by Tyler King
“Would you ask a man the same question?”
“Under the circumstances, yes.”
“I’m up to it.”
Emotional detachment has never been my problem. I spent several years of my adolescence making an art of it. The hard part is pretending there’s still something human left in the hollow places. For so long my father’s been the reason anything good gets ripped out of my hands. I’m not letting him take this, too.
Ed crosses his arms, and I realize the uncomfortable part of this conversation hasn’t started yet.
“You were with Ethan tonight,” he says.
There’s no point denying the obvious conclusion he’s already drawn. Ed knows Ethan and I were together when he called him back to the office. That we were two hours away in Montauk. It doesn’t take a great deal of deduction to figure out what that means.
“Yes.”
“Just keep it out of the office. What you do on your own time is your business. If it has to become my business, I won’t hesitate to fire either one of you. Fair?”
“That’s fair.”
As much as I like the idea of what Ethan and I could have together, I’m not about to risk my career on a man. Escaping Massasauga, getting through rehab, I’ve used up my second and third chances. One thing I’ve learned: I have to look out for myself.
“One more thing,” he says, taking a seat on the stool beside his desk. “How much has Ethan had to drink tonight?”
His question gives me pause. I stare at him, blinking, knowing every second I don’t respond sews doubt in Ed’s mind. He’s not some frail, feeble old man. Despite his apparent age, Ed is sharp and incisive, and he’s made a long career out of recognizing bullshit.
“I wasn’t counting.”
He doesn’t even blink, but we both understand.
“Keep an eye on him.”
With that, I’m dismissed. I don’t know if it’s just general concern that Ed doesn’t want to send a drunk reporter out to the scene of a major story—with armed law enforcement no less—or that he is still worried over Ethan’s two-day disappearance. But now understanding what Ethan’s been going through with his mother, I can’t fault him for needing a couple of days to himself. And I don’t think having a couple of glasses of champagne at a party qualifies as excessive.
Ethan is waiting for me when I come out of Ed’s office. He’s found my press pass in my desk and hands it to me as we walk to the elevator.
“What was that about?” he asks.
“A pep talk,” I say, hitting the Call button. “Ed wanted to make sure I’ve got my head on straight.”
“Don’t be mad at me…”
The doors open and we step inside the elevator.
“But you going off on Cyle like that…” Ethan runs both hands through his hair and slides me a look as the doors close. “I’m so turned on right now.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
* * *
Outside, Ethan gets on the phone. It looks like the police have widened the perimeter from the Fed building; the barricades are now visible at the end of our block. Traffic is snarled with drivers trying to navigate around closed streets. Car horns trumpet and bray over the bleats and wails of sirens. Everything’s talking.
“Carter’s not answering,” Ethan says, sweat gathering at his hairline.
New York summer nights, hot and thick, everything and everyone in the city lingers in the pungent air.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“He’s likely still at his office.”
“We’re not going to the bank?”
“Quick detour,” he says.
So we head uptown, thirteen blocks north to Federal Plaza. Once we pass through the metal detectors—and I get a curious stare from the guard when I put the shell casing in the plastic bowl with my cell phone—it’s a short wait until Carter Grant is standing in the cold, gray lobby of the FBI Manhattan field office, arms crossed, giving Ethan and me a look like we’re the mice that keep skipping the moldy cheese in the trap and going straight for the pantry.
“Let’s go,” Carter says, and jerks his head toward the elevator.
On the twenty-third floor he leads us to his office and two matching chairs from the lowest-bidder line of office furniture sets.
“I really regret knowing you.” Carter dumps himself behind his laminate wood desk and loosens his tie.
He doesn’t look at Ethan, instead training me with a skeptical gaze. He’s plain in all the ways a man can be. No particular shade of brown hair. Terribly ordinary brown eyes. He’s got the Midwestern bone structure of thirty million other American men. Standard issue, just like the furniture and his typical black suit.
“You know this doesn’t look good for me, right?” Carter reclines in his pleather office chair. “People wondering why I’ve got two reporters sitting in my office during a major security situation. Wearing the badges was a nice touch, by the way.”
I glance down at the press pass hanging around my neck. Ethan told me to leave it on.
“Makes it harder for you to get rid of us.”
“So what’s so important you have to ambush me?”
Carter can’t help it; his eyes pull in my direction even as he speaks to Ethan. He feels the incongruity in the room. The stranger sitting right in front of him, somehow familiar. He’s trying to place me, digging around in his mind for the switch that turns on the lights.
Ethan pulls his phone out of his back pocket, swipes, taps, and tosses it on Carter’s desk. “Avery has some information pertinent to your situation.”
With a darting, accusatory glance at me, Carter lurches forward in his seat and grabs the phone. His attention then falls to the screen as I question Ethan’s profile. He won’t look at me, though I know he senses my questions boring holes in the side of his face. This suddenly feels like a trap.
“What is this?” Carter asks, pushing the phone at Ethan across the desk. He grabs a notepad from his top drawer and pulls a pen from his shirt pocket. “Forward that to me with a screenshot of the originals.”
