by R. R. Irvine
Manwaring left one burner lit and climbed the stairs to the sleeping loft. There, a baseboard night light revealed a narrow single bed. Beside it stood a marble-topped night table with two drawers.
Manwaring sat on the bed and opened the top drawer. The ammunition was there. After a few moments of trial and error, he managed to reload. Extra cartridges went into his pocket.
The question now was whether to wait for daylight or start back to town in the dark. It couldn’t be more than two miles to city hall, a half-hour’s walk. Even closer were the houses on Pitchstone Road, though God knows what kind of reception he’d get asking for help this time of night.
To hell with it. He’d leave at dawn, stop at the first house he came to, and phone the sheriff.
He went downstairs, cracked open the door, and listened. Night sounds, crickets, an owl, and something he didn’t recognize convinced him that his decision to wait for daylight was correct.
He locked the door and sat down again to wait. When he started yawning, he remembered the coffee. He drank it cold and black, savoring its caffeine kick.
After a while his spirits rose. He now had proof that a killer existed. Reisner and the sheriff would have to eat crow. Vicki, too, for that matter. God, what he wouldn’t give to see the look on her face when he called in the exclusive murder story.
26
VICKI HAD stayed at the office to watch herself covering the Vice President. The feed from New York, which wouldn’t be broadcast on the West Coast for another three hours, began with welcoming ceremonies at the airport and ended with her interview in the Vice President’s suite at the Century Plaza Hotel. Seeing the man’s easy smile and pre-programmed answers to her questions, Vicki wished she could have used what didn’t go on videotape. His sexual innuendos and dirty jokes still rankled. No doubt he considered them foreplay.
Give me Manwaring anytime, she thought. At least he had a brain to go with his sex drive.
When the feed moved on to the famine in Africa, Vicki turned her back on the newsroom monitors. Famine was one of Reisner’s old standbys, like the clubbing of baby harp seals; he used them both to wring tears and rating points from the viewers.
Vicki had to save her energy and emotion for something she could actually affect, like saving Manwaring’s ass. Eccles would probably help, but only if it didn’t jeopardize his career. Her own position was somewhat stronger. As on-air talent, she was part of the production sale and was allowed more leeway than an executive. Even an occasional temper tantrum would be tolerated, though she doubted whether ranting and raving would save Manwaring if his human-interest story turned out to be a dud.
Maybe Manwaring’s dog sounds, real or imagined, would prolong his career. Eccles had a dog, after all.
“Vicki,” Eccles said behind her back.
She jumped at the sound of the bureau chief’s voice and spun around in her chair.
“I’d like you to meet Van Sutton. He’s just in from New York to look over our operation.”
When Vicki rose to shake hands, Eccles retreated a step so he could mouth, “He’s Reisner’s man,” behind Sutton’s back.
“You’re building quite a reputation around network headquarters,” Sutton said, squeezing her hand. “Everyone says you’re one of our rising stars.”
He was tall, maybe six-one, and as solid-looking as a football player. Manwaring could look that way if he lifted weights, but he’d never be able to match Sutton’s pale blue eyes. Manwaring couldn’t afford Sutton’s tailored suit either, or his Hermes tie.
“Are you with the News Group?” she asked.
“I keep my eye on it, that’s for sure.”
Behind Sutton, Eccles rolled his eyes frantically, which meant Sutton had to be important in the network hierarchy.
Eccles said, “We’re only one of Mr. Sutton’s stops. He’s visiting all the bureaus.”
“I came here first, Ms. Garcia, because Mr. Reisner is worried about you. „She’s going to be anchoring for us one day.’ His very words. „So we can’t take any chances with her career.’”
She stared into those pale eyes. They weren’t so much pale as cold, she decided. “What kind of chances are those, Mr. Sutton?”
The man glanced over his shoulder. Until then, Vicki hadn’t noticed that Joyce Cody was seated at her desk, obviously listening to every word.
