Friday Edition, The (25 page)

She gave him her full attention.

“Do whatever you want, Jonathan. Just like you did with Robin. It doesn’t matter now.”

Jonathan stepped away from her, causally slipping his hands inside his wrinkled pant pockets. “Don’t worry, Samantha, you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing your story in print and you’ll be around to write.”

He turned to go and Sam watched him put on his overcoat—her mind too fuzzy to determine his motive. Before he reached the door, he stopped and turned to her face. Their eyes met. The look in his was empty. Hers were filled with anguish.

“Two things,” he said. “First, tomorrow afternoon a load of confiscated drugs will be taken from the property and evidence vault to the incinerator. But the truck will make a slight detour before it gets there. Make a mental note of this address.”

Jonathan gave her the location to the underground room in the Grandview neighborhood where the meth lab was located. And where Juan Garcia would be waiting. Sam nodded to confirm the address.

“And finally,” he said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t want to kill Robin. I was ordered to do it. I had no choice. Like you, she was warned, and like you she ignored it. As you can see she paid the price.”

“Who wanted her dead?” Sam asked.

“You’re on your own to figure that out,” he said. “If and when you do, Samantha, you’ll have your man.”

Sam turned away and did not see that Jonathan had slipped his own keys from his overcoat pocket and set them softly on the kitchen counter.

“If you must know,” he said quietly. “Sunday afternoon when you were on the ground in the garage, I picked you up and brought you to the high school.”

His comment brought no response.

At the door he stopped. “And one more thing,” he said, his back to her, “Tell April I love her and she will always be in my heart. She’s safe, so you don’t have to worry. You and I are the only ones who know where she is.”

He left the apartment, closing the door gently behind him. She waited a moment and leaned forward in her chair to watch him walk toward his car, parked across the lot from her Mustang. The glare from the amber streetlights made it easy for her to follow his path. She watched a moment and saw that he was not walking toward his car, but toward hers. He reached her Mustang. He hesitated a moment as he fished the keys from his overcoat.

She got up from the chair and moved closer to the window.

Within seconds Jonathan opened the car door and had settled inside. “What the … Is he taking my car?”

Sam hurried from her apartment without bothering to put on a coat. She did not see Jonathan’s car keys on her kitchen counter as she dashed out the door. When she reached the parking lot, she could hear that Jonathan had started the Mustang. He was staring in her direction. Inside the car, he had both hands gripped firmly around the wheel.

Captain felt nothing now except peace. Finally, it had come. Robin’s eyes would no longer return to haunt him in endless nightmares. Tormenting thoughts of her could no longer attack him. He would be free of her and of everything else he had done. In the quiet he would no longer hear her voice, her screams as she fell to earth, everything, everything would be silent now.

Finally and at last.

He was ready and looked from Sam to his hands. He could not let her get any closer. Slowly, he moved one hand off the steering wheel and wrapped it around the headlight knob. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

And pulled the knob.

The force from the blast knocked Sam to the ground with such intensity that she lost consciousness. When she opened her eyes a few minutes later, a couple was hunkered down beside her. Acrid smoke filled her lungs with each breath she took. The smell made her gasp.

“Don’t worry. Help’s coming,” the woman said calmly and moved closer to Sam. “An ambulance is on the way. Just hang in there. You’ll be fine.”

Sam felt the woman pat her gently on the shoulder. She could see her lips moving as she talked to her, but could not hear a word. She tried to sit up, but the man pressed a hand firmly against her other shoulder. “You shouldn’t get up until the paramedics get here,” he said.

Sam’s heart raced as a wave of panic rushed over her. She could see they were speaking to her, but heard nothing. The woman rolled a jacket into a tight ball and tucked it under her head. Sam closed her eyes, trying to remember what had happened. She lay motionless, allowing her muddled thoughts to clear.
There must’ve been a bomb in my car and Jonathan knew it. That’s why he sent April to Seattle.

Sam knew she couldn’t wait for help to arrive. She looked at the couple who had been talking to her. They were standing now, but distracted by the firefighters. She did not look to see what was left of her car and Jonathan.

The ambulance hadn’t arrived and Sam noticed that enough of a crowd had gathered that she felt confident she could leave without being seen. She eased herself carefully to a sitting position. The movement made her head sway but nothing else seemed to hurt. She felt nauseous, but refused to give in to the queasiness. She slowly got to her feet and backed away from the gathering crowd. She felt lightheaded, but walked gingerly so she wouldn’t fall.

