Rogue Island

him close the distance between us.

“How ya doing?” I said. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

He studied me for a heartbeat. Then his eyes got big. He spun on his heels and took off. I set out to run him down.

He was ten yards ahead as we raced down the sidewalk past Zerilli’s Market, our shoes crunching in the inch of fresh snow covering a month’s worth of bad Rhode Island February. I’d been chasing him for less than a minute, and already I was regretting all those cigars and those missed Saturday mornings at the gym. My right thigh was beginning to cramp, there was a stitch in my side, and my heart was a runaway drum.

“Wait!” I called to him. “I just want to talk!”

At the end of the block he cut right and slipped, his arms flying out for balance, his fingers clawing at the frigid air. I was almost on him now, close enough to reach for the collar of his black leather jacket. Then my right shoe landed where he’d slipped, and I went down hard, cracking my left elbow on jagged ice that a snowplow had thrown up from the street.

Pain shot from elbow to shoulder now as I scrambled to my feet and saw him running hard down the middle of the deserted street. I set out once more to chase him down. He ran well for a small man, but my stride was longer. My thigh was cramping badly in the cold, but I fought through it as the distance between us slowly closed.

Fifteen yards.

Ten yards.

Five.

And when I caught him, I was going to do what? Knock him down? Beat him up? Not the sort of interviewing technique I’d learned in Brother Fry’s journalism class. And what if he was carrying something? A knife, maybe. Or a gun. If I was right about him, he was already a killer several times over.

I thought about that for an instant, then flashed on the bodies of the twins being loaded into the ambulance. I sucked in a breath, lunged for him, and my feet flew out from under me. I landed hard, face-first, and skidded to a stop. As I raised my face from the ice, he threw me a look over his left shoulder, and I thought I heard him laugh.

Mr. Rapture sprinted to the corner, turned right, slowed to a jog, and was gone.

I was surprised how far we’d run; it was an eight-block limp back to the Bronco. Someone had broken into it and yanked out the CD player. I rummaged in the backseat with my one good arm, found an old T-shirt, and used it to sop up the blood flowing from my nose.

*  *  *

In the morning, my elbow was black and swollen and my nose knew exactly how it felt.

I’d been injured before. I broke my nose three times and my left wrist twice. Errant elbows had opened gashes over both eyes. I cracked bones in three fingers, and one of them was still crooked. A half-moon surgical scar tattooed my right knee. But the damage was all done on the basketball court. Since when was journalism a contact sport?

I spent two hours reading last year’s Time magazines in the waiting room of the Rhode Island Hospital emergency department and another hour waiting for an intern to read my X-rays before learning that the only thing broken this time was my pride.

It was early afternoon before I finally got to work, arriving just in time to see a copyboy deposit the day’s keg of press releases on Hardcastle’s desk. As I walked toward mine, a half dozen people stopped me to ask about my nose.

“Slipped on the ice,” I said, which was more or less the truth.

I jerked open my file drawer, drew out the envelope of spectator pictures, and fanned them across my desk. Mr. Rapture stood transfixed in six of them, mocking me. I stared at the pictures for a long time.

I was still at it when Edward Anthony Mason IV walked in. I had to look twice to be sure it was him. He’d gone off to Columbia University Journalism School in a Hugo Boss suit, but now he was back, striding across the newsroom in a wrinkled ankle-length trench coat, a brown felt fedora perched on the back on his head the way Clark Gable wore it in It Happened One Night. Yup, it was a Gable getup, all right, complete with cigarette tucked behind the right ear. Maybe he’d seen the movie and thought that was the way real reporters looked.

Mason was old money, the scion of six inbred Yankee families that ran the state for more than two hundred years until the Irish and Italians showed up and took it away from them. Judging by the sour expressions that were always plastered on their faces, they were still mad about it. The families had secured their fortunes by running slaves from the Guinea Coast to the southern colonies and by operating the Blackstone Valley textile mills that spun King Cotton into cloth. But the good times were long gone now, and the newspaper was one of the few institutions left to them.

They’d owned it since the Civil War. For a century it had been an archconservative mouthpiece, spewing nativist propaganda and portraying every human achievement from women’s suffrage to Social Security as a slippery slope toward socialism. Somewhere around World War II, the six families mellowed, shedding their crude mill-baron manners and adopting the paternalistic posture of socially superior public benefactors. Since then they had run the paper as a public trust, sacrificing millions in profits to the cause of informing the electorate and educating the masses. They were the sort that would spend an extra million a year on newsprint for the good of the paper and then bridle at buying business cards for reporters. The Newspaper Guild local had been without a contract for the last five years, the families choking at the thought of a 3 percent raise and dental insurance.

Now a new generation was rising, a generation of summer-in-Newport, winter-in-Aspen wastrels who dabbled in the market and squandered their trust funds at the Foxwoods baccarat tables. Young Mason was the only one among them who gave a shit about the paper. It was natural, then, that his elders were grooming him to run it. After wasting twenty grand of daddy’s money at Columbia J-School—a hidebound bastion of fuddy-duddies that prepares the young to put out a newspaper that’s fifty years out of date—he had returned to begin his apprenticeship for the job that was his by birthright.

All eyes were on the kid as he crossed the newsroom and slipped into the managing editor’s office. I turned back to the photographs and stared at them some more. Mr. Rapture had to be stopped, and my nose and elbow were telling me that I wasn’t up to the job.

I needed help.

22

“It’s Mulligan. I’ve got something that might interest you.”

“I’ve got something for you too. My size-twelve up your ass.”

“Second time in a week somebody said that to me.”

“Doesn’t surprise me any,” Polecki said, and slammed down the receiver.

Screw him, I thought. Then I thought about it some more. I thought about the dead twins. I thought about the two scorched corpses pulled from the rooming-house fire. I thought about the DePrisco kids who didn’t have a daddy anymore. I thought about Rosie and her crew out there risking their lives night after night. I picked up the phone and called him back.

“You really should see what I’ve got.”

“Why don’t you try Roselli? He only wears a size nine.”

“Look, I’m offering you some useful information here. You want it or not?”

“How useful?”

“Might make you a hero. Make everybody forget that ‘Dumb and Dumber’ story.”

“Everybody but me, maybe. I plan on holding a grudge.”

“Look,” I said, “I think I know who’s setting the Mount Hope fires. Thought maybe you might want his picture.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Seriously?”

“Yup.”