by Lisa Unger
“How’s the weather, Rain Winter?”
“No complaints.” Rain watched Lily contented at play in their pretty living room; she didn’t have any but the most banal complaints. She was happy, mostly. Happier than most, maybe. Just a little restless. Still with that belly of fire.
“I saw that a-dorable picture you posted on Facebook last night of your little princess covered in sweet potatoes. How cute.”
A little jangle of unease. “Are we friends on Facebook, Henry?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “We’re not.”
He laughed a little into the silence that followed. “Oh, wait! Did you think it was private? Your little personal page under your married name? Come on, Rain. You know better than that, don’t you?”
She didn’t even want to ask. “How do you have access?”
He made a little tsking sound with his mouth.
“I can’t tell you that, Rain. Sorry. Or should I say Laraine? Laraine Mitchell, your suburban mom avatar.”
She smiled despite his obnoxiousness. She knew, of course, that her Facebook account, or really anything she did online, wasn’t secure. There was Firesheep, spyware, cloning software. A keylogger could capture each keystroke you made on your computer, revealing every password and login. Henry, dark web mole, probably had a hundred back alleys around the social media sites. She logged on quickly and scrolled through her friends. There he was, his wide face and glasses, Cheshire cat grin filling the thumbprint photo. She didn’t remember adding him. But maybe she had. He was likely just messing with her.
Most people couldn’t stand Henry. But she kind of liked him. He was out there. He was smart. He said what he meant, right or wrong. He had skills—information, access, contacts.
“Meanwhile,” he went on. “The Twitter feed of Rain Winter, former writer, editor and producer of National News Radio, former crime journalist extraordinaire, daughter of once-lauded-Pulitzer-Prize-winning-now-disgraced-writer Bruce Winter, lies fallow except for the occasional lackluster retweet. Weekly. Friday afternoons usually. Very little on Insta, but you were never great with that. Too cute for you, right? Following your digital footprints, or lack thereof, I’d say you had dropped out completely.”
“Maybe I have,” she said.
“So, this is a social call?” he said. “You want to grab a pumpkin spice latte and trade parenting tips?”
She was pretty damn sure Henry Watt wasn’t married with children. She clicked on his page and it was totally blank except for the ID photo. “This account is private,” read the gray type.
“Wait, let me guess,” he said. “Markham.”
“Know anything?”
She pulled up Henry’s website, started scrolling through. He was a professional news troll, a tipster with varying degrees of accuracy, and the owner, writer and editor of a blog that focused on crime and conspiracy theories, a newsletter that reached hundreds of thousands, and more than one person she knew went to him when all their other leads ran cold. Rain thought of him as a kind of mole, round-bodied and beady-eyed, connected through a network of murky tunnels to other creatures of the dark web. His tips had led her into mazes that came out nowhere, but sometimes he was dead-on.
“Who’s asking?”
“I am.”
“I mean—why? For what organization?”
Guys like Henry were the very reason real journalists didn’t consider indie blogging or podcasting. Because news, real news, was about facts and nothing else. It wasn’t about theories, and maybes, and best guesses. It wasn’t about running a story because you wanted to be the first to tell it and checking your facts later. It wasn’t about having an idea and finding people who agreed with you. You didn’t write and print your ideas. In fact, as a news journalist, you didn’t have ideas at all. You reported the facts, and let the facts tell the story. That simple. Something that had been lost in the fake news, social media information age. Still, sometimes you needed a renegade, especially when legitimate sources had closed to you. Or when you were on the outside looking in, like she was now. “I want to know,” she said. “Just me.”
“It’s personal?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” he said. “I didn’t think the whole stay-at-home-mom thing was going to work for you. You have too much baggage.”
A little jolt of annoyance caused her to act on impulse.
“You know what, Henry? Just forget it.”
She ended the call, heart thumping with frustration. He called her right back. She let it ring and go to voice mail. But when he called again a minute later, she answered.
“Don’t lose your temper,” he said. His voice had lost some of its smugness.
“What do you know, Henry?”
“I might have someone on the inside.”
Henry’s network was invisible, an army comprised of the people who didn’t get noticed. He wouldn’t know the coroner, for example, but he might know the coroner’s assistant, or even the janitor. He might not know the detective working a case, but he’d know the IT guy working at the precinct.
“Who?”
“Let’s just say he’s in cleanup.”
“Okay.”
“Except there wasn’t much to clean up.”
“Meaning?”
“Whoever did the job on Markham laid down tarps, almost as if he was trying not to make a mess, was meticulous about the scene. There was little physical evidence, some blood splatter from the victim. Obviously, they’re still waiting for the trace evidence analysis. But they aren’t hopeful that anything significant will come back.”
She realized suddenly that she was holding her breath. She released it, loosened the grip she had on the phone.
“How did he die?”
She asked but she had a feeling she already knew.
“He died the way Laney Markham died,” he said, his voice low and solemn. “Bound, gagged and stabbed more than twenty times with a serrated hunting knife.”
