Cover Story (16 page)

“The usual?” Simon asked.

I nodded and watched him order our bagels, a faint sense of panic enveloping me. I paid the cashier for mine, despite Simon’s offer to foot the bill, then made my way over to a vacant table.

When he’d paid and began weaving his way toward me, the Hollywood-style lust hit me smack-bang in the loins. Then panic rose again. Dammit, I needed a plan. This was ridiculous. The whole having-an-external-locus-of-control was no way to run a life. No, siree.

But … what if … what if I had a little turn of experiencing what Simon had to offer? Explore this lust fixation? If my physical reactions to him were anything to go by, getting naked with Simon wouldn’t be like sex with anyone else. Which, of course, was the problem. But, if I
chose
to investigate it?

Yes … that could work. As had been pointed out to me on numerous occasions, I needed to loosen up a bit. Okay, I got it. And my own pathetic attempt at doing so—the non-seduction of Simon—showed I’d need some help.

So, what if I stopped either running away
or
chasing? What if I just waited and let myself be caught? Then I could get used to the whole loosening-of-control thing and afterward get on with my life with a brand new skill.

Because I needed to get back on track—me and my best friend, control. My friend protected me from vulnerability, hurt, and random karaoke attempts. I wanted control back of my life, my body, and my reactions. The experience with Simon would show me how to loosen up a bit—for future reference—but then I’d walk away and regain executive command of myself. Simon had said he wanted me—so it was a win-win situation.

Okay, then. Plan made. I’d let myself be caught and have a hot-blooded affair with Simon. Good.

Pleased with my decision, I gave him a wide smile as he slid into his seat.

He smiled back. “So what did you want to ask?” He raised his hands in an open gesture.

“Um …” I thought back over the questions, suddenly feeling awkward. This wasn’t like Martin’s affair or Jazlyn’s pregnancy. It wasn’t about the gnomes or the welfare of the street. This question was about me. Because I wanted to know about Simon’s past. “Um …” I stumbled again.

“Come on, Tobi, spit it out.” One corner of his mouth quirked, challenging me.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the thing. Martin said some things last night. About you. I just wanted to … run them by you.”

“Did he, now?” He grinned. “Must be juicy for you to be hesitating.”

“It was about your wife. And how she died,” I blurted with none of the tact and subtlety I’d been trying to acquire.

He nodded slowly and blew out a long breath through open lips. “I can imagine.” Then he looked up at me and spoke quietly. “What do you want to know?”

My heart clenched for him and I was torn between wanting to save him the pain of rehashing it and badly wanting to know. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

He reached across the speckled Formica table and took my hand. “Well, as it turns out, I do want to tell you. Not the journalist—just you.”

His eyes searched mine and I nodded.

“Isabel was sick after Anna was born. She had postnatal depression.” I wanted to smooth the wrinkles from his brow, but instead I waited until he spoke again. “I tried to help her, but I was working full time and missing days as it was to look after Anna. Isabel was … too sick most of the time.”

He broke eye contact and looked at a point over my shoulder. He was so still; the only movement I could see was the rise and fall of his chest.

“I didn’t really understand how sick she was—none of us did. I asked her parents for help, but Iris, her mother, and Gerald said she’d be fine—it was just the baby blues.”

“But it wasn’t.” I’d done a feature story on this once, met women with postnatal depression. Knowing the illness even second-hand, I felt a strong pang of sympathy for Isabel.

“No, it wasn’t.” His shoulders sagged slightly. “I took her to a doctor and told him it was a struggle to get her out of bed. I told him she wasn’t interested in Anna.” Simon’s voice cracked on his daughter’s name. “He gave her some tablets, antidepressants—but Isabel wouldn’t take them.”

Our bagels arrived and we pulled our hands apart. I gathered my pickle and my fingers brushed his as I laid it on his plate. He watched the touch and gave me a vacant smile, but didn’t look up.

We ate in silence until we finished our lunch—bringing up another subject didn’t seem right and I couldn’t push him to speak of Isabel. Then he shoved his plate away and captured my gaze.

“What happened then?” I asked, realizing he needed the go-ahead to continue.

He nodded slowly and reached for my hands again. “One day, when Anna was about four months old, I took her in her stroller to the park and,” he cleared his throat, “while we were out, Isabel overdosed on some tablets she’d got from God knows where and killed herself.”

I’d expected the words from when he’d first mentioned postnatal depression, and from knowing how the story ended. But even so, tears threatened for Isabel, for baby Anna, and for Simon.

“That’s when your mother moved in?”

