Revised Bury the Lead Ebook Formatting Embedded Cover

by Bury the Lead (retail) (epub)

  In that moment between darkness and light, between the expanse of the night and the cloister of the newspaper office with its white walls and staring computer screens, I caught a glimpse of Ada sitting at my desk. Her feet were propped up on the desktop as she leaned back in my chair. She was smiling, but I didn’t know why: the curve of her lips was humorless, and her eyes were bleak. I narrowed my gaze against the fluorescent light.

  “Ada?” Relief and terror swamped me in equal measure.

  She rose to her feet in a single, fluid movement that reminded me vividly of black ink brushed on white paper. Bold and harsh, the ink stood out starkly against absence, and then as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

  White walls and staring computer screens. No Ada.

  I knew better, but I rushed to my desk anyway. It was too late to touch her, but I wanted to breathe in the scent of her. Surely the air would still hold the memory of her. Cheap strawberry shampoo, expensive vanilla lotion, a hint of whiskey and coffee.

  But the air was stale and cold, carrying not even a wisp of her presence.

  I sank into the chair, pulled out the spare charging cord from a drawer, and plugged my phone into the wall. I sat there, hunched over the black screen, until it had charged just enough to turn it on.

  I hit Ada’s phone number. Sat there listening to her voicemail message, again and again.

  Where are you, Ada? Where am I?

  It didn’t take long to throw up a quick retraction on The Herald’s website. That’s the nice thing about retractions. They take so much less effort than the original mistake. They’re also rarely noticed by readers of the original story, but I suspected that this one would be the exception to that rule. Sleepy little Brisby was all riled up. Shouldn’t have any trouble selling ads this week.

  I printed off a hard copy of the retraction and taped it to the front window of the office as Chief Joe had requested. Well, requested might be a generous way of putting it. Frankly, I was still surprised to be out of jail. The chief had a fine sense of priorities, though, and I had the idea that he didn’t want to glorify what he labeled my “little debacle” by further incarceration. He’d save his time for the drug dealers and wife beaters and leave the self-important editor to his own devices.

  A sense of futility engulfed me after I taped up the retraction. What was I doing, anyway? Even creating a massive unstory would hardly propel me into publishing success. As far as real stories went, I no longer even knew what I wanted to tell. I’d been clinging to the fiction of myself as a failed writer for longer than I could remember (do you like what I did there?) but now I wasn’t sure even that could be maintained. A failed writer had at least made an attempt. He’d tried to tell somebody something. All my stories had dried up long ago. There was nothing else I particularly wanted to say, nowhere I desperately wanted to go.

  Poking holes in the lies other people liked to tell themselves was only diverting for so long. Eventually it became so spiritless in its monotony that it was unsustainable even as an irony. So people were petty and mean and bigoted at their core. So people had a tendency to believe any lie that suited their own prejudices or advanced their own interests. So the solitude and awful loneliness of humanity was unbroken by the pathetic and tenuous attempts we make at taming the wilder parts of each other’s souls.

  Alone. That is the answer of everything in the end. We are alone. I am alone. Every attempt to prove otherwise will fail. The echo of my own resistance is the only answer I receive from the universe. The more I long for Ada, the faster she retreats. Love is the mask I wear to cover my terrible selfishness, the only refuge I have in the end.

  Like a drowning man clinging to his rescuer, I had reached for Ada, and now we were both buried in the waves, breathless and blind.

  I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to stay at the office. I didn’t want to wander out on the streets in the cool spring night, splashing through pools of streetlights and porch lights, straining to see what always lay just outside the edge of the light. I didn’t want to be.

  I was tired. Not in despair―I lack the inclination to drama. I was just so bored with this place, this life, myself.

  Maybe that had been the whole appeal of Ada. She was entirely other to me. I hadn’t yet untangled all of her knots. Eventually, perhaps, I would have wearied of her, too.

  Instead, I am haunted by her, by the pieces of her that I loved, the pieces of her I hadn’t yet found.

  Somali Pirates Hijack Indian Vessel

  Still, life rarely consists of what we want. Instead, it consists of what we surrender.

  As I walked home, I held to the shadows. I unlocked the front door and walked in, turning on the television to keep the silence at bay while I heated up some burritos in the microwave. I wasn’t all that hungry, but it was something to do. In the absence of purpose, habit will suffice. I lit some incense and waited for the night to end.

  Homeless Writer-Activist Found Frozen To Death After Overdose

  Not surprisingly, I was bombarded with visitors Monday. As I had anticipated, Andy Watson showed up first. In fact, I’d barely unlocked the office door and gotten inside myself before he was on my heels.

  “What the hell, Jeff.”

  Not a question, I noted with interest as I filled up the coffeemaker.

  “Journalism is not always a precision business, Andy. My source was less reliable than I’d realized.”

  “Your source.” He puffed out an impatient breath. “What source could you have possibly had for a story about me and law enforcement that was neither me nor anyone in law enforcement?”

  I offered him the first cup. He took it. He was irate, not insane.

