Gathering String (60 page)

Over the next hours, Sam filled three notebooks with his scrawling notes and the air with haze from his chain smoking. The table between them was littered with four or five little bottles, the remains of Sam’s raid on the mini bar after he left Bundy. The rumpled bed, the explosion that was Sam’s bag in the corner on the floor, the heavy curtains shutting out the light, and the two grubby men, red-eyed and whisker-stubbled, all added to the grimness.

As Jack talked, he flicked one of the empty bottles, watching it spin on its side, twirling it again and again as he told of his confrontation with Erickson the night before, and then painstakingly answered every one of Sam’s questions.

But he didn’t say anything about Erickson’s references to Waterman or Tess.

Sometime around 7:30, Jack’s cell phone started ringing. It was Tess’s tone, and it went off every 15 minutes for an hour. He knew she must be beside herself, but he wasn’t about to talk to her with Waterman sitting right there. He didn’t answer. Around nine, the phone in Sam’s room started to ring periodically. And right after, his cell phone would go off. He let them both go.

“OK,” Sam sighed, as he leaned back and stuck his finger down into the soft-pack of Marlboros for another. With a grunt, he realized his last pack was empty, and crumbled it in his hand. “Tell me again what he said about your paper?”

“No revenue, no
Journal
,” Jack rubbed his eyes. “I believe those were his exact words.”

“And that’s what pushed you to me? The threat to your paper?”

Jack blinked across the table. “He was right about one thing. I’m not about to let a bastard do me out of the things I’ve worked so hard for.”

Sam squinted at him. “Yeah, but this is a pretty cagey guy. Won’t he put it together that you’re my source? If he does, then you’re still screwed.”

With a chilling smile, Jack shook his head. “No. I’m not sure of much about him anymore, but I’m positive he'd never think that I'd come to you.”

Still skeptical, still wondering if he was somehow being used, Waterman’s eyes held Westphal’s over the table, and he asked simply, “Why?” But as Jack hesitated, there was a knock on the door. Sam glanced at it, and stood up. “It’s housekeeping. I forgot the …”

But Jack sprang up right behind him. “Don’t,” it was a low mutter. “Let me …”

Sam frowned at him and would have spoken again, but Jack shook his head quickly, and then inclined it toward the bathroom. For a second Sam hesitated, then Jack gave him a little shove, whispering, “Leave the light off.”

“This is a legal matter, sir, and they were bound by law to provide the information I asked for. Do you know Mr. Waterman? Tall, well not so tall as you, dark hair, going gray, pushing 50.” Sam’s frown came back. He wasn’t quite 45. “Works for something called Politifix?” The man’s voice asked.

“Never heard of him,” Jack’s voice became ever so slightly more aggravated. “I’m with the
Des Moines Record
. Look, there was some mix-up with rooms when I got in. The front desk is probably still trying to sort it out. You might check with people down in the press area.”

“I’ve been down there already. It’s imperative I find Mr. Waterman.” Behind the door, Sam closed his eyes.

“I can’t help. Try calling Politifix. They should know how to reach him.” This time Jack succeeded in closing the door.

It was quiet, and Sam realized his heart was hammering. Slowly he looked around the door, to find Westphal with one hand still on the doorknob, rubbing his eyes with the other. When he dropped his hand, he fixed Sam with a hard stare. “Still think I’m here to hose you? Because it would have been real easy for me to let that guy in. He had the summons right in his hand.”

Sam frowned. “I’ve got to get out of here. He’ll be back.”

Jack nodded. “My room? I made a point not to let him get my name.”

As he gathered his things, Sam checked in with Politifix's center above the convention floor; they had been on the other end of the calls he'd ignored. Rick Higgins, who had been hired permanently just a week ago, had been the first one to peg the summons server, and several had seen him since. Sam called Steve Johnson back in D.C. to let him know he’d managed to dodge the guy so far, and that the convention team would have to get along without him.

“Where’re you hiding out?” Johnson asked. “Are you still going to try to make a run back to Iowa?”

“Let me get back to you on that,” Sam shot a guarded look at Westphal across the room. He was also holding a cell phone to his ear. “I’ve got my cell, and I’ll try to keep it charged so you can reach me. But something new has come up. Give me awhile to sort it out.”

Meanwhile Jack listened in frustration as the voice mail on Tess’s cell phone came on. She’d been the one calling while he and Sam talked, but now he couldn’t reach her.

They took the elevator up three floors to Jack’s room, and Waterman turned to him. “How did you know?”

Jack knew he was talking about the summons server. “Erickson mentioned you last night. I told him you were getting close to connecting him with Webster, and he said you’d be served before today was out.”

Sam nodded. “Anything else you’re holding back?”

The doors opened. As they walked down the hall, Jack said softly, “I think maybe he’s been having you watched.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam laughed. “That’s a little paranoid. It’s not like he’s president yet. He’s hardly got the CIA at his disposal.”

Jack shrugged as he dipped his card through the reader and opened the door to his undisturbed room. “No smoking on this floor, by the way.”

Sam winced and asked, “What makes you think he’s keeping tabs on me?”

Jack tossed the key card onto the table and pulled back the drapes to reveal a rainy and unseasonably cool day. Sam propped his bags in a corner. “He mentioned that Politifix had sat on you, said you hadn’t covered anything more important than the House Transportation Committee for the last few weeks. I believe those were his words.”