When she was far enough away from the crowd, she turned and, feeling a bit stronger, hurried toward her apartment. The cold night air assaulted her skin and only then did she realize that she had dashed out of her place without a coat. It wouldn’t take long for them to learn the car belonged to her. Sam had to move quickly to leave the complex. She entered her apartment and saw Jonathan’s keys.
God, help me.
Sam couldn’t hear herself calling for Morrison, but the cat came running. She checked the activity in the parking lot. More people were milling about. Two ambulances had pulled into the lot, not far from Jonathan’s Caprice. Sam pulled a jacket from the coat closet and she gathered Morrison in her arms and grabbed Jonathan’s keys from the counter.

Within minutes she was outside and in his car and no one had stopped her. She locked the door and breathed a deep sigh of relief. She didn’t know where to go and drove aimlessly for more than an hour. Seattle came to mind.

I’ll go to Washington. Get April and we’ll start a new life together on some little island.
She was on Pena Boulevard, half way to Denver International Airport before she pulled to the side of the road. She gripped the steering wheel hard.
I can’t leave you yet, Robin. I have to finish this.

A tear formed, traveled down her cheek and landed on the sleeve of her brown sweater. More tears fell and Sam watched as one after another fell and were absorbed into the fabric. She turned the car around and headed back to Denver.

Sam stopped at a KFC. The KFC employee’s voice taking her order at the counter was muffled, but Sam was relieved, at least her hearing was starting to come back. She left the restaurant and, as she walked to the car, wondered why the clerk had looked at her so strangely. She set the bag of chicken on the seat beside her and the smell of greasy food quickly filled the interior. She had to make one more stop. She pulled into the parking lot and stared at the brightly-lit sign a long time before she gathered the courage to go inside. She carried the bottles in two long brown bags from the store back to the car and set them next to the fried chicken.

She looked in the rearview mirror and caught sight of herself. Then she knew why the KFC clerk was staring at her. Her face and white turtleneck were dusted faintly black and there was a large superficial gash on her forehead. She stared at herself for a moment in the mirror and wondered who was staring back at her.

****

Sitting at his desk in the newsroom at the
Denver Post
, W. Robert Simmons was stewing, doing a slow burn. He had reread Sam Church’s article for the fifth time. Another reporter passed by his desk and stopped long enough to notice he was reading the
Grandview Perspective
.

“Are you mad, Robert?” she asked, knowing of the feud that had long simmered between them.

Simmons did not take his eyes from the newspaper.

“What happened to your source at the coroner’s office?” the reporter asked, trying not to use a mocking voice. Simmons continued to ignore her question and the reporter walked away. He knew Judie Rossetti didn’t like him, but it didn’t matter. He had other sources.
Sam’s on to something.

He smiled confidently, knowing there would not be another issue of the
Perspective
for a week, giving him all the time he would need. He began making calls. If Samantha Church was working on a hot story, he would do everything to get it in the
Denver Post
first.

When Sam didn’t show up for work Wednesday morning, Wilson became worried. News of the explosion had been broadcasted on every media outlet in the city. He had called her apartment endlessly, but hung up each time the answer machine clicked on. He tried a final time just before ten Wednesday evening. When the answering machine picked up, he left a message.

“Hello, Sam, it’s Wilson. I saw the news on television and I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I’m worried about you and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Call me when you get this message.”

Nick Weeks stormed into Wilson’s office first thing Thursday morning. “Do you have a few minutes?” Nick asked.

Wilson took off his reading glasses and tossed them on the desk. He motioned for him to enter.

“Close the door,” Wilson said.

Nick took the chair facing Wilson and came right to the point.

“We need to do something about Sam. If we keep her on the story any longer, we can kiss it good-bye,” Nick said.

Wilson studied him across a pair of folded hands. He remained motionless as he processed his comments. “What do you suggest?” Wilson asked.

“We’ve been sitting on this story long enough. I say we can her ass and put a real reporter on the story,” Nick said. “She’s not here yet and I doubt we’ll see her today. Did she call yesterday?”

Wilson shook his head slightly.

Nick snorted. “Figures. Why we thought she’d come through on this is beyond me. The woman’s a good-for-nothing, lousy …”

“That’s enough, Nick,” Wilson said.

