What Feats He Did That Day Pt. 05

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MarshAlien
MarshAlien
2,693 Followers

"Your source? For the dove-hunting stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Can't you just call her tomorrow?"

"No."

I flicked on the light and pulled myself into my chair one more time. I rummaged through my desk and found the phone book.

"Hello?"

"Suzanne, this is Rick Handley."

"Who?"

"The reporter. From the Messenger. Remember?"

"What time is it? Fuck! It's not even three."

"Suzanne." I made my voice as hard and cutting as I could. "You need to listen. Someone just broke into my house for and stole my cell phone. I think they took it because it has the number of your cell phone in it. I know it's not your cell phone, but these people won't take long tracking it down to you."

The line was silent when I stopped talking.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes," she said, her voice small and weak. "Oh, God. What should I do?"

"I'm going to call you a taxi. He'll call you and get your address. When he gets there, he'll bring you here. I'm going to give you my credit card and a calling card. I want you to go somewhere -- don't tell me where. Wait a week. Then call me at the paper. Leave a number where I can reach you on my voicemail."

"I can't just --"

"You can. Just call in sick. Suzanne, I'm sorry. These people mean business. You know that better than I do, right?"

I hug up and called Sam Weathers. He was equally sleepy but he finally agreed to comply. An hour later his taxi pulled up outside my house with Suzanne and a small boy inside of it. I handed Sam the thirty-three dollars from my wallet and told him I'd give him whatever else it cost later. I assured Suzanne that everything would be fine.

By then it was almost four o'clock. Shawn had retreated to bed shortly after the phone call. I crawled in next to her and was rewarded with a sleepy kiss on the shoulder. I didn't sleep at all, of course.

**********

My first session of light whip training on Sunday night was an unmitigated disaster. The hardest part was controlling the growth of the whip. If you didn't let it grow, it would fall off. Use it or lose it, so to speak. But that meant that your whip was constantly changing. You had to make constant adjustments in order to effectively use it. And I still hadn't mastered the regular whip.

Fortunately, the first part of the day was great. It wasn't that Shawn and I spent the whole day making love. In fact, she left after we had a leisurely Sunday breakfast. But I did spend the day in that post-coital bliss that lets you find the hidden pleasures in everything else you do, from reading the paper to cooking dinner. At one point while I was watching the ballgame on Sunday evening, I found myself laughing aloud for no reason whatsoever.

When Shawn slipped into her seat next to me at Monday morning's press conference, I slid my hand underneath the desk and gave her hand a squeeze. She rewarded me with a brilliant smile and together we got ready to listen to Pete Simpson. The media was angry. Today's story demonstrated that Pete had lied to us before, in this very room. We were used to being misled; that was part of the job, both his and ours. But lying crossed a line. We were out for blood.

And we were denied. Krissy Mackley appearance in Pete's place sucked all the anger out of the room. Her announcement that Pete had delivered his resignation to the Governor on Thursday evening sucked all the air right after it. The resignation, effective Friday, had allowed Pete to accept a position with Amalgamated Coal. The Governor had appointed Krissy to take his place.

As her first matter of official business as the new press secretary, Krissy apologized to the media for the statements that had been issued by the Governor's press office. Then she turned to me and delivered a personal apology on behalf of the Governor for any derogatory terms that he may have uttered in his misguided effort to protect the reputations of any women who may have accompanied Amalgamated's executives on his recent trip to Texas.

Then she changed the subject. Joe DiBianci would be taking over as the Governor's personnel director on an interim basis while Elizabeth Day was on medical leave. It was imperative that the legislature pass the Governor's transportation initiative this week. The Department of Natural Resources was investigating the water quality of the New River.

"Are there any questions?" she asked.

Of course there weren't. We were all still stunned.

"Bullshit," I muttered as the press conference came to an end.

"What?" Shawn asked.

"'Personal apology.' 'May have uttered.' 'Misguided effort,' my ass."

"Hey, pal," she said, rubbing my arm. "You won."

"You never win in the newspaper business," I said. "Only the politicians win. Even when you catch the bastards lying, it only means you managed a stalemate this time. Because they'll just try to do it again and again. There's always another chance for us to lose and them to win.

"Aren't you the cynic?" she said with a bright laugh.

"I'm sorry," I said. "You're right. We did good, didn't we?"

"We did great!"

