The Washington Source offices were humming when Jett returned.
He sank to his desk and typed up his notes. There weren’t many. And he still had a hole in his investigation.
The elusive fourth person of the traveling team.
His research was solid. There were four hotel rooms. Four on the flights. Four of everything except names.
There had to be a way to uncover that detail. Once he did he’d be ready to finish the story and hit submit. Then the editors and fact-checkers could work their magic. With his box of files, meticulously labeled and filled with receipts and source notes, the fact-checkers would have an easy job. Just the way he liked it.
Get the research done and get it right. Then write the story.
“Glover.” His name squealed from the intercom on his phone.
He snatched up the handset before his editor’s growl proceeded further. “Yes, sir?”
“In my office.” The call ended.
Jett sighed and grabbed his cell phone, tablet, and stylus, all the better to capture any more demands Ted Lance had for him. After weaving through the bevy of cubicles, he reached the man’s corner office and marched through the open door.
Ted sat behind his massive desk, feet kicked on top of it, hands linked behind his head as he looked out the windows. That was the stance the man took when he was wrestling a problem, and Jett didn’t like that he’d been called in for that. Such meetings usually led to Ted pressuring his journalists.
The space was large with a sitting area around a round table that could seat six. A bank of windows illuminated the space with natural light that was overshadowed by Ted’s frown.
“We’ve got a hole on the front page Wednesday. Your exposé on the Donnelly trips will run below the fold unless something better comes in.”
Jett’s back stiffened and he clenched the tablet in front of him. “It’ll be ready, but I still haven’t ID’d the fourth member of the team.”
Ted turned to look at him, left eyebrow reaching his silvery hairline. “You saying the research isn’t solid?”
“Of course not. It’s my best work so far, and you know I’ve turned in a string of great investigative reports since you brought me over five years ago.”
The man waved his words away. “All that matters today is whether that article is ready for the fact-checkers.”
Jett clenched his jaw and tried to inhale, but it was like breathing through a straw, the kind used to stir coffee. “I need to find the missing member.”
“You’re out of time.” Ted pulled his feet off the desk and then bounced forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the desk. “If you wait until everything is perfect, you’ll get scooped. How long have I paid you to work on this article?”
“Only three months.”
“It’s a miracle you haven’t been beat to press.” The man’s frown deepened as he stared at Jett. “Is that what this is about? The article doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on? You’ve been leading me on? Getting the paper to pay for trips to Thailand?”
“No.” Jett barely kept from yelling the word. “This is a good article and you know it. The content is excellent. But I am missing one piece.”
The man fisted his hands on top of the desk. “Get the article with your supporting research to the fact-checkers before you leave today. Otherwise, you’re done on this story. Do it, and I’ll give you two weeks to write a follow-up with information on your mystery person.”
That was the best offer he’d get, so Jett nodded and then turned to leave.
“I need an answer.”
“Yes. You’ll have the finished article tonight.”
“By five.”
“Yes.”
He returned to his desk and immediately pulled up the article for one more review.
* * *
That evening after putting the article to bed, Jett sat in his rented house, laptop open on his lap, the screen a blur of pixels. The home was spare yet filled with an eclectic mix of furniture and doilies he never would have selected. Maybe that’s why he spent so much time in the shed out back. He should go to bed. Get some sleep after a crazy long day in anticipation of the article dropping and Ted pressing him hard, but his body refused. It was wired from all the coffee and Pepsi he’d consumed during the unending hours, and now the caffeine refused to release its hold.
The article was good.
As good and detailed as he could make it.
A rich professional baseball player. A hero to children all over the region and country.
A man who isn’t what he seems.
When someone travels outside the country, it’s to experience new places, flavors, and cultures. But when Logan Donnelly leaves the country, it’s to exploit the defenseless. It’s not enough that he does it. He takes others with him to engage in activities that are illegal here . . . and there. But as a wealthy American, he is above the law in Thailand.
Jett sighed as he reread the opening lines, words that were emblazoned on his mind. Ted had insisted he lay it on thicker than Jett preferred.
He set the computer to the side and grabbed a well-worn sweatshirt emblazoned with Duke’s Blue Devil mascot, a leftover from his undergrad days. It might be old, but it was comfortable and a warm layer as the temperatures dipped below average for early December. He pulled it on and headed to the oversized shed in the backyard. The neighbor’s house was swathed in Christmas lights. The glow reinforced that the calendar said he should put up Christmas decorations, but it wasn’t really his house or his style. Not when there was no one to enjoy them with.
He unlocked the shed’s door and then flipped on the light, revealing his work area. He stepped over to the side and turned on the floor heater, then flipped on a radio. Country music from the nineties filled the space, with occasional Christmas honky-tonk thrown into the mix.
The grit of sawdust covered the concrete floor beneath his shoes and the aromas of the various woods he worked with filled his senses. He considered the boards he’d laid out on the worktable, then ran a thumb along the rough edge of a walnut plank, noting the swirls and whorls. It would make a beautiful dining room table for the right home if he could get the pieces to come together in the mosaic he pictured in his mind. His caress slowed as he sensed a catch in the grain. Looked like he’d missed a spot when planing it.
Someday he’d transform this into a piece of furniture his dad might have admired, even if the man had forfeited the right to see it.
Jett picked up the plane his grandfather had used, hefting its weight in his hand. As he held the muscle-powered tool, he knew a power plane could accomplish the task much faster, but he liked the connection between his body and the slab, the whisper of the blade as it feathered down the surface. It was something he’d watched his father and grandfather practice, and when he spent time in this place, he felt a connection with them. It was ethereal, but it was there, and on nights like tonight it didn’t matter if he ever finished the table. All he wanted was a connection to something bigger than himself.
Otherwise he felt untethered.
He could never explain that reality to his mother without hurting her, so he stayed silent. But he also knew it was one reason he remained alone.
Pieces of the man he was couldn’t, wouldn’t, deal with the tragedy of his youth. He slid the plane along the surface of the walnut plank in a steady stroke. He blew and watched the fresh sawdust rise into the air. It was an action his dad had made at the end of each stroke.
Jett found peace in the long, even movements. A steadiness filled him as he repeated the motion time and again.
Tonight it didn’t calm his thoughts.