Ethan hands me his phone to show me a series of comments on the Riot Street website signed by Juris Christian Constitutional Assembly. Each a declaration of support for Patrick, espousing more of their misguided doctrine. And an invitation for Echo to contact them.
“Where are these from?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond but for heavy silence.
A chill slides down my spine, through my limbs. These are in response to my most recent essay.
“You didn’t think to mention these earlier?” Carter asks.
“The site gets hundreds of comments a day,” Ethan says. “No one can read them all. I didn’t think to look until you made the connection to Patrick’s death.”
“Fine.” Carter scratches at the shadow of stubble creeping down his neck. “But how does this help us? We’ve already identified three of the possible suspects inside.” A pause, as Carter gives Ethan a pointed look that I’m guessing is to remind him that we’re off the record in here. “The domestic-terrorism task force lost track of two individuals it was monitoring in New Hampshire. The third is linked to the IP address used to post on the message board. We believe the suspects gained entry with the help of a member of the security detail sympathetic to their cause.”
“You still haven’t made contact. We can help with that.”
Carter’s cell phone rings. He glances at the screen then stands to take the call outside, closing the door behind him.
I don’t like this. Ethan came here with a plan, but I’m not in on it. I get the sense I’m being maneuvered, manipulated, and it grates right to the bone. Hands fisted in my lap, my entire body shaking with anger, I’d punch a wall if I didn’t think it’d get me arrested.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Carter’s a friend,” Ethan tells me, impassioned plea in his eyes. “You can trust him.”
Dread rolls down my spine.
“What does
that mean?”
He leans in and lowers his voice. “There are half a dozen armed men, maybe more, inside that building with the largest stockpile of gold reserves in the world. This isn’t going to end like Montana, with the feds sitting back and waiting them out for weeks. These men walked right inside the United States’ impenetrable fortress without any resistance. For the last four hours, the world’s watched us do nothing about it. Every minute that passes without a resolution emboldens the next guy and casts doubt on the government’s ability to secure its assets. It’s an embarrassment law enforcement can’t tolerate. This thing ends before the sun comes up. If they can’t get someone on the phone and talk them out, FBI and SWAT are going in. Then it’s shoot first and let the coroner sort it out.”
We’re here to get the story. It’s not my job to be partial about the outcome.
“You didn’t tell me about those comments before we came down here. You’re hiding things from me. Again.”
I can let him off the hook for not telling me about his mother, but this is different. I thought after he’d come back to tell me the truth about why my father had agreed to the interview that I could trust him. Completely. There wouldn’t be anything Ethan would lie to me about if he could admit that. Being wrong cuts to the core of what I liked most about him.
“You can still back out,” he says, and reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear. His fingertips skim my neck, and I hate that his touch is like rain dousing the blaze burning in my chest. “I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I don’t understand what you expect from me.”
“The only story worth telling is the one going on inside that building.”
Behind us, Carter whips open his office door. As our eyes meet, I read it on his face. He’s caught up, finally made the connection. In that instant, I see Ethan’s plan spread out like an enormous pattern in the sand. Impossible to discern up close, but from a distance a clear image emerges.
“You,” Carter says, pointing with his phone in his hand. “Tell me your name.”
I’m the bait and the hook. Because I have something no one else does—my father’s blood.
* * *
Twenty minutes later and a harrowing ride speeding down Broadway with an FBI escort, Carter brings Ethan and me to the mobile command vehicle set up outside the Federal Reserve building. Police have the entire area cordoned off. Patrol cops and K-9 units man the barriers every ten feet. SWAT officers in bulletproof vests and helmets carry rifles, scanning the crowds pressed up against the metal rails lined along the sidewalks and blocking streets. Above our heads, snipers stand perched on rooftops.
We’re brought inside the truck, no bigger than a large family camper, where Carter sits me down at a counter among several computer monitors and radios. Five other FBI agents stand around, watching, scrutinizing. It’s more than a little unnerving being in the presence of so many badges and guns, even when you haven’t done anything wrong.
“Here’s how this is going to work…”
My role is simple, get the men inside to talk. The FBI negotiator was able to make contact about thirty minutes ago, but only long enough to gather that the suspects didn’t want money or a jet fueled and waiting to take them to Fiji. They wanted total surrender of the federal government. So, basically, a nonstarter. Instead, I need to ease them into a conversation. Placate them, listen, until such time as they feel satisfied that their message has been heard and will start talking seriously about surrendering without anyone getting killed.
Just before we begin, Ethan pulls me aside.
Hands on my shoulders, he says, “You can still say no.”
Though I am mad at him, Ethan has that unshakable confidence that somehow reaches right into my chest and slows my heart. It quiets the noise and focuses my vision.
“I can do this.”
I have to do this. Not because Carter asked me to or Ethan steered me into this position. What would I tell Ed and Cara about why I refused? I was afraid? There are dozens of other reporters outside, hundreds all over the city, who would sell their own mothers to be in my position. They wouldn’t hesitate to pick up that phone and say anything, be anything necessary to get the best story. Tomorrow morning, our article will be the authority on what took place here and the events that set this standoff in motion. My byline will circulate all over the world, people reading my words. What I do here, what I write, will shape opinion and impact debate. I have the opportunity to do something important, even if it is just through dumb luck.
