Chapter Fourteen
Sid was scared and it showed. He leaned forward on his desk and his face was twisted with concern. “I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s more than we can handle. I think we should both meet with your guy O’Neil.” He pointed to the bloody arrowhead razor. “This changes everything. I think you need to get out of town and I think you need protection.”
Dave was in no mood to argue. He was shaken and his mind was addled by the reality of his situation. He was a central character in whatever was going on and it was not lost on him that he was the mouse in a world dominated by murderous cats. He was the object of amusement. He could be consumed in the drama on a whim. “Yeah, you’re right. I need to file on this and go somewhere safe.”
Sid was ahead of him. “We’re done holding this. File four or five pieces for the can on the stuff you’ve been sent and we’ll top them with updated material that comes in. You know what to do. I’ll call O’Neil and tell him what we’re doing and get him down here if he’ll come. Otherwise, we’ll go up to 4D. Maybe we can get him or somebody else from the police to go on tape.”
“Good luck with that. I think he’s playing with us. I’ll get on it.” Dave walked into the newsroom and sat at a computer, logged in, and stared at the screen. His computer beeped with a top-of-line message. It was from Gabriel. “You okay?”
He sent back, “I’m filing some pieces. Have you talked to Sid?”
“File and get the hell out of here.”
Other staffers were looking at Dave with the expressions usually reserved for traffic accidents or heart attacks; pity and shock. Word had spread through the newsroom that Dave had been sent items linked to the murders of the priests. The story would go national and now Dave was a subject, not a reporter. Such line-crossing had killed more than one journalism career, whether or not the reporter in question was responsible. And his colleagues knew that he had to go into hiding for his own protection. That in itself was news.
He stared at the screen for several minutes, not writing a word. His heart was beating and it occurred to him that his strongest feeling was about the story, not himself. He didn’t want to leave the story to someone else to report, he wanted it for himself. He wondered if he was going over the edge when he weighed the benefits of remaining in Washington to report on whatever happened next against the dangers he faced if he did that. He was excited by the danger. He was brought back to Earth by a mental image of himself bleeding to death in an alley or in his own apartment. Is it worth a story? Part of him answered yes. Another part imagined his funeral as colleagues and competitors gathered in small knots talking about his career. What would they say? He knew that many of them would say he had been stupid. It was not that the priest murders story would go unreported. His greatest regret was that it would go unreported by him. He could hear the last line of the story about the priests killings. “And reporter Dave Haggard came out of hiding.” It embarrassed him.
His top-of-line beep broke into his daydream. It was from Elena. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Sorry.”
“I’m so sorry I was mean.”
“We can talk about this later. I have to file.”
He wrote four pieces about the rosary, the book, and the bloody razor arrowhead and how they had been delivered to him following the grisly killings. He kept his stories to the materials and left out anything that could be updated by events or a police department press release. His copy tied each item to a specific murder. He left out any mention of whether the police lab had linked them, leaving that to the wrap-around copy the newscaster would be given. He went into a studio to record the pieces and saw that Sid and O’Neil were waiting for him Sid’s office when he came out.
O’Neil had a smile on his face. “I think I should call you Goat. When Africans want to catch a lion they tie a goat to a tree and wait. Maybe we could do that with you.” He put his arm around Dave. “I have a place for you to go. You’ll be okay there.”
Sid wasn’t smiling. “The good captain has agreed to a short Q and A. Elena will handle it and we’ll get someone else to wrap it. We’re putting a special together that the stations can carry.” So-call “specials” were good for business, whether the broadcaster was public or private. Stations liked them because they were easy to hype and funders or sponsors liked them because they were believed to add gravitas to a news operation. He sat back and used his bottom drawer as a footstool. “There’s a place in Virginia where you can go until this cools off. Captain O’Neil has a friend who has a place where you can stay. We’ll keep you up to date on what’s happening and maybe you’ll be able to file something, depending.”
“On?” Dave let the question hang in the air.
“Whether something happens.” Sid looked uncomfortable.
O’Neil seemed to be amused by whatever was taking place between Dave and Sid. His eyes were merry as he watched the discomfort both men felt. “Dave, do you know where Sperryville is out in Rappahannock County?”
“Sort of.”
“We have a friend out there who has a place on about five-hundred acres. He can put you up for awhile. You can go for long walks.” O’Neil added a small laugh. “I’m gonna send one of my guys to your place while you pack your things. I’d take enough for a few days if I were you.”