  “Can’t divulge a source, Andy.” I waited a few more seconds to fill my own cup and then retreated to my desk. Andy followed. I was mildly surprised when he also pulled up a seat instead of pacing and blustering.

  He took a long, slow swallow. Licked his lips and seemed to weigh his words carefully before proceeding.

  “That question was rhetorical, Jeff. We both know good and damn well who your source was. And I’d be willing to bet good money that Chief Joe knows, too. This is just a waiting game now. My real question is, what are we waiting for?”

  Andy’s faded blue eyes were earnest as they searched mine. I was struck by the sadness and acceptance there, seemingly devoid of the rage I would have predicted.

  Fourteen across: six letters, voider, juncture, coupling

  “Andy, I think you’re going to need to be more direct. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I like you, Jeff. But we both know you’re cracking up.”

  I laughed out loud. “Okay, that’s direct. But seriously? I admit, I’ve been a little down since Ada left, but cracking up is a leap. To be honest, the paper is doing better than ever. Sales and advertising are both up, and people are actually talking about our stories. My social life could use a boost, but that’s about it.”

  Andy shook his head, ran a big-knuckled hand over his grizzled face. “Some things can’t be fixed. But that doesn’t mean you don’t do anything at all. Ada wasn’t a kitten you could drown in a sack. Someone is going to come looking for her.”

  “I wish them luck,” I told him. “I’d like to find her myself. In fact, I think that’s what she’s doing … looking for herself.”

  “All right, Jeff. I guess we’ll leave it at that.” He stood up, draining his coffee. “Don’t involve me in any more of your games. That girl was a friend of mine. And I have neither the patience nor the principles of the law.”

  I raised my eyebrows but said nothing as he left.

  Virgo (August 23 – September 22): As exciting as other people’s drama seems, you need to steer clear today.

  Not ten minutes later, Sami blew in.

  “Jeff!” she exclaimed. “What the hell!”

&nbs
p; I laughed in spite of myself. Was this going to be the greeting of the day?

  Sami rushed on without waiting for a response, placing a solicitous hand on my arm. “Are you all right? I mean, I’m so confused. Was there a real body? Do we know who it was? Or was the whole thing a mistake?”

  I shrugged. “I think the answer is no, there is no body. But I can’t be sure. My source was obviously completely wrong about the facts of the case, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right?”

  Sami nodded enthusiastically. “That’s what I think. I mean, your source had to have some reason to think there was a body. What did Andy say? Had he seen anything up there? Anybody?”

  I appreciated that my budding little journalist didn’t even consider asking me who my source was. Very ethical of her.

  “Andy’s pretty ticked,” I told her. “He didn’t know anything about it. He hadn’t even been on that trail. He’d changed his mind at the last minute and taken another trail.”

  “Oh, man. How weird. Well, I have to get to class. I just wanted to drop by and see if you needed anything.”

  I shook my head. “All good here. I do have a couple of stories for you this week, though. I thought we could build on the dog theme.”

  “Jeff!” Sami wrinkled her nose. “That’s terrible. We don’t want to build on the dog theme.”

  I held up my hands apologetically. “All positive this time, I promise. I heard that Search and Rescue got a new dog and trainer. And Peggy Wilmes is expanding her dog-grooming business into a kennel. All warm and fuzzy stuff. What do you think?”

  “All right, then. That sounds good. For Thursday or Sunday?”

  “How about one of each? Search and Rescue Thursday and the kennel on Sunday.”

  Sami nodded. “Okay, okay. But now I really gotta go. Let me know if you need anything else!”

  It was remarkable how much calmer and quieter the office felt after she left.

  But not for long. Just as I was getting ready to head out for lunch, Delores came tapping in, lips pursed, eyes narrowed.

  FBI Director James Comey Unusually Tall

  “What the hell, Jeff?” she asked waspishly. I muffled a laugh. It’s amazing, really, that between the incredible depth and breadth of the English language and our willingness to hijack any other language that we like for useful words and phrases, our speech is still so sparse. LOL.

  “Delores,” I greeted her. “What can I do for you?”

  She slapped a copy of yesterday’s paper down on my desk.

  “You do realize that it is not just your reputation on the line here, don’t you? We all have our names on this rag. When you print nonsense like this, it makes all of us look like writers for the National Enquirer.”

  I was tempted to point out that the Enquirer’s print run far exceeded ours, but I wisely refrained.

  “I did print a retraction as soon as I was able,” I told her meekly instead. I gestured to the window. “I even hung a copy in the window.”

  “And what’s this I hear about you sitting in jail all day yesterday? Now the police think our editor may actually be a murderer?” Delores was so angry, she forgot to cross her arms under her boobs so they’d be thrust in my direction. Instead, she squished her crinkling cleavage flat under her forearms.

  Ooh. Definitely no flirting for me today. Gotta count those small blessings.

  “Delores, if Chief Joe thought I was a murderer, he’d still have me in jail, don‘cha think? He was just trying to rattle me for the name of my source. And when it all turned out to be a non-story, he let me go. That’s all there is to it.”

  Delores huffed indignantly. “Well, you should know that you have completely embarrassed all of us. I don’t even want to know what my firm is thinking.”

