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WASHINGTON, D.C., (Friday, Dec. 14, 2012, 1 a.m.) — Mac sat at the dining table, the only one awake. He could hear Troy’s snores from the bedroom, and the gentle breathing from the couch where Kristy slept. Kristy had insisted, pointing out that Troy had had very little sleep the night before. That meant the floor again for Mac, and he wasn’t in any hurry to seek it out.
He was tired, tired past sleeping. He sat in the quiet dark and thought about Parker and Kellerman and himself.
He shouldn’t have killed Kellerman. It hadn’t brought Danny back. But then, Kellerman wasn’t alive to kill anyone else either. And what about Parker? Just how was this all going to end?
Kristy touched him gently, said his name. He smiled at her. “I seem to keep waking up and finding you sitting and thinking,” she said softly. “Do you want the couch? I can sleep on the floor as well as you can.”
Mac shook his head. “Can’t sleep,” he said.
She sat down at the table next to him, close but not touching. “What are you thinking about?”
Mac half-laughed. “About a dog when I was a kid.”
She smiled quizzically. “Oh?”
“When I was in Vallejo, the family next door had this dog, a Rottweiler,” Mac said, thinking back. “I liked that dog. We’d never had pets. That dog was almost like my own dog.” He paused, went on slowly, thinking it through. “The summer I was 14, the dog started acting weird. I noticed it; the family that owned it noticed, but none of us did anything.”
“Rabies,” Kristy said softly.
Mac nodded. “Yeah. And then the dog bit one of the kids, a four-year-old boy. You know what the treatment is for rabies?”
“A series of shots, in the stomach.”
“The dog had to be put down, of course. Should have been done earlier. But no one wanted to kill the family pet.”
“And you think Parker has gone rabid,” Kristy concluded.
Mac nodded. “Stories we’ve heard say he was a good man, once, a cold, calculating son of a bitch, maybe, but he took care of his men. One day, he started taking care of himself, and expecting utmost loyalty from his men. And then, finally, he crossed the border and he killed one — for being disloyal.”
“Rabid.”
“Yeah, but no one stopped him. He got results, he played the game better and harder than anyone else. People looked the other way.”
“You don’t have to be the one that puts this rabid dog down,” Kristy protested.
Mac looked at her quickly, then away. How had she known that he had been the only one who could get close enough to the dog to kill it? He’d taken Toby’s 9mm out of his underwear drawer, called the dog, softly wooing it. Hoping that somewhere in the dog’s head he’d remember Mac as a friend. The dog had been foaming at the mouth, raging against the virus that ate away its brain. Mac had gotten as close as he dared, not wanting to miss, not wanting to watch the dog suffer. And he’d put a bullet in the dog’s head. Everyone praised him for doing what needed to be done, but he’d gotten sick and thrown up in the bushes. He winced at the memory.
“That’s why we have dogcatchers now,” Kristy said. “For rabid dogs. For rabid people we have cops and courts. You don’t have to kill Parker.”
“Yeah? So who do you suggest we call... Stan Warren?” Mac shook his head. “Parker has to go down. And I don’t know anyone else who can do it.”
“I’m not concerned about Parker,” Kristy protested softly. “I worry what it will do to you. Killing that man who killed Danny, that eats at you. I see it when you think no one is looking.”
“C.J. was my friend,” Mac said flatly. “Parker means nothing to me.”
“I know, I know. It’s different. But what do you become? When do you cross the line between being a good, if hard, man to being a killer? Parker has earned his death, but I don’t want you to be his executioner.”
Mac let out a long slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said, realizing she was right. He touched the side of her face gently. “Thanks.”
She smiled at him, the impish grin that he liked. “When are you going to kiss me anyway?” she said, holding onto his hand.
He laughed. “When this is all over, you ask me that again,” he said. He yawned. “Go to sleep, ‘cause I am. And if you don’t move fast, you will be sleeping on the floor.”
