by Greg Iles
IN THE END, Caitlin decided to enter the Examiner by her usual route, the employees’ door at the rear of the building. If Billy Byrd had a deputy lying in wait, Jordan Glass was ready to snap fifty pictures of the arrest with her motor-drive Nikon. As Caitlin walked through the rear parking lot, noting the familiar cars of her reporters, she spied the door that had been locked against her by one of her own staff. Without warning she flashed back to the kidnapping with a clarity that made her pulse pound and her breath go shallow. She saw Penn being held on tiptoe with an arm around his throat and a pistol to his head. Then came a rush of images from all that had followed, from the basement, and the fire.
How close we came to dying, she thought, touching her burned cheek for the first time since the lake. And if I had died, the child I’m carrying would have died with me, and no one would have known—not unless they discovered it in the autopsy. Caitlin had only known about the baby herself for twenty hours or so, and she’d only told one soul on the planet about it: Tom Cage, via text message. Tom hasn’t even seen that message, she thought. He doesn’t have his cell phone on. If he did, they’d have caught him by now. Killed him, probably. In fact, he could be dead already. As much as Caitlin blamed Tom for the events of the past days, the thought of him lying facedown in a ditch somewhere stopped her breath in her throat.
Sensing her distress, Jordan took Caitlin’s hand and squeezed, bringing her back to the present. As her heartbeat slowed, Caitlin started toward the door again. A Natchez Police Department squad car was parked in the handicapped space to the right of it, exhaust rising from its tailpipe. Caitlin waved at the young cop behind his fogged window glass, thinking of the officer who had probably been murdered by Brody Royal’s men. She’d known him only as a prone form lying on the floor of the van that had carried them to Royal’s house. Stopping at the back door, she raised her hand and turned the knob. Against all logic, it opened.
“I called ahead, remember?” Jordan said, sensing her confusion. “One step at a time, girl.”
“Thanks.”
THE EXAMINER BUILDING SEEMED eerily quiet as Caitlin and Jordan moved up the back hall, but the moment Caitlin walked into the newsroom, the place erupted in applause. She raised her hands to quiet the grinning staff, but new people kept coming in from other rooms, photographers and service people and even one of the advertising girls. They were obviously happy to see her alive, and she was glad to be that way, so she let the clapping go on for a bit.
They were a young group, she realized. Almost no one over thirty. For many years the Examiner had served as a sort of farm program for the larger papers in the Masters chain, but during her tenure as publisher Caitlin had changed that. She’d managed to assemble a bright cadre of journalism majors from all over the country, most from top schools. She paid them well and did her best to keep them busy. Whenever she’d lost one to a larger paper, she somehow managed to replace him or her with someone of equal talent. This eclectic group she had supplemented with some of the brightest liberal arts graduates from Natchez, kids who’d wanted to return to their hometown after college.
Now they stood before her, gathered between the computer workstations that lined the walls, fourteen kids with all the talent in the world and a desperate hunger to work on something important. They’d known since Tuesday that something big was afoot. The initial attack on Henry and the burning of the Beacon had galvanized them into action, and Henry’s backup files had given them something to sink their teeth into. But according to Jamie Lewis, the assassination attempt on Henry in the hospital—followed by the attack on Penn and Caitlin—had stunned them into a kind of paralysis. They’d read about attacks on reporters in places like Colombia and Myanmar, but murderous attacks on journalists in America seemed incomprehensible. The discovery that the Examiner’s press operator had disappeared after probably assisting in Caitlin’s kidnapping only added to their collective sense of shock. Yet not one had refused to come in when Jamie called in the middle of the night; indeed, few had left the building during the past forty-eight hours, except to catch four or five hours of sleep.
Caitlin looked at each face in turn: taut lips, worried eyes, the young men with arms folded across their chests, the women biting fingernails, everyone gathered closer together than they normally would. The silence truly was eerie, and then she realized why: the computers had been shut down. She couldn’t remember ever having heard the newsroom so quiet. I must have, she thought, during electrical storms. But of course then there was the drumming of rain and the roll of thunder. Now there was absolute silence—the silence of expectation.