Turns out, I am my father’s daughter after all. Two heads of the same beast.
So I sit down in front of the phone with Carter, Ethan, and a half-dozen skeptics looking over my shoulder. The negotiator dials the number and hands me the phone, listening in through a headset as it rings.
“Who’s this?” a voice says on the other end.
“My name is Echo. I’m Patrick Turner Murphy’s daughter.”
16
And Switch
They wanted legitimacy,” I say. “To have their message validated. In their minds, speaking to me—rather, my listening to them—was akin to, I mean, not to sound blasphemous or anything, but you could think of it like the way Catholics pray to saints or confess to priests. They just wanted to feel closer to my father through me.”
Six a.m., Sunday morning, Ethan and I sit in Ed’s office with Cara. He’s reading over our draft on the standoff, everyone having worked through the night. A grimy film covers us all. Like our bodies are rapidly decaying and the only thing keeping us alive is a constant infusion of caffeine. I’ve got a headache splitting my skull open with a crowbar and I haven’t eaten solid food since a canapé at the party in Montauk. For the past couple of hours, I’ve been hallucinating that I’m sitting in my bathtub, shower faucet raining down on me. The way a pee dream is your body’s gentle warning that you need to use the restroom.
“She was brilliant,” Ethan says, sitting in the chair beside me. “Gained their trust and worked them where she needed them to go. I’m telling you…” He slides me a glance, tired cooked grin across his lips. “Avery could talk the pope out of wearing white.”
In the end, the gambit worked—mostly. For two hours, I stayed on the line with a man named Robert Phelps. I learned he had a wife, Annette, and an eight-year-old daughter named Alissa who liked to ride horses. They live on a small berry farm in Carroll County, New Hampshire. And thanks to Robert, their life is over. Maybe they’ll start a new one, somewhere far away from the stain Robert has left behind. Or maybe they’ll cling to the past with both hands and with fingertips and nails, until it’s yanked out from under them an inch at a time. I know how that story ends, and I take no pleasure in writing it.
“The last man,” Cara says, shoes off and legs curled beneath her on the small sofa against the wall. “What was his name?”
Carl Poole, twenty-six, from Aroostook County, Maine. Sometimes worked as a roofer, when he could find work at all. He was one of the people who read the call to arms on that message board and drove down to New Hampshire to join Phelps and his crew. But when the FBI’s crisis negotiator convinced the men inside the bank to leave their weapons and surrender, Carl stayed behind. That’s when SWAT and FBI moved in. First cutting the lights to the building. Then tossing a couple of flash-bangs through the front doors before charging inside with guns drawn. Whether out of a misguided commitment to the cause or fear of prison, Carl shot himself with a .9mm semiautomatic handgun before authorities had even breached the doors.
I’ll know his name for the rest of my life.
Stupid, fucking Carl Poole.
“We’re still waiting on a few quotes to wrap it up,” Ethan says to Ed, rubbing his eyes. “My source promised something on the record by ten from the FBI, and Navid’s helping us track down family and friends of the suspects. We can post the web version with the quotes from the White House press secretary and Fed chairman.”
The quick and dirty versio
n of our article will go up this morning on the front page of the Riot Street website. Just a rundown of the major facts and a time line of events with preliminary information. On the other hand, the process of publishing a print article is like something between bringing a pregnancy to term and applying for a mortgage. The easy part is compiling twenty pages of scribbled notes and ten pages of transcribed audio recordings into a coherent outline of half sentences and disjointed ideas typed out in bullet points over which Ethan and I will take turns writing in the margins and arguing about structure.
Once we have a draft that at least resembles an article, it will go to an associate editor and come back with dried feces on it and a note that says something like Kill yourself or Die in a fire.
Okay, not verbatim. I’m paraphrasing here. And it might be an ink smudge. But you get the idea: You suck. Do it better.
So we’ll take another crack at it, and we’ll do it better.
Then it goes to a team of fact-checkers who verify every date, name, location, etc. Each minute detail is circled and referenced. After that it goes to the Grammar Nazis copy editors who spew a pint of blood thoughtfully point out our comma splices and nonsensical use of semicolons. And then—assuming we’ve not yet taken the associate editor’s advice and carried out a murder-suicide pact—well then, we’ll go back to the beginning and run through the gauntlet of shame and humiliation twice more until the perfect, polished pearl of brilliance is ready for Ed’s stamp of approval and final layout. The entire process takes about two weeks. We have one.
No wonder print magazines are dying.
“Excellent work.” Ed pounds a cup of coffee like a shot of tequila and wipes his wrinkled mouth. Eyes drooping like they might slide right off his face, he looks to me. “One thing we have to discuss.”
“Yeah?”
“You need to make a decision on who my reporter is. We’ve got to disclose your relationship to Patrick, so either you stick with calling yourself Echo and we go with that, or…”
