“Dammit, Jack,” says Emma.
“Oh, come on. You can handle young Race.”
“That’s not the point. Why do you insist on causing trouble?”
“Because he’s a phony, a fop, a money-grubbing yupster twit. And he’s murdering this newspaper and twenty-six others, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
She says, “Look, just ’cause you’ve given up on your own career—”
“Whoa there, missy.”
“—doesn’t give you the right to sabotage mine.”
Sabotage? A scalding accusation from mild-mannered Emma. Of all my schemes to rescue her from the newsroom, sabotage was never once contemplated.
“You think I want to spend the rest of my days doing this?” she says. “Editing stories about dead scoutmasters and bromeliads?” (Emma is also in charge of our Garden page.)
“How can Maggad blame you? He’s the one who’s too scared to have me canned,” I point out. “His lawyers think it would look punitive, after our dustup at the shareholders’ meeting. They fear it would generate unwanted notice in the business columns.”
“They’re afraid you’ll sue him,” Emma says flatly.
A station wagon hauling a raucous, elementary-school-age soccer squad has stalled in front of us at a traffic signal. That, or the beleaguered parent at the helm has simply bolted from the car. To soothe Emma, I decide to risk a confidence. “What if I told you it won’t be long before I’m out of your hair for good. I can’t say exactly when, but it’s almost a sure thing.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
The station wagon is moving again, Emma accelerating huffily on its bumper. I’m tempted to share the delicious details of MacArthur Polk’s offer, but the old loon could easily change his mind—or forget he ever met me—before taking to his deathbed for real. Moreover, I’m not wholly confident that Emma wouldn’t spill the beans to young Race Maggad III if the corporate screws were applied.
“Are you job hunting?” she asks me closely.
“Slow down. It’s that white house with the blue trim.”
“Jack, tell me!”
She wheels into Janet Thrush’s driveway, stomps on the brake and whips off her sunglasses. There’s nothing for me to do but kiss her, very briefly, on the lips. No retaliatory punch is thrown.
“Come on,” I say, stepping out of the car, “let’s go commit some journalism.”
Janet’s banged-up Miata is parked out front but she’s not answering my knock. Emma says we ought to bag it and come back later, but I’ve got a bad feeling—there’s a fresh pry mark on the doorjamb. Cautiously I twist the knob, which falls off in my hand.
“What’re you doing?” Emma says.
“What does it look like?”
Stepping inside, I break into a sickly sweat. The place has been looted. Half a dozen times I call Janet’s name.
“Let’s go, Jack.” Emma tugs anxiously at my shirt. This isn’t as safe as boarding Jimmy Stoma’s boat. This time the cops haven’t been here ahead of us; only the bad guys.
Janet’s makeshift TV studio has been demolished. The tripod racks are down, lightbulbs shattered on the floor. A couch is overturned, the ticking slit open with a knife. Her computer operation—keyboard, monitor, CPU, video camera—is gone.
I expect the rest of the house to be in shambles, but it’s not. Emma stays on my heels as we move wordlessly down the hall; at each doorway I pause to gather a breath, in case Janet is lying lifeless on the other side. Oddly, nothing in the kitchen, the bedrooms or the closets appears disturbed. A light is on in a bathroom and cold water runs from a faucet in the sink. I turn it off.
“Maybe she wasn’t here when they did this. Maybe she’s okay,” Emma whispers.
“Let’s hope.” But I fear that even if Janet Thrush is alive, she’s not all right. Her Miata shouldn’t be parked in the driveway, and the intruders should have gotten farther than the living room. Something worse than a burglary happened here.
“Jack, we’d better go.”
“Wait a second. Let’s think this through.”
We’re sitting side by side on the end of Janet’s queen-sized bed. Somewhere in another room a phone is ringing and ringing—Ronnie from Riverside, maybe, or Larry from Fairbanks. Doesn’t matter because the computer line is disconnected, and Janet’s gone. Emma says, “You know why I think she’s okay? Because we haven’t found a purse. She must have taken it with her, which means she’s probably just fine.”