Caitlin saw incredulity on Jamie Lewis’s face. He probably considered this sleeping with the enemy, but he would have to live with it.
“The truly upsetting thing is that the person who deleted those files might still be among us. He or she could be standing next to you right now.”
Total silence descended on the newsroom.
“I don’t want to create some kind of McCarthy atmosphere of paranoia, but we’d be fools not to take rational precautions until we get this sorted out. So—here’s what we’re going to do. Our stories are going to be written on three or four notebook computers in the conference room. We will restore limited Internet access out here for research, but that’s it. Everyone will take their instructions directly from Jamie or me, and you’ll work only on what you’re assigned. If you see something suspicious, or feel strange about anything, come to us. Again, I don’t want a bunch of tattletales running around. Use your common sense. But make no mistake—we’re in a war, folks. They burned the Concordia Beacon last night. Now, we’ll be looking after your physical safety; we’re going to have some serious security around this building going forward. But be smart and be safe. And remember: for those of you who became journalists because of a David-versus-Goliath fantasy, this is your chance.”
She saw a few grins at this.
“One thing: you may see Sheriff Byrd show up and arrest me. If you do, just keep on working—after you snap a few shots of the proceedings.”
A few more laughs broke the tension.
“As for the news stories, I don’t care who you have to roust out of bed for comments or confirmations, or what resources you have to commit—just do it. We will probably be sued over some of this, so try to get it right. But the final responsibility rests with me, so be fearless. Do what Henry Sexton would have done.”
Caitlin knew her last assertion was not quite true: final responsibility rested not with her but with her father, who owned the chain. But if he didn’t trust her instincts by now—and back her with the full resources of the company—then she needed to find work elsewhere anyway.
“That’s it,” she said. “Make me proud.”
The crowd dispersed slowly, but as a couple of computers were switched on, the newsroom slowly became the fully engaged hive that Caitlin so loved. She pulled Jamie’s sleeve until he was following her down the corridor to her private office.
“What now?” he asked. “Gather the conference room team?”
“In a minute,” she said, walking faster. “I’ve used this newspaper as a weapon before. A sort of artillery piece, I suppose. But tomorrow’s edition is going to detonate like a dam buster.”
“A what?”
Caitlin laughed low in her throat, thinking of her grandfather. “That’s a kind of bomb from World War Two. Tomorrow we’re going to crack the foundations of a dam that’s held back terrible truths for forty years. And once that tide is let loose, a lot of people and careers are going to be washed away.”
Her editor’s eyes narrowed. “Not ours, I hope?”
Caitlin didn’t answer. They’d reached her office door. In the awkward silence that followed, Jamie’s eyes filled with an unspoken question.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Did you have to kill anybody?” he asked softly. “You didn’t tell me when you dictated the lead story. Who killed who down in that basement?”
Caitlin looked into his hungry eyes for a few seconds, then shook her head. “No. Penn did, though.”
Jamie went pale. “Oh, man.”
“I’d just as soon forget it, but I know I never will.” She took a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. “Have you thought about who you want in the conference room? Who you really trust?”
Lewis nodded. “Anna, Chris, Tim, and Brit. That work for you?”
“Sure. What about research?”
“Paul and Chesney for the main stuff. The rest can handle background details.”
“Fine.” She took hold of Jamie’s forearm and looked deep into his eyes. “I’ve got to ask this. Is there anybody you suspect at this point? Someone you really don’t trust?”
He shook his head and looked away, but she knew he was wrestling with something.
“Come on, Jamie. Out with it.”
He shook his head. “If I know something, I won’t hold it back. But I’m not going to start condemning people based on hunches.”
“Fair enough. But the stakes are pretty high here. We’re all-in on this one.”
“I know.”
After a few moments’ contemplation, Caitlin walked into her office and pulled the door shut behind her.
Coming into the familiar office after being tied to a pole in a basement that looked like some Nazi torture cell was almost like entering a decompression chamber. The moment she sat in her Herman Miller chair, a wave of exhaustion rolled over her. She’d been living on green tea and adrenaline for three days. She tried to add up the hours of sleep she’d gotten since Monday morning, but stopped when she couldn’t remember more than a three-hour stretch. At her best she had been functioning like someone with jet lag. Yet now, along with survivor’s guilt and anger and a dozen other emotions, she felt the giddy elation of someone who has been “shot at and missed,” as her grandfather used to say. The sense of relief was overwhelming. If she sat in this chair another minute without doing something, she would be asleep.
She made a note to talk to Chris Scanlon, an Examiner photographer who suffered from ADD, and see if he could spare some Adderall. Then she remembered she was pregnant. Surely speed couldn’t be good for a baby? I’d better Google it, she thought, turning groggily toward her computer keyboard. Then she remembered that Jamie had killed the paper’s Internet access.
My computer isn’t even on, she thought, hitting the power switch.
Nothing happened.