Into that silence, she began to speak.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “Every one of you. First, let me say that I’m all right physically, except for this burn on my cheek, and Penn is, too. But it was a near thing, and if Henry Sexton and a heroic man who worked for Albert Norris as a boy hadn’t sacrificed their lives for ours, we would both be dead. That’s one of the stories we’ll be printing tomorrow. We will honor those men as they deserve. But that’s only a small part of a much larger duty we have tonight.”
She took a moment to gather herself. “It’s axiomatic that people in small towns don’t get their news from newspapers. They never have. Local papers print stories about Little League baseball and garden clubs and the press releases from the local factory. But the real news—the reasons for layoffs or why someone lost an election or the facts behind a murder—usually travel by a different route: word of mouth. Long before Myspace and blogging, the real news traveled over backyard fences and via telephone, around watercoolers and on golf courses. The newspaper functioned as a Chamber of Commerce billboard advertising the town, while the real story lived behind the glossy sign, off the page, or at best, between the lines.
“My father’s newspapers have been as guilty of this irrelevance as any other chain. And even before Dad bought it, the Examiner was one of the worst offenders. The old Wise family made sure of that. If you go back and check the week that Delano Payton was murdered in 1968, you’ll find a perfunctory story about the bombing, then a follow-up announcing the offer of a reward by his national union—and very little else. If you go back to the week Albert Norris was burned to death, you’ll find nothing.
“During my time as publisher, I’ve tried to change that policy. All of you have helped me. Seven years ago, our Del Payton stories carried the message of justice delayed to the entire world. Now, tonight, we’re going to break the biggest story that any of us are likely to touch in our entire lives. As you know, it spans over a dozen civil rights murders committed during the 1960s. The perpetrators of those crimes have been allowed to roam free for forty years, and now they’ve killed again in their efforts to avoid being exposed and punished for their crimes. The death toll tonight is unprecedented in the history of this area, and a Natchez police officer will probably be added to the list before dawn.”
Several people gasped.
“We’re going to be dealing with next-of-kin issues, so I’m not sure if we’ll be printing names in all cases. But beginning now, we’re going to devote every waking minute to doing justice to this epic story. A single edition of the paper can’t possibly contain it. So, after physical publication this morning, I hope that those willing to remain will do so and continuously update our online edition. I fully expect that by noon tomorrow—or today, rather—we’ll be in the eye of a media storm. This is what we live for, people. For about twelve hours, we’re the only news staff in the country in possession of the facts of this story. Television, radio, the blogosphere—they’ve got nothing. But tomorrow that will change. So . . . right now, I want everyone in this room to take thirty seconds and think about Henry Sexton, who was murdered for his courage and convictions. For those of you who don’t know, on the first night he was attacked, Henry had already agreed to write for this paper, so he is your colleague in more ways than one.”
Caitlin bowed her head and silently counted to thirty. In the elegiac s
ilence of held breaths and closed eyes, she realized that she blamed herself more than anyone else for Henry’s death. For in the end it was her forcing Katy Royal to unburden herself of her secrets that had sent Brody Royal into a homicidal rage. Of course, nothing she could do now would bring Henry back. Sleepy Johnston, either. All she could do now was carry on Henry’s cause and try to do justice to their memories. Stealing a glance upward, she saw a few people staring at Jordan to her right.
“Amen,” she said in a firmer voice, and every face in the room rose to hers. “By the way, the woman to my right is Jordan Glass, a legend in our business, and I assume she needs no further introduction.”
The room burst into applause again, and a couple of the guys whistled.
“Easy, dudes, she’s married.”
“And I’m too old for you,” Jordan added.