She stared out the window to the street outside; a blue minivan cruised by, turned into her neighbor’s drive. The branches of the oak swayed, raindrops tapping at her window, and Lily stacked blocks with intent focus.
A toxic brew of disgust, anger, relief bubbled. And, yes, that dark excitement—a feeling that shamed her somewhat. And was there also a not-so-small part of her that was glad Markham got what he deserved?
“Like the Boston Boogeyman,” she said. “Killed the way he killed.”
A pause, the tap, tap, tap of fingers on a keyboard.
“You’ve done your homework,” he said.
“Don’t I always?”
“You do. You always do,” he said. “And just like someone else we know.”
Rain didn’t say anything, braced herself for the sound of his name.
“Eugene Kreskey,” Henry said when she didn’t.
The sound of it sliced her, every time.
There weren’t many people who remembered Rain’s ugly history. It was big news once, but it had faded in the bubbling morass of horrific crimes since then. Greg and, of course, her father knew. Gillian. And somehow, years ago, Henry had unearthed the horrible thing that happened to her when she was a kid. Not that it happened to her, exactly. It should have but it didn’t.
“Is there a connection?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.
“Feds think so,” he said. “That’s what my guy said.”
“Between all three?”
“There might be others, too,” he said. “Two others, to be precise, that fit the parameters—someone got away with something vile. Then didn’t.”
“A vigilante.”
“Yeah,” said Henry, voice gone soft with admiration. “Exactly.”
“Do you have files?” she asked.
Another pause, that tap, tap, tap again.
“What are you working on, Rain Winter?”
It didn’t do any good to bullshit guys like Henry. They knew the truth when they heard it.
Lies had a vibration, they tingled in the air, electric. A certain kind of person—Rain thought she was one of them—could feel it. That’s why she liked Henry. He might be a little crazy, sometimes wrong, but he was no liar. And he knew how to follow the questionable channels you sometimes had to take to the truth.
“I don’t know yet,” she admitted.
A pause, more tapping. “I’ll send you what I have.”
Lily’s tower of blocks fell, and the baby issued a little cry of frustration, her face crumbling into a comical frown.
“That’s not a monitor, is it?” said Henry. “Tell me you’re not using one of those things. You know anyone can hack into those, right? The audio and the video feed? And those home security cameras. Oh, my god. I’ll send you my blog.”
“Thanks, Henry,” she said. “I’ll look forward to those files.”
“They’re watching,” he said ominously. “Never forget that.”
She sat a moment after ending the call, Henry’s words bouncing around her head. A text from Greg startled her back to the present.
Sorry, babe. I’m running late. Don’t hold dinner.
The words pulsed on the screen in front of her. She wasn’t surprised, of course. But there was a flutter of disappointment; the house felt eerily quiet.
Rain and Lily ate together, Lily’s version of the meal cut into small bites and spread over her tray. The baby had a little plastic fork and spoon, neither of which she could be bothered to use unless to toss one onto the table, or the floor, or, fascinatingly, as a brush for her hair.
“Maybe we’ll go for a ride in the car tomorrow,” she told Lily, wiping the baby’s mouth.
Lily banged her spoon, sending some food flying. “Car! Car!”
Rain was going to take that as a yes.
After dinner, still no sign of Greg. So, she gave Lily a bath, the things Henry said swirling, the story already taking shape the way stories did, arranging themselves into a digestible narrative. Where did she need to go first? Who did she need to see?
As she changed Lily’s diaper, dressed her for bed, she felt the eye of the baby monitor on her and glanced back to look at its glowing red light. She reached over and turned it away.
Once Lily was down, Rain texted Gillian. She hesitated, fingers hovering over the little keyboard. Then, Feel like taking a little road trip?
If she knew Gillian, her friend was on the treadmill in front of the television.
Hmm. What did you have in mind?
What did she have in mind? This story would have to begin at the end. Steve Markham’s end.
She typed: Let’s pay our final respects.
Rain didn’t have to wait long.
Ha. I knew it. She’s baa-aack!
SIX
The flames in the fireplace licked and danced, crackling. Rain had made it not for warmth but just to look at it, stare into the flames and sip on the glass of white she’d poured herself while she waited for Greg.
Rectangles of light slid across the wall. Someone in the driveway. She stood and went to the window, watched her husband emerge from the SUV.
The slouch to his shoulders, the slow way he moved, standing a second to rub at his temples before retrieving his bags from the back seat—he seemed so tired, run-down by work, by new parenthood. From a distance, for a moment, the shadow of his form was unfamiliar, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She wanted to run to him. Instead, she opened the door and went to stand on the porch.
He paused at the bottom step, looked up at her. The cool of the day had turned downright chilly, a light wind tossing his hair.
“Sorry,” he said. “I tried to get home earlier.”
