by Nina Mason
“In those days, the teachers still wore gowns and carried the tawse,” he told her, “a leather strap for those who stepped out of line. Six lashes across both hands, one above the other, alternating.” The memory of it made him wince, even now. “The bigger lads, like me and Kenny, were told to take off our watches and pull up our sleeves. All within earshot would cringe, knowing what was coming. Hitting on the wrist, although strictly forbidden, was common practice. And even the biggest lads were quickly reduced to tears. Once, at the start of a term, I saw a boy nearly six feet tall made to cry by our math teacher—Mrs. MacKinnon—who was a wee thing of just over five feet tall. Needless to say, nobody gave her any shite for the remainder of the term.”
She laughed. And talked, too. Mostly about her family. Her brother’s battle with drugs, her mother’s bitterness over the divorce, her grandfather, with his warmth and good humor, being the one person in her life who could make her feel not only safe, but also worthwhile. The more he heard, the more he grew to like her.
Eventually, the conversation circled back to his reasons for leaving Scotland. This time, he told her: “If you must know, I came to New York hoping to make a fresh start after losing my job at the Edinburgh Times. I’d been working there since I was seventeen. Started as a copy boy, didn’t I? But, after Osbourne bought the paper, those with seniority—and thus, higher salaries—were let go under the guise of corporate downsizing.” Suddenly bitter, he added, “Needless to say, journalistic standards played no part in the process.”
His attention was fixed on the road, but he could feel her watching him.
“When have journalistic standards ever mattered after a corporation buys a newspaper?”
He shot a glance in her direction. “Have you ever been subjected to corporate pressure at The News?”
“No,” she replied, “which is why I’m still working there.” She fell silent for a few moments before adding, “What about you? I’ve often wondered what prompted you to leave World View.”
He laughed, but dryly. “You mean besides the meeting where we were told to stop reporting on the troop casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan because it was upsetting to the readers?”
Thea rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I were.”
“I admire your courage,” she said then, “and what you’re doing at the Voice.” She took a deep breath. “Truth be told, I’ve thought more than once about calling you to ask for a job.”
“As it happens, I have a few openings,” he said with a sideways glance. “But who in their right mind would leave a venerable paper like The News to come and work for a fledgling enterprise like mine?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said musingly. “I find something really compelling about the idea of being able to tell it like it is and call bullshit bullshit.”
He arched a quizzical brow. “And you can’t do that at The News?”
“I can,” she said, “but not with the same unfettered honesty.”
* * * *
On the outskirts of Philadelphia, the journalists agreed the Amtrak Station would be the best place to leave the Mustang. After parking in an out-of-the way spot, they very carefully wiped down every surface they might have touched to remove any telltale fingerprints. Afterward, they walked quickly to the front of the depot, hailed a cab, and slid into the back seat together.
“Can you recommend a moderately priced hotel near Independence Hall?” he asked the dark-complected driver. “Nothing too dodgy. Or too posh.”
With an Indian accent, the cabbie replied, “There’s a Holiday Inn in close proximity. Is that what you have in mind?”
“Is it walking distance to the park?” Thea asked.
“It is,” the driver replied, “although the neighborhood is a bit seamy for some tastes. There are many homeless, drug addicts, and prostitutes hanging about in the doorways and alleys.”
“The Holiday Inn sounds fine,” Buchanan told him, not wishing to belabor it. Right now, junkies and whores were the least of his worries.
When the cab was rolling, Thea put a hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze, making him uneasy. He wasn’t quite ready for that level of physical intimacy. Oddly, he found full-blown sex a lot less threatening at times than something as simple as holding hands.
“Should we get separate rooms,” she said, rubbing his thigh in a way he found highly distracting, “or would you rather share?”
He was aware she was asking not if he wanted to share a room, but if he wanted to share a bed. And, as tempted as he was to sleep with her, he just wasn’t ready to take that step.