After the much-needed laughter subsided, Caitlin said, “Sadly, I also need to bring you up to speed on a very upsetting matter. I know the silent computers have probably freaked you all out. They do me. It’s like a 1950s horror movie or something. But there’s a good reason for it. We’ve experienced a major breach of security at the Examiner. Earlier tonight, when Penn and I were kidnapped, Nick Moore, our press operator, probably helped the kidnappers commit their crime.”
A murmur of consternation and anger rose at this confirmation of the rumor.
“The FBI is hunting Nick now. But I must tell you, I have reason to believe that Nick might not be the only one of our staff who took a bribe from the people we’re investigating.”
This time there were gasps of disbelief.
“Henry Sexton’s files and journals—the files that you spent so many hours painstakingly scanning into our computer system—have been deleted by someone working for Brody Royal.”
Many in the audience groaned as though in physical pain, and Caitlin saw more than a few reporters cursing under their breath.
“Worse yet, the physical files and journals have been stolen and destroyed. However, all may not be lost on that front. The FBI is going to lend us some computer experts who might be able to reconstruct those deleted files.”
Caitlin saw incredulity on Jamie Lewis’s face. He probably considered this sleeping with the enemy, but he would have to live with it.
“The truly upsetting thing is that the person who deleted those files might still be among us. He or she could be standing next to you right now.”
Total silence descended on the newsroom.
“I don’t want to create some kind of McCarthy atmosphere of paranoia, but we’d be fools not to take rational precautions until we get this sorted out. So—here’s what we’re going to do. Our stories are going to be written on three or four notebook computers in the conference room. We will restore limited Internet access out here for research, but that’s it. Everyone will take their instructions directly from Jamie or me, and you’ll work only on what you’re assigned. If you see something suspicious, or feel strange about anything, come to us. Again, I don’t want a bunch of tattletales running around. Use your common sense. But make no mistake—we’re in a war, folks. They burned the Concordia Beacon last night. Now, we’ll be looking after your physical safety; we’re going to have some serious security around this building going forward. But be smart and be safe. And remember: for those of you who became journalists because of a David-versus-Goliath fantasy, this is your chance.”
She saw a few grins at this.
“One thing: you may see Sheriff Byrd show up and arrest me. If you do, just keep on working—after you snap a few shots of the proceedings.”
A few more laughs broke the tension.
“As for the news stories, I don’t care who you have to roust out of bed for comments or confirmations, or what resources you have to commit—just do it. We will probably be sued over some of this, so try to get it right. But the final responsibility rests with me, so be fearless. Do what Henry Sexton would have done.”
Caitlin knew her last assertion was not quite true: final responsibility rested not with her but with her father, who owned the chain. But if he didn’t trust her instincts by now—and back her with the full resources of the company—then she needed to find work elsewhere anyway.
“That’s it,” she said. “Make me proud.”
The crowd dispersed slowly, but as a couple of computers were switched on, the newsroom slowly became the fully engaged hive that Caitlin so loved. She pulled Jamie’s sleeve until he was following her down the corridor to her private office.
“What now?” he asked. “Gather the conference room team?”
“In a minute,” she said, walking faster. “I’ve used this newspaper as a weapon before. A sort of artillery piece, I suppose. But tomorrow’s edition is going to detonate like a dam buster.”
“A what?”
Caitlin laughed low in her throat, thinking of her grandfather. “That’s a kind of bomb from World War Two. Tomorrow we’re going to crack the foundations of a dam that’s held back terrible truths for forty years. And once that tide is let loose, a lot of people and careers are going to be washed away.”
Her editor’s eyes narrowed. “Not ours, I hope?”
Caitlin didn’t answer. They’d reached her office door. In the awkward silence that followed, Jamie’s eyes filled with an unspoken question.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Did you have to kill anybody?” he asked softly. “You didn’t tell me when you dictated the lead story. Who killed who down in that basement?”
Caitlin looked into his hungry eyes for a few seconds, then shook her head. “No. Penn did, though.”
Jamie went pale. “Oh, man.”
“I’d just as soon forget it, but I know I never will.” She took a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. “Have you thought about who you want in the conference room? Who you really trust?”
