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  Sam stiffened. “We wrote it straight.”

  “The hell you did. It leaves more questions than answers.”

  “I warned you. I told you how it would look.”

  Canfield’s lips twisted into a bitter line. “You lied is what you did. You tricked him.”

  “He tricked himself. He knew the risks. You both did.”

  Canfield yanked the door open. He paused on the threshold. “You’ll answer for this, the both of you. I’ll make sure of it.” He flung the newspaper on the floor and marched out.

  In the abrupt silence that followed, I shut the door and leaned on it. “He’s right, you know. To some degree.” I looked at Sam. “We need to go see Blackie.”

  He nodded. “I’m going with you.”

  Over at the station, I told Blackie what I’d told Sam, that I didn’t think Whitfield's death was a suicide and why.

  “But Cory found evidence on Whitfield's hands that he shot himself,” Blackie said.

  “Did Cory find any other injury?” Sam asked. “A bruise maybe to indicate that he was knocked out?”

  “He had a swelling around his eye,” I said.

  “You mean someone could’ve put the gun in his hands,” Blackie said.

  “And then pulled the trigger,” Sam said.

  Blackie reached for the phone. In a few seconds, he had the ME on the line. The conversation was short. When Blackie hung up, his expression was grim.

  “Cory says there was a bruise, a swelling actually, but it was near the wound: too close for him to say it wasn’t caused by the shot. As for the angle of trajectory, he says it’s consistent with a self-inflected wound. So he’s sticking by his decision. Officially, it’s a suicide.”

  And unofficially, I was to blame.

  Chapter 33

  The next day, Canfield had the Movement declare me persona non-gratis. By then, word had gotten out that in his supposed suicide note, Whitfield not only confessed to having kidnapped and killed Esther, but accused me of having hounded him to death. Many people applauded my having ‘uncovered him and his crime,’ but many more maintained that he was innocent and had been framed.

  The great irony was that I agreed with them.

  Whitfield's supporters turned on me with a fury. Many of the invitations on my desk were withdrawn. Angry calls came in—some from Whitfield's fans, the rest from people who wanted it known that they disliked the press in general and now me in particular. At some point, I told the operator to stop putting calls through. She could take messages and I’d phone people back. But most of the messages weren’t worth taking and most callers didn’t leave numbers. There was one caller who was different. I got the message and returned the call.

  “Hello Hilda. How are you?

  “I’m fine. I—”

  “And Mabel?”

  “She’s getting better. They let her out this morning, and now she’s staying with me. Listen, I just wanted thank you. Thank you for destroying that man.”

  I didn’t say what I wanted to say. I told her about the arrangements Whitfield had made for Mabel. I gave her the name and phone number of Phil Payton, the real estate agent he’d contacted, and told her to stop by to pick up the contract. She had to return it with Mabel’s signature before we could give them the checks. She was thrilled. She couldn’t stop thanking the paper and me. Then I asked her the question that had been hovering at the back of my mind.

  “Where were you the night Whitfield was killed?”

  There was a stunned silence. When she answered, all the warmth in her voice had cooled.

  “I told the police and now I’m telling you: I was at the hospital, with Mabel. I wish I’d had the nerve to kill him. Then I wouldn’t have had to wait for somebody like you to come along.”

  “It’s just that, the other day, when Mabel was beaten, you said—”

  “I said what I wanted to do. That doesn’t mean I did it. Anyway, why are you asking? It was a suicide.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You sure know how to ruin things. I’m sorry I called.” She hung up.

  Hating myself, I telephoned the nurse’s station at Harlem Hospital and lucked up. One of the late shift nurses had come in early. She confirmed that, Yes, Miss Coleman had been there, all that night. She had slept in a chair by Miss Dean’s bedside.

  As I replaced the receiver, it occurred to me that Hilda still could’ve done it: Unaware that Whitfield had given up Echo and made reparations to Mabel, she could’ve snuck out and shot him, but to be honest, I didn’t think so.

  The phone jangled under my hand. I was surprised and annoyed. After all, I’d told the operator to take messages. I started not to answer, but was glad I did. It was Mabel.

  “Hi,” I said, surprised. “I’m so glad to hear from you. How’re you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Just got a little pain is all. But I had to call and thank you. Hilda just told me what you and the paper did for me. God bless you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can’t believe it. I’ll have my own place! And Miss Lanie? Hilda told me what you asked her. She was angry and I told her to stop being silly. Look at all you’ve done for me. And you don’t really believe she shot Sexton, do you?”

  “No,” I said, feeling guilty about the call to the nurse’s station.

  “See, Hilda,” she said, turning away from the phone and speaking to her friend in the background. “Miss Lanie’s just doing her job is all. She’s a smart lady and smart people ask questions.”

  She spoke into the phone again. “Miss Lanie, I know you having a hard time. But don’t you pay people no mind. They can be so ignorant. I know Miss Ruth is angry, real angry. But whatever she said, she didn’t mean it. And well … I just wanted to thank you, and to say I know you didn’t do no wrong. Sexton was no good. Whatever you did, you didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  Chapter 34

  As I hung up, a shadow fell across my desk. It was Selena.

