Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

It all happened here, right here.

Kate had stopped her rental on the shoulder, stood next to it and stared at the river, listening to its rush. It was here. She checked the photographs in the timeworn newspaper clippings, checked the highway’s curve, the rock formations near the river-Three American Tourists Killed When Car Crashed Into River…

Kate didn’t remember much of the aftermath. Images blurred by police, rescuers, flying back to Chicago with a young social worker who cried with her, the memorial services for Ned, Norma and Vanessa, a grief counselor and more foster homes.

And the nightmares.

Vanessa’s hand.

They dragged the river where they could. They used divers and dog teams, search groups and a helicopter, to scour the banks but found nothing after five days of searching. Vanessa’s body may have been wedged in the rocks, they said. It may have been washed up and dragged into the wild by wolves, cougars or a bear. All were possibilities.

Kate was the lone survivor.

Why did I survive? Why me?

She squeezed the flower stems tight as she carefully made her way to the river’s edge. One by one she dropped flowers into the flowing water, watching each of them twirl downstream.

Please forgive me, Vanessa. I’m so sorry I let you slip away. Why couldn’t they find you? I have to know what happened. I can’t go on like this. Are you dead? Are you here, somewhere? Or did you somehow survive? Where are you Vanessa? What happened?

Kate studied the river and scanned the vast forests and glorious mountains. She sat on the bank. It was beautiful, peaceful and spiritual. She didn’t know how long she’d been there when her phone rang.

Surprised that she had service here, she looked at it, thinking it might be Nancy with Grace returning her call.

The number was for Newslead in Manhattan. She answered.

“Kate, Reeka at the office. Can you talk?”

“What is it?”

“The Associated Press has just moved a story out of Rampart, citing unnamed sources, saying that additional human remains have been found in what police suspect are multiple murders at a remote barn site. Kate, why didn’t you alert us to this?”

“What?”

Kate’s mind raced. Reeka’s nerve! More victims! Was Vanessa one?

“Why didn’t you advise me of this, Kate, given your involvement?”

“You wanted me fired for my involvement , Reeka.”

“You’re still a Newslead employee.”

“But you wanted me fired. You said there was no story there.”

“Obviously things have changed.”

“What do you want from me?”

“This is poised to become a huge story and we can’t let our competition beat us on it. I want you to tell me all you know so I can pass it to our bureau people in Rochester and Syracuse.”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

Kate hung up and stared at the river.

Calgary, Alberta

It was a mistake to hang up on Reeka Beck.

Probably a fatal one given Newslead’s plan to cut staff, Kate thought while driving back to Calgary, still stinging from the call.

Damn, Reeka had a lot of gall. But it’s no surprise. She resents me.

Maybe it was Reeka’s queen-bee syndrome. Kate had encountered it before with women in other newsrooms. Or maybe it was because Reeka regarded her as a gutter-girl-slut, a lowly community college grad.

Well, to hell with her, calling the way she did to attack me. She had it coming and I’m too tired to think about her right now.

It was late.

Kate had driven across Alberta and halfway back in one day. She’d uncovered more about Vanessa’s case and relived a nightmare. She was exhausted, anguished and now that more human remains had been found in Rampart, even more fearful that the woods around the barn had become Vanessa’s grave.

Kate pushed the thought from her mind as she drove, noticing how fast the sky had darkened after the sun set in the mountains. Her loneliness grew in the twilight but it left her when she stopped at a diner in Banff. She’d managed to reach Grace before Nancy put her to bed. The sound of her daughter’s voice as she told Kate about her day was soothing.

“I hope you can get me a present from Canada, Mom.”

Later, while preparing to leave the diner, Kate received a text from Chuck, which launched a terse exchange.

We need to talk over the phone in the am.

OK. What time? she responded.

Eight. We’ll call you.

We?

Reeka and Ben will be on the call.

This was serious. Ben Sussman was an executive editor.

I’m in Alberta. I’ll send you my hotel number.

Alberta?

Yes.

Fine. That’ll be 6 a.m. your time.

Kate drove the rest of the way to Calgary grappling with a million concerns. You’re tired. You’re not thinking clearly.

Besides, so much was out of her control.

At the hotel she’d put in a wake-up call then went to bed plagued with terrifying dreams of a woman burning alive in a blazing barn; a hand rising from the river; all to the melody of E-I-E-I-O , until a phone started ringing and ringing.

Someone should answer it. Why doesn’t somebody get that phone?

Kate opened her eyes to a torpid fog and answered her wake-up call.

She showered, made strong coffee, got dressed, went online and scoured news sites for the latest on Rampart. The case was attracting national attention. Bloomberg, Reuters and the Associated Press had all moved new stories on the mystery surrounding the discovery in Rampart and speculation there were more victims.

Kate had checked the status of her morning return flight when her room phone rang.

It was Chuck, on speaker with Ben and Reeka.

They got right to it.

“There’s a major news conference in Rampart tomorrow morning,” Chuck said. “We’re getting beat on this story. We need to own it. We’d like you to send us all you know on the case ASAP. We need an exclusive hook. Ray Stone will write a setup piece today and Michelle Martin from our Syracuse bureau will go to Rampart and cover the conference.”

“No.”

“No?” Chuck muttered something, then said, “Are you refusing?”

“Yes.”

“Insubordination given your situation puts you on thin ice, Kate.”

“Kate, Ben Sussman here. Why are you refusing?”

“I want the story.”

“I understand your personal interest,” Sussman said, “concerning your sister’s tragedy, and our hearts go out to you. But, as you know, to put you on the story violates our policy. You’d be using your position for personal gain, which is what got you into trouble in the first place.”

“What personal gain? Our job as journalists is to seek the truth. As far as my sister’s concerned, that’s what I’m doing, seeking the truth about her. I’d be serving readers.”

“Kate, it’s not that simple,” Chuck said.

“Hear me out. You all know that we’ve had staff produce work, good work, in which they used their position for personal gain. Our feature writer in Atlanta wrote about her daughter’s terminal illness and cracks in the insurance system. One of our financial writers did a first-person series about how his relatives were victims of subprime mortgages. I could give you other examples.”

“You make a valid argument,” Sussman said. “But your case is a bit more complicated.”

“That’s right,” Reeka said. “Kate, the distinction with your case is that you broke the law and could still be charged for trespassing on a crime scene.”

They had her against the ropes and had hammered her with the truth.

She didn’t know what to say.

A long silence passed before Chuck said, “Kate?”