“Easy there, soldier,” he said, cupping his hand over hers to still it. “I said to give me time.”
She withdrew her hand and scooted toward the door, looking wounded. He rolled his eyes. Clearly, navigating this emotional minefield wasn’t going to be easy.
A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the hotel. He paid the driver before carrying her bag and briefcase across the lobby to the registration desk. Thea followed at a safe distance. After checking in, they took the elevator to their separate floors, agreeing to meet in the lobby in another fifteen minutes.
Upon entering his room, Buchanan found the channel changer and switched on the telly. Flipping to CNN, he choked when he saw the day’s top headline: Quinn Davidson had been murdered. Stunned, he dropped onto the bed and cranked up the sound.
“Davidson was gunned down last night in the parking garage of The New York News Building,” Linda Stouffer reported. “One bullet through the heart, the same M.O. used in the murder of Malcolm Connolly three weeks ago in London. Once again, the killer left his calling card: a wound in the shape of a z carved in the victim’s forehead. Police have now dubbed these the Zorro murders.”
Buchanan couldn’t believe it. Davidson and Connolly had been among his heroes—two of the last holdouts who, like himself, still believed in truth in reporting. Feeling distraught, he reached in his pocket for his cigarettes. As he smoked, his brain started picking through the evidence. Were these murders related to the slaughter of his staff? And, if so, why were the M.O.s so different? His people were shot through the head, not the heart. And no one had been marked with a Z. On top of which, right around the time of Davidson’s murder, the Arabs in the Mustang were trailing him and Thea. Had whoever was behind the killings hired two sets of assassins? Or did the crimes have nothing to do with each other?
Stumped, he shook his head, then thought of Thea with a pang. Had she, too, turned on the news…or was he going to be stuck with breaking the bad news about her publisher?
Shifting uneasily, he checked the time on his BlackBerry. Still five minutes to go. Despite the shock, he felt a bit peckish, so he went to the mini-bar and rustled through until he found a bag of honey-roasted peanuts. He gobbled them while he paced the floor, washing them down with the whisky from his flask.
Finally, it was time to meet Thea.
He headed down the hall to the lift and punched the call button, hoping he wouldn’t have to wait long. Just as he started working out how he might tell her, the car dinged and the doors glided open. He stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. The doors hesitated a moment or two before sliding closed again. He felt the car jolt, heard the gears begin to purr. The car smelled faintly of honeysuckle, a perfume that reminded him of his mother. That started him stressing about how long it had been since he’d spoken to her. He hoped the news of the shooting hadn’t reached her in Scotland. She’d only worry, he knew, and insist that he come home, which he wasn’t about to do.
Before he knew it, the car had stopped and the doors were parting on the lobby. He jolted a touch when he saw Thea standing there, hair freshly brushed, jaw set defensively. The perfume, he realized then, had been hers.
“Have you seen the news?” he asked, stepping off the lift.
She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Has something happened?”
“You could say that,” h
e replied, licking his lips. “Your publisher, Quinn Davidson, was murdered last night. Same M.O. as Malcolm Connolly.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped, eyes widening as her hands flew to her mouth.
“I’m thinking that whoever killed him is not the same person who’s trying to kill me,” he told her as they moved across the lobby toward the exit. “Though I haven’t yet come up with a motive for—”
“Quinn Davidson’s dead.” Her voice, though a mere echo, cut him off. “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I,” he said. “His death, like Connolly’s, is a real loss to journalism.”
She stopped walking and pulled out her phone. “I’d better call Glenda.”
He stood by while she chatted briefly with “Glenda,” who he deduced from the one-sided conversation was her editor.
“Let someone on crime cover the investigation,” he overheard her say, “while I cover the longer angle from here.”
There was a pause during which he assumed Glenda was speaking.
“I’m in Philadelphia,” Thea told her then. “Following up on a lead from a source.”
Another pause, longer this time. He couldn’t help noticing he was getting no mention.