“It’s not just how I feel, Wilson. Ask any reporter, they’ll tell you the same thing. We should’ve never hired her. I told you from the beginning this is David Best’s story.”

“Yes, I know it’s his beat. But…”

“We’re wasting time, Wilson. You can’t count on Sam Church. She’s probably sleeping it off in a gutter somewhere.”

Wilson remembered the one and only time he had done that very thing. He wanted to reach across the table and hit Nick. “I doubt she’s in a gutter,” Wilson said in a calm voice. “She’s in shock. I know this might be hard to understand Nick, but try for a moment to stop and think about what’s happened to her. I doubt either of us would do any better. I understand you want to get this story out. I do, too and so does Sam. She came to us with the story and she should at least have the opportunity to see it through. So we won’t have anything in tomorrow’s paper…”

Wilson’s voice fell away as he considered his options. He tapped a forefinger against his lips as he thought.

“I’ll give her until noon Monday,” he said finally. “She has the weekend and if we haven’t heard from her then, you can give the story to David.”

“What about tomorrow at noon? That doesn’t give Best much time to follow up on her leads,” Nick said.

Wilson thought about the flash drive that Sam got from Brady and gave to him. He knew it was in a safe place. “Noon Monday will be enough time,” he said. “With the information Sam has given me, there’ll be enough time to put a good solid story together. If David can’t do it in that time then I’ll write the story myself. But I have a feeling Sam will come through. She knows what’s at stake.”

Nick snorted. “You have more confidence in her than I do, Wilson. Probably even more than she does in herself.” He shook his head slightly and stared at Wilson for a long, quiet moment. “Why are you going soft on this?” He asked and some of the frustration in his face faded. “It’s a goddamn major story and you’re letting a drunk, a pariah, have full control of it. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but have you got a thing for this woman?”

“She isn’t the outcast you make her out to be and, yes, I do mind you asking,” Wilson said and his voice was firmer than he meant it to be.

It took everything not to blurt out to Nick the years he had struggled with alcohol and, later, sobriety. Wilson held his smile inside. He would love to see the look on Nick’s face if he knew he was a recovering alcoholic. Wilson had been in Sam’s shoes for more years than he could count. He had led the embarrassing, empty, and isolated life that alcohol brings. It was an existence he wouldn’t wish on anyone—even his father. If he could help Sam avoid having to live through the same kind of hell, he would do what he could.

“Sam has until Monday,” Wilson said again. “I’ll find her over the weekend. You just worry about putting tomorrow’s paper to bed.”

Wilson tried the rest of the day to reach Sam at home, but the phone rang endlessly. The
Grandview Perspective
went to press late Thursday afternoon without her breaking story. He tried for the last time around nine Thursday evening and, just as it had the last ten times he had called, the answering machine picked up the call. He left the same message.

It was nearly 5 p.m. Friday when Nick poked his head inside Wilson’s office.

“Any word from Sam?”

Wilson shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Okay, then see you Monday,” Nick said.

Two hours later Wilson walked into the newsroom, looked around and listened. Only the occasional squelch of the police scanner broke the silence that fell over the empty room. He walked to Sam’s desk and used her phone to call her apartment. It rang five times before he disconnected the call. As he had often done since Sam’s disappearance, he dialed his home number. He hoped if she didn’t want to call the office, she might leave a message on his machine. He hoped he had impressed upon her that she could call him whenever she needed.

His spirits lifted when the mechanical voice on his answering machine said, “you have two new messages.” The expectation, however, of one of those calls being Sam’s dissolved when Wilson heard his mother’s voice, then a friend with tickets to the Denver Nuggets. He returned to his office trying to push dark thoughts from his mind. He knew the events of the past several days had finally pushed Sam over the edge. It meant only one thing. Wilson knew because he had done the same.

She had gone to a place where she was certain no one would find her. She had probably purchased enough food to get her through a few days. He was certain she had made one final stop before reaching her haven. Wilson wanted to think positively that what had happened to her had not gotten the better of her. But his realistic side told him what he did not want to believe. Just as he’d once done, she would drown herself in alcohol.

Wilson determined Sam would not go to a motel, or to Jonathan’s. That left one other place. Though he had only been there one time, he was certain he could still find the building.