The Tin Man

by Nina Mason

  He certainly had been.

  “My parents, my dad especially, are pitching a royal fit that I want to go into journalism,” Mackenzie told him. A small circle of her fellow student editors were gathered around them, mostly listening, but also putting their two cents in now and again. “I keep telling my dad, I’ll only do it for a couple of years and, if it doesn’t pan out, then I’ll go to law school…”

  “Journalism’s a dead end, Mack,” a gangly lad in spectacles put in. “Everybody knows that. Don’t waste your time.” He threw a guilty look at Buchanan. “No offense, dude. I mean, you look like you got into it a while ago. And, well, obviously you thought you were going to change the world, speak truth to power, and all that other noble Don Quixote bullshit. And then, well, along came the Internet and like, bam, you were totally hating life. But no worries, right? Coz you started the Voice. And now, maybe you’ll get lucky and someone’ll buy you out like they bought out Arianna Huffington.”

  He thought about telling the kid where he could shove it. He also considered telling him about the offer from Milo Osbourne, but why waste his breath on some know-it-all wanker?

  “So, is the invitation still open?”

  Drawn back to the phone conversation, he squinted in confusion. “And what invitation is that, then?”

  “Well,” she said coyly, “I was thinking of driving down for the weekend.”

  He swallowed hard. He vaguely recalled giving her his card and saying something, purely out of politeness, about looking him up if she was ever in town, but he’d hardly classify it as an invitation. She’d given him tawdry looks all evening and he’d tried to let her down easy to avoid the inevitable failure with which younger women were utterly unprepared to cope.

  While he searched for the words to brush her off again, another call started beeping in. Seeing an out, he said hurriedly, “Sorry, Mackenzie, there’s a call coming in, and I really need to take it.”

  “Will you call me later?”

  He grunted non-committedly before switching over.

  “I saw what happened on the news,” said a man on the other end. The voice—American with a slight southern drawl—was unfamiliar. “I’m sorry about your staff, but glad you’re okay.”

  Buchanan knitted his brows, gaze sweeping the street. “Who’s this?”

  “My identity is unimportant.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let’s just say there are things going on in this country,” the man said, “things involving powerful people that would make your skin crawl.”

  Buchanan’s skin was already crawling. “Such as?”

  “Things that could destroy the constitutional freedoms we all enjoy,” the caller replied.

  The Scot rolled his eyes. “What’s this about?”

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause before the caller said, “Find Frank Aslan.”

  Frank Aslan? Buchanan felt gob-smacked. Frank Aslan was a professor of journalism at Columbia University who, twenty years ago, wrote a book warning about the dangers of runaway media monopolies.

  “Aslan? What the hell does he have to do with this?”

  “He’s got the proof,” the man said. “And you need to get your hands on it before they do.”

  As he listened, Buchanan visually patrolled the street for any sign of the gunmen, but found nothing out of the ordinary. He was approaching home and feeling more apprehensive with every step. What if they were waiting for him outside? Or worse, inside the apartment?

  “Who are you? At least give me a name.”

  “Call me Lapdog.”

  Buchanan recognized the alias as one used by a frequent commenter, meaning this guy, whoever he was, read the Voice with some regularity. The editor searched his brain for anything the man had posted, but couldn’t seem to retrieve it.

  “Why don’t you find Aslan yourself?”

  “I have my reasons,” Lapdog replied. “Besides, he’s gone into hiding.”

  Buchanan, still scanning, let out a disgruntled scoff. “If he’s in hiding, how the hell do you expect me to find him?”

  “Try asking his granddaughter.”

  Even in the cold, Buchanan could feel the heat of blood rising in his face. “And what makes you think this granddaughter of his, whoever she may be, would tell me a goddamned thing?”

  “She likes you.”

  He checked his mental list of female acquaintances. Mackenzie, Helene, Kelsey. He flinched at the last one, recalling how brutally she’d been crossed off the list, which had been depressingly short to begin with.

  “Who?”

