What Feats He Did That Day Pt 04

CHAPTER NINE

I wasn't the first person to arrive at the paper on Monday. I had wheeled myself halfway to the statehouse when I remembered that I was planning on missing Krissy's show that morning. A guy from the Parkersburg

Press

had promised to tape it for me so that I wouldn't miss anything good. But I figured the story was just a little more important. Besides, I planned to be talking to Krissy later in the day.

So when I arrived at the

Messenger

, the lights were already on. Arriving at my cubicle, I booted up the computer to catch up on the world. The most recent e-mail was from Allie. The subject was "FWD: Rick Does BOFFO 'Box.'" I clicked on it and started blushing almost immediately.

Date: Sunday, May 24, 2008 22:03:45

To: Alison(ADColes.wvmessenger)

From: Angie(Act2B^~2B.ggmail)

I can't believe that you wanted me to tell you about last night while your BF was in the car. Like it's any of his frickin' business! So anyway, as promised, here's my review:

omg

OMFG!!!

What a studmuffin. I can't believe he's just your "friend." You are such a weirdo, big sister. Plus that line about him not dating is SUCH a crock. He must have girls in there every weekend. Otherwise there's no fucking way he'd be that good with his hands. And his arms. God, I've never met anyone who could do that. If filming didn't start this week I would have stayed there and let him fuck my brains out 'til I was dragged away!

Thanks again for letting me visit. I had a "ball." Particularly at the end, LOL! Kiss kiss.

Ang

p.s. if you don't mind forwarding this pic to him (from my "private portfolio," LOL), maybe he won't forget me.

I scrolled down and found a picture of Angie in a bikini made out of three pieces of fabric that if sewn together would not have made a decent-sized cocktail napkin. Her skin was covered with beads of moisture, her face wreathed in a smile that said "sex."

"Christ," I groaned.

I heard giggling from the cubicle next to mine.

"So'd ya get any this weekend?" Allie asked.

"Maybe," I said with a smile.

"What do you think of your review?"

"I think maybe you better learn how to forward an e-mail to one recipient rather than everyone on the intranet."

"Shit."

I smiled. She pounded her fist on her desk.

"Fuck. Rick, I'm so sorry."

"You might want to apologize to Angie," I said. "It's not necessarily a bad thing for me."

That became apparent a few minutes later when Dan arrived.

"Hando. Allie."

He grunted greetings to us as he passed. Allie and I listened to him turn on his computer.

"Hando!" he said after a few minutes.

"Dude!" he soon added, his voice taking on a slightly awed tone.

"Christ," he groaned a little later.

"Hey, pal," I said. "Keep your eyes to yourself."

"Christ," he repeated.

Rachel was the next person in and Allie made a beeline for her office. A few minutes later another e-mail popped up.

Alison Coles has apologized to me, and asked me to extend an apology to all of you, for the e-mail that she erroneously sent this morning to everyone on the staff. Her transmission is obviously the result of a lack of training on the new e-mail system and for that I take total responsibility. I will arrange additional training shortly. Meanwhile, please take into account the following instructions:

1.     Anyone found downloading this picture to your hard drive or diskette will be discharged.

2.     Anyone found forwarding Allie's e-mail to anyone outside the intranet will be discharged.

3.     Anyone failing to tease Rick mercilessly will be shunned for a week. OMG!

Rachel ☺☺☺

Pretty much everyone had followed the third instruction by ten o'clock. I could only hope, for Angie's sake, that they were as scrupulous in obeying the first two.

Even Bill McIntyre wore a grin when he gathered Rachel and I for a trip to the office of Gus Barton, the paper's editor-in-chief. I had only seen Mr. Barton at full staff meetings before now. He had always seemed serious and business-like. But he, too, couldn't keep a smile off his face.

"Mr. Handley," he said as he held out his hand. "I've heard a lot about you. Today in particular."

Rachel and Bill chuckled nervously.

"Yes, sir. We're talking about the story, sir?"

"The story. Sure. Let's get to that."

He had a few suggestions of his own, some of which I accepted and some of which I hesitantly challenged.

"Young man," he said, holding up his hand, "the paper may have my name on it, but this story will have yours. You have to be sure of everything that appears in it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "In that case, I really didn't care for your suggestion on the second graph either."

