PART TWO

Of course Gannon’s death was big news the next day. I called in sick so I could work on the story. The good ideas were coming in thick and fast. I created an identity for my character. His name was Jake Brown. He loved punk rock but hated visual art. He was born because his mother, a former Manitou Hotel maid, was forbidden to get an abortion by her boss. 
I allowed my creativity to run wild, but I reminded myself that this was more than a flight of fancy. My story could make life better for the people of Manitou, and that was at least as important as getting back to New York. 
It was no secret that Manitouans hated the hotel, Kory Industries, and the government.
“The stupid hotel is getting more expensive every year and drawing more tourists who see our place as a dive,” I was told by Megan McMurphy, owner of Lox Cafe. Lox has the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten.
“Kory is removing locals from good-paying managerial positions and all they care about is making money,” said Chris Rogers, once a full-time general manager but now a seasonal cook. 
“The city council and the darned police won’t let me sell met- I mean rent bikes from my porch, and it’s not just me,” ranted the old and toothless Paul Allister, when I interviewed him about his 100th birthday celebrations. 
Clearly, the fate of the city rested on Jake Brown’s shoulders. But what would his next move be? 
Over the next few weeks, Jake and I did a lot of damage. I put on my burglar mask and freed Epstein from jail the night before his hearing (“This isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean! They’ll find me!” he hissed, but I pointed a switchblade at him and he shut up.) I infiltrated the Manitou Hotel’s employee housing and took some very incriminating photos of broken mirrors, cramped conditions, and blood dripping from sinks. (Jake, my director of photography, moved the beard shavings and razor out of the last shot so it didn’t look like a shaving accident.) I slit a hotel guest’s throat over the pool, turning the water bloodred. I spray painted the Miranda rights onto the side of the police station. I threw a microwave with a burrito inside through the window of the city manager’s house. At every crime scene I left a little card with Jake’s name and the slogan “They’re Hiding The Truth.” 
I wrote articles in the aftermath of each incident. I noticed more and more reporters at the crime scenes, which was a good sign. But the big story hadn’t come yet, as I was writing glorified press releases. 
In order to write the bigger story, I’d need Jake to reach out and request an interview. I recorded him doing that in a heavily distorted voice, then blocked my cell number, called my office phone, and played the recording in a voicemail. Will denied my request to interview him, because he hated when a reporter pitched his own stories and because he didn’t want to “carry water for a criminal.” That didn’t faze me, and I didn’t even feel the need to call Rasmussen to help plan my next move. I wrote up a 3,000-plus word story with fake quotes from Jake and real quotes about the city from previous interview subjects. The story exposed the fake plot against Figero as well as very real complaints about the city government, hotel, and Kory. It also included some photos of the employee housing. 
I spent an entire weekend writing the story. Then on Monday I mentioned to the senile secretary, who had a soft spot for me, that she should make another batch of her delicious brownies for the office. She asked what fixins she should use. I told her they taste great with chocolate chips and plenty of powdered sugar.
Sure enough, a platter of Helen’s brownies was sitting in the kitchen the very next day. I took a few, then covered the rest with a month’s worth of laxatives. The powder blended right in with the powdered sugar. I stopped by the secretary’s desk on the way out. “You’ve outdone yourself!” I said. She blushed and gave me a hug. I patted her on the back with one hand, and put the bottle of laxatives on her shelf with the other. 
Everyone in the office partook. Within an hour both toilets were clogged and everyone was squirming in their chairs. Will was quick to suspect the brownies. I eavesdropped on his chat with Helen.
“Can’t be a coincidence that everyone’s bowels are loose today. What’d you put in those brownies.”
“Nothing, I promise, Mr. Williams.”
His eyes found the laxatives.  “Did you put this on instead of powdered sugar.”
“Oh… I don’t think so, but you know my memory isn’t what it used to be …”
Time for me to play the hero. I walked through the lobby with my empty water bottle, on the way to refill it in the kitchen sink. 
“Wortman. I know you can’t resist Helen’s brownies. How’s your stomach feel.” 
“I feel fine. Why? Are there any left?”
“Don’t have any more. Looks like she mixed up powdered sugar and exlax.”
“I doubt that. If she did then I would’ve gotten sick too, no? Maybe everyone got a bad batch of deli meat at the grocery store this weekend.”
Helen smiled at me. I felt pretty sure that I’d saved her job.
“Well, regardless, we’ll have to work remotely for the rest of today and maybe tomorrow,” Will said gruffly. “Since you’re healthy can I trust you to handle the printing press tonight.”
“Of course. I remember how to do it from our training.”
“Good. Now I have to go home to — well you know why.”
I spent my lunch break packing up my apartment. The office was empty when I got back. I uploaded my big story into the pagination software and made room for it by deleting a half-dozen useless articles. I gave my story the front-page treatment, and it sprawled all over the newspaper. I sent the pages to the printing machine, and watched as it spat out copy after copy of my masterpiece. Then I logged back into the pagination software and restored the earlier version of the paper, just in case Will decided to log onto the program from home and make sure I hadn’t altered the layout. 
I was in the clear. The papers would wait in the office until the delivery guys picked them up before dawn tomorrow morning. Will and the rest of the newsroom wouldn’t know about the article until it was on the website and in the hands of 10,000 readers. Rasmussen and the rest of the big-city reporters would pick up the story before lunchtime. He’d hire me before close of business.
I drove straight off the island. For the first time ever, I didn’t think about my untimely death during the traffic jam on the bridge. I headed east, towards the ritzy apartment I’d rented for myself in New York City.