Son of Stone

57

K elli Keane arrived at work and immediately went to see Prunella Wheaton. She placed her manuscript and copies of the photos she wanted to use on her desk, then plopped herself down.

Prunie handed her a cup of coffee. “First draft?” she asked.

“Final draft, before I send it,” Kelli replied.

Prunie picked up the piece and began to read. Kelli finished her coffee and tiptoed around the desk for another cup, not wishing to disturb her mentor. She hadn’t expected Prunie to read the whole thing at once.

Prunie finished, and restacked the sheets on her desk.

Kelli waited, holding her breath.

“Comprehensive,” Prunie said.

Kelli flinched. That was it? She had worked her ass off on that piece.

“Concise, highly readable-in fact, unputdownable. Excellent.”

Kelli let out her breath. “What a relief!” she said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I hoped you would.”

“You’ve done an outstanding job. It covers all the bases, doesn’t criticize anybody, and, I assume, it’s accurate.”

“I can back up every statement in it.”

“I like the photographs, too, particularly the one of the corpse in the hall with a foot sticking out from under the blanket.”

“That was as close as I could get,” Kelli said.

“You didn’t quote Barrington on anything.”

“He wouldn’t talk to me.”

“And the shot of the boy and girl consoling each other was perfect. You didn’t use her name in the piece.”

“I don’t know her name,” Kelli lied, “but I’m not sure I would have run it anyway. She’s a high school kid, and I don’t think anyone will recognize her from that shot.”

“That’s very sensitive of you,” Prunie said.

“Who should I send it to at Vanity Fair? Graydon Carter?”

“No, don’t jump the line. Let me send it to a senior editor I know, and if she likes it she’ll send it to the executive literary editor, and if he likes it, he’ll send it to Graydon. That way, everybody gets credit for liking it.”

“That sounds smart.”

“I assume you have another copy?”

“In my computer.”

Prunie typed a letter to the Vanity Fair editor on her personal stationery, then wrote a name and address on a slip of paper and handed it to Kelli. “Messenger it over, and don’t use a Post messenger. There’s a service downstairs in the building, and keep a receipt. I assume you didn’t write any of this at your desk here?”

“No, I did it all at home, and on my personal computer. And I gave the initial story about the killing to the paper.”

“Good. Now get going.”

Kelli downed the rest of her coffee, went back to her desk, found a non- Post envelope, took the package downstairs, and shipped it.

Tim Rutledge checked out of the New Jersey motel where he had stayed the night and drove into Manhattan. He dropped his luggage, except for one bag, at a small hotel on West Forty-fourth Street, parked his car in the Hippodrome Garage, then walked the block back to the hotel, carrying his largest duffel.

He checked into the hotel, having earlier phoned a reservation, and a bellman took him upstairs to his room. It was of a decent size, decently furnished, with a flat-screen TV, a comfortable bed, and chair. He unpacked his clothes, then opened the large duffel.

He removed and put away the clothes in that bag, then put on a pair of latex gloves from a box he had bought at a drugstore, then finally took from the duffel an elongated package, wrapped in sturdy brown paper and packing tape. Using his pocketknife, he cut away the paper at one end, then shook the contents out onto his bed.

The contents consisted of a used, 12-gauge Remington police riot gun, with a truncated, eighteen-and-a-half-inch barrel. He had bought it from an individual at a gun show in Virginia, before he had driven north out of the state. He found the box of double-ought shells he had bought. And loaded the weapon, leaving the chamber empty. He wouldn’t need more than one or two rounds, he figured.

He took some tissues and wiped the shotgun clean of any stray prints that might have found their way to it, then returned the loaded weapon to its paper wrapping, now a sheath, from which he would fire it. Therefore, there would be no gunpowder residue on his hands or clothing, and, of course, no fingerprints on the shotgun or the shells. When he had completed his mission, he would dispose of the weapon in a dumpster at some construction site and it would vanish into a landfill somewhere.

Should the shotgun ever be found, it could not be traced to him. His mission satisfactorily completed, he would then drive his car to California. He had always wanted to drive across the United States, and, with his new and quite legal passport and Virginia driver’s license, obtained a few weeks ago, he would be safe from an unexpected arrest. He had already begun to grow a beard, and it was looking quite attractive, he thought.

After a look at California he would drive across the border to Tijuana, and thence down to Baja, where he would, eventually, move the funds he had mailed to a bank in the Cayman Islands to a neighborhood Mexican bank, then buy a little house.

He would then begin his new career as a novelist, the mysterious E. Gifford, and he just knew he would be successful at it.

Kelli had just left the Post building for the day when her cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”

“Kelli Keane?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Karen Kohler at Vanity Fair. Prunie Wheaton sent me your manuscript this morning.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Everybody here loves it,” she said. “I walked it through the office, and nobody could put it down. We just had to cancel a piece in the next issue that couldn’t pass fact-checking, so we can slip it right in, instead of waiting for the usual two or three months.”

“Wonderful!”

“Do you have an agent?”

Kelli gave her the name and phone number.

“Well, assuming we can make a deal, and if the piece gets through fact-checking with no major changes, you’ll see it in the next issue.”

“That’s great news, Karen,” Kelli said.

“There’s one more thing we need, though.”

“What’s that?”

“A decent photograph of this suspect, Tim Rutledge. A head shot will do, but get the best one you can.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Kelli said.

“I’ll call you in a day or two to come over here so we can go through the fact-checking and my notes. Can you bring your laptop and make any changes on the spot?”

“Sure, I can.”

“I’ll be in touch, then.” The woman hung up.

Kelli flung herself in front of a taxi and headed for home. She couldn’t wait to tell David.