IT WAS A MONDAY, the first week of August, and Nick was lingering late at the office, trying to get his head around the half a dozen stories that Clive had thrown his way. The boss was pressing him to write about Fabian Kendall’s pending run for Congress. In days gone by, Nick would have been all over this story. Yet he was still deeply distracted by the tumult in his marital life. Staring into empty space wasn’t doing him or the newspaper any good. So he quietly slipped out of the back and across the alley to the stables.
In no mood to engage in small talk, Nick gave the livery manager a cursory nod and ambled to his big chestnut gelding about halfway down the barn. He removed the feedbag from around the animal’s neck, gave the horse a good scratch beneath the chin. And as he always did before mounting up after a day at the office, Nick flipped back the cover of his saddlebag to deposit a copy of that day’s edition of the Times.
The newspaper bumped against something in the bottom of the satchel. Reaching deep into the bag, Nick discovered a familiar white envelope. An equally familiar chill ran through his bones. The barn was too dark to read the letter at once, but he had no doubts whatsoever what it contained.
Nick whirled around, almost as if he expected to see someone watching him from a dark corner. There was no one, of course. Only the livery manager, sitting on a stool near the entrance, and the hands who mucked out the stalls, kept the horses fed and watered.
“Anyone strange hanging out around the livery today?” he asked the manager.
“No sir, Mr. Pinder,” the manager claimed. “Not that I noticed. Someone trouble your animal?”
“The horse is fine. But someone left an item in my saddlebag. I was hoping you might be able to tell me who?”
The manager shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Pinder.”
Nick got the same answer from the stable hands. Nobody had seen anything or anyone unusual.
Rather than open the envelope on the spot, Nick hurried back to the Times, marching across the now-empty newsroom to Clive’s office. The boss was ensconced behind his desk, editing last-minute copy for tomorrow’s paper and no doubt anticipating whatever debauchery he planned for later. He casually glanced over his spectacles. “Thought you went home?”
Without a word, Nick flicked the envelope onto his desk. Clive considered the packet and frowned. “Bloody hell,” was all the boss could bring himself to say at first, shaking his head in a blend of wonder and dismay.
“I found it in my saddle bag at the livery.”
“Have you read it?” Clive grunted, trying to catch his breath.
“I was waiting for you.”
Clive reached for his letter opener, slit the envelope up one side and tapped it on the edge of his desk to dislodge the contents—a single typewritten page. He picked it up with two hands, began to read out loud.
Dear Mr. Pinder:
I hope this finds you well. First, I would like to express my deepest gratitude for publishing my manifesto, in total I might add, without edits or comments. You have no idea how much this means to both myself and the cause of justice in San Diego. My thanks also to Mr. Bennett and his courageous statement on behalf of freedom of the press. The journalistic fraternity owes you no small amount of gratitude …”
Nick glanced up at Clive, who bowed and rolled his hand with a flourish like an Ottoman potentate.
Meanwhile, I have chosen another matter to resolve, a very special case this time, extremely vital to both myself and the future of this fine city. In keeping with my core principles, I believe it vital to convey both the proof and grounds for my next deed to the general public. After all, education is the only means by which a society can advance …”
Consumed by the letter and its content, neither man heard the front door swing open. Wendell Smith had gone to dinner at the chophouse down the street, and with no social life and little else to occupy his time on any given evening, he was returning to the office to pen a letter to his dear old ma. Wendell had expected the newsroom to be empty—he didn’t like anyone around while writing Mother. So he was surprised to see light streaming from Clive’s office.
Bending around a corner, Wendell could see Nick and Clive hunched over the boss’s desk, staring at a document. His curiosity piqued, Wendell decided on a closer look. Setting his valise on the front counter, the young reporter quietly moved across the newsroom. He slid behind the desk nearest the boss’s office and listened through the open door. He could hear Clive reading from the document on his desk.
“With that in mind, you will be granted unprecedented access to the course of justice. I would like you to be there when the punishment is administered. With a photographer of your choice. Afterward, during an interview to be conducted by you and you alone, I will offer a full explanation of that person’s crimes against mankind. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.
There is no gain in divulging more details at present. For reasons of security, I feel it best to keep the accused anonymous for a short while longer. I will dispatch another message shortly with details of the when, where, and who.
-Your Humble Servant, Nemesis
Clive looked up with a wild mix of emotions. He was angry and delighted and more than a tad bit leery about going through with an act the authorities were sure to deem accessory to crime at the very least. They had been given foreknowledge of a crime that had yet to be committed. Any other instance—prior to a bank heist, a train robbery, a rustling operation—Clive would have gone straight to the sheriff in an effort to stonewall the crime. But this was different. This was journalistic history in the making. And a windfall of further fame and fortune.
Nick licked his lips and scratched at the back of his neck, trying to hide his own angst. He noticed Clive staring at him, but Nick just shrugged. What was he supposed to say?
Outside, still quiet as a mouse, Wendell bent low beneath the desk. Barely able to control his breathing, he could feel a throat seizure coming on, something that hadn’t happened since childhood.
Nick and Clive continued talking amongst themselves. Wendell could only hear snippets of the conversation, but even that shocked him. Clive—even without Nick’s prodding—had decided they should consider the killer’s extraordinary offer. But the most shocking revelation, at least from Wendell’s point of view, had yet to come.
“If we do decide to go through with this,” Nick stipulated, “it’s me and me alone. No sharing, no partner, no double byline. Wendell doesn’t get his gilded little mitts anywhere near the story this time.”
“The lad’s going to be sadly disappointed. Might even bid us adieu.”
“All the better.”
Nick had always been a pompous ass, but he had never been vicious. Not until now. Within a split second, whatever respect and regard Wendell still harbored for Pinder vanished. Pride kept him from rushing into the office and giving them both a piece of his mind. But one thing was certain: Nick would pay for his treachery. And Wendell knew at once how to accomplish that.
“Mum’s the word,” Clive warned as he rose from his desk. “No one should know but you and I. And I mean no one.” Switching off the office light, Clive locked his door and headed across the newsroom with Nick in tow.
That’s when Wendell remembered his valise. Nick and Clive would walk right past it as they headed out the front door. Wendell held his breath and peered around the side of the desk as they approached the front counter.
Nick stopped abruptly, reached for the valise. “Who’s this belong to?” He didn’t recall seeing it when he’d returned from the livery. Then again, he was in a hurry to find Clive and might not have even noticed. Craning his neck around, Nick scanned the dark newsroom, eyes flicking from desk to desk.
Wendell ducked as low as he could, body flush with the floor behind the desk.
“I believe it’s Wendell’s,” Clive said glibly, not the least bit concerned. “Looks like he forgot it—again. Boy would lose his head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
Nick exuded an audible sigh of relief, and the two of them continued out the front door.
Wendell kept still until he could no longer hear footsteps on the stairs outside. Then he went to his own desk and sat in the dark, wondering how to employ the astonishing information that had just come his way.