sense.”
“Yeah?”
“Mostly, he’s tired.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“There are actually some similarities between what’s been happening to him in the last few days and what would happen if he were still in the wild.”
“Why would he be in the wild?”
“He was born there.”
“Huh.”
“So either way, he’d probably have been headed north.”
“Why?”
“There are annual herring runs up north.”
“Yeah?”
The psychic waited a beat. “They eat herring.”
“Oh. Sure, yeah, I get that. So what does he think about being here?”
The woman sighed. “As I said, he isn’t communicating with me right now. But he’s obviously in a much better situation now than he was at that terrible place. Of course, he is still in captivity.”
“Yeah?”
“He used to live in the wild. Now he’s an attraction.” She gestured around the gallery at the cheering people, many of whom were knocking on the thick acrylic windows to try to entice him back.
“He told you this?”
“No. He hasn’t asked me to say anything on his behalf.”
“He asks you to speak? Jeez, what a story!” He scribbled frantically in his reporter’s spiral notebook, more to keep his excitement under control than for the notes themselves. You didn’t need them anymore; everything was on his digital recorder, there for the replaying. Sometimes he interviewed people and didn’t write down a single thing. “So what other stuff do you think he’ll want you to say?”
The psychic shook her head wearily. “There’s no way of knowing that until he communicates with me again. But I imagine he wants to go home. It’s what they all want.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“The captive killer whales who were born in the wild.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
He’d finished writing and was staring into the empty water of the pool when she said, “I’m going to leave now. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
His first thought was, if she was really a psychic, shouldn’t she know that without having to ask? But it was just as well if she couldn’t read his mind, because he was thinking he’d better get her photo before she started to look any worse. He’d hate to see what was at the bottom of that gene pool. Instead, he said, “I’m just processing what you’re telling me. It’s, you know, sad.”
The psychic nodded silently.
“So what’s your name?”
“Libertine. Libertine Adagio.”
“Your parents must have been patriots, huh? Liberty and all that. Okay, so hey, thanks for this. No kidding. You planning on talking to anyone else?”
She shook her head. “No—at least not for now.”
Far out—he’d gotten the scoop! “Don’t talk to anyone else if they contact you, okay? We’ll treat this as an exclusive. I’ll have the story filed in time to run in Monday’s paper.” Silently he railed again at the fact that the pissant News-Tribune only came out twice a week, and the publisher was considering dropping that to once a week if ad revenues continued to decline. Since the HuffPost was strictly online, it was always coming out—something newsworthy came along, you filed the story, and bam!, the thing went live online immediately, with your byline out there for the whole world to see. God, but he couldn’t wait for that day. He would definitely put this story on the Associated Press’s news feed, too, because he was absolutely sure it would be picked up.
The minute the psychic was out the door Martin hotfooted it to the back of the newsroom and told his editor, O’Reilly, that he had a story as big as the one he broke when the zoo was fighting over its elephant—maybe bigger. O’Reilly was a tool, but he also must have smelled journalistic gold because he gave Martin the go-ahead to work from home, where there would be no distractions. He beat feet to his car, an old Honda Civic he’d be able to replace once he was earning a living wage at the HuffPost.
At home, he cracked open a
“Yeah?”
“Mostly, he’s tired.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“There are actually some similarities between what’s been happening to him in the last few days and what would happen if he were still in the wild.”
“Why would he be in the wild?”
“He was born there.”
“Huh.”
“So either way, he’d probably have been headed north.”
“Why?”
“There are annual herring runs up north.”
“Yeah?”
The psychic waited a beat. “They eat herring.”
“Oh. Sure, yeah, I get that. So what does he think about being here?”
The woman sighed. “As I said, he isn’t communicating with me right now. But he’s obviously in a much better situation now than he was at that terrible place. Of course, he is still in captivity.”
“Yeah?”
“He used to live in the wild. Now he’s an attraction.” She gestured around the gallery at the cheering people, many of whom were knocking on the thick acrylic windows to try to entice him back.
“He told you this?”
“No. He hasn’t asked me to say anything on his behalf.”
“He asks you to speak? Jeez, what a story!” He scribbled frantically in his reporter’s spiral notebook, more to keep his excitement under control than for the notes themselves. You didn’t need them anymore; everything was on his digital recorder, there for the replaying. Sometimes he interviewed people and didn’t write down a single thing. “So what other stuff do you think he’ll want you to say?”
The psychic shook her head wearily. “There’s no way of knowing that until he communicates with me again. But I imagine he wants to go home. It’s what they all want.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“The captive killer whales who were born in the wild.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
He’d finished writing and was staring into the empty water of the pool when she said, “I’m going to leave now. Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
His first thought was, if she was really a psychic, shouldn’t she know that without having to ask? But it was just as well if she couldn’t read his mind, because he was thinking he’d better get her photo before she started to look any worse. He’d hate to see what was at the bottom of that gene pool. Instead, he said, “I’m just processing what you’re telling me. It’s, you know, sad.”
The psychic nodded silently.
“So what’s your name?”
“Libertine. Libertine Adagio.”
“Your parents must have been patriots, huh? Liberty and all that. Okay, so hey, thanks for this. No kidding. You planning on talking to anyone else?”
She shook her head. “No—at least not for now.”
Far out—he’d gotten the scoop! “Don’t talk to anyone else if they contact you, okay? We’ll treat this as an exclusive. I’ll have the story filed in time to run in Monday’s paper.” Silently he railed again at the fact that the pissant News-Tribune only came out twice a week, and the publisher was considering dropping that to once a week if ad revenues continued to decline. Since the HuffPost was strictly online, it was always coming out—something newsworthy came along, you filed the story, and bam!, the thing went live online immediately, with your byline out there for the whole world to see. God, but he couldn’t wait for that day. He would definitely put this story on the Associated Press’s news feed, too, because he was absolutely sure it would be picked up.
The minute the psychic was out the door Martin hotfooted it to the back of the newsroom and told his editor, O’Reilly, that he had a story as big as the one he broke when the zoo was fighting over its elephant—maybe bigger. O’Reilly was a tool, but he also must have smelled journalistic gold because he gave Martin the go-ahead to work from home, where there would be no distractions. He beat feet to his car, an old Honda Civic he’d be able to replace once he was earning a living wage at the HuffPost.
At home, he cracked open a
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