  “Oh, Lanie,” she cooed. “This is terrible.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll survive.”

  “Of course, you will. But what about your column?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, really, it’s clear, isn’t it? What you should do—for the sake of the paper?”

  I have to admit my tongue failed me. Hours later, in hindsight, I thought of a million things I could’ve, should’ve, said. But at the moment, nothing occurred to me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t have the guts to make the right decision. Someone else already has.”

  She pointed to the glass fish tank of Sam’s office. He was on the telephone, listening tensely. He started to argue, apparently got cut off and gritted his teeth. The speaker must’ve paused because Sam jumped in, his hand movements emphatic.

  “That’s George Ramsey on the line. He’s ripping Sam a new one. It doesn’t take much to figure out why, does it?”

  Her enjoyment of Sam’s predicament surprised me even more than her vulgarity. But then I realized it shouldn’t have.

  Sam’s conversation ended. He dropped the receiver onto the phone cradle and let his hand rest on it. His other hand balled into a fist. He looked up through the glass walls and his gaze locked onto mine.

  “Uh-oh,” Selena said. “I guess your time has come.”

  I nearly told her that if she didn’t get away from me, hers would, too. Instead, I mentally shoved her aside and walked past the desks to Sam’s office. He stood when I entered and ran a nervous hand over his head.

  “Was that who I think it was?” I asked, closing the door.

  He gestured for me to sit down. I didn’t want to, but he said please, so I did.

  “Lanie, I’ve asked you this before. You did answer me, but I feel I have to ask it once more.”

  I waited. When he hesitated, I prompted him. “Well, what is it?”

  “Are you happy here? Are you happy in your job and happy at this paper?”

  It wasn’t what I expect
ed. “Ramsey told you to ask me that?”

  “No, he thinks he knows the answer. It’s me who’s asking.”

  I nodded. “I see. Does it matter what I say?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  I believed him. Still I was wary. “I don’t like games, Sam. If Ramsey gave you a message for me, then please just deliver it.”

  “It’s no game. And I’m no messenger boy.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  He tapped his pen on his desk. “I’m going to have to suggest that you take some time off to rethink your affiliation with the paper.”

  “Is that a pretty way of asking me to quit?”

  “It’s a way of asking you to think.”

  His words hurt.

  “You know, I didn’t expect much from Ramsey, but from you I … I thought—”

  “I did my best. But Canfield’s pulling some mighty strings. Ramsey wanted me to fire you. He wanted your scalp and he wanted it now. And I’m on his shit list for having run the initial column to begin with. You wrote it, but the decision to print it was mine. So he thought about getting rid of both of us.”

  “What stopped him?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. But I did tell him he’d regret it if he made a quick decision. Finally, he agreed to you just taking time off.”

  “So I’m suspended?

  “Don’t think of it that way.”

  “And I could still be fired?”

  “We both could be. At any time. But what I want you to think about is whether you really want this job to begin with. Seems to me, you want to do something else entirely.”

  “I’m quite hap—”

  He held a hand up. “Let’s not discuss it now. Take the time. You need it.”

  “All right then. I’ll go immediately.” I stood to go.

  “Don’t leave angry.”

  “I have a right to be angry, Sam. But not at you.”

  “Lanie––”

  He spoke to my back. I was already on my way out.

  Chapter 35

  The phone on my desk brrng-brnnggged as I walked past it. I ignored it and headed for the door. George Greene ran after me.

  “Lanie, you should get that.”

  “Why?” I said, not slowing down.

  “It’s probably Blackie. He’s been calling for the past five minutes. Says it’s urgent.”

  That stopped me. “Did he say what it was about?”

  “Nah. Just for you to please call him back.”

  With an irritated sigh, I went back to my desk, snatched up the phone and called the station house. I was put through to Blackie immediately.

  “Ah, Lanie. I’m glad I got you.” He had a thick brogue when he was upset, and it was thick now. “They’ve gone and let the devil out of the dog house.”

  His meaning took a moment to register.

  “You mean Echo?”

  “Aye, He’s free.”

  I sank down in my chair and pressed the phone to my face. “How did that happen?”

  “It was Mabel Dean. She dropped the charges.”

  He kept on talking, but I’d stopped listening. Why would Mabel lose her nerve? Why now, when Whitfield was dead and Echo had been jailed? And why didn’t she tell me?

  “It happened about an hour ago,” Blackie was saying. “I just came in and found out, or I would’ve phoned sooner.”

  “That’s all right. I …” My voice trailed away. I didn’t know what to say.

  Blackie cursed under his breath. “A mess it is, a royal mess. What are we going to do? I’m afraid he’ll come after you.” His use of the word ‘we’ touched me.

  “We are not going to do anything. I’m just going to go on with my … my life.” I’d started to say ‘my job.’

  “You can’t just continue as though nothing’s happened. The guy’s out there.”

  “I know. And I’ll be careful. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  I think I hung up on him. He was in the middle of saying something, warning me again, when I put the receiver down, just simply put it down. You should’ve known, my little inner voice said. You’ve should’ve expected this.

  In a daze, I called Hilda’s phone number. Mabel answered.

