Chapter 16

Rachel and Bill had both suggested I take Friday off. I had declined. What would I do in my apartment? Besides, I had a story to write.

Alison listened to my story on Friday morning in stunned silence and — bless her — resisted the temptation to tell me that she had told me so. Instead, she began contacting her sources in the Police Department to get a copy of the report that Charlie Beckett had told me about.

She did Charlie one better. She was friendly with one of the first policewomen to reach the scene. Her friend added a few details, including the story of a clumsy attempt by the State Police to muscle their city colleagues off the case. Curious, Alison made a phone call to a source in State Police Headquarters seeking confirmation. That woman produced a damning e-mail from the Governor's chief of staff demanding that state forces assume jurisdiction.

Alison also learned the police had discovered that Betsy Day had left an e-mail trail of her own. After being unable to reach the Governor by phone, Ms. Day had fired off a note telling him that she had no intention of falling on her sword like Pete Simpson. If she got even one question about "BDSM," she wrote — initials that must have blazed like a neon sign to her — she was going to tell everything she knew.

I was keeping busy as well. Around ten, I trekked out to the airport to renew my acquaintance with the men who worked for Jerry's Charter Service with photographs of Pete, Shawn, and Betsy. The guy who had reported seeing the "suit" with the two "babes" boarding the Amalgamated plane couldn't identify the suit to save his life. But babes were another matter. Gentlemen like this always found babes easier to remember. BDSM.

Upon my return, I started going through the corporate directory on the Amalgamated Coal website, looking for "Bill," the man with whom my diarist claimed to have swapped. The only "Bill" senior enough to have been invited on a trip like this was William H. Conde. I picked up the phone and punched the numbers.

It turned out that Conde was a fairly new executive with the company, one who didn't know enough to hang up on me after I managed to talk my way past his secretary. I told him that we had information that he had been on the company's dove-hunting trip to Texas, and that he had brought a companion with him.

"You can't print that," he whispered.

"Tell me why, Mr. Conde."

"My wife," he said. "My family."

"That is a problem," I agreed. "I'll tell you my problem, Mr. Conde. I don't care who from Amalgamated Coal is screwing who. Until they start screwing the citizens of West Virginia. If all I have is a name at Amalgamated, that's where this article will start and end. If I get more, it won't even start there. Okay?"

There was a long silence.

"Mr. Conde?"

"Yes," he said finally. "Go ahead."

"Was Governor Platte on the trip?"

"Yes."

"Did he bring a companion?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know her name?"

"Betsy something," he said. "Nobody used last names."

"Did his press secretary, Pete Simpson, go on the trip?"

"Yes."

"And his companion?"

"Shawn," he answered. "Again, I never knew her last name."

Even now, I could hear the arousal in his quavering voice. It seemed obvious to me that Bill and I had something in common. We had both slept with Shawn Michaels. But I had to ask.

"Did you and Pete Simpson engage in anything that could be termed 'swapping'?"

"We, um..." he began. "We had sex with each other's, um, companions."

"Did you swap with anyone else?"

"No."

"Was there anyone else on the trip named Bill?"

"No. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I take it you haven't seen the paper this week?"

"I only read the Wall Street Journal," he said.

"Pity," I said. "You miss a lot that way. I hope your wife doesn't take the paper. Now let's talk some more about Governor Platte."

By the time I was finished I had all the information I needed. He didn't know any of the financial details of the trip, but I wasn't really interested in those at this point. He knew plenty about the rest of it.

Allie and I were still hard at work when the newsroom began to empty out for the weekend. Finally, she pulled her chair over to my cubicle.

"How are you?" she asked.

I looked down at the notes I had finished taking after another series of phone calls.

"Shawn Michaels and Elizabeth Day were on a flight from Houston, Texas to Miami, Florida on the same day that Pete got back here," I told her. "They both flew from Miami to Charleston the following Saturday, when their vacations supposedly ended."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Guess that kind of seals it, huh?"

"Yeah. You know, sometimes it really sucks being a reporter. I'm not sure I really want to know everything."

"She didn't love you, Rick."

"You know, I think she did, just a little. I could hear it in her voice sometimes. Then I blew it out of all proportion, of course."

