Falling Again (17 page)

Barely able to move without hurting in places he had hitherto not known existed, Nick wiped blood out of his eyes, and tried to find Fiona. He didn’t have to look far. She was right next to him.

“Oh, God, Nick. Can you get up?” She looked more terrified now than she had when she’d been at the mercy of the skinheads. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t texted you…” She began to cry as she wiped at the blood he could feel coming out of his nose with the sleeve of her shirt.

“Text? What text?” he started but was interrupted by the entrance of an Oregon state trooper, then by a Clackamas County sheriff’s deputy, last by an EMT. It was semi-organized chaos as more cops arrived and the two wounded skinheads were cuffed, Travis was taken to a police vehicle to talk to the sheriff’s deputy, and Fiona was tended to by an EMT.

And then there was Sam, who’d also shown up. He had no actual jurisdiction, but it didn’t prevent him from yelling—loudly enough to be heard in Portland—about what a jackass Nick been to tackle the skinheads by himself. Before Nick could defend his actions, he, too, was hustled away to have his injuries looked at by the medics while the troopers talked to him.

He tried to explain he needed to talk to Fiona but he was blocked at every turn by some law enforcement official or other who wanted to hear what he had to say. The only thing comforting him was the fact that when he patted down his pockets, he was relieved to find he still had his cell. When they finished with him, he’d call her.

He’d deal with Sam later, too.

• • •

“What the fuck were you doing here, Fiona?” Sam Richardson was clearly not in the mood to be civil.

She’d finished talking to one set of cops and was waiting to talk to the sheriff’s deputy when he grabbed her. “My job, like I told you. What’re you doing here? Isn’t this out of your jurisdiction?”

“I told you to stay away from here. These guys are dangerous. As you have only too fucking recently found out.”

“You didn’t tell me any such thing. And I had no intention of meeting up with them. I heard the place was deserted. I figured with everyone in the Portland metro area looking for the City Hall shooter, I might have a chance to see what was up here.”

“Instead you put yourself and Nick in danger.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, seeing the blood all over Nick’s face. “Is he all right? I couldn’t get near him to find out after the police and EMTs got here.”

“From the blood I’d say there’s not a chance in hell he’s all right. But that must not be important to you. Getting your story is more important, isn’t it?”

“What a terrible thing to say, Sam.”

“The truth sometimes is.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Christ, how’m I going to tell Amanda you caused her brother to be hauled off bleeding all over the place?”

“I didn’t ask Nick to come charging into the middle of a pack of wild animals.”

He glared at her, as if to say, “You didn’t have to ask.”

“Look, Sam, I found out who owned this cabin and came up here to see what else I could discover for my story.”

“Your story. Your damned story is all that matters to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s my job. Of course it matters. Doesn’t your job matter to you?”

He shook his head. “My job is to keep people out of danger, whereas yours seems to be—”

“Fuck off, Sam. I’m finished with this conversation.” Fiona stomped away to be waylaid by the Clackamas County Sheriff’s department contingent. She promised to meet them in Oregon City in two hours and headed for her car, furious Sam hadn’t even once asked how she was. How dare he blame her for everything when the other cops seemed to accept she was the victim not the villain.

Yet she was furious at herself, too. Mostly for getting the man she loved into the middle of something she’d likely be having nightmares about for the rest of her life. Because in spite of her indignation at how Sam treated her, she was beginning to believe he was right—because she wanted her story, she had gotten Nick badly injured.

She barely remembered driving down the mountain to her house, changing her clothes, and heading south to Oregon City. All she remembered for days afterward, other than flashbacks of the fear she’d felt when she thought the skinheads really were going to kill her, was the growing sense of guilt about how she had demanded Nick come meet her at the cabin only to have him leave bloodied, battered, and beaten.

How could she ever face him again?