  “Thea Hamilton.”

  Bloody hell. Ms. Ball Buster 2008 was Aslan’s granddaughter? Of all the bleeding luck.

  “Find Aslan and find out what he knows.” Lapdog hesitated. “And Buchanan—watch your back.”

  There was a click and he was gone. The next moment, Buchanan felt something whizz past his ear. He crouched down and drew his gun, but held his fire. He could not see where the shot had come from. And there were too many people around to just open fire. Maybe the gunman didn’t care if he hit innocent bystanders, but the journalist sure as fuck did.

  Another bullet zinged off the building just above his head, spraying brick dust. Buchanan trundled toward the corner, around which was the street-level entrance to the building’s underground parking garage. Maybe, if he got to his vehicle, he could get away long enough to ring the police.

  No sooner did he reach the door than he heard a car peel away from the curb. Heart lurching, he raced down the stairs, clutching the railing for support. The garage, empty of people, smelled of exhaust, petrol fumes, and motor oil. The fluorescents overhead washed the space in a surreal yellow glow. One of them flickered in a way that bothered his eyes.

  Muscles tense, nerve-endings tingling, he dug in his pocket for his keys. Luckily, he had them with him. As he depressed the unlock button, his vehicle—a Galway Green Land Rover—chirped. He hurried toward it, mindful of the car coming down the ramp. He broke into a run, wincing at the pain in his bum knee. A few feet from the car, he dropped and slid underneath.

  A silver sedan came into view, its headlamps off. Squinting, Buchanan strained to read the license plate, but couldn’t. The driver didn’t bother to stop at the gate. The arm snapped like balsawood. The car came toward him, tires squealing as it turned.

  Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger.

  Blam. Blam.

  The passenger window shattered.

  Blam. Blam.

  A back tire burst in a cloud of white smoke.

  As the rear-end fishtailed, Buchanan pushed backward and scooted out on the far side of his Land Rover. Gun smoke and burning rubber burned his nostrils and throat. Staying down, he got in and maneuvered his way to the driver’s seat. Bullets sprayed the door as he slipped the key into the ignition. The window shattered, showering him with safety-glass shrapnel. He fired two more shots out the window, popped out the spent magazine, dug in the glove compartment for a new one, and jammed it into place. More bullets loudly pierced the door. One of the rear windows exploded, spraying glass like buckshot. He squeezed off two more rounds.

  He started the engine, shoved the gearshift into reverse, and hit the gas. The tires screamed. He cranked the steering wheel, keeping his head down, slammed it into drive, and punched the accelerator. The car rocketed forward, splintering the remaining gate. Pursuing shots blew out the rear window. At the top of the ramp, he made a hard right onto Sixth. Tires screeched and horns blared. He braced himself for the impact, but none came. He sat up, heart hammering, and checked the rearview mirror.

  There was no sign of the gunmen, thank God.

  He pulled out his phone and punched 9-1-1. It rang twice before an operator answered.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  He told her what had happened and hung up, gaze bouncing around like a bee-bee in a box. Now what?

  Remembering the phone call, he fished in his back pocket, pulled out Thea�
��s card, and punched in her cell-phone number, keeping one eye on the road. It rang several times. Just as he was about to hang up, she answered.

  “Thea? It’s Alex Buchanan.”

  “Well, hello there,” she said, sounding glad to hear from him. “Has there been a break in the case?”

  “You could say that,” he said, still breathing hard. “But not as far as the cops are concerned. Listen, Thea. I need to find your grandfather. Tonight. Right this minute.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He filled her in on what Lapdog had told him.

  “He told me not to tell anybody where he is,” she said, irking him.

  “Surely he’d make an exception under the circumstances,” he argued, sweaty grip tightening on the wheel. “Why don’t you call him and ask?”

  “That’s just it,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach him all day—but without success.”

  “Then take me to him,” Buchanan demanded.

  “I don’t know…”

  More resistance on her part, more irritation on his.