"Maybe you should turn this over to somebody else."

She laughed when she saw me stiffen in response to her suggestion.

"I'm a reporter," I protested.

"Can't let our feelings get in the way, can we?" she asked with a smile.

"Nope. Not even a little."

"Public's right to know..."

" ... and all that," I finished.

"You're a damn good reporter, Rick Handley," she said. "And a damn good guy. You going to be all right this weekend?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Al. I'm going to be writing."

"Charleston calling Mr. Pulitzer. Phone call for Mr. Pulitzer."

"From the Charleston Messenger?" I asked. "I don't think he accepts collect calls."

Allie threw back her head and laughed. We both knew I had as much chance of winning a Pulitzer Prize as I did of dating one of the Olsen twins. We both knew that it didn't matter. I had a story to write.

And a whip to master. But I had been practicing journalism for far longer. It was no wonder that I was better at that.

Ken did his best not to show it, but he was as concerned as I was.

"You need a day off," he said.

"Now?" I asked. "The fight's a week from fucking tonight!"

It had been a frustrating session even before he shared the "results." Ken had designed an algorithm for measuring success. Or so he claimed. I wouldn't have known an algorithm from an African drum rhythm. What I did know was that my effectiveness with the light whip had plateaued just like my skill with the regular whip had. Now I had a number for it: 43 percent. Up from 38 the day before. Down from 45 the day before that.

I didn't even have half a chance to win this fight.

"I know, buddy," Ken said. "You're trying too hard."

Easy for him to say. Ken had made steady progress. He had been at 84 percent before his injury.

"Why were you doing it?" I asked.

"Doing what?"

"Fighting the Morling. Why did you agree?"

He gave me an odd look.

"It's my job."

"Fighting aliens?"

"Fighting enemies," he said.

"Enemies of the United States," I pointed out. "Which doesn't exist."

"It's still my planet."

He spoke as if that should settle the issue. Maybe for him it did. He turned to Wizen.

"I don't want to see him here tomorrow, sir," he said. "Sunday night is soon enough."

"I want to talk to your Council," I told Wizen on Sunday evening. I had propped myself on my elbows as I lay on his bed.

He looked alarmed.

"Council?" he asked. "I doubt very much that —"

"I'm the one putting his life on the line for them, aren't I?"

"Yes," he agreed. "For which we have agreed to give you the drug."

"Yeah. How soon can I meet them?"

"Three days?" He pulled a number out of thin air.

"Okay. Just summon me when they're ready. I'll just be sitting in my apartment, waiting for you."

"But your training," he sputtered. "Ken is waiting for us."

"That's true. Tell him it's up to your Council. I wouldn't wait too long if I were them, though. You know better than anyone that I need the practice."

I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. I opened them again after a few seconds.

"Not going to send me home?" I asked.

"I must consult with Council," he announced. "Francesca!"

Francesca and I had another lovely picnic until Wizen returned. The Council, it appeared, had reluctantly agreed to expedite my appearance.

Karsk, the only councilman I had already met, occupied the center chair of the nine that towered above me behind the shiny steel table. His colleagues were equally colorless, capable of little more than a scowl.

"You wanted to see us," Karsk stated.

"I want to bargain."

"Bargain?"

"The contest is in less than a week. You have no time to find and train a new champion."

"You seek to extort us?" the man on the far right asked.

"I seek to bargain," I repeated. "I fight your champion, you —"

"We give you a drug that allows you to use your legs," another man said, his voice dripping with disdain.

"A reward that doesn't cost you a thing," I countered."

Council exploded into rancor. Karsk hushed them up and asked me what I would prefer.

"My fifteen minutes of fame."

"I don't understand."

"An artist of my era said that one day everyone would be entitled to fifteen minutes of fame. I want mine. Fifteen minutes on your comm channel to talk to your people. To explain why I'm doing this. To let them know who I am."

I was aware that it was an extraordinary request. At our picnic, I had asked Francesca if it were possible to communicate with all of the people on the planet. She had explained the existence of the comm channel, although she had never seen it used.

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What Feats He Did That Day

Marsh Alien

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