  “They’re probably thinking they want to run another ad in our paper next Sunday because they can be sure that circulation will be up,” I told her drily.

  That caught her attention. Avarice began to replace angst in her expression.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured slowly. “I suppose that’s true. Say … was that your angle all along?”

  I laughed. “You credit me too much, Delores. Besides, it would be highly unethical for a news source to manipulate stories solely for the purpose of increasing revenue. I was just reporting what I was told by a source. Unfortunately, that source turned out to be unreliable. But not any more so than the anonymous sources quoted by the Washington Post or the New York Times on a daily basis. It just seems like a bigger deal out here because it’s not obscured by a dozen other stories. And because no one really expects them to tell the truth, anyway.”

  She puffed out her bottom lip as she considered my words. “I guess that could be true.”

  “All right, then. It’s just as well you’re here, so I won’t have to email you your story assignments for the week. We have three different HOA meetings I’d like you to cover.”

  Indignation returned in a flash. “I thought Jack covered the HOA meetings.”

  I was prepared for this. “He was, but I realized that you and I are both missing a major opportunity with these HOA meetings. It’s true they’re a little tedious” ―major understatement― “but they can offer great networking opportunities for someone like you who is trying to keep her finger on the pulse of the real estate community. Not only that, but people are more likely to open up to someone they perceive as understanding their point of view. Someone like you. You grasp the issues these communities face much better than Jack can.”

  Delores was painfully easy to manipulate. She puffed right up, stretched her painted lips into a garish smile, and dropped her crossed arms. She even leaned on my desk and tilted her head toward me. Dammit. I liked it better when she was mad at me.

  “That’s an excellent point, Jeff. This is for Thursday’s paper?”

  “If you can. I know it’s short notice, so we can stretch them out a bit if we need to.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. What about Sunday?”

  I figured she’d gotten over her reluctance to have her name associated with mine in any way.

  “I don’t want to overburden you for the week. Perhaps just a quick story on the empty Super Lion building? You know, maybe something about the dangers of urban blight and what the city is doing to encourage a new grocer or somebody to take up the lease? You could probably write that in your sleep.”

  She brightened further. “Oh, that would be easy. You know, my office is managing the lease on that building.”

  “Are they?” I asked innocently. “Well, then, I guess you’ll have the inside track.”

  A red-clawed hand swept the Sunday paper from my desk. “I’d better get to work then,” she told me briskly. “But I want to be your first call if you go back to jail!”

  Not if you were my last hope for freedom, I thought. Aloud, I said, “No question. Have a good day, Delores.”

  Six down: four letters, a class into which a deck of cards may be divided

  Syrian Government Launches Genocidal Chemical Attack

  I should have emailed Jack his assignments for the week, but after my stream of visitors, I was curious to see if he would be dropping by as well. My hopes were rewarded when late in the afternoon, Jack came strolling in.

  He had paused at the front window, reading through the printed retraction with a bemused expression. When he settled into the chair facing my desk, he looked at me in silence for a long while, as if unsure of what to say.

  I gave him time to work through it.

  Finally, he sighed, shook his head, and pronounced wearily, “What the hell, Jeff.”

  Wow. A perfect score. I wished I’d had someone to bet on this with.

  Thesaurus.com Word of the Day: Chatoyant. Adjective, changing in luster or color

  Problem was, the constant indignation was getting old, and my amusement
was shifting to ennui.

  “Life is hell, Jack,” I rejoined a bit sharply.

  “You do know you’re no George Orwell, right?”

  “Honestly, Jack, I’m not sure what you mean, but I can’t think of a way to interpret that sentence that isn’t insulting.”

  “I mean that any thinking person can see what you’ve been doing, and it isn’t right.”

  Jack pulled at the edges of his blue cardigan. I always thought he made a conscious effort to dress like some old college professor.

  Being a high school English teacher has to be one of the worst jobs in the world. Presumably you were propelled into the vocation by some love of the language. You spend all day with kids who despise you and language both. Their parents aren’t clear on what exactly is so important about what you do, either. Spellcheck and PowerPoint have pretty much eliminated the art of the thing, and nobody is sure why we all read Romeo and Juliet and Lord of the Flies. One is arguably Shakespeare’s weakest work, and the other an illustration of all the reasons high school itself is an experiment doomed to failure. People complain about the last time they used algebra; when was the last time anyone used sentence diagramming?

  Just browse through the tweets of the most powerful man in the world and you’ll see how little literacy is required for success. The Herald is as close to publishing success as poor Jack will ever come, and he’s already read all the interesting books in the public library. The only thing worse than having such a vapid career is being retired from it. Alas, poor Jack!

  “It’s dangerous when you start looking at people as if they were cattle, Jeff. I like you, but I don’t like what you’re doing.”

  I wondered if he and Andy Watson had been comparing notes. I felt a rush of irritation.

  “It doesn’t matter how I look at people if I’m wrong,” I told him, annoyance clear in my voice. “If there’s more to this town than to a pack of herd animals, then nothing I do will affect them.”