For the next few days, Fiona stayed home and out of sight. She went out only to deal with more police and to make sure her doctor was satisfied she had no internal injuries. She stayed out of the way of her colleagues in the press. She had a newfound sympathy for people whose lives had been thrown into chaos by some horrific event only to find themselves the object of journalists who wanted them to endlessly relive it. All the victims wanted to do was forget.

And because her guilt about what happened to Nick grew every time she read about the man “badly beaten” as the reports kept saying, she also spent the time avoiding phone calls from Nick, Amanda, and Margo, too embarrassed to talk to any of them. Because of her, Nick had been hurt. Not only could she not face him, she had to avoid her friends, too.

When she did go back to work, her boss kept telling her she’d done everything she should have done to protect herself—notified the right people, kept in touch with her office, even left a note in the car.

And, he pointed out, her instinct to run down the story about the White Power Knights by looking at the cabin again had been a good one. When the police searched the place, they found a gold mine of information on the shady organization and the money behind it. Once the lid had been torn off the story, everything unraveled quickly.

The only thing she could do to forget was to follow her story. In a phone call she made to get his take on what happened, Duke Wellington said he had, indeed, leased the property where the cabin was located. But he’d sublet it to a group headed by Sherman Bischler, supposedly for a summer camp for teenagers, when Wellington’s plans for a second home for his family changed. He’d never been up to see what Bisch had done with the land.

And from a friendly source in City Hall she confirmed what she’d already suspected—Tyler Radke had been feeding misinformation to staffers and reporters alike for months trying to keep suspicion away from himself and the man who was paying him to be the eyes and ears of the White Knights—not the city commissioner he worked for, but Sherman Bischler.

Radke was currently in police custody after one of the passersby outside City Hall on the morning of the second shooting identified him as the man who whisked away the shooter in his car. When the security tape from the day of the first assassination attempt was reviewed again, it was Tyler Radke who was seen avoiding the metal detector and someone who looked a lot like him herding Preston Garland out the door after his attempt on the mayor’s life.

The second assassin was still at large, but they had a description and a huge reward posted by Duke Wellington, which had generated hundreds of tips.

Finally, when her best attempts to avoid being part of the story instead of just writing it failed, Fiona asked the law enforcement officials on the case if she could stay with her parents in Tacoma for a couple weeks. They agreed. She left Portland without talking to any of her friends, hoping she would find at her parents’ house a place to write her stories in peace and maybe find a way to manage her guilt.

• • •

“Nick, would you take some of this cake with you?” Amanda had a cake knife in one hand and a paper plate in the other.

It was bad enough he had presents to take with him reminding him of his Fiona-less birthday. The last thing he needed was cake. “I loved it, Sis, but I don’t think it’ll survive in my carry-on,” Nick said.

“Tony?”

“Don’t you dare,” Margo said. “I’ll eat it if we take it home, and I’ve already had two pieces. I have absolutely no resistance to chocolate.”

Sam took the knife and plate from his wife. “Here, I’ll take some of it to work tomorrow and eliminate the problem.” He cut a large slab of cake and put it on the plate.

“Put it out for the others, Sam. You’ve already had…”

“Nick, are you sure you have to leave? When you’re here my wife splits her hovering between the two of us, but when you’re not here, I get the brunt of it,” Sam said.

“You signed up for it, Sam. I was just born into it. Can’t stay. Have to go teach all those people who signed up to learn from a famous photojournalist how to get more out of their cameras,” he said.

“At last you’ll have a chance to put all the experience you got teaching Mom how to use her various cameras,” Amanda said.

“I doubt anyone who signed up for these classes is so camera illiterate. And if you ever tell Mom what I said, your husband will be arresting his brother-in-law for the murder of his wife,” he said.

“I better get going. I have to pack all these goodies you gave me.” He kissed his sister and gave her a hug. “Thanks for a great birthday dinner, Amanda, and for the Kindle gift cards. Tell Kat again how much I love her pictures when she wakes up tomorrow, especially the one of Chihuly. I think we’ve discovered the next generation artist in the family.”