Mac wasn’t sure if it was the smell of coffee, which he detested, the sound of soft voices, or the fact that the floor was damn hard that woke him up. But it was the phone that brought him up off the floor.
“Mac, it’s Jason,” Kristy called.
“Yeah,” Mac said, rubbing at his eyes.
“Cops have been here this morning asking if any of us were working late and heard shots fired next door in the parking garage,” Jason said.
“What did you say?”
“Said I was the last one out and didn’t hear anything when I left. They thanked me for my time. What happened?”
Mac explained. Jason grunted. “This is getting a bit deep for me,” he admitted. “Are you coming in to the office today? I’m thinking about hiring some security.”
Mac laughed. “You’ve got two former Marine recon working for you, and you’re going to hire some overweight security cop? Think, man.”
“That’s what Janet said this morning,” Jason said with a sigh. “How come she trusts your defense skills so much anyway?”
“I kicked a reporter in the head, by accident, my third day on the job,” Mac said straight-faced.
“By accident?” Jason asked. “Never mind. So, you coming in?”
“I don’t think so,” Mac said slowly. “I can write from here, email it to you. We’re pretty safe here as long as we don’t go out, or let anyone in. You can edit it, send it to Seattle. Talk over the phone, whatever.”
“OK. Bureau chief is coming back from D.C. at 5 p.m. today, wants to look at the story. Can you have a rough draft done by then?”
“I’ll have it,” Mac promised and hesitated. “Do you think we can push this thing into the Saturday morning paper? Five here would be 2 p.m. back in Seattle. Plenty of time to get it in.”
“Saturday isn’t the best day to break a story like this,” Jason objected. Sunday was out; its deadline was earlier than Saturday’s.
“Yeah, but once it runs, Parker is less likely to be shooting at me.”
Jason laughed. “There is that. OK, I’ll see what I can do. We’re going to have to ask Parker for comment, you know. That might be a bit problematic.”
“Already have.”
“What? When?”
“Been talking on the phone with him. Got his numbers from the FBI agent who went on vacation.”
“He know you were a reporter?”
“Yup. Did it by the book.”
“God damn,” Jason said almost reverently. “He talked to you?”
“One conversation is in my notes, I’ll send you a transcript. The second I recorded, too tired to take notes. A bit of a problem there, I didn’t tell him I was taping.”
“We can finesse that,” Jason said absently. “Can I hear the tape?”
Mac fetched the recorder, pressed play, held it to the receiver. Troy and Kristy came out of the kitchen to listen.
“Well?” Mac asked when it was finished.
“Quite the conversation you had,” Jason observed. “So get writing. What are you waiting for?”
Kristy handed Mac a plate of eggs and bacon. “And no back talk,” she said, her hands on her hips. He thanked her meekly and ate quickly.
Troy had a cup of coffee in his hands. “I’d like to go into the office,” he said. “You got a problem with that?”
Mac swallowed. “You’re big enough to make your own decisions,” he said. “Go ahead if you think it’s safe.”
Troy hesitated. “I need to talk to my Senator,” he said.
Mac gestured to the phone. He took another bite of egg.
Troy sighed. He took the phone, went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Writing isn’t easy, even, or maybe especially, for those make a living at it. Mac always snarled at people who said they’d be a writer, but it just didn’t come easy for them. It was such a struggle, not like it is for you, they’d say. Hardest thing I’ve ever done, he’d tell them. They’d just say yes, but you don’t understand how hard it is for the rest of us.
Mac didn’t know any writer who thought it was easy. He liked the quote about how writing consisted of sitting at your computer and sweating drops of blood over it. The more important the story, the harder it was to organize, to find the right words, to tell the story the best you could.
He sat at the computer typing up a transcript of his conversations with Parker, then sent them to Jason and to Janet. He roughed out a lead and an outline, then he got up and paced a bit.
Kristy handed him a Mountain Dew, he thanked her and sat back down at the computer. A few minutes later, he hollered a question at Troy. Troy answered. Mac typed. He printed something, edited it, and went back to the keyboard.