"Yeah. How about a late breakfast?"

"Mmm," she purred. "I love having breakfast with you."

Her eyes were sparkling.

"I was thinking about the deli," I confessed. "Since we are being paid to work."

"Spoilsport."

**********

My light whip lessons continued each night. My progress was slow and fitful. Ken showed up to help me out but his experience with working legs was completely different from mine in the flychair.

**********

"You did it, didn't you?"

Allie and I were at our usual Tuesday lunch.

"How can you tell?" I ask.

"That smirk on your face," she said. "The one that says I got laid by a beautiful blonde over the weekend."

I shrugged.

"I'm not one to kiss and tell."

"Up until now there hasn't been anything to tell," she teased me. "You haven't been one to kiss."

"Very funny, Coles."

"It is," she insisted. "You all suave and nonchalant. It's very cute."

"Shut up."

She just laughed and then dropped her voice.

"So it was good, right?"

I gave her a dirty look and she laughed again.

"It was good for her too," I said.

"Ooh, I'll bet it was, tiger. Rick Handley the stud."

I rolled my eyes and she changed the topic.

**********

I spent Tuesday afternoon and all of Wednesday writing obituaries. It wasn't until Thursday morning that I had to pay any attention to the Governor's office. And that was only because Rachel called at 7:30 in the morning.

I wheeled myself over to the statehouse where I found the Morgantown Observer's Charlie Beckett waiting to talk with me.

"Did you get a chance to talk to Shawn?"

"Today?" I asked. "All I got today was a call from my editor telling me to get my ass over here this morning. Why?"

"I just wondered what you thought about Betsy Day. So you didn't talk to her yesterday either?"

"Shawn? I haven't seen her since Tuesday. Who's Betsy Day?"

"The Governor's personnel director."

It took me a while to remember where I had heard the name before.

"The one on medical leave?" I asked. "Am I missing something?"

"I got hold of the police report. Apparently somebody tried to kill her."

"No shit."

"No."

"Wow."

Charlie was looking at me like he was trying to gauge my reaction and I finally told him that I still didn't understand why Shawn or I would be interested in this.

He shrugged.

"I told Shawn yesterday," he said. "Police say that Betsy was looking at your article on Saturday on your paper's website and made two calls to the Governor's personal residence on Saturday evening. Whoever drugged her on Sunday tried to erase that record from her computer. Then they tried to make it look like a suicide. Fortunately, she was able to call 9-1-1 before she passed out."

"Holy shit," I said calmly. "What do you think it means?"

"I got no idea," he said. "I was hoping Shawn was going to tell me. Now I'm hoping you can tell me."

It was my turn to shrug.

"I got no idea."

He smiled.

"Will you let me know when you do?" he asked.

"Yours will be the second newspaper I talk to, Charlie."

"Asshole," he said, still smiling.

"Journalist," I reminded him.

"Same thing," we said in unison.

The wheel back to the office produced no answers. It wasn't until Rachel called me into a meeting with Bill McIntyre after lunch that lightning struck.

"Did something happen between you and Shawn?" she asked.

"Something?"

"I'm trying to figure out this e-mail I got at 11:00 last night. The one I read at seven o'clock, just before I called you."

"Rachel, I don't know anything about an e-mail."

I swallowed hard and decided that Rachel needed to know the truth.

"Shawn and I have been dating," I explained. "For about two weeks. She was in my house last Saturday night when I was robbed."

"And you argued?"

"No."

"Why do you think she resigned then?"

"Resigned?"

She passed me the e-mail. It was short and blunt.

Effective immediately, I resign my position with the Charleston Messenger. Shawn

I felt like my heart had stopped. I looked up at Rachel and Bill.

"Why?"

"I was hoping Shawn was going to tell me," Rachel said. "Now I'm hoping you can tell me."

I stared at her for what seemed an eternity. The words she had just spoken were exactly the same as those Charlie Beckett had used that morning when he was talking about Betsy Day.

It was the final piece in the puzzle. I gasped for air.

"Are you okay?" Bill asked. "Rick?"

"A minute," I said. "Give me a minute."

"I'll get some water," Rachel said. She dashed out and returned with a glass that I downed in a long swallow.

"BDSM," I finally said. "Betsy Day, the Governor's personnel director. B.D."

Rachel got it first.

"And Shawn is . . .?"

I nodded.