“Of course,” she assured Glenda. “And keep me posted on any further developments.” As she disconnected the call, she met his gaze with a look of fierce determination. “Let’s roll.”
* * * *
Thea and Buchanan said very little to each other as they made their way up Fourth. They passed an array of boutiques, offices, car parks, sandwich joints, a charter high school, a Christian Science Reading Room, and a movie theatre. A few blocks later, at Chestnut, the landscape radically changed. They continued along the edge of what looked like a park with brick sidewalks and trees preening with vivid shades of gold and red. A horse-drawn carriage clopped past. And then, it was as if they were stepping back in time. Old brick buildings. Cobbled streets. No cars.
As they approached a low black-metal barricade where several people milled about, he asked, “What’s this?”
“Independence Hall,” she replied, cutting a wide berth.
As they moved past, he studied the landmark. It looked just like all the pictures he’d seen—only more real, obviously. And loads noisier. This wee historical stretch felt as if it had been wedged inside a teeming metropolis, fighting to stave off the encroaching modernity. Skyscrapers circled like buzzards waiting to swoop. All around the dissonance was blaring—a deafening wall of traffic, jackhammers, and sirens. It struck him as a chilling metaphor for the corporate takeover of America.
His focus moved to the bronze statue of George Washington posted out front. Shaking his head, he murmured, “All you dreamed of, all you fought for, that sweet taste of freedom, that great experiment in self-government slipping away like sand through our fingers. And for what? McDonald’s, Walmart, and better living through chemistry? Would somebody mind telling me how the hell it’s better? Fast hamburgers and cheap Chinese crap? Pollution? Cancer? Pesticides? Global warming? Personally, I don’t get it.”
Thea’s voice intruded. “Buchanan, who are you talking to?”
“Nobody,” he grumbled. “Nobody who cares to listen, that is.” He looked up at the rooftop cupola, which appeared to be empty. “Where’s the Liberty Bell?”
She stood there for a moment, staring at him once again as if he’d lost his mind. “It’s over there now.” She was pointing across the street toward a modern-looking glass building.
“Why’d they move it?” he asked, disgruntled.
“So more people could see it.”
“Why do they need to see it? Isn’t it an icon? Isn’t it enough to know that it’s there?” He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “What’s wrong with people these days? Have they all become like Doubting Thomas? Do we have to see it, to stick our hand in the crack, to believe it’s real? Jesus wept. I thought it would be better here in America. I thought this was supposed to be the land of the free and the home of the brave. But that’s a complete load of bollocks. It’s the land of big business and the home of hypocrisy. It’s enough to send me running back to Scotland with my tail between my legs.”
“Crap, Buchanan,” she said, sounding flustered. “What brought all this on? Not that I don’t agree with you. But I’m really starting to wonder if you’re on the verge of losing it.”
He sighed, deflating.
“Who could blame me after all that’s happened. But it’s not just that. I’ve grown disheartened, Thea. Disheartened, frustrated, and fed up. I still believe in liberty and justice and the First Amendment and everything else men like Washington fought for.” He flung an arm toward the building. “And I’m not even a bloody American!”
“Lots of Americans still believe in those things,” she insisted, eyeing him like an escapee from the funny farm.
“Then why aren’t they fighting for them? Why are they ignoring what’s happening right under their noses while defending a war in the Middle East that’s got nothing to do with terrorism and democracy and everything to do with oil and greed and power and how Freeman and his buddies can cash in with their bullshit contracts.”
Spinning around, he glared at the milling throng waiting for the tour, the pressure inside building like steam inside a boiling pot. “Wake up, people,” he bellowed, blowing his lid. “Can’t you see what’s happening? Are you all blind as bats or just dumber than hair?”
“Cut it out, Buchanan.” Thea grabbed his arm and tugged at it frantically. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare.” He shook her off. “It’s not like they can see shite anyway—even when it’s right under their fucking noses.”
