The Scarecrow

I shook my head as if to ward off the thought of it. I checked my pockets. I had no pen and my notebook was back up in my room.

“You have a pen?” I asked Rachel. “I need to write this down.”

“No, Jack, I don’t have a pen to give you. I told you more than I should have. At this point it’s just raw data. Wait till I have a better handle on everything and then I’ll call you. Your deadline isn’t for another twelve hours, at least.”

She was right. I had a full day to put the story together, and the information would develop through the day. Besides that, I knew that when I got back to the newsroom, I would face the same issue as the week before. I was part of the story again. I had killed one of the two men the story was about. Conflict of interest dictated that I wouldn’t be writing it. I was going to sit with Larry Bernard once again and feed him a front-page story that would echo around the world. It was frustrating but by now I was getting used to it.

“All right, Rachel. I guess I’ll go up and pack my stuff, then head to the airport.”

“Okay, Jack. I’ll call you. I promise.”

I liked that she promised before I had to ask. I looked at her for a moment, wanting to make a move to touch and hold her. She seemed to read me. She took the first step and pulled me into a tight embrace.

“You saved my life tonight, Jack. You think you’re getting out of here with just a handshake?”

“I was sort of hoping there would be more than that.”

I kissed her lightly on the cheek, avoiding her bruised lips. If Agent Bantam or anybody else behind the smoked black windows of the FBI mobile command center was watching, neither one of us cared.

It was almost a minute before Rachel and I separated. She looked into my eyes and nodded.

“Go write your story, Jack.”

“I will… if they let me.”

I turned and walked toward the hotel.

All eyes were on me as I walked through the newsroom. It had spread as quickly as a Santa Ana wind through the newsroom that I had killed a man the night before. Many probably thought I had avenged Angela Cook. Others may have thought I was some sort of danger freak who put myself in harm’s way for the thrill of it.

As I approached my cubicle the phone was buzzing and the message light was on. I put my backpack on the floor and decided I would deal with all the callers and messages later. It was almost eleven o’clock, so I walked over to the raft to see if Prendo was in yet. I wanted to get this part over with. If I was going to give my information to another reporter, I wanted to start giving it up now.

Prendo wasn’t in but Dorothy Fowler was sitting at the head of the raft. She looked up from her computer screen, saw me and did a double take.

“Jack, how are you?”

I shrugged.

“Okay, I guess. When’s Prendo coming in?”

“Probably not till one. Are you up to working today?”

“You mean, do I feel bad about the guy who fell down the stairwell last night? No, Dorothy, I’m actually okay with that. I feel fine. As the cops say, NHI-no human involved. The guy was a killer who liked to torture women while he raped and suffocated them. I don’t feel too bad about what happened to him. In fact, I sort of wish he has been conscious the whole way down.”

“Okay. I think I understand that.”

“The only thing I don’t feel good about right now is that I’m guessing I don’t get to write the story, right?”

She frowned and nodded.

“I’m afraid not, Jack.”

“Déjà vu all over again.”

She squinted her eyes at me like she was wondering if I realized the inanity of what I had just said.

“It’s a saying. Yogi Berra? The baseball guy?”

She didn’t get it. I could feel the eyes and ears of the newsroom on us.

“Never mind. Who do you want me to give my stuff to? The FBI has confirmed to me that there were two killers and they have found videos of them with several victims. At least six besides Angela. They’ll be announcing all of this at a press conference but I have lots of stuff they won’t be putting out. We’ll kick ass with this.”

“Just what I want to hear. I’m going to put you with Larry Bernard again for continuity. You have your notes? Are you ready to go?”

“Ready when he is.”

“Okay, let me call and book the conference room again so you guys can go to work.”

I spent the next two hours giving Larry Bernard everything I had, turning over my notes and filling him in off the top of my head with regard to my own actions. Larry then interviewed me for a sidebar story on my hand-to-hand battle with the serial killer.

“Too bad you didn’t let him answer that last question,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“At the end, when you asked him why he didn’t just take off instead of going after Walling, that’s the essential question, isn’t it? Why didn’t he run? He went after her and it didn’t make a lot of sense. He was responding to you but you said you hit him with the lamp before he answered that one.”

I didn’t like the question. It was as if he was suspicious of my veracity or what I had done.