  “Please, Thea,” he said, now desperate. “If you help me, I’ll give you an exclusive. When we learn what he knows.”

  She got quiet, which he hoped meant she was mulling it over. After a few pounding heartbeats, she said, “Okay, but you’ll have to wear a blindfold.”

  Every cell cringed at the suggestion. What if it set off another flashback? He’d had one once while simply putting on a turtleneck—the reason he only wore button-down shirts.

  As Thea relayed her address, he punched it in to the dashboard GPS.

  “I’ll be waiting for you out front,” she told him before hanging up.

  He changed lanes, checking the mirrors as an afterthought. Nobody was in his way or appeared to be following him. Good. He pushed his way through the congestion on Sixth like a salmon swimming upstream. He darted in and out of lanes, swerved around slower cars, cursed and pounded the wheel when the lights turned red. Finally, he reached West Twenty-Eighth and, with wet palms slipping on the steering wheel , he jerked hard to the right. The street was choked with traffic. Fuck. He pressed through, doing his best to navigate the grid of one-way streets.

  He heaved a sigh of relief when at last he reached her block. He slowed, glancing between the GPS monitor and the building addresses. Spotting her on the sidewalk, he lowered the passenger-side window and cruised to the curb.

  Concern etched her face as she jogged up to the door. Yanking it open, she set her bag on the floor and hopped in. “Jesus, Buchanan,” she said, looking around at the damage. “What did you do, drive through a war zone?”

  “Never mind that now,” he said, pulling away from the curb. “Just be a good lass and hand me my ciggies, eh?” The pack on the dashboard had shifted to her side during the drive. Out of the edge of his eye, he saw her reach for it, then hesitate. “And I don’t want any more shite from you about my smoking,” he growled. “Are we clear on that?”

  She shot him a pointed glare. “The night we went out, you said you were trying to quit.”

  “I’m always trying to quit.”

  “Have you tried the patch? Or Zyban?”

  Buchanan rolled his eyes. Bloody hell. What part of don’t give me any shite had she not understand? “I’ve tried everything.”

  His doctor had prescribed Chantix a few months ago, but it only made him nauseous and more depressed than he already was.

  “Well,” she persisted, “maybe you just don’t want to kick the habit badly enough.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he bit out through clenched teeth. “But right now I want a ciggie so fucking bad I’d be willing to kill for one. If you catch my meaning. So hand them over, eh?”

  With a disgruntled huff, she slapped the pack of Marlboro Lights into his outstretched palm. He flipped open the lid, shook one out, and stuck it between his lips before tossing the box back on the dash. As he punched in the lighter, his gaze flicked toward her.

  “Have you ever handled a firearm?”

  She nodded. “My grandfather got me a little Kel-Tec when I first moved to New York.”

  “I don’t suppose you had the good sense to bring it with you,” he said hopefully.

  “I did,” she said. “I keep it in my purse at all times.”

  “Good.” He withdrew his gun from his waistband and held it out to her. “Be a doll and reload it for me, would you? The spare ammo’s in the glove box.”

  She took the gun, lifted it to her nose, and sniffed. “It smells as if it’s just been fired.”

  “It has.” The lighter popped and he pulled it out. “It’s just too bad the only casualty on their side of the shoot-out was the bloody Michelin Man.”

  Chapter 5

  In the light of Holland Tunnel, Thea studied Buchanan’s profile, thinking how much more weather-beaten he looked than the last time she saw him. His hair was grayer, especially around the temples, and there were deeper lines around his eyes and mouth. Still, the changes only enhanced his rugged good-looks—something she found at once appealing and totally unfair.

  Why did men became more distinguished with age, while women became invisible? Or was that an American thing? In France, she’d heard, older women were still considered attractive. Was the same true in Scotland? Somehow, she doubted it, given the country’s native dress. While she liked kilts well enough (what woman didn’t?), she also thought the men who wore them akin to male peacocks showing off their feathers.