It was his default greeting lately. Rain felt a wash of compassion. He was working all day, and she was here in their safe, happy home with the baby. Yeah, it was hectic, all-consuming, a bit thankless. But it could also be peaceful, joyful, quiet—just the two of them. He might have a freedom that she no longer had—the freedom to come and go as he chose. But he faced different challenges—deadlines, the endless pressure to be right, to be first, an asshole boss, slackers on his team.
All the things she thought she wanted to leave behind.
She walked down the steps, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him long on the mouth. He dropped his bag, and wrapped her up, lifting her a little off the ground.
“How was your day?” Rain asked, pulling back a little.
He kissed her again, soft, sweet, that familiar heat rising between them.
“Better now.”
The day, the things she’d learned and done, buzzed around her head. She led him inside. It was late, after nine, his dinner warming in the oven. She’d taken a shower, dressed, done her makeup. Usually, by the time he came home she was in loungewear, hair up, contacts out and glasses on.
“Did I miss date night?” he asked in the kitchen, grabbing her from behind as she took the food from the oven. “You’re beautiful.”
“I just thought you deserved to remember what I look like in something other than my pajamas,” she said, plating his food.
“You’re beautiful in pajamas, too.”
He took a seat at the kitchen bar and she poured him a glass of wine.
“How was your day?” he asked. “How’s our girl?”
She ran down the day—the jog in the park, the mundane tasks, activities, how much Lily was talking. He ran through his—a clash with the on-air talent, technical issues, still no word on the promotion he was sure to get.
It was their agreement, that someone be home. Home and kids had to be someone’s primary job; it was a job. They’d chosen this and neither of them was supposed to complain. (Of course, they both did, all the time.) But they’d agreed to an audit at the end of the first year. How was everybody doing? How was the money situation? Was everybody happy? That conversation was overdue. She put his plate in front of him.
“Hear anything today about Markham?” she asked, trying to segue toward that topic. She felt a flutter of nerves. She wasn’t sure why.
“I heard the Feds took over—which I thought was a little odd,” he said, watching her. “We sent a crew over this afternoon, but no one’s talking. We were only able to run a small segment. You?”
“I made a few calls, did a little research.”
“What did you find out?”
She told him what Christopher had told her, about her chat with Henry, about the press conference tomorrow. He nodded, rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Of course, he knew it all. He was downplaying. He’d lived the Markham case with her. He knew it had its hooks in her for all kinds of reasons.
“What?” he said when she was done. He tapped his head. “What’s going on in there?”
“I was just thinking.”
He offered a curious frown. “I know that tone.”
“I want to follow this new angle of the story.”
“Follow it?” he said. He took a bite of turkey. “Hmm. This is good.”
“Doing some follow-up work.”
“Freelance?” he said, mouth full.
“Something like that,” she said. “Something long-form. Like maybe a podcast.”
The word felt awkward, even silly now that she’d put it out there. And the look on Greg’s face—something between confusion and disbelief—didn’t help.
These kinds of things—podcasts, blogs, the self-published book—had a bad name in the industry. The internet had essentially killed traditional news, lowered all the standards for reporting, writing, editing. It undermined the educated, veteran journalists who cared about things like ethics and The Chicago Manual of Style. People were getting their �
��news” for free on social media, not necessarily interested in accuracy or correct grammar. It was a problem to be sure. But there was a renegade part of her that thought: Didn’t the establishment need to be toppled every now and then? If the voice of the people wasn’t necessarily polished or vetted, didn’t it still deserve to be heard?
“There are people doing it well, legitimate long-form journalism,” she said. “I have the experience, the contacts. I’d seek advertisers, maybe hire someone to help me produce and edit.”
He looked down at his plate, pushed some food around.
“Have you seen our bank account?”
Outside a car drove too fast past the house, revving its engine needlessly. The teenager up the block; Rain kept meaning to talk to his parents about his driving.
“Or I could take it to NNR,” she said. “Not full-time again. But just this. Just this story as a feature. Andrew said I should pitch him whenever I had an idea.”
She breathed to release the tension in her shoulders. Greg stayed quiet a moment. He shifted off his jacket. When did he go so gray around the temples?
“What is it about this story?” He said it like he already knew the answer, and maybe he did. “Can’t let it go?”
No. She couldn’t let it go. It had been eighteen months since Markham was acquitted, just over a year since she came home to be with Lily full-time. It was the story that broke her, that made her lose faith.
She’d been thinking about this all day, since early this morning. She didn’t just choose to be a stay-at-home mom. She chose to walk away from work that stopped making sense. And she was okay with that. Until today. Until someone killed Steve Markham.
“There’s no story here,” he said. “You get that, right? It was the brother or the father. Hell, maybe it was even her mother. Still waters run deep and all that. They’ll figure it out pretty quickly. Anyway, Markham’s dead. Just like if someone killed him in prison. A few segments, maybe a larger feature about the whole case somewhere. Maybe even a true crime book. But, really, death is the abrupt end of the story. There’s no mystery.”
He took a few bites in silence.
“Do you remember the Boston Boogeyman?” she said finally.