Rappahannock County, Virginia is known for a world-class restaurant in the county seat, Washington, known as “Little Washington”, and the Shenandoah National Park, on the county’s western border. The town of Washington is named for the teenage surveyor who laid it out in the summer of 1749. The population of Rappahannock County is less today than it was in the 1830s, despite its proximity to Washington, D.C. and the well-heeled swells who could afford weekend homes there. This is the result of the county’s revulsion at the growth of nearby counties, where strip malls and townhouses crowded out farms and scenery. Rappahannock County has no strip malls, no fast food outlets, no stop lights and none of the other trappings of modern day growth. Its severely restrictive building policies ensure that the place looks pretty much as it did a hundred years ago, with breathtaking vistas of the Blue Ridge and its valleys. Small vineyards, inns, farms, and hamlets dot the landscape.
Visitors from the nation’s capital drive to Warrenton, an outer suburb, and head west on Route 211. Soon the suburban ugliness disappears and the rolling hills of the Piedmont butt against the Blue Ridge. Dave and a detective named Jefferson were in an SUV that had been confiscated from a drug dealer in D.C. It was a luxury vehicle and Jefferson liked the feel of it, which he mentioned every few miles. He blasted the vehicle’s sound system at a high volume, swaying to Reggae tunes and slapping the steering wheel. As the winter sun was setting over the mountains, Jefferson pulled onto a blacktop side road that took them to an open farm gate over which was a sign that said, “Spring Farm, est. 1831.” A gravel drive took them past a dozen cattle huddled against the cold, across a wooden bridge that spanned a bubbling stream, and up into a forest that hugged the mountainside. The drive was just over a mile and it ended in the yard of a modern stone house that looked down over the valley. One wall of the house was glass and Dave could see a grand piano near the window and a stuffed black bear standing and snarling near the keyboard.
An older man, stout and vigorous, opened the door. “Welcome to Spring Farm!” His face was consumed with the smile and his large hands were wide with the welcome. “C’mon in. It’s cold out there.”
Jefferson greeted the man like an old friend. Dave grabbed his bag and stepped inside. “Hello, I’m Frank.” The man appeared to be in his 60s, had thinning white hair and the air of a fellow who spent a lot of time outdoors. “Boy, you guys must be tired. Let me get you something.” Frank was very friendly, sort of like a salesman, Dave thought. Frank led the men up a twisting flight of stairs to a large room that faced the valley below. The silhouette of the Blue Ridge was punctuated by the lights of the hamlet of Sperryville to the west and by isolated farms tucked into the valleys and
hillsides.
“Hell of a view, isn’t it?” Frank said. “I built this place myself. It took me years to put together the property.” He went to a small bamboo bar and poured bourbon into three highball glasses, which he passed to Dave and Jefferson. “Here’s to peace and quiet.”
Dave looked out at the night and wondered what was going to unfold in the days ahead. He sipped the bourbon and glanced around the room, which encompassed a living/dining area, a large kitchen, and a book-lined den along the far wall. He went to the stuffed black bear near the piano and was amazed at how tall it was. The animal had been stuffed at its full height, front paws extended in aggression, a snarl on its lifeless face.
“I call him Bob. Bob the Bear.” Frank poured another glass of bourbon. “Watch this.” He walked to the bear and placed the glass into its right paw. “I had the taxidermist fix it so Bob and I could have a drink together.” He laughed and toasted the Bob the Bear. “I shot him right there on the deck. He came up and tried to get at some dinner I had out. Got him with a 30.06 modified Springfield right in the throat. I figured if he wanted in, I’d let him stay right there next to the piano. Helen used to play it. She passed away a couple of years ago, so poor Bob doesn’t have anybody to play for him anymore.”
Bob stood in the room, holding his drink, staring out through his glass eyes at the man who shot him. Dave gazed at Frank’s round, smiling face and wondered if the man was out of his mind or simply a country eccentric.
“So, Dave, this is where you’ll be staying for awhile,” Jefferson said. “Not here, exactly, but in a small guest house Frank has up the hill a little way. There’s no phone there but you can use your cell and, believe it or not, there’s Wi-Fi, so you can surf the Internet and check your email. Do not tell anyone where you are but you can say you’re well and safe. There is some fine hiking up here and Frank has a decent library, so you’ll have something to read. You’ll need to keep your head down until we can sort things out.”
Frank’s smiling face was red from the bourbon and he nodded as Jefferson spoke. “You’ll like it here. It’s a world away from what you’re used to.”
“Not exactly. I’m from East Tennessee, so I’m comfortable in woods and mountains.” What he didn’t say was that he left Tennessee to get away from all that.
The guest house was a two-room structure about a hundred yards from the main house. There was a small living room with a wood stove set into a fireplace and a Pullman kitchen, and an adjacent bedroom with a king-sized bed. A full bath was off the bedroom. Dave settled in and started a fire, more for the comfort than the warmth. On a whim he called Elena and left a message on her voicemail that he was safe.
Back at the main house Jefferson and Frank were having a phone conversation of another kind.