Speak Ill of the Living by Mark Arsenault Page B

Voice
—the edition that had carried the
first
photo of Lime. The kidnapped Roger Lime was holding up a published photo of his kidnapped self. Eddie wondered about the
next
edition of the paper. If the pictures kept coming, how long before Lew Cuhna’s front page looked like two mirrors reflecting into each other?
    Eddie recognized the rock wall in the background of the picture—same as in the last Lime photo. He recognized the five-sided table that Henry claimed he had built from scraps of poplar. Eddie squinted at the table leg and felt his face flush; he counted seven marks on the leg, like little frowns, maybe from a curved hatchet blade.
    He made some notes for his story. Lime was wearing black sweat pants, a peach-colored dress shirt, un-tucked, and a black baseball cap.
    He appeared no worse physically since the last photo, but something seemed different. Eddie leaned closer, studying every crease in Lime’s face, then leaned back and stared at the photo from a distance.
    The creases in his face.
    That was what was different—his face had
different
creases last time.
    His expression is wrong.
    In the last photo, Lime’s face showed anger, even arrogance, like he was running out of patience with an incompetent employee, and was about to fire him.
    Not this photo—Lime’s eyebrows were high on his forehead, his eyes huge and round, his cheeks drooped, and his mouth bent into a stiff frown.
    He was terrified. Or at least he looked it. It all went into Eddie’s notebook.
    Eddie loitered for a moment after he had finished with the photo. Did he dare stop to visit Detective Orr? Would she still be upset that he had read Dr. Crane’s suicide note?
    Eddie thought of General VonKatz. The cat was never shy in telling Eddie exactly what he wanted—
Wake up! Food! More food!
—and he was never any worse off for speaking up. This time Eddie would ask Lucy for exactly what he needed for the story—the ransom note. What was the worse she could do? Throw him out of that tiny office? Eddie would step out before she could crawl over the desk.
    He spun and marched off, walking straight into Lew Cuhna. The shorter man’s nose smashed into Eddie’s sternum.
    â€œOw,” Eddie said, rubbing the spot on his chest.
    Cuhna cupped his hand over his schnoz and cried, “Son of a bitch!”
    â€œShoot—sorry, Lew.” Eddie stepped forward to try to help… somehow.
    Cuhna waved him away. “It’s fine, fine.” He took a green pencil from behind his ear. “Not your fault, you didn’t mean it.”
    Eddie watched him scribble
a-s-s-h-o-l-e
on his pad.
    â€œUm, are you sure you’re okay?”
    Cuhna crossed out what he had written. He drew a giant exclamation point. “Lot on my mind, Bourque, okay? Got another paper to put out by myself again this week.”
    â€œNews never stops,” Eddie said, but Cuhna wasn’t listening.
    Cuhna drew a rainbow on his pad, or maybe a frown. “Don’t need this, can’t take another week of this,” he said. He crossed out the frown, and then looked up hard at Eddie. “You’re a good man, Bourque. A newsman. I trust a good newsman.”
    Were those tears in Cuhna’s little green eyes? From hitting his nose, maybe? Cuhna just gazed up at Eddie, apparently waiting for some kind of answer.
    Eddie nodded, unsure. “Okay, Lew.”
    Cuhna wrote
O-K
on his pad in heavy letters, and then headed off to do his job.
    Eddie stared at the back of Cuhna’s head for a moment, wondering what was going on inside it.
    ***
    â€œNo way, Eddie. Not a chance in hell.”
    â€œLucy, come on—you haven’t even heard what I’m asking for yet.”
    Standing behind her desk, Detective Orr closed her eyes a moment and held up her hands like she was stopping traffic. “I don’t need to know. Take this down in your notebook,” she said, pausing a beat.