Full Tilt

22

Calgary, Alberta

It was a mistake to hang up on Reeka Beck.

Probably a fatal one given Newslead’s plan to cut staff, Kate thought while driving back to Calgary, still stinging from the call.

Damn, Reeka had a lot of gall. But it’s no surprise. She resents me.

Maybe it was Reeka’s queen-bee syndrome. Kate had encountered it before with women in other newsrooms. Or maybe it was because Reeka regarded her as a gutter-girl-slut, a lowly community college grad.

Well, to hell with her, calling the way she did to attack me. She had it coming and I’m too tired to think about her right now.

It was late.

Kate had driven across Alberta and halfway back in one day. She’d uncovered more about Vanessa’s case and relived a nightmare. She was exhausted, anguished and now that more human remains had been found in Rampart, even more fearful that the woods around the barn had become Vanessa’s grave.

Kate pushed the thought from her mind as she drove, noticing how fast the sky had darkened after the sun set in the mountains. Her loneliness grew in the twilight but it left her when she stopped at a diner in Banff. She’d managed to reach Grace before Nancy put her to bed. The sound of her daughter’s voice as she told Kate about her day was soothing.

“I hope you can get me a present from Canada, Mom.”

Later, while preparing to leave the diner, Kate received a text from Chuck, which launched a terse exchange.

We need to talk over the phone in the am.

OK. What time? she responded.

Eight. We’ll call you.

We?

Reeka and Ben will be on the call.

This was serious. Ben Sussman was an executive editor.

I’m in Alberta. I’ll send you my hotel number.

Alberta?

Yes.

Fine. That’ll be 6 a.m. your time.

Kate drove the rest of the way to Calgary grappling with a million concerns. You’re tired. You’re not thinking clearly.

Besides, so much was out of her control.

At the hotel she’d put in a wake-up call then went to bed plagued with terrifying dreams of a woman burning alive in a blazing barn; a hand rising from the river; all to the melody of E-I-E-I-O, until a phone started ringing and ringing.

Someone should answer it. Why doesn’t somebody get that phone?

Kate opened her eyes to a torpid fog and answered her wake-up call.

She showered, made strong coffee, got dressed, went online and scoured news sites for the latest on Rampart. The case was attracting national attention. Bloomberg, Reuters and the Associated Press had all moved new stories on the mystery surrounding the discovery in Rampart and speculation there were more victims.

Kate had checked the status of her morning return flight when her room phone rang.

It was Chuck, on speaker with Ben and Reeka.

They got right to it.

“There’s a major news conference in Rampart tomorrow morning,” Chuck said. “We’re getting beat on this story. We need to own it. We’d like you to send us all you know on the case ASAP. We need an exclusive hook. Ray Stone will write a setup piece today and Michelle Martin from our Syracuse bureau will go to Rampart and cover the conference.”

“No.”

“No?” Chuck muttered something, then said, “Are you refusing?”

“Yes.”

“Insubordination given your situation puts you on thin ice, Kate.”

“Kate, Ben Sussman here. Why are you refusing?”

“I want the story.”

“I understand your personal interest,” Sussman said, “concerning your sister’s tragedy, and our hearts go out to you. But, as you know, to put you on the story violates our policy. You’d be using your position for personal gain, which is what got you into trouble in the first place.”

“What personal gain? Our job as journalists is to seek the truth. As far as my sister’s concerned, that’s what I’m doing, seeking the truth about her. I’d be serving readers.”

“Kate, it’s not that simple,” Chuck said.

“Hear me out. You all know that we’ve had staff produce work, good work, in which they used their position for personal gain. Our feature writer in Atlanta wrote about her daughter’s terminal illness and cracks in the insurance system. One of our financial writers did a first-person series about how his relatives were victims of subprime mortgages. I could give you other examples.”

“You make a valid argument,” Sussman said. “But your case is a bit more complicated.”

“That’s right,” Reeka said. “Kate, the distinction with your case is that you broke the law and could still be charged for trespassing on a crime scene.”

They had her against the ropes and had hammered her with the truth.

She didn’t know what to say.

A long silence passed before Chuck said, “Kate?”

“It’s funny,” she said. “I’m nearly fired for using my position for what you deem ‘personal gain,’ when Newslead is leaning on me to use my position for its corporate gain. Do you see the irony in that?”

“The fact is, Kate,” Reeka said, “the police could bring those charges back on you at any time.”

Kate shut her eyes and felt Vanessa’s hand slip from hers, saw it shooting up from the river, saw it disappearing.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m guilty of trespassing on a crime scene and taking pictures, but I’ll give you some context. For twenty years I’ve lived with the guilt of my sister’s death. For twenty years I’ve lived with the fact that her body was never found. Then Rampart police call me, telling me they’ve found a necklace at a crime scene identical to one my sister had. Can you imagine for one second what goes through your mind? Yes, I was overwhelmed, yes, I broke the law. I’m human and that was my mistake, but keeping me off this story, especially now, will be your mistake, because no one is going to give more to it than me. I’ll go full tilt for you. So you can keep me off the story, you can fire me for insubordination. I’ll go to AP, Bloomberg and Reuters. Maybe they’ll be interested in what I’ve found out on my own up here. Being journalists, I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”

Now it was the editors who went silent for a long moment.

“Stay near your phone,” Chuck said. “We’ll get back to you.”

Kate hung up, cupped her hands to her face, then got busy. She went online and sent Grace an email of a picture of bighorn sheep she’d seen in the mountains. She checked flights again. After she’d started packing, her room phone rang.

It was Chuck.

“You’re on the story. Get to Syracuse tonight and touch base with the bureau and go with our bureau photographer to Rampart in the morning for the news conference.”

“Okay.”

“What can you give us that’s exclusive?”

“That it appears that my sister may have survived her crash and was abducted from Canada to become a victim in Rampart. I have elements that point to that scenario.”

Chuck took a second to absorb that.

“All right, I want you to file a setup piece that includes that exclusive angle.”

“Do you want it first person?”

“No, write it news style and we’ll attach a disclosure disclaimer to your piece, clearly stating your relationship. We’ll do it with anything you write that’s relevant to the case.”

“All right.”

“I want it by 5:00 p.m., New York time, today. Looks like you can fly from Calgary to Chicago with a connection to Syracuse. You can write on the plane and file from O’Hare, if you don’t have Wi-Fi in the air. We’ll cover all costs as you now are officially on assignment.”

“Thank you, Chuck.”

“If you screw up, Kate, it’s your job.”

“I know.”

“And mine.”