Sam shrugged and shifted his lanky frame, looking for a comfortable position for the long drive. "I didn't really expect it to work, to be honest with you. I'd have thought it was the kind of thing we had to arrange ages ago. I just said to Jefferson that there was a young American journalist that I'd been mentoring through email, and it occurred to me that it would be really beneficial if you could tag along with me for the experience and give me a hand. I told him that at such a big event, it would be handy to have a second pair of eyes to make sure I got a really clear sense of what was going on. Jefferson said he'd give Sara a call, and the next thing I heard was that you were in."
"Wow. I guess they must want his money really bad."
Sam thought back to that dinner with Sara and Cody. Yes, he thought, that must take a lot of cash to maintain. He tried to imagine the cost of Cody's exquisitely cut suit, and Sara's immaculately styled hair with her subtle, expensive perfume. He imagined that the aura of prosperity must be a key factor in promoting FireStorm — this was not a religion that welcomed the poor and underprivileged. It was a belief system that preached the rewards and righteousness of material wealth. For all their focus on "connection," Sam was yet to see the few FireStormers he knew connecting with anyone who did not at least appear prosperous.
The image of Sara Stromer danced before Sam's mind's eye. He could understand why she was so successful at what she did. Even just thinking about her made him think that he ought to be listening to her, following her instructions and letting her enlighten him. There was something about her that invited confidence, even obedience. An air of authority… she reminded him a little of Nina. Or, at least what Nina might have been if she'd had a little more gloss, a much better controlled temper, and a more manipulative, and perhaps more cynical temperament.
He wondered what Nina would make of these people. A small, mischievous part of Sam wished that the two women would meet, and that he would be there to watch. Many of his fondest memories of Nina were of her attempting to stifle her annoyance with the people around her.
"Coming up for Helena," Julia Rose announced. Sam snapped back to reality. If they were already close to Helena, his little reverie must have taken up the better part of an hour. "We'll make a quick coffee stop there," Julia Rose continued, "and maybe grab some breakfast. Then we'll just keep going until we hit Pocatello."
"How long's that?"
"Five hours? Maybe a little more. If we hit any holdups we might stop a little earlier, maybe around Idaho Falls or somewhere. We should get to Las Vegas before midnight."
Sam gave a long, low whistle. "Where I come from, if you drove for that long you'd end up in France. Does the radio work?"
"It's not great. Mostly it'll just pick up one station and the options are listen to it or turn it off. Shouldn't be too bad around here. There'll be some music or talk radio or something. Just wait until we get to Utah — bet your bottom dollar it'll only pick up some crazy Mormon religious show."
"Can't wait," said Sam. "At least the times when the radio isn't picking up anything good will give us a while to get our stories straight, if we're supposed to have been corresponding for months."
"You mean we're not just going with 'this is some crazy chick I found trespassing outside Jefferson Daniels' house'? Kinda disappointing." Julia Rose took a couple of sweets, deftly unwrapping them with one hand. "We're gonna have to come up with something just as interesting. I think we should tell people that we met on FetLife or something." Sam's head spun in disbelief, until he caught sight of her wide, wicked smile. She glanced over and burst out laughing at the look on his face. "You've got to loosen up, Sam! Ok, we'll figure it out. What did you have in mind?"
By the time they reached Salt Lake City, the radio had indeed started picking up only a minor religious station broadcasting nothing but the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. For a while they listened, but soon enough Julia Rose became bored and complained that it was not good driving music. They drove in silence, not a sound except the quiet munching as they continued to work their way through the large stockpile of snacks that Sam had picked up when they stopped in Pocatello. After a couple of weeks of hearty, healthy meals at Jefferson's, Sam intended to make the most of this opportunity for a junk fix before setting foot in the FireStorm compound.
During the previous eight hours, as they had rushed past nearly 600 miles of forest and farmland, they had agreed on a version of events that would, they hoped, convince anyone who asked that they had known each other online for months. Julia Rose would claim that she had approached numerous prize-winning journalists, sending out emails asking for any hints or tips they might have for a new graduate trying to make her way in the world of journalism. For the most part she had received no response or a form reply containing the standard recommendations that she work hard, hone her skills, network, and try to break an interesting news story.
Only Sam Cleave had come back with a proper, personal response — because, Sam claimed, her email had caught him in a moment of half-drunk nostalgia. He had told her what he could, but he made it clear that times had changed considerably since he had started out. He had read her blog posts, offered her writing tips, and given her permission to keep in contact and send him any major pieces to critique. When he had realized that he would be traveling to Montana, he had let her know and she had made plans to drive from Minnesota to Montana to meet her idol turned mentor.
The bit that Sam was most proud of was an idea of Julia Rose's, that he should claim it was meeting Sara and Cody and learning more about FireStorm that had prompted him to offer her this impromptu internship. "Tell them that they inspired you to give back to the journalistic community that made you what you are," she suggested with a smirk. "Say that they opened your eyes to the importance of connections. They'll eat it up."
Sam was increasingly glad that he had followed his instincts and taken a chance on Julia Rose. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she was a smart, savvy young woman. Peachy keen and a little egocentric, as all aspiring journalists tended to be, but with the spark of intelligence that made Sam think she'd press on even after reality started to bite. He had admired her tenacity from the moment he had learned that she was living in her car in pursuit of a story, but that was only the start of it.
She had a slight chip on her shoulder about what she perceived as her "late start" in the field — at twenty-five, she had just graduated. She evidently saw this as a serious disadvantage, but Sam thought otherwise. She had worked like hell to secure a place at the Missouri School of Journalism at the University of Missouri in Columbia, one of the best journalism programs in the country. But even with financial aid and her customary frugality, the cost of college had been high. In order to manage the size of her mountain of debt, she had held down two jobs and reduced her studies to part-time, sending money to her mother in Minneapolis to help support her younger brother.
Talking about her family had caused Julia Rose to make an unexpected stop somewhere in the vicinity of American Falls, Idaho. What had started out as a casual mention of her mother, while explaining her unusual education, had quickly become the story of what had happened to Julia Rose's father, which had left her shaking so hard with rage that Sam had suggested they pull over.
"I'm sorry," Julia Rose had said, trying to lay her hands in a flat, calm, steady gesture on the wheel. "This is why I don't usually talk about Dad. I get too angry. I'll give you the short version — he was a construction worker who got killed in an accident at work when I was thirteen. He was hit by a collapsing wall. The insurance company found a way to say it was his fault, so they only paid us a tiny compensation. Mom was pregnant at the time and ended up with all sorts of health problems, probably due to the stress. She lost her job, and we didn't have health insurance, so the money got eaten up by medical bills. It was really shitty all around, but it's kind of what got me into journalism. I had this big idea that I was going to be a ball-busting, take-no-prisoners, investigative journalist, and that I'd bring the company that killed my dad and the insurers who stiffed my family to justice."