TWENTY-FOUR
Jack crossed the tiled floor of his father’s kitchen, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. He thought back over the past week. The days were blurred. All he could remember were snatches of time, glimpses of the events that had transpired. He felt as if he were on remote control. The refrigerator door swung open easily. Thee cans of soda were the only contents. Jack popped the top of one of them and chugged two gulps. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat or drink anything else all day.
He sat in a kitchen chair, and set the soda can on the table. His gaze landed on the telephone. The last time he’d spoken to his father, Jack thought, he’d probably been sitting in this very spot. Jack dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his dry eyes. The tears had yet to come. Everything felt surreal, distant and detached, as if he were watching a movie in which he was the star.
Jack noted the time. 1:35 P.M. The funeral had been that morning, followed by a reception at his father’s secretary’s home. She’d made all of the arrangements, and for that Jack was grateful.
He stood, then wandered into his father’s study. The room felt cold and dead. At one time, his father’s energy had radiated in the masculine air of his office, but now that atmosphere was gone. Vanished with the one person he’d loved and respected most in the world. Jack’s heart ached, a tangible persistent pain that weighted his chest.
Bookcases lined the walls. The shelves were filled with books and the memorabilia of an accomplished diplomat and politician. Jack scanned the collection, his eyes stopping on pictures of his father standing next to various world leaders. On the fireplace mantel was a picture of himself, at age eight with his mother and father. Now, Jack thought, he was all alone.
His mother had died when he was just a boy, then his wife, and now his father. Some things were beyond his control, he told himself, yet he remained unconvinced.
He made his way around his father’s large oak desk, sat in his high-backed leather chair, and picked up the phone. The scent of his father’s aftershave lingered on the receiver. Jack closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He paused for a few moments, then dialed his secretary.
With any luck his secretary, Maureen, would be in. No matter where Jack worked, Maureen was a constant he insisted on having.
Maureen answered on the second ring. “How are you?”
“I’m hanging in.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Everything’s been taken care of.” Jack raked his fingers through his hair. “Right now, I just need to know what
“You need to take some time off. Take care of yourself for once.” Maureen’s voice was soothing.
“No, the best thing for me right now is to get back to work. Sitting around here will make me crazy.”
“They’ve already assigned someone else to the Unabomber story.”
“What?” Jack slammed his hand against the desk. “I landed the interview with Kaczynski, it’s my story. Why the hell did they do that? Call those bastards and tell them I’m on it. Forget it, I’ll call them myself.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. Your father just passed away, you need to take some time. Your head’s not in the game, and you know it.”
Jack leaned back in his father’s chair. “My head is always in the game.” he muttered. That’s the problem, he almost said, but stopped. Journalism consumed him, everything else in his life took a backseat, including his wife and even his father. Now, they were gone. But everyone made choices, and his was always the career.
“Come off it. You are in no shape to cover anything.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Maureen was probably right, and he just didn’t have the energy to fight right now. “Who’d they assign to the story?”
“Marsha Reed.” Maureen’s tone was flat.
“Damn, she’ll do a good job too.”
“I’m sure she will, so why don’t you give it a rest? Take the time you need. I’m sure there are matters you need to resolve for your father. You’re needed in Missouri right now, not Montana.”
Jack glanced around the study. “There’s more to do here than I care to deal with,” he said softly.
“Are you all right? I could fly there and help you.”
“Thanks, you’re a great friend. But no, I’m fine. I can handle it.”
‘There’s just one more thing.“
“What’s that?”
“A package came for you on Friday.”
“I’ll pick it up as soon as I get back to Washington. I shouldn’t be more than a few days.”
“The package was from your dad.”
Jack rubbed his eyes. “But my dad knew I wouldn’t be there.”
“I don’t know his reasoning, but it’s here. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Open it. I want to know what it is – no, on second thought, overnight it to me. Do you think you can still mail it today?”
“I don’t know. I’ll see what I can do. If not, you’ll get it day after tomorrow.”
“Fine. And, Maureen, thanks for everything. I’m sorry I was short with you.”
“No problem Just try to get some rest. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Jack swiveled the chair until he faced the window. Talking to Maureen exacerbated his confusion. Wasn’t he supposed to cry? My God, he’d just buried his father. What did this say about him?
Had he seen so much of life that he’d become desensitized? Maybe he wasn’t human anymore. He obviously wasn’t capable of emotion. All he felt was a deep penetrating emptiness, a void. His shoulders slumped forward. He placed his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his fists as he stared unseeingly out the window. He’d never been one to run from life, but damn if this didn’t feel like the perfect time to lace up his Nikes.
Jack awoke to the sound of the doorbell. He read the clock: 7:20 A.M. Bare-chested, he pulled on his jeans, stumbled down the steps and swung open the door.
“Overnight mail, sign here,” the FedEx man said.
Good old Maureen, Jack thought, as he padded barefoot, with his package, to the kitchen. He ripped open the top of the large envelope and pulled out a small stack of documents and a note from his father.
Jack glanced at the papers, most of which were his father’s notes,documenting conversations, between himself, Mort Fields, and Adam Miles, Edmund Lane ’s best friend and business associate, regarding the Lanes and specifically Carolyn. Jack stopped reading, and considered the dynamics of these men. Mort Fields was not a friend of his father’s, still it was easier to explain than Adam Miles. Not only was Adam a close friend of Edmund’s, but he and Bill frequently disagreed. What would inspire Adam to turn to Bill? Jack wondered.
Jack continued reading. Bill’s notes mentioned Winston Cain. Interesting. From his days in intelligence. Jack knew of Cain. Cain, a former counterintelligence agent for the CIA, owned and operated a private investigation agency rumored to be a mercenary-for-hire business. The notes referenced an employment contract with Cain,
