Free Fury by G. M. Ford

what you print, as long as you sell papers.” Corso kept his mouth shut. He’d heard it a million times before. The truth was that as long as they got a check once a month, most reporters couldn’t care less about circulation. Reporters don’t write stories to sell papers, they write stories to get their name above the fold on the front page. If the paper has a fold, that is.
    “What exactly did Himes say that day?” Corso asked. Donald snorted and shook his head. The elevator door opened. Donald walked him toward the front door. Over his shoulder, Corso caught a glimpse of the two desk cops. McCarty was beet red, whispering some very unsweet nothings in the younger man’s ear. Banging his knuckles on the desk to emphasize his point. The young guy was ashen-faced and looked frozen in place. Corso tried to slow down, but it was too late, Donald pushed him out the door into the cold, slanting rain. Corso pulled his collar around his ears and looked back through the glass door. McCarty was still red and still talking, except now he was pointing at Corso.
     
    “What about Himes? Will he see me?”
    Bennett Hawes looked like he was passing a kidney stone. “Day after tomorrow. Wednesday. One o’clock,” he said.
    “A nice call, Mr. Corso,” said Mrs. V. “I understand he’s turned down everyone else in town.”
    “Can we bring a photographer?”
    “Yeah,” Hawes said. “I’ve got the freelancer you wanted.” He crossed the room, punched a button on Mrs. V.’s phone. “Send Miss Dougherty upstairs.” He turned back to Corso. “Her name is Meg Dougherty.” He said it like he was expecting Corso to recognize the name. “The tattoo girl,” he growled. “You remember—couple years back—girl wakes up and finds herself tattooed from head to foot.”
    Corso remembered the story well. She’d been a successful young photo artist. Already had had a couple of very hot local shows and was beginning to attract national attention. Dating a trendy Seattle tattoo artist. Guy who kinda looked like Billy Idol. You’d see them all the time in the alternative press. Unfortunately, while she’s developing photos, he’s developing a cocaine habit. She tells him she wants to break it off. He seems to take it well. They agree to have a farewell dinner together. She drinks half a glass of wine and—bam—the lights go out. She wakes up thirty-six hours later in Providence Hospital. In shock. Nearly without vital signs. Tattooed from head to toe with what was rumored to be some pretty weird stuff. A Maori swirl design on her face. The boyfriend nowhere to be found. “They ever find the asshole who did it?” Corso asked.
    “Not that I heard,” Hawes said.
    They stood silently for a moment, as if mourning something lost. Mrs. V. broke the spell. “You’ll need to start early, Mr. Corso,” she said. “The budget won’t manage airplanes for something like this.”
    “How far is it?” Corso asked.
    “Two hundred forty miles,” Hawes said.
    Mrs. V. said, “I’ve reserved you a company car.”
    All heads turned toward the knock at the office door. Hawes started across the office. Didn’t get halfway there before she pulled open the door and stepped inside. Twenty-five or so. Six feet with an inch to spare. Pure Seattle Gothic. Black everything. Spider-lady dress down to her ankles and wrists. Doc Martens with soles as thick as bricks. Hair, eyebrows, lipstick. Everything black. She was heavy but nicely shaped. Rubenesque. Full-figured. Whatever you wanted to call it. The facial tattoos Corso remembered from the news photos were either gone or covered up.
    Mrs. V. wandered out from behind her desk. Hawes introduced the women to each other first, then turned to Corso. “Frank, this is Meg Dougherty.”
    She crossed to him. “You write great stuff,” she said. “Should be fun working with you.”
    Up close, the skin on her face had a plastic quality. Shiny and brittle, looking like it had recently been sanded.