Sam frowned sharply, and he bent down to his laptop case, rummaging in one of the side pockets and fishing out a slim folder. Pulling out the papers, he studied one carefully, reading fast. Jack rolled his eyes as Sam muttered, “Holy shit, it became official at midnight. I didn’t think about … I knew it would be this week, but I guess I never bothered to check the exact …” He looked across the room, his mouth gaping a little.

Jack frowned back at him. “Imagine what he’ll be up to if he ever
does
have the CIA at his disposal.”

They spent hours going over everything again and again. In the early afternoon, Sam could see that Jack was exhausted, and suggested they order room service, even while he pushed him with more questions. Sam was starving. Jack could barely eat. And when the repetition finally became too much for even Sam, sometime after four o’clock, he finally flipped on the TV to watch CNN’s afternoon convention coverage.

Jack had tried Tess several more times, but still got no answer on her cell or at the house. He settled back in his chair, worried, wondering where she was.

When film footage of the Erickson family having lunch at Arthur Bryant's barbecue joint came on, Sam cocked his head to one side, saying, “Well there’s a happy family scene." He laughed a little. "The wife and daughter both look like they want to run for the door as the nominee tucks into a side of beef. Huh. No one would ever guess the man’s covered up murder. Hey, where’s his schmendrick brother?”

“What?” Jack had actually been dozing in his chair.

“The brother? What’s his name? Peter? They’re all there but him.”

Jack watched the screen. “I don’t know. Swede mentioned he was here last night. He must be around somewhere. Hey,” he sat up suddenly. “I
did
forget to tell you something.” He told Sam about Pete seeing to it that Carl had the way and the means to drink himself to death.

“Christ almighty,” Sam was writing in his notebook furiously. “How many times did I ask you if we’d covered everything? Now you’re telling me the younger brother pretty much killed the old man. Didn’t you think that was a little bit fucking important?”

“Fine,” Sam snapped his notebook closed. “Get some shut eye while I’ll grab a shower.” He realized suddenly that he was only there by Jack’s tolerance, and amended, “If you don’t mind.” He pointed toward the bathroom.

“Just go on,” Jack shut his eyes again, and wondered at the irony of being saddled with Waterman. He knew if he went to any other newsperson to out Erickson’s secrets, Swede would know immediately who the leak was and carry out his threats. But after the way he’d taunted Jack about Sam and Tess, Jack also knew Erickson would never dream that he would go as a source to Waterman. And it hadn’t been easy. Every time Waterman opened his mouth, he was tempted to push his fist down his throat. It had been his intention to just tip Sam about the Sheffield fire and move on as fast and as far as possible from the whole convention. Now somehow they were roommates for the afternoon. He slumped in the chair, wishing he was home; wishing he could turn back the clock before any of it had happened.

He couldn’t have slept long. The shower was still running when his cell phone went off. It was Tess’s ringtone. Groggy, he answered, “Where have you been?” He knew he sounded angry, but he couldn’t stop the worry that roughened his voice.

“I had to shut off my phone for an appointment, and I just now realized it was still off.” Her voice sounded odd, strained and edgy. “I tried to call you a couple times before I left this morning, but you didn’t pick up. Did you talk to him last night?”

“It didn’t go well,” Jack began slowly, wondering how to tell her what had happened over the phone. And then the shower cut off, and he realized that he could faintly hear raggedness to her breathing, as if she were winded. “Are you OK?” He sat up. “Tess?” All he got for an answer was a rough clearing of her throat. “What’s wrong?”

“I, I ran down to Des Moines this morning,” he could tell she was struggling to keep her voice as steady.

“Why? I thought …”

“I needed to see someone.” He caught his breath. She’d been so tired and pale. But before he could ask, she said, “Everything was fine when I left, but when I got back to the house things were …” Her voice faded.

“Nothing’s been taken. But things have been moved around. And my workroom … ” he felt cold as a quiver shook her voice, “Someone threw some paint and stuff around in there.”

His stomach rolled over. “Your work?”

“It’s fine, no damage, just a mess on the walls and floor. But Jack, the door wasn’t broken. No windows either. Whoever came in had a key or something. But, but … even before I went in ... ” her voice broke and she couldn’t go on.

“Tess? Tess?” He gripped the phone, listening helplessly to the jagged sound of a stifled sob and looked up to see Waterman, hair wet and holding a towel, watching him with a frown of concern. “Try to …”

“It’s Rove … it’s Rover,” he shut his eyes at the broken words. “He was on the p–porch, and,” She cleared her throat, then caught her breath and spoke clearly, “and he was lying dead, right by the front door. I think it looks like someone shot him.”

“I’m coming home,” Jack’s voice was firm, and he started looking around the room to gather his things, trying to keep his voice calm as he spoke. “And I want you to get out of there, right now.” At these words Sam dropped the towel, moved to his own bag, and began stuffing things back inside. “Drive over to Dolly’s for the night. Don’t stay there.”

“Dolly and Drake left for Europe a week ago. I can’t go there. But I’m OK." She sniffled, but her voice was steady again.

“Get out. Go back to Des Moines. Stay with a friend or get a hotel room. The farm’s too isolated, damn it.”

“I’ll be fine, I promise. I just feel bad about poor old Rover.” There was a pause, and a gritty edge came to her words. “Jack, besides yours and mine, there’s only one other key to our house, and the last I knew it was at Augusta’s. This has something to do with …”