Hocus

“You know damned well I haven’t. I’ve got an offer to make.”

“Talk to Mark.”

“The paper undoubtedly sent Mark to cover the press conference. Now, we can sit here and play ‘come to the principal’s office’ on the phone, or you can listen to my offer.”

“I do have other options.”

“Yes, you can fire me. Want to fire me right now, John? To be honest, it would probably be a relief. I could stop thinking about Will Rogers.”

“Will Rogers?”

“Never mind. Am I fired?”

I suppose the silence was supposed to make me nervous. It just made me furious.

“No, you aren’t fired. Not yet.”

“Then I’ve got some information for you now, and an exclusive for you later, in exchange for as much breathing room as you can bear to give me.”

“Do I have a choice?” he groused.

“Not really,” I said, “unless we’re back to square one.”

“What’s the information?”

“We have a deal?”

“Yes.”

“This all started in Riverside. That’s where things went bad. No one else has that.”

“Is that where you are now?”

“No.”

Silence, then, “Any possibility of an exchange for Lang and Colson?”

“I can’t answer that, John, but you probably don’t need me to tell you what the policy on hostage exchanges is.”

“I’m sorry, Irene,” he said, his voice low, as if all the anger he had been burning up with a moment before had gone out of him. My own anger abated, replaced by a sense of guilt. I didn’t feel good about withholding information from John; I knew that Lang and Colson seemed to be of no consequence to Hocus, that their interests seemed to lie elsewhere. When I didn’t say anything, he added, “You know… well, you know I like Frank.”

“Yes, I know.” I took a deep breath. “The press conference will tell you a lot, but the radio and TV folks will be able to make use of most of it before the paper comes out tomorrow morning. But you’ve got the information on the car, which is strictly yours at this point. If you get someone out to Riverside, you’ll have an angle that’s all your own. And one other thing—”

He waited.

“One other thing, but when I tell it to you, promise me — I’m begging here, John — promise me you won’t crowd me. If I see a reporter from the Express in my rearview mirror just once, I swear to Jesus I will give this story to someone else.”

“There are times, Kelly, when you sorely try my—”

“A deal, remember?”

“All right, all right.”

“People in Bakersfield are going to recognize the names of the hostage takers.”

“Bakersfield?”

“I’m fairly sure the Californian is going to have someone digging all of this up soon. I was in their library this afternoon, and here’s what I learned.” I told him about the Father’s Day murders — as they were reported in the Californian. I didn’t mention Hocus’s claims about Powell’s accomplice, or the fax, or the vial of blood. I gave him only what I was sure would be revived in the Bakersfield media.

“Whew,” he said. “So what’s the connection? If Frank rescued them….”

I didn’t answer.

“You know more than you’re telling me, Kelly.”

“Breathing room, John.”

“Shit. When do I hear from you again?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not until this is over.”

“Kelly—”

“Gotta go, John. Bye.”

Cassidy didn’t try to talk to me when I got back to the car. I appreciated it. As we made our way to Bea’s house, I wondered if she’d like to slam the door in my face, too.

I tried to remember what orange blossoms smelled like.

I was wrong about Bea. She was fussing over me from the moment I walked in the door. “I hope that reporter parked out front didn’t bother you,” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders as if I were not of the same genus and species as the fellow from the Californian.