He clapped his brother-in-law on the back in a guy hug, did the same with Tony, and then kissed Margo on the cheek. “Thank you for the DVDs, you two. They’ll be a great distraction on the plane flight.”

“Fly safe, Nick,” Margo said.

“When will we see you again?” Amanda asked.

“Not sure. I have these two photo instruction gigs, then I have to work out my schedule. I thought I’d be coming…never mind. I’ll let you know.”

Amanda put her arm around her brother as she walked him to the door. “Have you called her?” she said in a quiet voice.

“Not in the past couple days.”

“Don’t you think…?”

“I think when someone doesn’t return a dozen text messages, even more phone calls at work, at home, and on her cell and won’t answer my emails, she doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Sam had followed them and chimed in. “I tried calling her at work, to apologize, but everyone at the paper’s covering for her. Couldn’t get through the wall they’ve got around her. I feel bad about this, Nick. Most of the reason she’s avoiding you is what
I
said to her.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Nick,” his sister put her hand on his cheek, “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m okay, Amanda. I really am. Things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to. It happens.” Nick walked to the door. “Thanks again. It was a great birthday. I’ll call you when I get back from my second trip and let you know I arrived.”

When he got to his rental car he sat with his hands on the steering wheel, not starting the car, just staring out the windshield. He wasn’t sure he believed what he said back there. But maybe he did. Maybe the truth was, what had happened was for the best. Maybe he was doing what he always did—leaving town when it got complicated with a woman and burying himself in another assignment. It had always worked before. It would work again this time.

Wouldn’t it?

Fiona spent two weeks in Tacoma, finishing up her White Knights series, laying a ghost to rest, and investigating the possibility of a new job where she could maybe do her work differently. But she knew, no matter what she accomplished staying with her parents, nothing would be settled until she went home to Portland and dealt with the past. So she went home to her house in St. Johns, to dusty furniture, a cat that was happy to be out of kitty day care, and fences that needed mending.

She unpacked, started a load of laundry, donned old sweats, took a deep breath, and picked up her phone to make the first difficult call. If she was lucky, she’d get voicemail.

But Amanda answered on the second ring.

“Hi,” Fiona started. “Any chance you’ll talk to me?”

“Oh, God, girlfriend. I’m so glad to hear from you. I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to find out where you were.”

“I’ve been with my parents, sorting things out, returning an old robe.” She took another deep breath. “I owe you a big apology. I should never have…”

“Returning what? Never mind. No apology needed. After what my husband said to you, you’re the one who’s owed an apology.”

“He was right. I was…”

“You were doing your job. Just the way I’d expect you to.”

Fiona could hear voices in the background, calling to Amanda. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if this was a good time. Sounds like I’m interrupting something.”

“I have some people here, a new board I’m on. We’re having lunch.”

“You should have told me. Why don’t I call you back?”

“I’ll call you. Have you talked to Nick?”

Fiona could feel her eyes fill with tears. “I think that bridge was burned even more thoroughly than any other.”

“I don’t think so. But we’ll talk about it later. I’ll call as soon as I get through with this meeting.”

Thinking about Nick was not a good thing, so she put music on and set about cleaning with a vengeance to take her mind off him. Several hours later she turned off the vacuum just as Simon and Garfunkel finished accompanying her in singing “I Am a Rock.” In the sudden quiet a pounding on the front door startled her. Sure it must be a neighbor with some emergency, she ran to the door saying “What’s wrong?” as she opened it.

It wasn’t a neighbor. Nick was on the other side of the door looking crisp and neat in tan trousers and a beige and white striped shirt. He was still clean-shaven and still smelled like heaven, if heaven smells like spice cake. She wiped her hand on the side of her sweatpants to get some of the dirt off, then realized she probably wouldn’t be shaking hands with him.

“I tried the doorbell but you didn’t answer,” he said. “I knew you were here because I could hear your music.”

“Nick. Hello…what are you…did Amanda call you?”

“Amanda? No, I haven’t talked to her since I got off the cruise ship. I came to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“It’s not really convenient.”