We discussed it, though, and he convinced me that he was right. I could get used to this, I thought. This was real newspaper work.

After an hour we broke up, but at 3:30 we were gathered around his speaker phone. My first call was to Krissy Mackley.

"Hi, Rick," she said. "We missed you this morning."

"I missed you guys too," I lied. "Krissy, I wanted to give you a chance to comment on an article that's going to tomorrow's paper. You can probably tell that you're on speakerphone. I'm here with my editor, Rachel Langhorn."

And her editor and his editor as well.

"Hello, Miss Mackley," Rachel said.

"Hello," Krissy said. "So this is something serious?"

"You might say so," I answered. When I was finished explaining the story, the line was silent.

"Krissy?" I asked.

"Yes?" Her voice was trembling.

"Comment?"

"You guys can't print that!" she shrieked.

"No?" I asked. "What did I get wrong?"

"Umm, can I call you back?"

"We have two hours until we set it." Rachel was an even better liar than I was. We updated the paper as late as midnight. But that was for our purposes, not those of the Governor's office.

"Okay," Krissy squeaked.

She hung up and I put in a call to the Washington, D.C. lobbying firm of Talley & Associates. I expected Tricia Linney to be much more practiced than Krissy, no doubt because she was much better paid. I introduced myself and asked my first question.

"My first question, ma'am, is whether you traveled to Texas last May on an Amalgamated Coal Company airplane last May with West Virginia Governor Ed Platte?"

"What? No."

"You did not."

"Of course not."

I looked up at Rachel with a grin. The woman's denials were much too quick and too loud.

"I have a witness who puts you at the airport getting on the plane, ma'am."

"You're not seriously thinking of printing this shit in your paper, are you?"

"We are working on a story about the governor's dove-hunting trips, ma'am."

"Does your publisher know you're working on this?" she asked.

"My publisher, ma'am?" We all turned to Gus, who crossed his arms in front of his chest as he stared at the phone.

"Yes, Charlie Carson. Perhaps you should check with him, Mr. . . . I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Rick Handley, ma'am. Thank you for your advice. In the meantime, can you confirm that you went on the trip with Governor Platt last year?"

She hung up. Although we did hear an angry "fuck" just before the dial tone. So much for practice.

"Her next call's going to be to Mr. Carson," Rachel said to Bill and Gus.

"Good," Gus said. "Charlie loves getting calls like that. Lets him know we're earning all the money he's paying us."

"Should I put in that she denied it?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Put in that when informed of the statement putting her on the plane, she refused to confirm or deny the allegation."

Krissy called back just before the deadline to tell us that she had been unable to get in touch with the Governor or her boss, his press secretary, on their vacation. She asked me were "sure" that we had to run the story tonight. I said I was afraid that we pretty much were. She sighed.

"In that case, you can say that the Governor's office denies the entire story."

"The whole story?" I asked. "Even the part that says that you guys have been foisting this duck-hunting story on us for the past five years when you knew full well he was in Texas?"

"I'm sorry," Krissy said. "You're going to have to wait until Joe gets back."

"Yeah, maybe not," Gus said after the call was over. "Page one, Bill. Upper right."

"Way ahead of you, boss," Bill said.

**********

I was a little late getting to the statehouse on Tuesday morning. I had become so used to nights filled with adventure and romance that when I awoke on Tuesday after a full, dreamless night of sleep, I was a little put out.

As I should have guessed, the press office was packed. I was happy to see the desks filled with copies of the

Messenger

. One of my colleagues spotted me wheeling myself in, and the crowd parted as if I were actually somebody important. I found an aisle leading all the way up to the front of the room, right in front of Krissy's podium.

Krissy had no intention of addressing me. In fact, she refused to even look at me.

She announced that Pete Simpson would be cutting his vacation short and returning this afternoon to address the outrageous and unfounded allegations that had appeared in this morning's

Messenger

. We shouted questions at her without effect; she just turned and walked back to her office.

Pete Simpson's press conference began at three o'clock. Pete was an angry man. I once again secured a spot in the front row, and caught the full Simpson glare.

"I'd very much like to thank the

Messenger

for interrupting my vacation," he said with a sneer. "You must be Rick Handley."