  I didn’t even bother to identify myself. I just said, “Why?”

  “You’ve heard,” she said, her voice full of guilt.

  “You and I, we were just talking. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t.” Silence. “Miss Lanie, I’m so ashamed.”

  I closed my eyes and leaned on the desk. “He got to you. How?”

  “It wasn’t just him. It was all of them. I couldn’t take it any more.”

  She’d been getting death threats, she said. Terrifying letters sent to the hospital, anonymous phones calls from Whitfield's supporters. Some newspaper report had carried her name and somebody in Hilda’s house had recognized her and told other people. Now it was horrible, terrible.

  “These people are crazy. What they’re saying and writing. You can’t imagine.”

  Oh, but I could. Hadn’t I been getting the same treatment? I should’ve known that she would be in for it, too. “It’s okay, Mabel. I understand.”

  “I didn’t want to, Miss Lanie, but—”

  “No, it’s okay.” I paused. “I take it you’re not scared he’ll come after you?”

  “Well … yes, I am. But he only went after me that one time, and he did it ‘cause Sexton told him to. Without Sexton, I don’t think he’ll bother, especially now, with the newspaper report and everything.”

  She was probably right. She was safe—as safe as anyone could be under the circumstances.

  I thought about my house. I’d overcome memories of the attack to again feel good there, and seconds ago, I’d been looking forward to returning home. Almost out of a job, that house was the only refuge I had left. But now, once again, fear surged at the very thought of entering it.

  Would he be waiting for me?

  Chapter 36

  I didn’t tell Sam about Blackie’s phone call. I can’t say why. Maybe it was because I was scared I’d see that I-told-you-so look in his eyes. Maybe, I was embarrassed that I’d messed up so badly.

  I wanted to call him. I wanted to lean on somebody. No, I wanted to lean on him. But I was afraid to, afraid to get attache and then to get hurt again.

  Of course, I didn’t do all that analyzing at that very moment. I just pushed the thought of calling Sam out of my mind, told myself I was being weak for wanting his protection—

  He has enough on his mind without you bringing him more trouble.

  And reached for the phone to call somebody else. Somebody safe.

  A locksmith.

  Then I called Blackie back to ask him to meet me at my front door.

  No need to endanger Sam, right?

  My phone was ringing when I arrived. It had taken on a very shrill, insistent tone—one that I’d come to associate with shrill, insistent reporters. I had become the prey of my own species. I ignored it.

  Blackie went through the house with me, both to make sure Echo wasn’t lurking somewhere and to offer suggestions as to where to add locks or bolt doors. Before leaving, Blackie talked to the locksmith, and then stepped back inside to talk to me.

  “It’s going to be all right. The guy knows what he’s doing. He’ll set you up real nice.”

  “Thanks, Blackie.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  “You’ve done enough.”

  I saw him out. For a few minutes, I watched the locksmith at work, and then I returned to the living room. Exhausted, I sank down on the sofa, kicked off my shoes, leaned back and closed my eyes. I was exhausted, but too tense to relax. I sat up again and rubbed my eyes. When the phone rang, I picked it up without thinking.

  “Mrs. Price,” the silky voice said. “Mr. Echo knows the truth. You killed him. You made him betray his brother and then you killed him. The gun was in his hand, but you pu
t it there.”

  Fear stabbed me.

  “Mr. Echo will make you pay. That is a promise. Mr. Echo will make you pay.”

  I slammed down the receiver and unplugged the phone. He’d gotten my phone number. No doubt, he knew where I lived. I hugged myself, feeling cold and dirtied, as if a snake had crawled over me. I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat on the couch, shivering.

  I couldn’t let this guy get to me like this. I couldn’t and I wouldn’t.

  I shook myself free of the blanket and went upstairs, to my bedroom, and the night table next to Hamp’s side of the bed. The drawer slid open. The gun was still in there, wrapped in an oil rag, untouched since the day Hamp put it there. How I’d argued with him.

  Don’t you be bringing death into our house.

  We need this, Lanie. The way things are, every home should have one.

  I checked the weapon. It was loaded. Hamp had taken me out to the gun range and forced me to practice. Practice. Practice. Until the gun no longer sickened me. Until it actually began to feel normal in my hand. And I sensed a certain pride in marksmanship.

  I rewrapped the gun and returned it to the drawer, feeling calm and determined.

  The locksmith called out. He was done. I fetched a bill from my purse and paid him. He told me the money was too much and tried to give some back. I pressed the change into his hand, curled his fingers over it and told him to keep it.

  When the door was shut the door behind him, I flipped the new locks adorning my door. They were heavy and ugly and I hated what they stood for.

  In stocking feet, I went down stairs to the kitchen. My gaze found Hamp’s leather tool kit. Whenever I entered the kitchen, it was always the first thing I saw. Three years, those tools had lain there. Three years. Right after his death, I couldn’t bear to touch them. As time went by, I’d told myself it didn’t make sense to put them away because I was going to fix the cabinet myself. One day, I’d do it.

  But I never had.

  I could’ve called in a carpenter to do the job, or asked any one of a number of friends to do it. But again, I never had. And to be honest, I probably never would.