Prologue
Nine years ago
“Absolutely, Sir,” Jack said, remembering to keep his back straight and his shoulders firm as he stood in Mac’s office. His father had drilled him on his posture, and he damn well wasn’t going to slouch. “You can count on me, I won’t let you down.”
“You won’t, huh?” Sighing, Mac leaned across the desk and picked up a small white envelope, from which he slid a laminated card. “Get that rod out of your ass, boy, you’re not in the goddamn army. This is a newspaper in a dusty little town in the back-end of nowhere. As long as you bring me some decent copy for each edition, that’s all that matters, you hear me?”
“I’ve always been passionate about journalism,” Jack replied.
“Did you read that in a book?” Mac asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Did someone tell you to say that to me, to… I don’t know, to impress me?”
“No, Sir.”
“Don’t call me that. Call me Mac. It’s my goddamn name.”
“Yes, Mac. I mean -” He caught himself just in time. It felt wrong to be so informal, especially after all the advice his father had given him, but at the same time he felt he couldn’t disobey a direct order from his new boss. “Thank you, Mac.”
“For what?”
He paused. “Um… I’m not sure.”
Rolling his eyes, Mac took a look at the laminated card for a moment before sliding it toward him. “There’s your press card. Fat lot of good it’ll do you, but hang onto it anyway. Union rules say I’ve gotta give it to you, and the damn thing cost money. Plus, if you ever end up at a goddamn conference, you’ll probably get a discount at the bar if you flash that thing. Only goddamn use for it.” Leaning back in his chair, he watched as Jack took the card and admired it with obvious pride. “I remember when I was your age,” he drawled finally.
“You do, Sir? I mean, Mac…”
“I remember when my old boss gave me my first press card. I thought…”
“You were proud?”
“Nah. I just wanted to know when I’d get my first paycheck.”
“I’m not in this for the money,” Jack replied. “I mean, I do need to get paid, obviously, but I happen to think that journalism carries a deeper spiritual meaning, especially in a small-town situation.”
“You really are keen, aren’t you?” Mac said with a sigh. “Jesus Christ, all that crap about serving the public good and using journalism to maintain standards of discourse in society… You really meant it.”
“With all my heart, Sir,” Jack replied, slipping the card into his pocket. “I mean… Mac.”
“Well, we’ll scrub it out of you before too long.”
“With all due respect, I don’t know about that.”
“You sure you wanna be a reporter?” Mac asked. “Sure you don’t wanna pop down the road and sign up for the police instead?”
“Absolutely not,” Jack replied. “My wife’s just starting at the police station, actually. It was her first day just recently.”
“Well,” Mac muttered, “between the two of you, it seems like the town’s in safe hands. A cop and a reporter, eh? I don’t know whether to applaud or grab my sick bucket.” He paused. “I guess she’s in the thick of the Caitlin Somers murder, huh? Hell of a time to show up for your first few days.”
“Yes, Sir. It’s an awful business. She’s certainly been thrown in at the deep end.”
“You’re gonna have to cover that case, you know,” Mac continued. “Are you going to keep your private life out of your professional responsibilities?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” Mac frowned. “Why the hell would you do that? You’ve got connections with the local cops, you’d damn well better use them. I’m sure the little lady won’t mind slipping some information to you under the dining room table, so to speak. And if she’s reluctant, drill her good.”
“Wouldn’t that be unethical?” Jack asked.
“Huh?” Mac replied, cupping a hand to his ear as if he was suddenly
Nine years ago
“Absolutely, Sir,” Jack said, remembering to keep his back straight and his shoulders firm as he stood in Mac’s office. His father had drilled him on his posture, and he damn well wasn’t going to slouch. “You can count on me, I won’t let you down.”
“You won’t, huh?” Sighing, Mac leaned across the desk and picked up a small white envelope, from which he slid a laminated card. “Get that rod out of your ass, boy, you’re not in the goddamn army. This is a newspaper in a dusty little town in the back-end of nowhere. As long as you bring me some decent copy for each edition, that’s all that matters, you hear me?”
“I’ve always been passionate about journalism,” Jack replied.
“Did you read that in a book?” Mac asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Did someone tell you to say that to me, to… I don’t know, to impress me?”
“No, Sir.”
“Don’t call me that. Call me Mac. It’s my goddamn name.”
“Yes, Mac. I mean -” He caught himself just in time. It felt wrong to be so informal, especially after all the advice his father had given him, but at the same time he felt he couldn’t disobey a direct order from his new boss. “Thank you, Mac.”
“For what?”
He paused. “Um… I’m not sure.”
Rolling his eyes, Mac took a look at the laminated card for a moment before sliding it toward him. “There’s your press card. Fat lot of good it’ll do you, but hang onto it anyway. Union rules say I’ve gotta give it to you, and the damn thing cost money. Plus, if you ever end up at a goddamn conference, you’ll probably get a discount at the bar if you flash that thing. Only goddamn use for it.” Leaning back in his chair, he watched as Jack took the card and admired it with obvious pride. “I remember when I was your age,” he drawled finally.
“You do, Sir? I mean, Mac…”
“I remember when my old boss gave me my first press card. I thought…”
“You were proud?”
“Nah. I just wanted to know when I’d get my first paycheck.”
“I’m not in this for the money,” Jack replied. “I mean, I do need to get paid, obviously, but I happen to think that journalism carries a deeper spiritual meaning, especially in a small-town situation.”
“You really are keen, aren’t you?” Mac said with a sigh. “Jesus Christ, all that crap about serving the public good and using journalism to maintain standards of discourse in society… You really meant it.”
“With all my heart, Sir,” Jack replied, slipping the card into his pocket. “I mean… Mac.”
“Well, we’ll scrub it out of you before too long.”
“With all due respect, I don’t know about that.”
“You sure you wanna be a reporter?” Mac asked. “Sure you don’t wanna pop down the road and sign up for the police instead?”
“Absolutely not,” Jack replied. “My wife’s just starting at the police station, actually. It was her first day just recently.”
“Well,” Mac muttered, “between the two of you, it seems like the town’s in safe hands. A cop and a reporter, eh? I don’t know whether to applaud or grab my sick bucket.” He paused. “I guess she’s in the thick of the Caitlin Somers murder, huh? Hell of a time to show up for your first few days.”
“Yes, Sir. It’s an awful business. She’s certainly been thrown in at the deep end.”
“You’re gonna have to cover that case, you know,” Mac continued. “Are you going to keep your private life out of your professional responsibilities?”
“Of course.”
“Really?” Mac frowned. “Why the hell would you do that? You’ve got connections with the local cops, you’d damn well better use them. I’m sure the little lady won’t mind slipping some information to you under the dining room table, so to speak. And if she’s reluctant, drill her good.”
“Wouldn’t that be unethical?” Jack asked.
“Huh?” Mac replied, cupping a hand to his ear as if he was suddenly
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