“Could we use your office, Eccles?” Sutton asked.
“Of course.”
“It might be better if I spoke with Vicki alone.”
Eccles looked distinctly unhappy.
Sutton held the visitor’s chair for Vicki while asking, “Would you like some coffee?”
She shook her head.
“I could use a cup. The jet lag’s killing me.” He took Eccles’s chair for himself, picked up the phone and rang Joyce, who was on the other side of Eccles’s glass door.
“One coffee, please,” he told her. “Cream, no sugar, in a real cup.”
Vicki smiled, admiring his executive maneuver. Finding a real cup in the age of Styrofoam ought to keep Joyce out of eavesdropping range for a while.
“What I said out there for public consumption is quite true,” he said. “You’re a natural for the anchor slot one day, which I’m sure comes as no surprise.”
Vicki held her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“From now on, Herb says, every one of your reports on the Evening News has to be just right. We don’t want you letting up even for a moment.”
“Are you talking about my report on the Vice President?”
“For any other correspondent it would have been fine. But from a rising star like you . . .”
“I didn’t have my regular producer,” she blurted before it sank in that she’d given him ammunition to use against both Manwaring and Eccles.
He smiled. “You see, Vicki, it’s a matter of building you step by step. Ideally, you should be seen each and every night on the Evening News. That way you become a regular member of our viewers’ families. Someone they invite into their living rooms to share dinner with them.”
“Is this a formal offer?” she said, knowing that a real offer to co-anchor had to be in writing and submitted to her agent.
“So far you’ve scored very well on our viewer surveys. Not a perfect score, not what we’d hoped for, but not bad either.”
She said nothing, smiling, aware that, her heart was beating faster.
“A number of decisions are in the offing,” he continued. “Two permanent weekend anchors, one for Saturday and one for Sunday. Eventually one of those two may be selected to co-anchor with Lee Aarons Monday through Friday.”
She felt short of breath. “When are these decisions to be made?”
“I can only pass on Mr. Reisner’s thoughts. „Tell Vicki that I expect perfection from her. Another mediocre interview like the Vice President and I won’t be able to justify her weekend selection.’”
Vicki went over the report again in her mind. Joyce Cody had done a good job filling in for Manwaring. The writing had been fine, the videotape editing crisp. So what the hell was Reisner up to?
“My exclusive in Idaho should count for something,” she said.
“You can’t be brilliant one day and mediocre the next, not and keep your viewer quotient at the proper level.”
“Aside from the Vice President,” Vicki said, “what other clinkers are we talking about?”
“Don’t misunderstand, Vicki. Kevin Manwaring is a fine producer. Mr. Reisner recognizes that. But what good does talent do if it’s erratic?”
Sutton had emphasized the word talent to let her know the criticism could just as easily be applied to her.
“Is Kevin being fired?” she asked.
“Would that bother you?”
Before she could answer, the office door opened and Joyce came in carrying a china cup, which she placed in front of the executive. Vicki swallowed to keep from laughing. The last time she’d seen that particular cup, a gerani
um had been living in it.
“Will there be anything else?” Joyce asked.
“Thank you, no.”
As soon as Joyce left the office, Sutton pushed the cup aside and leaned forward, awaiting Vicki’s answer.
“I’m used to Manwaring,” she said carefully. “We work well together. It’s always risky breaking in someone new. Since my career is on the line, I don’t know if it would be wise for me to take that kind of risk at the moment.”
“Wouldn’t that depend on the quality of Manwaring’s replacement?”
“Is that Herb Reisner speaking?”
“You’re free to call him.”
Vicki shook her head. “Who does he have in mind?”
“One of his associate producers.”
Reisner had five, all go-getters, all waiting for the day that Reisner would either step up to News Group Vice President or fall from grace. All five were talented, but none had Manwaring’s experience in the field.
“Which one do I get?” she asked.