Troy dug out a deck of cards, and he and Kristy played hearts at the kitchen table doing their best to ignore Mac. “He always like this?” Kristy asked. Troy shrugged.
“I’ve never seen him doing anything but fight,” he said.
Kristy looked at Mac muttering at the keyboard. “You sure there’s any difference?”
At noon, Kristy made sandwiches for the three of them, and slid one into Mac’s hand. He thanked her, took a bite, sat it down unfinished.
“I’m going to do laundry,” Kristy said a bit later. “Anyone got clothes they want washed?”
Mac looked up from the computer. “Go with her, Troy,” he said. He returned to his writing.
The earie silence of the apartment got through to him after a while. He looked around, wondered where they’d gone, then remembered about the laundry. Mac got up, found the cell phone, took it into the bedroom.
He flipped through his notebook and found the telephone number he’d scribbled down from Parker’s Rolodex. “Mrs. Kellerman?” he said to the woman who answered.
“Yes?” Her voice was wary.
“I served with your husband, years ago. I was sorry when I heard of his death.”
“Yes. Thank you,” she said dully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
Mac ignored that. “I’d lost touch with C.J.,” he said. “Do you have kids?”
“Four. The oldest is 17, going to college next year. The youngest is 12. He can’t believe his dad’s not coming back this time.” There was a sob in her voice.
“Do you have money? Did C.J. have life insurance, a pension?”
“C.J. provided for us,” she said firmly. “He was a good husband and father. What he did was risky — and — he knew it. He made sure we’d be okay that way. That’s what I told Parker’s man when he came by here recently. We didn’t need his kind of help. I suppose I shouldn’t say that, Parker might be a friend of yours too.”
“No, he’s no friend of mine.”
“C.J. thought the world of him, but I never liked him. I’m sure he had something to do with C.J.’s death, but no one will tell me how he died.” She sighed. “Sorry to dump all that on you. I do appreciate your call.”
“No problem. Some of the guys and I pooled together money, thought we’d set up a trust fund for the kids’ education,” Mac said, looking at his cashier’s check from Parker. “Maybe tomorrow or the next day I could bring a check by?”
He heard her catch her breath. “How kind of you all,” she whispered. “How very kind.”
Mac hung up the phone and turned around. Troy stood in the doorway with an armload of clean laundry. “I heard what you said,” Troy said finally. “You’re going to give C.J.’s widow your check from Parker?”
“Yeah.”
Troy put the clothes down on the bed and began putting them away. “I figured that’s what you were using to fund this adventure of yours,” he said.
Mac shrugged. “I’ve got some money put away. I’m using that.” He laughed briefly. “Maybe I’ll file a travel voucher with the Examiner.”
Troy didn’t ask where Mac had gotten his money. He suspected he didn’t want to know. Mac hadn’t gotten out of college too long ago and who had money when they graduated? Not legally anyway. He pulled out his wallet, found a pen, and signed over his certified check to Mrs. C.J. Kellerman. He handed it to Mac. “It would make me feel better, too,” he said.
Mac nodded.
It was a hard story to write, Mac thought as he sat down at the computer again. Maybe it was because he wasn’t sure exactly what the story was. Not like the stuff he usually wrote; man robs/kills, cops arrest. Straightforward. But this was about a man who was nominated for one of the highest unelected offices in the country. A position of untold power and he was a scumbag no better than the crooks he usually wrote about. Man robs/kills.
He was trying to leave himself out of the story as much as possible. That meant leaving out most of the recent happenings. Focus on the drug factory. Focus on Joey Hightower’s death.
But the story was more than about the abuse of power, what was the saying, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely? He wanted this to be a story about Howard Parker. The good, the bad.
He got up and grabbed another Mountain Dew from the refrigerator. Stretched. Did pushups and sit-ups, squats and lunges. Kristy and Troy watched him in silence. He ignored them. Kristy went to take a nap.
