Time crawls toward three-thirty. My eyes tick between the phone on my desk and the clock on the newsroom wall. Two o'clock. Two-twenty. Two forty-three.
Ridiculous. Emma must be stuck in a meeting.
Now I remember: It's Thursday, and Thursdays are a marathon day for meetings at the Union-Register.Emma has come to hate them, which is a positive sign. All good editors hate meetings because they steal precious hours from the hectic task of putting out a paper. It's the very same reason bad editors love meetings; some Thursdays they can make it through an entire news cycle without having to make an independent decision or interact with an actual reporter.
Looking around the place now, I see a few stiffs and climbers but also plenty of authentic talent; as good as Emma could be if she ignores my advice and sticks with the business. Nobody with a living brain cell goes into the newspaper business for the money. They're in it because digging up the truth is interesting and consequential work, and for sheer entertainment it beats the hell out of humping product for GE or Microsoft. Done well, journalism brings to light chicanery, oppression and injustice, though such concerns seldom weigh heavily on those who own the newspapers. Race Maggad III, for instance, believes hard-hitting stories are fine as long as they don't encroach upon valuable advertising space or, worse, affront an advertiser.
It's pleasing to report that since Maggad-Feist acquired the Union-Register,circulation has declined commensurately with each swing of the budget ax. This trend suggests newspaper readers expect some genuine news along with their coupons and crosswords. Young Race Maggad will tolerate losing readers only as long as profits rise, which he achieves by the aforementioned paring of the budget, shrinking of the staff and cold-blooded gouging of local retailers. Eventually, however, Wall Street will take note of the sliding circulation numbers and react in a manner that could jeopardize young Race Maggad's blond and breezy lifestyle. His trepidation over this prospect has leached into the management ranks of all the company's newspapers, including ours. The result has been the urgent convening of even more newsroom meetings, one of which undoubtedly imprisons Emma at this moment.
Quarter past three on Thursday afternoon.
Phone rings. Eddie Bell from the Bellmark Funeral Home.
"Jack, you been out sick, or what? I miss your stuff in the paper lately. That Evan kid, he's okay but"
"I can't talk now, Eddie. I'm waiting on a call."
"This'll just take a sec. I got one cries out for your golden touch, Jack. I'm so glad you're not sick, God forbid," he says. "Remember a few years back, widow lady shot some dirtbag that was breaking into her condo? Eighty-four years old, she popped him like five times point-blank. Pow! Blew his gourd off."
"Yeah, I remember, Eddie. Let me call you back"
"Made all the networks. Maury Povich, too." One thing about Eddie Bell, he loves the hype. "Lady name of Audrey Feiffer?"
"How could I forget."
The burglar had gotten stuck sneaking into Mrs. Feiffer's kitchen through the kitty door. She thought he was the neighbor's chow, trying to get at her Siamese, and emptied her late husband's revolver into him. Then she fixed herself a cup of chicken broth and lay down for a nap.
"Well, she finally passed on," Eddie says. "Natural causes, God bless her. We happen to be handling the arrangements"
"Evan'll do a nice job on the story."
"Wait, wait! The best part, she asked to be buried with her NRA patchesthe ones they sent her after she wasted that guy." Eddie is breathless. "She was so proud, she stitched 'em to the front of her favorite housedress. By hand!"
"Patches," I say.
"Plus an autographed picture of Charlton Hestonshe wanted that in the casket, too. Come on, Jack. This one cries out for your touch, no?"
"I'll have Evan call you."
Two beats after I hang up, the phone rings again.
"Jack?"
It's Emma. What lousy timing.
"Where are you?" I ask. "I can't talk nowJanet's supposed to call on this line any second."
"I don't think so," she says dully.
"What does thatmean?"
"This is your phone call, Jack. The one you're waiting for."
I'm telling myself no, it can't be.
But in a chilling monotone she says: "Do whatever they tell you. Please." Then the line goes dead.
"Emma?" a tremulous voice repeats. My own.
"Emma!" My hand is shaking as I hang up the receiver. Almost instantly the phone rings again, and I jump like a mouse.
"Hello." It feels like I'm shouting though I can barely hear myself. I seem to have forgotten how to inhale.
"So, dickhead." It's Jerry on the other end, gloating. "What d'you think now?"
"I think maybe we can work something out."
"Okay then. Be there tonight."
"Not so fast." I've lost my relish for smart-ass banter, so this won't be easy. "Let me speak to the boss."
"She ain't available."
"Jer, please don't make me hurt you again."
"I shoulda killed you when I had the chance."
"Yeah, and I should've bought Amazon at fifteen and a quarter."
Cleo's bodyguard hangs up. I turn to see the approach of Rhineman, our eternally queasy Metro editor.
"I was looking for Emma," he says. "The diversity committee meets at four."
This is a group that convenes regularly to suggest ways for the Union-Registerto become more ethnically diverse. To date, its only useful recommendation is that the paper shouldn't employ so many white people.
Rhineman asks me to remind Emma about the meeting. "Four o'clock in the executive conference room."
She's not here, I tell him. She called in sick.
I entrusted the thing to Carla, who entrusted it to a young woman known on the club circuit as Thurma, a breeder and keeper of exotic wildlife. It was from Thurma's private collection that Carla had procured my Savannah monitor, the late Colonel Tom. Thurma lives in the piney glades on the western edge of the county, and in my agitated condition I'm pleased to let Carla do the driving. She is mercifully casual with her questions, even though she knows there's a shitstorm in the works. Today her hair is the color of watermelon, arranged in whimsical cornrows.
"Mom called last night, half out of her skull. Derek's written a poem to read at the reception Saturday. It's three frigging pages!" Carla reports delightedly. "He's having it printed up special and handed out to all the guestshey, Blackjack? Wake up. This is for your benefit, pal."
"Sorry. Go on."
"Guess what it's called, Derek's matrimonial poem."
"Got to be an ode to something," I say absently. "Ode to a princess. Ode to a maiden ... "
Carla crows, banging her hands on the steering wheel. "You are goodlIt's 'Ode to a Brown-Eyed Goddess.' I swear to Christ, if he goes through with this, the wedding's gonna be a pukefest."
"Hey, your mom's happy. That's all that counts."
"Don't go soft on me now, you gnarly old fart."
"Carla, I need a favor." "What else."
"Something happens to me"I've got my notebook open, trying to scribble Rick Tarkington's name and number"if something happens to me, you call this guy. Tell him I went to meet the merry widow tonight at Jizz."
"Hey! I'll go with you and we can flirt disgracefully."
"Like hell." I tear the page from the notebook and slip it into her handbag. "Also, please tell him there's a woman who's been abducted. Her name is Emma Cole and she works for the paper. She's only twenty-seven."
"Oh God, Jack. What did you do?"
"Outsmarted myself. How much farther?"
Thurma and her creatures dwell in a double-wide trailer enclosed by a tall chain-link fence. The name on the mailbox says "Bernice Mackle." Chained to a pine tree in front of the trailer is a coyote, of all things, pacing irritably in the shade.