He nodded. “I took a couple of months off, but Anna was a full-time job and I was in a mess of grief. Mom was a Godsend. Between us, we managed.”

I was overwhelmed with a need to give him … something—this man who seemed to give me so much. But I didn’t know what. I squeezed his hand. “You didn’t just manage, you’ve done a fabulous job with Anna. She’s so confident and happy.” It wasn’t much of an offering but it was heartfelt and true.

His Adam’s apple worked up and down. “Thanks. That means a lot. You don’t give away compliments very often so I appreciate that you mean that.”

An unspoken vibe hung between us, suspended on the emotional connection. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Suppressing the urge to walk away from it, I thought about the rest of Martin’s taunt. “Tell me what happened with Gerald and his wife.”

Simon shifted in his seat but stilled again before speaking. “To my eternal shame, while I was in the worst of my grief, I said some things I shouldn’t have.” His eyes closed briefly and when they re-opened, unmistakable self-recrimination shone there. “Gerald was angry, and grieving too, and he took it out on me. Told me his daughter would never have taken her life.”

I frowned. “But she was sick.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s what I told him, but not quite as nicely. I said he wouldn’t have known what his daughter was capable of at the end—that I’d asked for help and they’d ignored me.” He shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “I apologized right away, and again later, but …”

“It’d struck home,” I finished for him.

He sighed. “There are a lot of things I regret from that time, but that’s one of the biggest.”

I reached for his other hand and held them both across the table. “But you were grieving for your wife. People say worse than that with much less reason.” Heck,
I’d
said worse for less reason.

He shrugged. “Iris died from a stroke about two months later, and Gerald started slipping away after that. Losing his daughter then his wife was just too much.” He paused, and I noticed a faint shudder run through him. “I think if it wasn’t for Anna, we’d have lost him as well.”

Why hadn’t I learned more about subtlety and tact? My own stupid curiosity had pushed this man into reliving something he should be allowed to forget forever. I wanted to crawl under the table. “Simon, I’m so sorry I brought this up. I should never have asked.”

For the longest minute, he said nothing, just stared at me. Then I saw him mentally changing gears before he moved my hands together and wrapped his own around them in one knot of fingers. “I would have told you anyway. Very soon.”

I frowned. “Why?”

He stroked a lazy thumb over the back of my hands. “Because it relates to you.”

My pulse fluttered from his caress. “How?”

“I want you to understand that I worked hard to deal with my grief for Isabel and move on. If I’d been able to save her, I would have done anything. Anything. But I couldn’t.”

Of course he would have. Anyone who knew him wouldn’t doubt it. “I know.”

“But there’s something I can do about you.” A tender smile spread across his face.

I swallowed. “Me?”

“Tobi, I love you. I realized that when I walked away from your seduction the other night.”

The breath leeched from my lungs like a deflating balloon until not a drop remained. I was sure I felt my lips turn blue.

“The thing is,” he continued, apparently unaware of my precarious grasp on life, “I’m not willing to let love leave me a second time. At least, not without a damn good fight.”

The room began to spin and I could hear my brain screaming, but I’d been utterly immobilized by his declaration. In a deli. Who did this sort of thing in a sandwich shop?
Breathe!
He couldn’t have wined and dined me? No, he makes a deli-declaration.

My mind clouded over.
Breathe!

I gasped and glorious oxygen flooded my body again.

Gradually, everything came back into focus, including Simon, who was probably expecting a response. “What are you saying?”

Completely unperturbed by my near-death experience, he smiled again. “I want to be with you. I want you in my future. In Anna’s future. Tobi, I’m not asking now—it’s too soon for you, and I’m a patient man—but one day I’ll be asking you to be a permanent part of our lives.”

Oh, God, there went the air deprivation again. My vision fogged up and I could see a light in the distance. It was the legendary tunnel—I must have stopped breathing too long. I gave myself a shake and realized it was an overhead fluorescent light—my head had tipped back a little.

Permanent. Jeepers.

I’d only decided—what? Twenty minutes ago?—that I could just about be comfortable with a short-term attempt at exploring the Hollywood-style lust thing with him. And now he was forewarning me about an invite to join the whole family? Mother to Anna? How could anyone think
that
was a good idea? Maybe my first assessment of him had been right—he was nutty. It was making my head spin. Either that or the lack of oxygen had caused some permanent damage. I gasped in a breath and then another. I had to get away. Needed time to think.

“Simon, I—”

For the first time ever, I saw vulnerability on his face. “I’ve frightened you off, haven’t I?”

The thing that’d brought vulnerability to the most confident man I’d ever met was me? He was worried about whether he’d frightened me away? This was way too intense.

