Although the story itself was couched in careful terms that as much as admitted this was a guess based on the drawing of the goat on the door, by the end of the day most of Las Piernas would undoubtedly be convinced by the headline. While I wasn’t sure Mrs. Fremont hadn’t been murdered by Satanists, somehow seeing it in print brought about a reaction in me, making me want to find the flaws in the assertion.

Mark’s story on Jerry Tanner and the harbor shooting didn’t get the play it deserved, but it was reasoned, clear, and balanced. It’s a good thing I saw it, because the next story I laid eyes on didn’t make me feel any pride in working for the Express.

Not two inches away from the Fremont story, another headline proclaimed “Henderson Denies Son is Satanist.” It was my story all right, but the part that best defended Jacob was cut down to nothing and buried in the back half of the first section. I hadn’t expected any of it to go page one and saw that being placed as it was would only make Henderson appear to be defending against a connection to the murder.

Damn Wrigley’s miserable hide. This had his signature all over it.

I got dressed and made the most of what was left of Friday by working until about midnight, covering speeches and setting up interviews. Frank got off work about the same time I did, and stayed the night with me.

Saturday and Sunday were twin days. With the election so close, there was no such thing as a day off. There was a lot of work to be done, and Stacee actually proved to be of help. She and I ran around between various campaigns and political organizations, putting in long hours. Brian Henderson staunchly defended Jacob, but slid down in the polls as if they were greased.

Next to the Satanism charges, the big news was that definite physical evidence had been found in Tanner’s home to link him to the murder of the Gillespie child. I thought that might have made a difference in Frank, but it didn’t.

Sammy didn’t call back.

I came home exhausted each night, fed Cody, and crawled into bed with Frank, who still hadn’t said more than ten words to me. But he held me close, and I was too tired to need more. At least he was sleeping better.

On Sunday night – or technically, Monday morning – I lay asleep in his arms when the phone rang just after one o’clock. It was Pete. I handed the phone over to a drowsy Frank. He had the phone in his hand about five seconds when he yelled “What?!” and sat up in bed, moving his feet to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair. Every one of his muscles tensed. After a minute he said, “Why?” He listened in silence to the reply. He thanked Pete for calling and hung up.

I was sitting up by now. He was facing away from me. He sighed and said, “Monty Montgomery’s daughter walked in a couple of hours ago and confessed to murdering Mrs. Fremont. Pete just found out about it.”

“Julie?”

He turned and gave me a piercing look.

“Frank, she didn’t do it. She’s trying to protect someone.”

The look didn’t waver.

“It’s true, Frank, she talked to me Thursday. Not about the murder, but about her boyfriend.”

“What?”

I struggled for a moment with the problem of breaking Julie’s confidence, but decided if she was going to do something as stupid as confess to a murder to help Jacob, I would face the consequences of telling Frank what I knew.

“She and Jacob Henderson are seeing one another. Secretly. She’s been agonizing over the flyer her father sent out saying Jacob is a Satanist. She’s doing this to get back at her father or clear Jacob or both.”

“Pete says she claims that she’s a Satanist. That she was given the mission of killing-” His voice broke and he looked away.

I waited. I resisted the urge to touch him. “She didn’t do it,” I said calmly.

“I’ve got to call Pete.”

He made the call, telling Pete all I had told him. On a hunch, I caught Frank’s attention and said, “Ask him if there was anyone from the Express there when she confessed.”

He did, then waited while Pete asked one of the detectives who had been there. Frank listened, then said, “Mark Baker was there fifteen minutes before she showed up. He said he got an anonymous tip that there was going to be a big break in the case, that someone was going to confess. She walked in and announced her confession in a loud voice as soon as she laid eyes on him.”

“How long ago did Mark leave?”

He asked Pete, then said, “He was gone about two hours ago.”

I looked at the clock. “Shit. It will be in the paper tomorrow. She planned this. She confessed in time to get a late chase in, but not early enough to give Mark time to follow up much. If she’s released, it won’t be in time to counteract the damage on her father’s campaign.”

Pete and Frank talked for a few minutes more, then Frank hung up.

I called the paper, but anyone who could have made a difference was long gone. I realized that by now the story was in print and on its way to being distributed. Nothing could be done about it. As I put the phone down, I noticed Frank was sitting with his head in his hands.

I turned the light out. There was still enough light from the moon and streetlights to make out his features in the dark. I got in bed behind him, and reached up and rubbed his neck and shoulders. It was killing me not to ask him the five hundred or so questions that I had been gathering together for the last three days. He started to relax a little, and reached up and took my hands. He pulled them around his chest and lay back down. He wouldn’t look at me. I moved a hand up into his hair and stroked it gently.

“Frank?”

“What?” A whisper.

“I was there on Thursday, at the harbor.”

He turned toward me suddenly. “What?” Not a whisper.

“I was there when-”

“Oh God, Irene.” He sighed and turned on to his back, looking up at the ceiling. I waited, but he didn’t say more. After a while, he took hold of my hand again and held it between his. “Now you really know what it’s like, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Being with a cop.”

I thought about this for a minute. “No, Frank, that’s not the problem. Yes, I’m afraid for your safety. I’m going to worry about you, but I can live with that. It’s much more difficult to feel distant from you.”

He was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “I just can’t talk about it now.”

I watched him lying there, tense and troubled.

Neither one of us slept much that night.

13

MANIPULATED by a sixteen-year-old kid. I’m about to become known as the man who changed the course of politics in Las Piernas county on a setup by a teenager.” Mark Baker, usually one of the more easygoing members of the staff, was in a foul mood the next morning.

“You wrote it as fairly as you could.” Even as I said the words, I knew they would be little consolation.

“I waited around as long as possible, and they were still questioning her when we hit drop-dead deadline. I had no reason to believe she’d be released. I never said she was charged. I was careful, Irene. But you know no one reads anything as carefully as you write it.”

“Forget it, Mark. Every reporter has had something like this happen to them at least once.”

“Aw, crap, I should have known. But nobody here wanted to wait on it.”

“Understandable. Her timing was impeccable. She must have found out from somebody what time we…” An awful feeling came over me. I picked up the phone on Mark’s desk and called down to Danny Coburn. Sure enough, she’d asked him about deadlines and printing schedules when she was here on Thursday.

Mark, who had heard only my side of the conversation, was furious. “You saw her here on Thursday? And you didn’t say anything?”

“Hold on, hold on. I talked to her after I talked to you. And she wasn’t confessing to murder then. That surprised me as much as it did you. And I sure as hell didn’t know she had talked to Danny about our deadlines.”