Free Black Tide by Brendan DuBois

but from Diane Woods, which gives me pause --- is that you're in the hospital. I get not one word from you about what put you there, or why you're there. Not a word. And you begrudge me the cards I send you. Not bad, Lewis. Maybe I didn't do so hot, but you weren't exactly too forthcoming."
    We sat for a while, not saying anything, while a robin scampered along the grass, cocking its head, until finally it struck and something squirming and alive was in its beak, and it swooped up, triumphant in its kill.
    She said, "So while all that crap is going on, I put together a package of my very best stories about the murders here and such, and I start mailing them out to newspapers that have more weight and more money than the poor little Chronicle . And even though Rollie has the heart of a true newspaperman --- 'What you did yesterday was great, honey, but what do you have for me today?' --- and even though I'm doing stories about third-graders going on field trips to Boston, I'm giggling inside 'cause I know that pretty soon the replies are going to be rolling in, and that I'll spend this summer somewhere else than Tyler. Doing real stories, stories that I can spend a couple of days working on. And I then move away and start forgetting about a certain night with you, Lewis."
    I reached over and put my hand on top of hers, and I sensed small victory, with her not pulling away. "No replies, right?" I asked.
    "Oh no, there were a lot of replies, and they all said the same thing. Nothing. No jobs, no openings, no chance of future openings. Here I am, working on my second newspaper job, trying to climb that damn career ladder. But someone's up on top, pulling away from me. You understand?"
    A boxy gray Chevrolet had pulled up near us, with Massachusetts license plates and a couple in the front seat. The back seat was filled with three or four kids -- it was hard to tell --- and one young boy was leaning out the window, dumping potato chips on the ground. The driver's-side door opened and a heavy-set man wearing bright yellow shorts and a T-shirt that said "Professional Muff Diver" ambled out, carrying a road map in his thick hands. He started walking over to us until I nailed him with look that made him glance down at the map and head over to the Common Grill & Grill.
    I said, "Labor Day's only a month away, Paula, and you're not looking forward to doing another bunch of back-to-school stories."
    She moved her hand against mine. "Right. By now I thought I’d be in a new office, in Boston or Hartford or maybe New York, learning the names of my co-workers, and instead I got Rollie chewing on me about not getting the school bus schedules in on time."
    I squeezed her hand. "I came back from the hospital, hoping to find you on my rear deck sporting a string bikini, and instead, my home smells like a gas station and I feel like you're about ready to slip a knife into my ribs."
    For a moment she giggled and she said, "Your imagination's too much, Lewis." Then her voice softened and she said, "This hasn't been the best of summers, and it started going downhill right in June, right after that night. I thought I was the best then, being with you and scooping every news organization in the region about the murders here, and then in a couple of weeks, I was doing a story about Miss Tyler Beach and wondering what in hell had happened to you. And you haven't been much help, being the secretive guy you are. Still won't tell me who George is --- or was.”
    Somewhere hundreds of miles away from this sunny spot was an office with a filing cabinet and in that cabinet was a signed agreement that allowed me to be here, to live in relative comfort and in silence. It wasn't an arrangement that I particularly liked but it was the only arrangement available.
    I said, "George was my boss, once. He did something stupid that ended up, well, it ended up hurting me. And when I found out that night that I was sick again, his was the first name that came to mind.