“What is it?” Her eyes were wide, her tone tense yet concerned. “Why are you acting like this all of a sudden? Did I miss something?”
Without answering her, he limped off toward the glass monstrosity that housed the Liberty Bell, muttering every obscenity he could think of under his breath.
* * * *
A few miles away, in the bathroom of a fleabag motel, Georgi Aminov stood before the bathroom mirror admiring his own reflection. The haircut and sideburns the client forced him and his brother to wear were beyond ridiculous, but he was not about to argue when the contract paid so well. Plus, the suit was not too bad. It might look dated with its too-wide lapels, but the cut showed off the muscular physique he’d worked so hard to build.
In the mirror, through the doorway, he could see his twin brother, Ivan, stretched out on one of the double beds, naked atop the covers, ankles crossed, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. One arm was bent behind his head for support while the other held a cigarette, which he absentmindedly flicked now and again into the overflowing ashtray perched atop his belly. An empty vodka bottle stood on the nightstand between the room’s two double beds.
The Amerikanski kurvas they’d picked up in a bar were still asleep—one on the bed beside Ivan, the other on the rumpled bed Georgi had vacated a few minutes before.
As his eyes traced the woman’s curves underneath the covers, Georgi thought of his wife back home in Sofia, Bulgaria’s capital city, and felt the dull ache of longing. Slipping his hand down his pants, he stoked the flames. When he was ready, he strode back inside the room, peeling off his trousers as he went.
Lifting the sheet, he slipped underneath, sidled up to the girl, and pressed his erection against her hip. She stirred and rolled toward him. As her small hands moved down the taut muscles of his body, he closed his eyes, pretending they belonged to Tatyana. Her fingers quickly found his engorgement and went to work.
“O, Tatyana,” he gasped in Bulgarian, “how good that feels. How much I adore you!”
The woman’s hand stopped. “Tatyana? Who the hell is that?”
“You are, my beloved,” he whispered, in English this time, clinging tightly to his fantasy.
“But my name’s Barbara.”
“Your name is Tatyana.”
Rolling her onto h
er back, he climbed on top of her, put his hand over her mouth to shut her up, and took her with a forceful thrust. She thrashed and squealed, enflaming his ardor. When he felt her teeth in his palm, he withdrew his hand and slapped her across the face. As her head snapped to the side, she let out an ear-piercing scream.
“Georgi, for the love of God,” Ivan complained. “Shut that bitch up before somebody calls the police.”
Georgi grabbed a pillow, pressed it over Barbara’s face, and held it there as he hammered her. She struggled under him, rocking, writhing, beating him with her fists, clawing at his back with her fingernails. As he came, he cried out in his native tongue: “O Tatyana. My precious angel. How much your Georgi misses you!”
He waited until the last shiver of ecstasy had passed before he removed the pillow. Barbara, gasping and cursing, took a swing at him. He caught her arm mid-punch and squeezed her wrist until she shrieked in pain.
“You fucking bastard,” she shouted, trying to wriggle out of his grip.
Glaring at her in disgust, he said, “My Tatyana is a goddess and you are nothing but a kurva. A stupid fucking worthless Amerikanski kurva.”
“Fuck you, you Euro-trash piece of shit,” she ground out, still fighting to break his hold on her arm.
Though she sounded brave, he could see fear dancing darkly in her pale eyes. Just as he raised his hand to slap her again, his cellular telephone started chirping.
With a disparaged sigh, he let her go and climbed off the bed. Retrieving his slacks, he withdrew the phone and checked the caller ID, hoping to see Tatyana’s name. Disappointment nipped at his insides when he saw it was only his lunatic client.
He shot an exasperated look at his brother as he said into the receiver, “This is Wint.”
“Good morning, Mr. Wint,” the client said in an English accent. “I need you and Mr. Kidd to take a trip to the City of Brotherly Love right away.”