“Er …”

My cell phone rang. I considered pouncing on it like Winston on my ankles, but that would’ve been the coward’s way out. I ignored it.

“Simon, it’s not—”

He released my hands. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

I frowned. “Um, sure.” I fished out the cell and hit the talk button. “Tobi Fletcher.”

The sound of a car engine hummed over the line. “Tobi, it’s Rafaella from Los Alamos Court. Look I know this is short notice, but could you meet me now? I’m on a lunch break.”

I glanced over at Simon, keen for the escape to breathing space, yet also knowing that’d be unfair to him. “It’s not a great time, perhaps after you finish work?”

“Trust me, you want to meet me now. It’s not about the gnomes. It’s about another story we spoke about a while ago.” She paused. “I work for Senator Porter.”

Oh. My. God. No wonder something about Rafaella had seemed familiar—she was our missing contact! The one who’d contacted Sofia and me about the scandal in the senator’s office then disappeared off the radar.

“Where?”

“My place—I don’t want to be seen with you in public and you’re always on Los Alamos Court, anyway. I’m heading there now.”

My veins buzzed with adrenalin. “I’m just around the corner. I can be there in five minutes.”

“Perfect.”

I hung up and chanced a look at Simon.

He raised an eyebrow. “Something’s come up?”

“You could say that. I’m really sorry but I need to go.” I knew it sounded lame, but what could I do? It was the truth.

“It’s okay, Tobi.” He smiled with no ill will in his expression. “But I do want to continue this conversation another time.”

Sure. When I had my head around it. “Right. Yes. I’ll call you. I promise.”

I thought about kissing him on the cheek—what did custom dictate for these situations? I had no idea, so instead I flashed him an everything-will-be-all-right smile—which possibly came off as a grimace—then rushed out the door.

By the time I pulled into Rafaella’s driveway, I’d dialed Sofia, who pulled the file and was gathering the latest research.

Rafaella answered her door with a tense smile. “Come on in.”

I restrained myself from punching the air with elation. This was it. The story that would Make a Difference … I hoped.

As I followed her into the living room my heart raced as if I’d just run the three blocks from the deli. We sat in the same seats we had the last time I’d interviewed her and I regulated my breathing so my voice would sound professional.

“Thanks for calling, Rafaella. I know what a big risk you’re taking with your job.”

She gave another tense smile. “Look, I’m sorry about fading away from you last time, but I got spooked.”

I took out my paper and a nice, newly sharpened pencil. “Did they give the staff a hard time?”

“Yes, that and …” She seemed to struggle for words. “I saw your name on the gnome article and wondered if …”

I shook my head. I’d known those gnome articles were bad for my career. “Wondered if I could handle a heavyweight issue.”

“Well, yes.” A faint pink tinge crept across her cheeks.

“I’m not surprised, I probably would have done the same thing in your shoes.” I couldn’t be annoyed, not when she was sitting here now ready to spill the beans. “You changed your mind after we met, then?”

“That, and,” her blush deepened, “when you kept my name out of the Martin thing.”

Realization dawned. “You tested me?”

“Sorry, Tobi, but the stakes were high.”

“True. And again, probably what I would’ve done in your shoes.” I shrugged. “But aren’t you worried people will connect you if you use me? Your street and my gnome articles?”

She grinned. “Too obvious. What whistleblower would risk that connection? They’ll probably write me off as a suspect straight away, they’ll think if I’d been the leak, I’d have picked another journalist. It’s perfect.”

I blinked. There was some logic in there somewhere. “All right. So what have you got?”

She leaned over to her handbag on the coffee table and withdrew a large envelope. “Did you know Mr. Porter couldn’t attend meetings today because he’s meeting his family? On the mothership. Visiting from Roffelard. Apparently they drop in around Roswell from time to time.”

I narrowed my eyes. I knew they were covering up something in that office—but was she suggesting mental illness? Would Rafaella lie to me? Or perhaps she was the one who wasn’t quite all there? The Los Alamos Court lunacy strikes again? I chose my words carefully.

“He thinks he’s an alien?” It would explain some of his policy decisions.

“He’s convinced of it. And apparently on Roffelard, he’s a high-ranking officer, so when we meet with him, we have to salute and say, ‘Hail the General of Cheese.’”

I could see another fast track to sensationalist magazines. I finally had a story with more weight than the gnomes and was it about bribery? Kickbacks? No, it was about “The General of Cheese?”

She nodded apologetically. “Cheese is apparently very valuable on Roffelard.”

Okay, I needed to be open to the information. I could check the validity later. My mind raced. If this was true, it was bigger than either Sofia or I had imagined. Fan-freaking-tastic!