"S.M. It all fits."

"But she worked on the story with you," Bill objected.

I was still having a little trouble breathing. It took me another thirty seconds before I could answer him.

"She was working for them. Trying to control the damage. To keep me focused on the money. And off the sex."

I swallowed and continued.

"The break-in. I told you somebody must have overheard me telling Shawn that the source's number was on my cell phone. But they didn't need to have somebody overhear me. Shawn was there. I told her myself."

I gave a small, harsh laugh.

"I always lock the door of my apartment. And I did on Saturday night. Shawn got up and unlocked it."

And I had just lain there on the bed, waiting for her to return with her glass of ice. Waiting for her to entertain me.

"Oh, Rick," Rachel said. "I'm so sorry."

"Me, too," I said. I could feel a tear running down my right cheek. "Me, too."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rachel and Bill had both suggested I take Friday off. I had declined. What would I do in my apartment? Besides, I had a story to write.

Alison listened to my story on Friday morning in stunned silence and -- bless her -- resisted the temptation to tell me that she had told me so. Instead, she began contacting her sources in the Police Department to get a copy of the report that Charlie Beckett had told me about.

She did Charlie one better. She was friendly with one of the first policewomen to reach the scene. Her friend added a few details, including the story of a clumsy attempt by the State Police to muscle their city colleagues off the case. Curious, Alison made a phone call to a source in State Police Headquarters seeking confirmation. That woman produced a damning e-mail from the Governor's chief of staff demanding that state forces assume jurisdiction.

Alison also learned the police had discovered that Betsy Day had left an e-mail trail of her own. After being unable to reach the Governor by phone, Ms. Day had fired off a note telling him that she had no intention of falling on her sword like Pete Simpson. If she got even one question about "BDSM," she wrote -- initials that must have blazed like a neon sign to her -- she was going to tell everything she knew.

I was keeping busy as well. Around ten, I trekked out to the airport to renew my acquaintance with the men who worked for Jerry's Charter Service with photographs of Pete, Shawn, and Betsy. The guy who had reported seeing the "suit" with the two "babes" boarding the Amalgamated plane couldn't identify the suit to save his life. But babes were another matter. Gentlemen like this always found babes easier to remember. BDSM.

Upon my return, I started going through the corporate directory on the Amalgamated Coal website, looking for "Bill," the man with whom my diarist claimed to have swapped. The only "Bill" senior enough to have been invited on a trip like this was William H. Conde. I picked up the phone and punched the numbers.

It turned out that Conde was a fairly new executive with the company, one who didn't know enough to hang up on me after I managed to talk my way past his secretary. I told him that we had information that he had been on the company's dove-hunting trip to Texas, and that he had brought a companion with him.

"You can't print that," he whispered.

"Tell me why, Mr. Conde."

"My wife," he said. "My family."

"That is a problem," I agreed. "I'll tell you my problem, Mr. Conde. I don't care who from Amalgamated Coal is screwing who. Until they start screwing the citizens of West Virginia. If all I have is a name at Amalgamated, that's where this article will start and end. If I get more, it won't even start there. Okay?"

There was a long silence.

"Mr. Conde?"

"Yes," he said finally. "Go ahead."

"Was Governor Platte on the trip?"

"Yes."

"Did he bring a companion?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know her name?"

"Betsy something," he said. "Nobody used last names."

"Did his press secretary, Pete Simpson, go on the trip?"

"Yes."

"And his companion?"

"Shawn," he answered. "Again, I never knew her last name."

Even now, I could hear the arousal in his quavering voice. It seemed obvious to me that Bill and I had something in common. We had both slept with Shawn Michaels. But I had to ask.

"Did you and Pete Simpson engage in anything that could be termed 'swapping'?"

"We, um . . ." he began. "We had sex with each other's, um, companions."

"Did you swap with anyone else?"

"No."

"Was there anyone else on the trip named Bill?"

"No. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I take it you haven't seen the paper this week?"

"I only read the Wall Street Journal," he said.

"Pity," I said. "You miss a lot that way. I hope your wife doesn't take the paper. Now let's talk some more about Governor Platte."

By the time I was finished I had all the information I needed. He didn't know any of the financial details of the trip, but I wasn't really interested in those at this point. He knew plenty about the rest of it.

Allie and I were still hard at work when the newsroom began to empty out for the weekend. Finally, she pulled her chair over to my cubicle.

