The Book of Fate

71

Don’t tell me you lost him. Don’t say those words.”

“I didn’t lose him,” Lisbeth told her editor, clutching her cell phone as she walked in through the front door of the building. “I let him go.”

“Did I tell you not to tell me that? Do I speak and you not hear?” Vincent asked. “What’s Sacred Rule #1?”

“Always keep ’em talking.”

“Fine, then Sacred Rule #26 1/2: Don’t let Wes out of your damn sight!”

“You weren’t there, Vincent — you didn’t see how upset he was. For fifty minutes — the entire flight back — the only thing he said to me was—” Lisbeth went silent.

“Lisbeth, you there?” Vincent asked. “I can’t hear you.”

“Exactly!” she replied, waving to security and heading for the elevators. “Fifty minutes of dead silence! The guy wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even curse me out. And believe me, I gave him every opportunity. He just stared out the window, pretending I wasn’t there. And when he dropped me off, he wouldn’t even say good-bye.”

“Okay, so you hurt his feelings.”

“See, but that’s the thing — I didn’t just hurt his feelings. He’s been at this too long to feel burned by a reporter, but the pain on his face… I hurt him.”

“Spare me the sentimental, Lisbeth — you were doing your job. Oh, wait, you actually weren’t. If you were, the moment he dropped you off, you would’ve turned around and followed him.”

“In what? He has my car.”

“He stole your car?”

Lisbeth paused. “No.”

Vincent paused even longer. “Oh, jeez — you gave it to him? You gave him your car?” Vincent shouted. “Sacred Rule #27: Don’t go soft! Rule 28: Don’t fall in love with a dreamer. And 29: Don’t let sad disfigured boys pluck your heartstrings and send you sailing on a guilt trip just because they’re sad and disfigured!”

“You don’t even know him.”

“Just because someone’s in a wheelchair doesn’t mean they won’t roll over your toes. You know what this story means, Lisbeth — especially for you.”

“And you.”

“And you,” he said as Lisbeth stepped into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the second floor. “You know the job: You have to piss on people to be read. So please make my month and at least tell me you were smart enough to get it on tape.”

As the doors slid shut and the elevator started to rise, Lisbeth leaned against the brass railing, her head tilting back against the Formica wall. Letting the day’s events wash over her, she lifted her head and lightly tapped it back against the wall. Tap, tap, tap. Over and over against the wall.

“C’mon, you did get it on tape, right?” Vincent asked.

Opening her purse, Lisbeth pulled out the miniature cassette tape that held the last part of their conversations. Sure, she’d handed Wes the recorder, but it didn’t take much for her to palm the cassette while he was ranting. Of course, now — no, not just now. Even as she was doing it — so damn instinctively — another part of her brain was watching in disbelief. Every reporter needs instinct. But not when it overwhelms ideals.

“Last time, Lisbeth — yes tape or no tape?”

The elevator pinged on the second floor, and Lisbeth stared at her open palm, rubbing her thumb against the tiny cassette. “Sorry, Vincent,” she said, tucking it back in her purse. “I tried to stop him, but Wes tossed it overboard.”

“Overboard. Really?”

“Really.”

As she left the elevator and followed the hallway around to the left, there was a long pause on the line. Even longer than the one before.

“Where are you right now?” Vincent asked coldly.

“Right behind you,” Lisbeth said into her phone.

Through an open door up the gray-carpeted hallway, Vincent stopped pacing in his office and spun around to face her. Still holding the phone to his ear, he licked his salt-and-pepper mustache. “It’s four o’clock. I need tomorrow’s column. Now.”

“You’ll have it, but… the way things were left with Wes, I still think we should take another day before we push a story that’s—”

“Do what you want, Lisbeth. You always do anyway.”

With a swing of his arm, Vincent slammed his door shut, unleashing a thunderclap that echoed in front of her and through her cell phone. As her fellow employees turned to stare, Lisbeth trudged to her cubicle just across the hall. Collapsing in her seat, she flicked on her computer, where a nearly empty three-column grid filled the screen. On the corner of her desk, a crumpled sheet of paper held all the vital info about young Alexander John’s recent victory in the ultra-competitive world of high school art. This late in the day, there was no escaping the inevitable.

Flattening the crumpled paper with the heel of her hand, she reread the details and instinctively punched in the code for her voice mail.

“You have seven new messages,” the robotic female voice announced through her speakerphone. The first five were from local maître d’s hoping to get some free press for their restaurants by ratting out who was eating lunch with whom. The sixth was a follow-up call on Alexander John’s art award. And the last…

“Hi… er… this message is for Lisbeth,” a soft female voice began. “My name’s…”

The woman paused, causing Lisbeth to sit up straight. The best tips always came from people who didn’t want to identify themselves.

“My name’s… Violet,” she finally said.

Fake name, Lisbeth decided. Even better.

“I just… I was reading your column today, and when I saw his name, my stomach just… it’s not right, okay? I know he’s powerful…”

Lisbeth mentally ran through every mention in today’s column. The First Lady… Manning… does she mean Manning?

“… it’s just not right, okay? Not after what he did.” She’s careful how she puts the knife in. She knows to punch, but not too hard. “Anyway, if you can give me a call…”

Furiously scribbling the number, Lisbeth flipped open her cell phone and immediately started dialing. Her ears flushed red as it rang.

C’mon… pick up, pick up, pick up, pick—

“Hello?” a woman answered.

“Hi, this is Lisbeth Dodson from Below the Fold — I’m looking for Violet.”

There was a second or two of dead silence. Lisbeth just waited. New sources always needed an extra moment to decide.

“Hiya, honey — hold on one second,” the woman said. In the background, Lisbeth heard a bell chime and the sudden wisp of wind buzzing the phone. Whatever store Violet was in, she just left for privacy. Which meant she was willing to talk.

“This isn’t… you’re not recording this, right?” Violet finally asked.

Lisbeth glanced at the digital recorder that always sat on her desk. But she didn’t reach for it. “No recordings.”

“And you won’t give my name out? Because if my husband…”

“We’re off the record. No one’ll ever know who you are. I promise you that.”

Once again, the line was drowned in silence. Lisbeth knew better than to push.

“I just want you to know, I’m no snitch,” Violet said, her voice cracking. Based on Violet’s inflection and speed, Lisbeth wrote mid-30s? in her notepad. “Understand, okay? I don’t want this. He just… seeing his name in print again… and so happy… people don’t realize — there’s a whole ’nother side of him… and what he did that night…”

“What night?” Lisbeth asked. “What was the date?”

“I don’t think he’s a bad person — I really don’t — but when he gets angry… he just… he gets angry with the best of ’em. And when he’s real angry… You know how men get, right?”

“Of course,” Lisbeth agreed. “Now, why don’t you just tell me what happened that night.”