Focus, Fletcher. Get the details and write the story, then you can throw exclamatory statements around willy-nilly.

“Why hasn’t anyone picked up on this? We see him in public, making speeches, cutting ribbons.”

Rafaella sat back in the lounge, adjusting a cushion behind her back. It must still have been giving her problems. “All carefully rehearsed. Apparently, the Roffelard government doesn’t want him to alert Earthlings to their presence anyway, so he’s cooperative.”

I wrote down every word. “So, basically, you’re telling me the senator is unfit and his staff and political party are covering up?” I held my breath. It was almost too good to be true. Well, not for the poor unbalanced senator. No, it was sad for him. But it needed exposing and I was
just
the person.

She nodded and sighed.

“I’m going to need details. Have you got a psychiatric assessment?”

“Sorry, no, but I do have these.” She pulled a small brown bottle from her bag. I recognized the brand on the label as a common a medication for treating schizophrenia. Prescribed to Frank Porter. Excellent.

“I managed to get these tablets because he’s not using them anymore. They’re upgrading his medications. The staff were told that the upgrade can sometimes bring on attacks but they won’t risk hospitalizing him to stabilize his condition.”

“So, what are they doing with him?”

She handed me the pages she’d retrieved from her bag earlier. “The one on top is a memo we got today. They’re hiding him with a doctor and a couple of nurses at home.”

“So, how does his job get done?”

“They delegate his tasks. His duties are done by a team.”

“Why would they go to all this trouble to cover for him?” I asked, scanning the other pages.

She shrugged. “Because of who he is. Everyone knows the family. The closest thing to landed gentry we have in this state—”

“And his father was governor, and his grandfather a federal senator,” I finished for her.

“Right. They don’t have to do any campaigning to get him elected. Because of who he is, all they need is his name on a ballot box.”

I fixed her with my steely glare. “Why are you blowing the whistle? What stake have you got in this?”

Rafaella gave a sad smile. “They’re using him and he’s a really sweet man.” Honesty and compassion shone from her features.

“Fair enough.” Using a sick man for political gain was pretty low. Something in my belly fired; something beyond wanting to make a big splash with the story—there was a wrong that needed righting here. A man with an illness who needed protection.

I finished scanning the pages. They clearly showed the party had been covering for him and they had blessings from party leaders in doing so. He’d lose his job, as would several others. These were the most explosive documents I’d ever handled. “Can I keep these?”

“Yes, I made those copies for you.”

I stuffed them back in the envelope and grabbed my bag. “Thanks for this, Rafaella. And don’t worry, I’ll keep your name out of it.”

She nodded. “I know you will.”

*

I rushed back to the office, headlines and angles swirling in my mind. This story was bigger than I’d dared dream. But we’d have to write it fast for maximum impact. I sprinted from the parking lot, took the stairs to avoid the wait for the elevator, and darted past offices to my cubicle. After buzzing Sofia’s phone, I flicked through the notes I’d taken.

“Did you get it?” Sofia was panting and, judging from how fast she’d appeared, I guessed she’d run from her desk.

Still not quite believing it myself, I held up my notebook. “I got what she promised and more.” I filled her in on the details while she did a little happy dance.

“Ooh, I could kiss you, Tobi,” she squealed.

“Come on, we need to see Kevin.”

She followed me to the big office and waited while I knocked.

“Come in.” Strangely, the order wasn’t barked, it was more a moan.

He was slumped over his folded arms on his desk, which was unusual, but I didn’t have time for details.

“Kevin. Great news. We—”

“Fletcher, good. I needed to talk to you.” He looked up and took in Sofia’s presence. “Franklin. Out.”

Sofia blanched. “But, sir—”

“Out,” he barked, revealing the first hint of his normal bulldog self.

Sofia left quickly.

I tried again but he held up a hand. “Fletcher, your mother dumped me. I want her back. You need to help.”

All the blood left my brain at once. I groped for a chair. The biggest story of my career and my editor wanted to talk about his love life. With my mother.

“Kevin, I have an exclusive on a scandal around the mental health of a state senator—”

“Do you think you could ask her about me?” He rested his chin on two beefy hands and I noticed red rims around his eyes.

“This is a front-page story.” I spoke very slowly.

“But I need her.” The corners of his mouth turned down. How did my mother always do this? Find what was important to me and sabotage it?

I laid my palms on his desk. “The senator will lose his job.”

Kevin looked up in earnest entreaty. “Do you think the leather was too much?”

I had to repress my gagging reflex and stay on track. “There’s a chance this could bring down the whole state government because of the cover-up.”

