asked.
'Oh, yeah. Straight ahead.'
He moved away from the chair. 'I'll go call Boston,' he said, skipping off.
I settled in at my desk, spread my legal pad out beside me, and got comfortable, sore ribs and all. Over the course of the next ninety minutes, I took my readers on a brisk walk through a flowering garden, as an old editor of mine used to say. The prose flowed nicely, and after I shipped the story to Martin and he shipped it to Boston, I sat with my feet on my desk in a bureau ringing with the sonorous sounds of deadline, still reveling in the thrill of another successful story, a glow that is similar to those moments in bed after having particularly good sex with someone you're just getting to know. Or something like that. I wondered if this story would trigger another call from my anonymous voice, and if it did, what he might say. I was wondering what would happen an hour from then when I visited the Newseum. I was staring off at nothing in particular when Julie Gershman stopped by.
'Welcome back,' she said in a flirty little way, and I knew immediately what she meant.
'Was it that obvious that I was gone?' I asked.
'Only to people who follow you closely,' she said, ratcheting the conversation to another level.
'Well, it's good to be back,' I said.
'Let me buy you a beer sometime soon,' she said.
'Sooner the better,' I replied.
'Good,' she said, and turned and walked out, a knapsack on her shoulder, her short skirt flouncing with every sexy step.
'Idaho?' That was Martin, who had appeared magically at my desk, his euphoria ebbing toward the needs of the next news cycle.
'Today's Hutchins story does give Idaho more weight, doesn't it?' I asked.
'More than ever. I'll assume you're in the air tomorrow. Give a call when you get out there. We're back in the game.'
As he walked away, my phone rang. It was Gus, just checking in, congratulating me on my coverage, just wanting to chat.
'You're a great man,' I told him as we hung up. 'I've got to run to an appointment now. Tomorrow I'm flying out to Spokane, actually to the Idaho Panhandle. I'll give you a ring when I get back.'
I quickly punched out a number in Sand Falls. Eventually, Daniel Nathaniel came on the line.
'Tomorrow I'm in your neighborhood,' I said, sounding firm, macho.
'You going to make this trip worth my while?'
'Getting to spend some time with me is always worth anyone's while,' he said. That answer was about as close as I'd get to absolute confirmation that he had something good.
eight
There is an exhibit at the Newseum-a museum dedicated to the journalism industry, of all things-that allows tourists from, say, Iowa, to stand before a camera with the White House as a backdrop and broadcast their own news story on a nearby television screen, as if they were a real live Washington network correspondent bringing the day's events to the rest of the nation, windbreakers and sneakers aside.
I took limited comfort in this knowledge, figuring that my meeting with this anonymous source might actually give these network wannabes something to report on. At about 5:20 P.m.' I paid my admission to the museum, which sits in Rosslyn, Virginia, just across the Potomac River from Georgetown, and began walking around the various exhibits.
I didn't know, obviously, what this source looked like. I had to assume he knew me, and would seek me out if I just made myself visible.
Ends up, the Newseum closes at six, a fact I thought to be odd for a couple of reasons-first, shutting down a museum about the media right in the middle of deadline, second, because this early closing hour cut the time awfully close for my source. I had to assume that whatever it was that he had to say to me, he would say it quickly. As an echoey voice over the public address system called out that visitors should be prepared to leave within thirty minutes, I hung around an area where they posted front pages of newspapers from across the country.
I heard footsteps coming from across the hard tile floor, then a man called to me, 'Excuse me, sir, but everyone has to start getting ready to head out now. We're closing down for the evening.'
I turned to see a gentleman in a security uniform, complete with a hat.
He looked startled when he saw my face, and added, 'Oh, Mr. Flynn, excuse me. I had no idea it was you.' He hesitated, then said,
'Please, make yourself at home. We'll be doing some cleaning upstairs for a while, probably about an hour. Feel free to enjoy the museum in the meantime.'
'Thank you,' I said. So celebrity has its advantages.
I poked around for about thirty minutes, until it was quite obvious I was the only one in the place. I tried concentrating on exhibits on the history of newspapers and the evolution of network news, but to no avail. I could think of little more than what my anonymous source might have to say, and what it would all mean to this story. I was also growing impatient with his lack of punctuality, and come around six-twenty, resigned myself to the assumption that he wasn't going to show. It was either a hoax, or he got scared off, or he misplanned the encounter and couldn't get inside because of closing time. This was obviously not a pro, but then again, what is a professional source? I wondered if I should wait outside.
Suddenly, to my left, a wall filled with television screens, twenty feet high and maybe twice that in length, popped to life, each set filled with the image of Peter Jennings broadcasting ABC'S World News Tonight-hundreds of screens, every one a haunting image of the other.
I'll admit, I like Peter Jennings, but enough is enough.
'Tonight, growing questions and few answers on Thursday's assassination attempt against President Clayton Hutchins,' Jennings said, raising his eyebrows in that way he does when he disapproves of the direction of a story. 'Tonight, an ABC special report.'
His voice, his expressions, engulfed me. I looked around to see if anyone was watching me watch Peter, but the rest of the museum was empty, frighteningly empty given all the noise. I had the feeling of being alone in an amusement park, late at night, and having all the rides inexplicably spring to life.
'At the J. Edgar Hoover Building in downtown Washington, headquarters of the FBI, the official line remains that investigators continue to probe whether the shooting is tied to the nation's militia movement,'
Jennings said. 'But within the FBI, sources tell ABC News there is currently a paucity of evidence pointing in that direction, though those same sources warn that new information is being gathered and multiple theories, including the possibility of a militia-related shooting, are still in play.
'Meanwhile, out in the field, those who know the dead would-be assassin, Tony Clawson, express surprise. We go now to Jackie Judd in Fresno, California, for a report on the life, and the death, of Tony Clawson.'
The distant image of a Home Depot store flashed on all those screens, as the reporter's voice filled the Newseum and echoed toward the cavernous ceiling. Around a nearby bend, I heard what sounded like shoes on tile, then nothing but the reporter's voice, then more shoes on tile, then nothing again. I stared in that direction, looking for a person, a shadow, anything that would indicate another form of life in this room.
'Mr. Flynn?'
It was a loud, urgent voice emanating from the balcony above me, a shout almost, by necessity because of the television sets. My eyes bolted upward, but I could see nothing but darkness.
Peter Jennings droned on, oblivious to my situation, even though he appeared to be my only witness. 'Out on the campaign trail, Senator Stanny Nichols, the Democratic presidential nominee, delivers a red meat speech to a labor union rally in the pivotal swing state of Wisconsin, as polls show President Hutchins creeping ahead in the aftermath of the assassination attempt-'