I smiled at him.

"Quite a step up from the obituary department, isn't it? It's probably a good thing that the dead can't complain if your other work contains similarly unfounded and unsupported allegations.

"First of all, with respect to the duck-hunting versus dove-hunting issue -- if that's what it really is -- I apologize for any typographical errors this office may have made in the past. If anyone of you was misled into reporting that Governor Platt was duck-hunting in years past, I am truly, truly sorry.

"As for the rest of the article, however, I believe that it is the

Messenger

that owes the apology. Governor Platte has taken this same vacation every year, and there has never been any question regarding his scrupulous reimbursement of Amalgamated Coal Company for the use of their plane. With respect to Ms. Linney, I did speak to the Governor this morning. He does recall meeting her on the plane last year. Apparently she is employed by Amalgamated as a lobbyist. She was on the plane last year on her way to visit a friend in Texas. I will now take questions. Bob?"

"Do you have any paperwork about the Governor's reimbursements?" a reporter standing next to me asked.

"We will get that to you when the Governor returns," Simpson answered. "I have no intention of asking his wife to dig through the family checking account records to rebut a story that belongs on the back pages of a tabloid. Phil?"

I made a note to remind me to expect that information. The article had stated, quite factually, that neither the Governor's office nor his campaign reimbursed Amalgamated over the last two years. We had not addressed his use of personal funds. On the other hand, we had also not printed the fact that all of the other vacations taken by the Governor during the past two years had been paid for by either of those two sources. This was shaping up as a nice follow-up article.

"The

Messenger's

article today stated that Ms. Linney initially denied being on the plane. Any idea why?"

"I am in no position to speculate on Ms. Linney's answers. Tricia."

"I called her firm today and was told she was taking a leave of absence. Do you have any information about that?"

"None at all. She is not employed in any capacity by the State of West Virginia."

Simpson worked his way around the pressroom, pointedly ignoring the hand that I kept raised in front of his face. Finally, though, there was no one else left.

"Mr. Handley."

"This trip is a sort of male-bonding experience?"

"Exactly."

"So to your knowledge was Ms. Linney the only woman on the plane last year?"

"I have no knowledge of the passengers on Amalgamated's plane last year, Mr. Handley, nor frankly do I believe that it is any business of yours or mine."

"But you were on the plane this year."

"Yes."

"Did any women accompany you this year?"

With the advantage of a seat at the very front of the room, I might have been the only reporter who saw the minuscule narrowing of his eyes and heard his breath catch in his throat. His hesitation in answering was otherwise imperceptible.

"I believe there may have been a flight attendant," he said.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Krissy called from the back of the room.

Simpson stalked off to the rear. He had no intention of letting me ask the follow-up question: "Any others?"

I returned to the newspaper to start writing Thursday's story, a relatively bland summary of the extent to which Amalgamated Coal had participated in the Governor's last re-election campaign. Campaign finance reminded most people of math, and math put most people straight to sleep. Bowling articles typically had more readers than campaign finance articles.

But Rachel had a couple of reasons for keeping the general story alive. First, she wanted to make sure that my source -- whose name she had never asked me for -- believed that we were serious in covering her allegations. Second, she wanted to make sure that anybody else with information had the name of a reporter at the paper. And third, although she never explicitly told me so, she wanted to make sure that that name was mine. It wasn't that she disliked Shawn, although she couldn't have been unaware of Shawn's resentment. But Bill McIntyre was full of praise for my work, and Rachel was as much the beneficiary of that as I was.

She made that quite clear to me on Friday afternoon. I didn't have a byline in Friday's paper and nothing specifically assigned for Monday either. The Governor had returned on Friday morning, however -- our stringer had reported that he had disembarked alone -- and Pete Simpson was scheduled to release the reimbursement records. So it was possible that I would be cobbling something together over the weekend. There was a chance I'd messed up big time. But I still smelled a rat.

Rachel wanted to make sure I smelled both my predators and my prey.

"You do remember that Shawn will be back on Monday," she said in a sort of purposefully off-handed way.

I raised an eyebrow. She hadn't summoned me to a private meeting in her office just to remind me of that.

"I just wanted you to know that I meant it when I said that you get to keep any story that you developed."

I laughed.

