commander, but I get to call him Dad.” A slow smile spread over Sam’s face as she added, “He’s retired Navy.”

The pilot’s hatch opened, and Opie hopped in, shaking his longish brown hair back like a wet dog. “OK, let’s stow that gear.” He nodded to their bags. He leaned over Tess, lingering, as he made sure her hatch was secured, with a sighed, “You smell great.” Then he slumped into his own seat and picked up the clipboard with the preflight checklist.