"How are you?" she asked.

I looked down at the notes I had finished taking after another series of phone calls.

"Shawn Michaels and Elizabeth Day were on a flight from Houston, Texas to Miami, Florida on the same day that Pete got back here," I told her. "They both flew from Miami to Charleston the following Saturday, when their vacations supposedly ended."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Guess that kind of seals it, huh?"

"Yeah. You know, sometimes it really sucks being a reporter. I'm not sure I really want to know everything."

"She didn't love you, Rick."

"You know, I think she did, just a little. I could hear it in her voice sometimes. Then I blew it out of all proportion, of course."

"Maybe you should turn this over to somebody else."

She laughed when she saw me stiffen in response to her suggestion.

"I'm a reporter," I protested.

"Can't let our feelings get in the way, can we?" she asked with a smile.

"Nope. Not even a little."

"Public's right to know . . ."

". . . and all that," I finished.

"You're a damn good reporter, Rick Handley," she said. "And a damn good guy. You going to be all right this weekend?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Al. I'm going to be writing."

"Charleston calling Mr. Pulitzer. Phone call for Mr. Pulitzer."

"From the Charleston Messenger?" I asked. "I don't think he accepts collect calls."

Allie threw back her head and laughed. We both knew I had as much chance of winning a Pulitzer Prize as I did of dating one of the Olsen twins. We both knew that it didn't matter. I had a story to write.

And a whip to master. But I had been practicing journalism for far longer. It was no wonder that I was better at that.

Ken did his best not to show it, but he was as concerned as I was.

"You need a day off," he said.

"Now?" I asked. "The fight's a week from fucking tonight!"

It had been a frustrating session even before he shared the "results." Ken had designed an algorithm for measuring success. Or so he claimed. I wouldn't have known an algorithm from an African drum rhythm. What I did know was that my effectiveness with the light whip had plateaued just like my skill with the regular whip had. Now I had a number for it: 43 percent. Up from 38 the day before. Down from 45 the day before that.

I didn't even have half a chance to win this fight.

"I know, buddy," Ken said. "You're trying too hard."

Easy for him to say. Ken had made steady progress. He had been at 84 percent before his injury.

"Why were you doing it?" I asked.

"Doing what?"

"Fighting the Morling. Why did you agree?"

He gave me an odd look.

"It's my job."

"Fighting aliens?"

"Fighting enemies," he said.

"Enemies of the United States," I pointed out. "Which doesn't exist."

"It's still my planet."

He spoke as if that should settle the issue. Maybe for him it did. He turned to Wizen.

"I don't want to see him here tomorrow, sir," he said. "Sunday night is soon enough."

**********

"I want to talk to your Council," I told Wizen on Sunday evening. I had propped myself on my elbows as I lay on his bed.

He looked alarmed.

"Council?" he asked. "I doubt very much that --"

"I'm the one putting his life on the line for them, aren't I?"

"Yes," he agreed. "For which we have agreed to give you the drug."

"Yeah. How soon can I meet them?"

"Three days?" He pulled a number out of thin air.

"Okay. Just summon me when they're ready. I'll just be sitting in my apartment, waiting for you."

"But your training," he sputtered. "Ken is waiting for us."

"That's true. Tell him it's up to your Council. I wouldn't wait too long if I were them, though. You know better than anyone that I need the practice."

I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. I opened them again after a few seconds.

"Not going to send me home?" I asked.

"I must consult with Council," he announced. "Francesca!"

Francesca and I had another lovely picnic until Wizen returned. The Council, it appeared, had reluctantly agreed to expedite my appearance.

Karsk, the only councilman I had already met, occupied the center chair of the nine that towered above me behind the shiny steel table. His colleagues were equally colorless, capable of little more than a scowl.

"You wanted to see us," Karsk stated.

"I want to bargain."

"Bargain?"

"The contest is in less than a week. You have no time to find and train a new champion."

"You seek to extort us?" the man on the far right asked.

"I seek to bargain," I repeated. "I fight your champion, you --"

"We give you a drug that allows you to use your legs," another man said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"A reward that doesn't cost you a thing," I countered."

Council exploded into rancor. Karsk hushed them up and asked me what I would prefer.

"My fifteen minutes of fame."

MarshAlien
MarshAlien
2,693 Followers