“Nothing’s written in stone.”
She stared at Sutton for several seconds. “Why didn’t Reisner call me about this?”
“I wanted to meet you for myself. I wanted to determine what kind of commitment you have to ABN and the Evening News.”
“In other words, I show my commitment by keeping quiet about Manwaring.”
“We don’t need your permission for making changes.”
Vicki closed her eyes. If she co-anchored one day, she’d owe much of her success to Manwaring. He’d taught her the moves when she was still a novice. For that, she owed him. On the other hand, if his career was already doomed, what good would it do to fight for him?
She wet her lips. “My commitment to the news hasn’t changed, and neither has Manwaring’s.”
Sutton nodded. “Reisner said you were no fool. I like that.”
“What is it you’re telling me exactly?”
“That plans are being made right now for major changes in the News Group. That you have a good chance of being included in those plans.”
With that, he picked up his coffee cup and drank it down. Judging by the face he made, Joyce hadn’t rinsed out all the plant fertilizer.
“Please tell Mr. Eccles I’d like to speak to him next,” Sutton said.
As soon as Vicki passed on the message, she walked Joyce down the hall to the ladies’ room. There, she checked the stalls. When satisfied they were alone, Vicki asked, “Who the hell is this guy anyway?”
“He’s the new Vice President of Broadcast Standards.”
“A goddamn censor, you mean.”
“He’s on the board and he’s a buddy of Reisner’s. That means another vote for Reisner when Ed Gordon retires as News Group Vice President next year.”
“Manwaring might not last that long.”
“I was afraid that’s what you were talking about,” Joyce said. “But I don’t get it. Manwaring’s good. His work makes Reisner look good.”
“I don’t think they really want to fire him. They just want him to bend his knees a bit. Kiss ass and do what he’s told.”
“You know Kevin.”
“We’ll do it for him. We’ll tell Sutton we’ve talked to Manwaring and he’s going to toe the line.”
“What happens when he doesn’t?”
“We’ll think of something else,” Vicki said.
Eccles’s knock, recognizable by its cadence, sounded on the ladies’ room door.
“It’s safe to come in,” Vicki said.
As soon as he was inside, he said, “Sutton wants someone to drive him to his hotel.”
Joyce sighed. “I suppose that means me.”
“No, I’d better do it,” Eccles said. “I’m sure he wants a night out on the town.”
“Then why come in here to tell us?” Vicki said.
“Maybe I needed a couple of minutes of sanctuary.”
“Baloney. You’re up to something.”
“I just wanted to make sure you two don’t do anything crazy.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Vicki said.
“Me neither,” Joyce added. “It sounds like you’re throwing Manwaring to the wolves.”
Eccles shook his head. “Let’s just get him through the next couple of weeks. After that, I’m fully vested in the retirement plan. Then and only then will I allow you two to stick out your necks in the cause of Kevin Manwaring.”
27
MANWARING HADN’T realized he was asleep until the approaching headlights woke him. He checked to make certain the rifle’s safety was off, then cracked open the door an inch or so. As he watched, a slow-moving vehicle negotiated the last few yards of bumpy road and came to a stop on the far side of the disabled pickup truck. The new arrival’s engine died; its headlights went out. A door opened and closed. In the sudden darkness, Manwaring couldn’t see a thing.
“Hello!” It was Stacie Wagstaff’s voice. “Is anyone home?”
He hesitated. For all he knew, the shooter was still out there. Christ, Stacie might be in his sights right now. No, he told himself, it was too dark for that unless the bastard had a night scope.
Manwaring burst through the doorway and out onto the porch. A flashlight came on. He ran toward it, scooping up Stacie one-handed and dragging her back toward the house. On the porch, he stumbled over O’Dell’s body. Stacie’s flashlight went flying; it came to rest pointing at the dead face.
She had time for one quick gasp before Manwaring got her inside and closed the door. Stifling the impulse to kiss her, Manwaring told her what happened, including his interview with Grady O’Dell just before the shooting.