"You honestly didn't think there would be one though, did you?"

"Well, no. And it's solely to your credit that there is, Rick. But Shawn is very . . ."

"Competitive? Cutthroat? Bitchy?"

Rachel suppressed a smile.

"Let's go with competitive," she said. "She'll be pissed. Pissed that this story came up while she was gone."

"Well, I wouldn't say it just came up," I protested.

"No. You worked it. I didn't mean to suggest otherwise. But she won't see it that way. She'll be pissed that she missed it. She'll be pissed that I won't change my mind. You just need to know that she's going to be pissed at you too."

"Oh, boy," I said flatly.

"Don't worry, Rick. You've got a future ahead of you at this paper."

"Provided I didn't fuck up. Suppose he did reimburse Amalgamated out of his personal checking?"

"Do you think he did?"

"No All of his other vacations have been paid for from the Governor's vacation fund or his campaign fund. I think it's highly unlikely."

"That's good enough for me," Rachel said. "You'd better get going. You want me to call a cab?"

"Nah. It's a nice day for a wheel."

Later that afternoon, I wheeled back home with copies of the checks that Pete Simpson had passed out. I spent the evening studying them, trying to put my finger on what I knew had to be wrong. Pete Simpson had distributed them with a knowing smirk on his face. He had held me with his gaze nearly the entire time.

Five hours later, though, I had gotten nowhere. I couldn't let him beat me, the son of a bitch. I had to find it. I closed my eyes for a minute.

I woke in Wizen's room.

"Here you are." He was smiling at me as the lights came up.

"No more training?" I asked. "No movies? No video games?"

"You have had enough training," he said. "Augmented by my machines, of course. And there is no time."

"Why?"

"The Morling fleet has been sighted on the edge of the solar system. They will be here in a matter of weeks. And the chosen champion must still undergo further training that I cannot provide."

"Why not?"

"We only have the one weapon and it is in possession of the Council. If you are chosen, you will be trained. First, though, I must bring you before the Council. They have already reviewed holotapes of your training that I made through your mind. I have been told that you are one of the strongest candidates, Richard. There is another man from your era, a Green Beret during the war in Vietnam. A superb athlete, I'm told."

"Figures," I muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" Wizen asked.

"Even in my dreams I can't be the hero."

"Richard, this is not one of your dreams."

"No, you selected me out of all the people in the past to save the world. That makes a lot of sense. Excellent plan, Mr. Wizard."

"If it was not an excellent plan," Wizen said, allowing himself a small smile of pride, "it is not likely that you would be one of the top candidates, is it, Richard? Shall we go?"

"Sure. What the heck."

I pushed myself off the bed. There was a split-second during which I was conscious that I should have felt my feet hit the floor. But I had no feeling in my feet. As my legs collapsed beneath me, what I felt hitting the floor was my ass. And then my head slammed into the wall behind me. I slowly raised my head and caught sight of Wizen staring down at me with a look of horror on his face. He looked as if he were about to collapse as well.

CHAPTER TEN

I had apparently blacked out. I was still in Wizen's room. He was absent, but across the room, facing away from me, was someone else. From the long blonde hair pulled back and twisted into a plait, I guessed it was a woman. Her silver-grey robe was similar to the one Wizen always wore.

I cleared my throat and she turned to face me. She was pretty, perhaps my age or even younger. But the expression on her face was one of sadness. Her mouth was so tight and her eyes so dull that I couldn't think of her as attractive.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. She had a lovely alto voice at least.

"From the fall?" I asked. "Just my pride. Who are you?"

"My name is Francesca," she said. "I am Wizen's daughter."

"Is he okay? The last thing I remember is him looking a little faint."

She sighed.

"He was badly shaken."

"Because he had no idea he had picked a cripple," I said.

The look she gave me might have been one of sympathy on a more expressive woman.

"My father can be a very difficult man," she said. "The idea that one of his plans did not work perfectly, um, unsettles him."

"I'll bet. You'll forgive me if I don't feel sorry for him. So what's he doing? Drowning his sorrows before he sends me home one last time?"

That earned me the tiniest of smiles. Perhaps she could be attractive under other circumstances.

"I asked a neighbor to accompany him to Council. Otherwise, he might well be doing as you suggest."