And leaving now also meant he wouldn't have to tell Beth more lies.
"Okay," Beth said. She gestured to his desk. "Do you mind if I use your computer to start the treatment for my film?"
"Sure." Sandy considered the chaos of notes, newspaper clippings, envelopes, folders, and CD cases that littered the surface. "If you can find the keyboard."
Beth giggled as she started to sift through the mess. "I'm sure it's in here somewhere." She lifted a manila envelope and peered inside. "This anything important?"
"Yes!" Sandy said, louder and quicker than he wished. He knew that folder: the remaining Savior printouts. He tried to laugh it off as he reached out with forced casualness and eased it from her hand. "Notes for an article I'm planning. My editor'll kill me if anything happens to them."
Beth looked mildly offended. "I wouldn't let anything happen to them."
"Only kidding." He crossed his arms, trapping the envelope against his thudding heart. "The place is yours. Really. Rearrange that stuff any way you want."
The Savior had been right. These printouts were a liability. Sandy's session with McCann yesterday had driven home how badly the detective wanted the Savior. If he got him, bye-bye exclusive.
No question—the printouts had to go. He couldn't see any further use for them anyway. If he ever needed another copy all he had to do was call up the Identi-Kit file from The Lightfs system and print it out.
Beth picked up the newspaper from the desk and stared again at the headline.
"I still can't believe how lucky we were that a man with his training was on that train and in that car with us. I used to think I'd love to meet him—you know, give him a hug and say thanks—but after reading this I'm not so sure."
"Why not?"
"Well, he doesn't exactly come across as the warm cuddly type."
"He's not." Sandy remembered the murderous look in the man's eyes. "In fact…" A vague impression had just congealed into a suspicion. He stood silent, trying to get a grip on it.
"What?" Beth said.
"I wonder how much of what he told me I should believe."
"You think he was lying?"
"Not completely. I'm pretty sure the part about being a Navy SEAL is true. I remember one of the cops on the scene saying things about the second shooter being well trained, but I don't know about doing secret work for government agencies. He hinted that he's involved in black ops and showing his face will blow his cover. But what if he's not undercover? What if he's hiding for another reason?"
"Such as?"
"Like he's a wanted man."
"If that's true, I hope they never catch him."
"Even if they did catch him I bet I could get him off."
"You? I think you're great and all, Sandy, but how on earth would you manage that?"
He grinned. "By mobilizing the people. The pen is mightier than the sword, my dear. Never underestimate the power of the press."
2
"This is our guy, Stan."
Not this again, Stan Kozlowski thought as he looked up from his bagel and shmear.
They'd returned to Moishe's this morning and were back at their usual table. His brother Joe was hidden behind The Light's screaming headlines, with only his hands visible. Both of them. Joe wasn't bothering to hide the scarred left this morning.
"Where's it say that?"
Joe lowered the paper. His dark eyes glittered in his puffy face. "Right here where he says he freelances for government agencies but can't say which ones or what he does for them."
"So?"
"Think about it, Stan." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Maybe ATF traced the components of one of our little devices back to a point where they suspected us but couldn't make a case. So they hire this ex-SEAL to find our stash and blow it. That happens, what's the first thing the locals do? Call in ATF of course. Bang. They've got their case. Works for me."
Stan thought about that. He had a sense, what with how Waco took so long to go away, that ATF would be a bit shy about burning or blowing up buildings. But if the job was done by an outsider, someone who couldn't be connected to them…
"That would be illegal, Joe," he said, deadpan. "I refuse to believe that an agency of our government would stoop to something like that."
Joe smirked. "Yeah, of course. What was I thinking?"
"What are you thinking?"
Joe pulled a newspaper clipping from the breast pocket of his shirt and unfolded it on the table. Stan recognized the article from the other day—the eyewitness account. Joe stabbed a finger onto the photo of the writer.
"See this guy? Same one as talked to this fucking Savior in today's paper. What I'm thinking is I go hang around The Light offices and see what this microturd's up to."
"You mean follow him?" Sounded like a major waste of time.
"Yeah. Why not? Not like I got much else goin' on in the toilet I call my life these days."
Wasn't that the truth. For both of them.
And now that Stan thought about it, maybe this would be good for Joe. Even if he came up empty handed—as he most likely would—at least he'd be out and about instead of sitting in his chair in that litterbox apartment staring at the TV all day.
"Maybe I'll tag along," Stan said. "Just to keep you out of trouble."
He said it lightly, but he was dead serious. Joe was like a carelessly wired block of C-4 these days. No telling what might set him off.
3
"You look awful," Kate said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Pale, dark circles under her eyes… at least her eyes showed no signs of conjunctivitis. She'd been worried about adenoviruses lately, and that was a common symptom.
She checked her palm. The tiny puncture had healed. For a while, with the aches and malaise Kate had experienced two days after the wound, she'd feared she'd been infected with something. But today the aches were gone.
Not so the fatigue. The dreams had something to do with that, she was sure. Last night's had been the strangest by far. She'd spent the night flying over a landscape of coins—pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, all the size of sports arenas, and all face down. And droning in her head a babble of voices, mostly unrecognizable except for Jeanette's and one that sounded like Holdstock's, drifting in and out, calling her name.
And then the dream had stopped.
Not too long afterward she'd heard Jeanette come in and go directly to her room.
And now here she was facing another morning feeling exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally.
Part of her wanted to run. The emotional abuse from Jeanette—she'd found a way to make silence and indifference abusive—was almost more than Kate could stand. But she kept telling herself this was not Jeanette. Somehow her brain had been affected and her true self was crying to get out. The need to rescue the real Jeanette was the only thing keeping Kate here.
A buzzing sound… she opened the bathroom door. The vestibule bell. Someone down front wanted to get in. Jeanette had stopped answering bells of any sort—phones, doors—so Kate knew it was up to her.
Who on earth? she thought as she pressed the button and said, "Hello?"
"Kate, it's Jack. We need to talk."
Do we? she thought.
"Okay. Come up for coffee."
"Can you come down? We'll find an Andrews or something."
He sounded so serious. What was on his mind?
"Let me throw on some clothes."
Minutes later, dressed in jeans and a sweater, she stepped out of the stairwell into the building's lobby. Kate had left a note to Jeanette saying where she'd be. Not that Jeanette would care.