“We can’t just leave him lying there,” she said when he finished.
“The killer could still be out there.”
“Why didn’t he shoot at me?”
“Maybe it’s me he’s after.”
When she didn’t answer, he opened the door and peeked out. The flashlight was still illuminating O’Dell; the light would also turn them into silhouettes the moment they made a break for the car.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “You stay behind me.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“I can point and pull the trigger.”
“Give it to me. I was brought up with guns.”
Manwaring didn’t like the idea. It meant she’d have to lead the way in order to have a clear field of fire.
“Stop being so damned male and hand it over.” She immediately checked to make certain the cartridge was seated properly and that the safety was off. “You drive. The keys are in the ignition.”
He kissed her. “Thanks for the rescue.”
They reached the car and drove away without drawing fire. When they parked in front of the sheriff’s office a few minutes later, Manwaring sagged with relief.
Stacie got out and opened the door for him. “Come on. I don’t like the idea of leaving Grady out there alone any longer than necessary.”
******
Fifteen minutes later Sheriff Nichols left for O’Dell’s cabin accompanied by the mayor, the town doctor, and Stacie Wagstaff. Manwaring remained behind under the watchful eyes of Fire Chief Hal Romney.
“Do you consider me a suspect?” Manwaring asked as soon as they were alone.
Romney, whose cherubic, unlined face belied his gray hair and sixty or so years, shrugged. “God knows Grady O’Dell had enemies. He had the knack of getting under people’s skins.”
“As an outsider, I have no motive.”
“Relax, young fella. The sheriff’s just doing his job. If someone really did take a shot at you, this is the safest place for you right now.” Romney opened a drawer in the sheriff’s desk, brought out a checkerboard, and began setting up the pieces. “What do you say to a dollar a game?”
“That I’m probably being hustled, but what the hell.”
Manwaring was fifteen dollars in debt when someone knocked on the door an hour later.
Romney produced
a revolver. “Who is it?”
“Blaine Larsen.”
“He’s going to be mad he missed the body,” Manwaring said.
“Not Blaine, he doesn’t like blood. The sheriff alerted him, though, but Blaine said he didn’t have to see something to write about it.”
Larsen came in carrying a stack of plastic cups and a large thermos. “I figured you’d need coffee, so I stopped by the Herald to brew some before walking over here.” He separated three cups onto the counter. “I hope everybody takes it with cream and sugar.”
The taste reminded Manwaring of his grandfather, who always used canned milk in his coffee.
Romney took a noisy sip and sighed. “I haven’t had coffee this good since we kept a pot going full-time at the firehouse.”
“I also came to apologize for stranding you,” Larsen said to Manwaring. “If I hadn’t, maybe things would be different.”
“You might have got yourself shot,” the chief said.
“He’s right,” Manwaring said, thinking that the same would have applied to Lew Holland had he been at O’Dell’s.
Larsen looked away. “Anyway, I’m here to offer my services if you need me again.”
For free? Manwaring was tempted to ask. Instead, he said, “We’ll work out something.”
The fire chief nodded. “Sometimes there’s good where you least expect it. Take the fire, for instance. It seems to have cleared the air with a lot of folks around here. You too, Blaine. I don’t know when I last heard you offering to play good Samaritan.”
“Maybe I’d better play reporter and get Mr. Manwaring’s story.”
Once Manwaring had related the details of O’Dell’s death, he said, “As editor of the town’s newspaper, you ought to ask the sheriff to start checking the dead of Defiance for gunshot wounds, if he’s up to the job, that is.”
“You may not like Jess Nichols,” Romney put in, “but he’s a good man. Besides, he beat you to it. The trouble was, not much survived the firestorm. A few skulls and femurs. None show bullet holes.”
“There’s one in O’Dell, not to mention the dog. They ought to be compared.”