At 3 p.m., Mac printed out the story. It was the best he could do, he decided. He wasn’t sure how good it was, but it was the best he was capable of. He read it through. Handed it to Troy who read it, handing each page to Kristy when he was done.
“Well?” Mac asked when they were done.
“It’s good,” Kristy said into the silence. “Makes you understand Parker. Even if you don’t like him or what he’s done, you can understand him.”
Troy grunted. “You left out a lot of the last few weeks,” he observed.
Mac shrugged. “Up to the newspaper if they want to run that, but you might make sure your Senator shares that part with her colleagues either way.”
“I’m sure she will,” Troy said. “It’s a good story, Mac. Didn’t know you could do this kind of work.”
Mac reread it. Made some edits. It was good, he thought.
The story started out:
“One of the most common phrases used to describe Howard Parker is ‘a cold calculating son of bitch’. It’s usually said with admiration.
“Howard Parker, who has been nominated for Secretary of Homeland Security, wouldn’t argue with the description. ‘Someone has to make the hard decisions,’ he said Thursday. ‘And I did. For the good of the country, I did what needed to be done.’
“But somewhere along the line, Howard Parker crossed the line. The decisions he made furthered his own career, not just the good of the country.
One of those decisions cost Joey Hightower his life. Hightower, a young sheriff’s deputy in El Paso, Texas....”
Mac reread the story one last time on the screen, then logged into Troy’s Internet provider again, and sent it to Jason and Janet. When it came right down to it, she was his real editor. He called Jason to let him know the story was filed.
“Hold on,” Jason said. “Let me pull it up and read it.”
If writing was hard, editing was frustrating. And the more editors, the more frustration. As Jason had said the day before, all the editors would have to piss in it to make it theirs. Starting with Jason, it appeared.
Kristy and Troy played more cards.
“Seattle wants a sidebar telling about how you got involved in all this,” Jason said on his fourth or fifth call. “Can you write it?”
“I guess,” Mac said. He hung up and called Janet. “You want a sidebar? What all do you think should be in it?”
“Good to hear from you, too,” Janet said dryly. “Primarily your role in busting the coke factory 10 years ago, your buddy’s discovery of Parker’s role in it. His plea for help that led to your investigation. That kind of stuff.”
“And Donnelly? That go in?”
Janet hesitated. “Put in something,” she decided. “We can always pull it out later if need be.”
“What about all the stuff that went down at Parker’s place?”
“That we leave out,” Janet said.
Mac hung up, cracked his knuckles and started writing again. The phone rang and Kristy answered it. “For you, Mac,” she called out, then returned to the card game.
“Davis,” Mac said into the phone.
The voice on the other line was the Examiner’s publisher. “Just read your story,” he said. “It’s hard to believe. I know Parker, know him well. Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” Mac said firmly. “I’m sure.”
The publisher hesitated, then added, “Parker called me an hour or so ago. Said you were still pursuing a vendetta against him. Wanted me to intervene, stop the story. Wanted to know why you were still on staff at all.”
Mac was silent.
“I hear charges have been dismissed against you,” the publisher said.
“So I understand,” Mac replied.
“The story runs,” the publisher said firmly. “It’s a real good story, Mac. I wanted to tell you that myself.”
Mac grinned with relief. “Thank you.”
And soon it was done. The calls tapered off. A copy editor called at 9 p.m. to read a suggested headline to him. Mac felt honored; no one had ever consulted him about the headlines for his stories before. Leatherstocking called at 10 p.m. to say he’d seen the final version and approved it. And finally, at midnight, Janet called.
“The press is rolling, Mac,” she said. Her voice was jubilant and exhausted at the same time. Mac figured she’d been at work for 15 hours or so.
“Yeah?” Mac said. “Is it on the website yet?”
Janet’s voice was puzzled when she said it was.
“Good,” Mac said. “There’s someone I want to show it to.”
He hung up the phone, then rolled Troy off the couch. Ignoring his protests, Mac flopped onto the couch, pulled up a quilt and was asleep in minutes.