5
Sandy sat at his desk in a daze. This had to be the greatest morning of his life. He still couldn't believe the reception when he'd walked into the press room two hours ago—cheers and a standing ovation. George Meschke had met him in the middle of the floor to shake his hand and tell him that his edition—yes, they'd called it his edition—had been selling out all over the city.
And now his voicemail. He'd just finished listening to the last of nine messages. People he hadn't heard from in years—a former roommate, old classmates, even one of his journalism professors—had called to congratulate him. What next?
"Hi, Sandy."
He looked up and blinked. Patrice Rawlinson, the perpetually tanned silicone blonde from the art department. Sure, she was faked and baked, but with those painted-on dresses she was everyone's dream babe.
He struggled for a reply. "Oh, uh, hi."
Brilliant.
In the past when he'd said hello to her in the halls she'd always looked through him. A real Ralph Ellison moment. But now she'd come to him. She'd walked that gorgeous body all the way to his cubicle and spoken words to him. She'd said his name.
"I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed your interview with the Savior. I hung on every word. That must have been so exciting to talk to him."
"It was." Please don't say anything stupid, he told himself. "It's a moment every journalist dreams of."
"You've got to tell me all about it sometime."
"Gladly."
"Give me a buzz when you're free."
And with that she swayed off. Sandy resisted sticking his head outside his cubicle for an extended look at her, as he'd done so many times in the past. He was above that now.
"Tell me that wasn't Patrice's voice I just heard," said Pokorny from somewhere on the far side of the partition.
"It was, my man. It most certainly was."
Pokorny groaned. "I'm going to kill myself."
Does it get any better than this? Sandy thought, grinning.
No. It was positively intoxicating. Like a drug. And just as addicting. He didn't want to let this go. Couldn't. He needed more, a steady fix.
But what next? He couldn't let this be the pinnacle of his career—talk about peaking too soon! He had to come up with something equal or better. And the only thing he knew for sure that would fit that bill was another interview with the Savior.
But what was left to cover in a second interview? Rehashing the same old material wouldn't cut it.
But what if I challenge the initial material? he wondered.
He suspected that some of it wasn't true. In fact the more he thought about it, the surer he became that the Savior wasn't doing undercover work for the government. That was a little too glamorous, a little too Hollywood.
So what other reasons could he have to stop him from stepping forward to be acclaimed as a hero?
And then he remembered his earlier conversation with Beth. He'd been blue-skying with her but—
Sandy slammed his hand on his desktop. Christ, I bet that's it! The man has a criminal record. He's a fugitive! Some sort of felon with a warrant out for his arrest. And that's why he was armed!
He had his next hook: get the Savior to talk about his crime. Maybe he was an innocent victim, on the run because of a crime he didn't commit—
No, stop. You're getting Hollywood again.
Maybe he'd committed just one crime, or maybe he wasn't bad all the way through. He certainly did the right thing on the train. Maybe…
And then it all came together, driving Sandy to his feet, gasping like a fish out of water. He had it! A fabulous idea!
He fumbled a slip of paper from his pocket—the phone number the Savior had given him. He reached for his phone, then stopped.
No. No calls from here. Somewhere he was sure the paper kept a record of all outgoing numbers. Better a public phone.
Sandy hurried for the street. He was a man on fire, a man with a mission. He was going to do something wonderful, something that would repay the mystery man for saving his life. Talk about advocacy journalism! He'd be pulling off a journalistic coup to make today's story look like a weather report. Not just your common everyday, run-of-the-mill journalistic coup—the journalistic coup of the new century!
Can you spell Pulitzer?