  She continued making a study of him. There had to be something wrong with him—besides the smoking—some fatal flaw that explained why he still was single. Some weird perversion or phobia or a bad case of Peter Pan Syndrome.

  Or, God forbid, all of the above.

  “You’ll need to pull over somewhere when we get to Jersey City,” she told him.

  “What for?”

  “So I can drive.” His gaze snapped toward her, giving her heart a mild jolt. There was something so soulful about his eyes it seemed almost a shame to cover them up. Almost. “And you can wear the blindfold.”

  “You mean you were serious about that?”

  “Of course,” she replied, extracting the blindfold from her purse. After reading Fifty Shades of Grey, she’d ordered it online, along with a pair of fur-lined handcuffs and a vibrating penis-shaped dildo. Sadly, she’d had no occasion so far to use anything but the dildo.

  “How long will I have to wear it?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Until we get there.”

  “And how long will that be?”

  “Two hours. Maybe three. Depending on road conditions and traffic.”

  He groaned and returned his attention to the road, after which they sat in uncomfortable silence until, unable to bear the détente any longer, she blurted, “Why aren’t you married?”

  He laughed, but tensely. “Why aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t met the right person,” she said primly. “What’s your excuse?”

  “I’m the Tin Man.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You mean from The Wizard of Oz?”

  He shrugged, but didn’t expand.

  Thea puzzled over the comparison. Having read the Oz series as a girl, she knew the Tin Man started life as a human woodsman. The Wicked Witch of the East put a spell on his axe to prevent him from marrying the girl he loved. As the enchanted axe cut off his limbs one by one, he replaced them with tin prosthetics until he was made entirely of metal—but lacking a heart, as the tinsmith who’d helped him neglected to provide a replacement.

  “I’m curious.” Her gaze washed over him. “What makes you the Tin Man?”

  “Never mind,” he replied with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Reluctantly, she let it go. As they emerged from the tunnel, she saw one of those generic discount gas stations just ahead on the right. She pointed toward it. “Pull in over there.”

  He promptly obeyed and glided to a stop alongside the pumps. After he hopped out, she took hi
s place behind the wheel. Several minutes later, when he climbed into the passenger seat, she handed him the blindfold.

  Every muscle stiffened as he took it from her and put it on.

  They rode in silence, her frustration growing with each passing minute. He appeared restless, agitated. She hoped she hadn’t said or done something to further offend him. She wanted him to like her. As much as she hated to own it, she’d had a stupid, pathetically adolescent secret crush on him since before he’d asked her out for a drink. Even blindfolded, his closeness evoked a deep sense of longing.

  Luckily, the feeling was tempered by the foul reek of cigarettes emanating off him and every nicotine-glazed surface of his vehicle.

  They were passing through Arlington, Pennsylvania, on Old York Road, which was dark and mostly deserted. The landscape was flat and peppered with strip malls, motels, chain restaurants, real estate offices, and the occasional hospital.

  Welcome to the American midlands.

  The cool wind coming in through the broken window was blowing pieces of hair in her eyes, making them water. As she pushed back the wisps, she started thinking ahead to where they were going. Her grandfather was staying on an Amish farm near Intercourse. Someone he knew—a friend at Independence Hall or maybe the Philadelphia Inquirer, she couldn’t recall which one—had arranged it for him.

  “The farm is perfect,” he’d relayed to her in a recent letter—their only reliable means of communicating. “There are no telephones, no television, no radio, no internet, and no unwanted visitors. If you want to keep in touch, you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way: write me a letter!”

  She shot a glance toward Buchanan. Had he dozed off? She didn’t think so. His whole body was stiff with tension. Her gaze roamed over him. He had a nice build for a guy his age. Did he work out? His mouth was a lipless line. She imagined it relaxing as she kissed it, softly, imploringly. Desire fluttered in her abdomen like a startled bird in a cage. She hadn’t kissed a man in more than a year; hadn’t had sex in even longer. What might Buchanan be like in bed? Tender, fierce, subdued? Would she ever find out?