“What?” He seemed a little confused. “Oh, fair enough. Go write it.” He waved a dismissive hand toward the door. “Do you want tomorrow’s front page or the next day?”

“Um … both? We could do it in two parts?” Why not? The story was big enough.

“Sure, I’ll buzz Gary and tell him. And, Fletcher?”

Resting a hand on the doorknob, I turned back to him. “Yeah, boss?”

“You’ll talk to your mom, won’t you?” His little boy pout was at odds with everything I’d ever known about him.

“Er … sure.”

“Good girl.” He nodded and slumped back over his folded arms.

I wrenched open the door and Sofia almost stumbled in, but I caught her by the shoulders and pushed her ahead of me. “We have to write—quick. We’ve got two front pages to fill.”

As I closed the door, I thought I heard a muffled sob inside, but couldn’t be sure.

*

State Senator in Mental Health Cover-Up

By Tobi Fletcher and Sofia Franklin

A document leaked exclusively to the
Santa Fe Daily
has identified Frank Porter, New Mexico Senator, as having been diagnosed with schizophrenia.

It reveals that Senator Porter is currently secluded on his family property (pictured left) with a doctor and two nurses in a bid to stabilize his long-term condition.

At this time, it’s unclear how long the cover-up of his illness has been in place, or how high up the chain of command the scheme goes. What is clear is that his duties are being carried out by a delegation of unelected staff members and the public has been deliberately misled over this issue.

Neither Senator Porter’s office nor family were available for comment yesterday.

A History of Senator Porter’s Political Career, page 2.

Schizophrenia, A Growing Epidemic, Page 3.

Implications For The Party and State, page 4.

*

When the first article hit the stands, the uproar in the state government was felt around the country, with questions asked and butts covered. The senator and three senior party members tendered their resignations by the evening.

Sofia and I were asked to appear on TV news shows to give interviews on our exclusive, but we didn’t have the time—we were too busy digging deeper. This was our Make a Difference Story and we planned to make the most of it. Especially when something still smelled a little suspicious.

I checked with a toxicologist who told me the senator’s delusional symptoms could be brought on by poisoning. Was this a murder attempt? On a hunch, I contacted Rafaella again about who would have the most to gain.

Then I took the information to a friend in the Police, who added the lead to their own investigation, and eventually searched the house— giving me the scoop on the story in return.

*

Porter Family Implodes as Wife Arrested for Attempted Murder

By Tobi Fletcher and Sofia Franklin

A police source has confirmed that Adelaide Porter, wife to former State Senator Frank Porter has been arrested for the attempted murder of her husband.

Doctors had been treating Senator Porter for schizophrenia, but in a surprise twist, his wife (pictured right) is alleged to have been poisoning him.

Acting on a tip-off to the
Santa Fe Daily
, police yesterday conducted a thorough search of Mr. Porter’s home and discovered his favorite tea had been laced with belladonna, a naturally occuring poison, which induces symptoms such as hallucinations, confusion, and delirium.

Possible motives at this stage are unclear. Mrs. Porter had appeared to be a tireless supporter of her husband and had been quoted in past interviews as saying that Mr. Porter was “her rock”.

Family members have closed ranks and declined to comment but it is understood that the Porters’ three children have flown home from interstate. Mr. Porter’s father, former New Mexico Governor Harry Porter, and his wife are believed to have cut short an overseas holiday to join their family.

The Porters: A Family in Crisis—page 3.

Senate Considering New Precautionary Measures—page 5.

Belladonna: An Unfashionable Poison—page 6.

*

For another week, we thought of nothing else but the story. We filed articles on the political ramifications, the impact on the average citizen, the by-election, the effects on the senator’s popularity, the legislation that would be held up, past decisions of the former senator that were now in question and the care he was receiving.

We filed stories that Made a Difference. Important stories. Not a gnome in sight.

Sofia and I snagged an exclusive interview with Harry Porter, grateful we’d rescued his son. A television current affairs show interviewed us and we received kudos both nationally and internationally.

It was fantastic … most probably. The strength of the adrenalin rush made it difficult to properly distinguish excitement from stress. Or achievement from frenzy. Whatever. This was what I’d trained to do. What I’d groomed myself to do. I was fulfilling my dreams.

Senator Frank Porter caught the biggest swell of public support I’d ever seen for a politician. Once he’d recovered, that man could run for Governor.

I played tag-team phone calls with Simon several times before I finally caught him. I hadn’t had the mind space or emotional capacity to think about his declaration … so I hadn’t. The call was short.

“Simon Hansen.”

“Ah, Simon, it’s Tobi.”