Deadline Man

I say no.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if I get laid off.”

“That’s silly,” My tone is too abrupt. “You’re so young, you can do anything.”

“I’m not as young as you think. And the only thing I ever wanted to be was a reporter for a great newspaper.” Her voice is fierce.

“I’m sorry. I’m the one who’s fucked, unless I end up in prison.”

“Mmmm. You are fucked, and you will be again.” The wide, sunburst smile. “You’ll be fine. Everybody reads your column.”

“That may not matter.” Out on the street, a woman is leaning against the door of a gray Ford with four doors. The car looks unsettlingly official. She has short, pale blond hair, pale skin, and high cheekbones. She’s looking in my direction. The wind is still blowing strongly. I can hear a wind chime from somewhere, and every few seconds the woman brushes the hair out of her eyes.

I hear Amber’s voice.

“Maybe it’s all over.”

“The newspaper might close. I get that.”

“No. I mean, you gave up your notes. The newspaper cooperated. I hate that. But this was what they were after, so now maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

She goes on, “I saw the Web site this afternoon. I don’t know if you looked. I probably wouldn’t have if I were you. Anyway, the story said your friend died in a murder-suicide. The cops blamed her boyfriend. Case closed. You’re okay.” When she sees me lean forward, my hand on the wall and my head sagging, she adds in a soft tone, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

I am watching the blonde. She wears an olive raincoat that accentuates the pale color of her hair and skin. It flaps in every gust of wind. “They meant for me to be asleep or barely awake when the cops arrived at Pam’s house. They’re not going to be satisfied until I’m…” I let it hang. I don’t know who the hell they are or what they really want.

“I mean, what if it really matters?” I return to the sofa and Amber raises up so I can cradle her head in my lap. I stroke her face and hair. My hand shakes and my eyelid twitches. “What if something in Troy’s world is connected to the disappearance of these girls? Wh

at if they’re dead? What if they’re kidnapped? What if eleven-eleven is when somebody blows up the Space Needle?”

She says, “Do you think these guys who said they were FBI agents are working on that?”

“And it’s important enough to kill an innocent woman?” I hear my voice crack and I swallow hard. “There’s something so wrong here. Even what you used to read about the abuses in the Bush years, rendition, holding people without charges, even American citizens. I never read anything like this.”

“Maybe it needs to be written now.”

I can’t tell what Amber thinks. Should I leave it alone or not? Can I leave it alone if it won’t leave me alone?

“I think somebody is watching my place.”

***

Ten minutes later we climb into Amber’s car and she drives east at an easy pace. It’s five minutes before eight and the weeknight traffic is light. I can’t tell if she’s trying to calm my paranoia or if she’s curious about the blonde, too. Maybe both. We drive in silence as she turns on Fourth Avenue and again on Spring Street. Then we’re stuck at the light on the incline leading out of downtown to Interstate Five.

“Gray Ford?”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

“She’s made every turn we have. Sure it’s not an old girlfriend stalking you?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, you remember them.” Her lips curl into a smile.

The light changes and we gradually climb over the freeway and into First Hill. Amber turns again at the hospital and makes another onto Madison going east. She’s driving the speed limit. The wind gusts buffet the Jetta.

“Sill there?”

She squints into the rear-view mirror. “Yep. She’s a few cars back but still with us.”