Lewis nodded. “Anna, Chris, Tim, and Brit. That work for you?”
“Sure. What about research?”
“Paul and Chesney for the main stuff. The rest can handle background details.”
“Fine.” She took hold of Jamie’s forearm and looked deep into his eyes. “I’ve got to ask this. Is there anybody you suspect at this point? Someone you really don’t trust?”
He shook his head and looked away, but she knew he was wrestling with something.
“Come on, Jamie. Out with it.”
He shook his head. “If I know something, I won’t hold it back. But I’m not going to start condemning people based on hunches.”
“Fair enough. But the stakes are pretty high here. We’re all-in on this one.”
“I know.”
After a few moments’ contemplation, Caitlin walked into her office and pulled the door shut behind her.
Coming into the familiar office after being tied to a pole in a basement that looked like some Nazi torture cell was almost like entering a decompression chamber. The moment she sat in her Herman Miller chair, a wave of exhaustion rolled over her. She’d been living on green tea and adrenaline for three days. She tried to add up the hours of sleep she’d gotten since Monday morning, but stopped when she couldn’t remember more than a three-hour stretch. At her best she had been functioning like someone with jet lag. Yet now, along with survivor’s guilt and anger and a dozen other emotions, she felt the giddy elation of someone who has been “shot at and missed,” as her grandfather used to say. The sense of relief was overwhelming. If she sat in this chair another minute without doing something, she would be asleep.
She made a note to talk to Chris Scanlon, an Examiner photographer who suffered from ADD, and see if he could spare some Adderall. Then she remembered she was pregnant. Surely speed couldn’t be good for a baby? I’d better Google it, she thought, turning groggily toward her computer keyboard. Then she remembered that Jamie had killed the paper’s Internet access.
My computer isn’t even on, she thought, hitting the power switch.
Nothing happened.
Jamie probably unplugged it.
She folded her arms and put her head down on her desk. As though watching a film in her mind, she saw Tom Cage standing in the dark, reading her text message about the baby. That message had been a last-ditch effort to try to persuade him to turn himself in—to come back to his family and put his trust in Penn. As Tom read the message in her vision, an awestruck smile lit his white-bearded face. I’ve got to find him, Caitlin thought. Surely I can do that. If he’s still alive . . .
“Caitlin?” said a voice, and then someone shook her.
She opened her eyes and found Jordan Glass kneeling beside her chair. “Hey,” Jordan said. “You need some real sack time.”
“Nooo,” Caitlin moaned in protest. “I’ve got tons of work to do.”
“You’re no good to anybody like this. You’ve hit the wall.”
“Two hours,” Caitlin pleaded. “Two hours’ work, and then I can grab a little sleep. Can you help me?”
Jordan sighed heavily, then got to her feet. “What’s your poison? More coffee?”
“No. Green tea, strong as you can make it.”
The photographer looked down at her with a maternal frown. “It’s like looking in a damn mirror. A mirror with a ten-year time lag.”
As Jordan walked out, Caitlin remembered that the photographer had been trying to get pregnant for months, without result. Glass had confided this to her on the first day they met, in an unexpected moment of shared confidence. Jordan was Penn’s age, so the odds were against her. Caitlin, on the other hand, hadn’t even been trying, and she was already knocked up.
If she had the power, she would trade places with Jordan, at least as far as their obstetric situations. She had plenty of time to get pregnant again, but she might never have another career opportunity like this one. The “baby” in her belly was at this point only an agglomeration of cells that would not even begin to show for months. The Double Eagle story, on the other hand, had been fulminating within her like some protean thing, constantly changing shape, growing new faces and revealing hidden ones. Earlier tonight it had almost devoured her. For the next week, at least, she would have to focus on that larger inhabitant. For if she managed to deliver it to the world, in all its depraved ugliness, she would make possible the justice and healing for which Henry Sexton had given his life. And more than that . . . she would have nothing left to prove. Not to her father . . .
