Running Ink

One obituary unvails the scemes of a century of government corruption.

 

For some people it’s fresh coffee, and for others a morning jog. But for Abigail, it was the smell of fresh ink. The way words jumped off a warm newspaper was like espresso to her. She sat in the kitchen and unfolded the paper while pouring milk over her corn flakes. “Someday my articles will be front page, Sophie” Abigail remarked in response to the grey cat rubbing against her leg.

            “Fine, I’ll read mine.” Abigail responded to the cat’s pleading eyes. “‘Charles Hartsfield died August 14, 2005. Survived by his daughter, Sable Yarbro. Died of natural causes,’ too many cigarettes really, ‘in Greaves Memorial Hospital.’ Bored already?” Abigail stated watching Sophie jump off the table.

“I know, but it’s a start.” Abigail shrugged setting her bowl in the sink. It seemed pointless writing obituaries, but no one at Northwestern said writing headliners would happen right away. It had taken Abigail six years just to write the life stories of dead people. With a deep sigh, her mother’s words came to mind, ‘it only takes one article to get on the front page.’ With a shake back to reality Abigail grabbed her bag. “Enjoy your day Sophie.”

Abigail headed out to the gym and after a round of kickboxing and a cold shower she slipped into her cube at the Chicago Tribune.

“Morning Deb. Mitch.” Abigail greeted.

            “Good morning, Abby.” Mitch said exploding with optimism.

            “How was kickboxing?” Deb answered, eyes fixated on her computer.

            “It’s great; you should come sometime.”

            “Right.” Deb replied.

            “Is that a new picture of Bruno?” Mitch exclaimed peaking into Deb’s cube.

            “New enough.”

            “Any new pics, Abby?” Mitch asked.

            “I…”

            “No pictures of your family?” Mitch said since Abigail’s cube had no personality.

 “Roades; my office five minutes.” The editor informed as he passed by the cube, which silenced the conversation.

“I wonder what Davidson wants, Abby.” Deb asked curious enough to take her eyes off her computer.

“I guess I’ll have to go find out.” Abigail stated walking toward the editor’s office.

            “Mr. Davidson, you said to-”

            “Yes Roades come in. I’m assigning you a special request. Eli Tate.”

            “Who?”

            “Someone, the owner wants an ‘Obit’ on.”

            “An obituary?” Abigail replied feeling her heart stop.

            “Here’s the slab number. Monty wants it in the Wednesday copy, and say hi to Stan.”

            “What’s the assignment?” Mitch and Deb asked anxiously once Abigail returned to her cube.

            “Another ‘obit’.”

            “But?” Mitch started.

            “It’s some special request from Montgomery.”

            “That’s weird; the owner of the paper wants a special obit?” Deb remarked.

            “Go figure right. I have to go to the morgue for this guy’s files. I think I will work from home after that.”

            “There has to be something.” Deb stated with gears spinning in her head.

            “We’ll see, Deb.” Abigail replied. Once out of the office her mind was frantically trying to focus on her ‘special’ assignment, but she couldn’t escape the obvious questions. ‘Why would Montgomery be interested in Eli Tate, and who could this guy be?’

 

            “A homeless man?!” Abigail nearly screamed

            “Yeah, I am surprised anyone wants an obituary on him.” her friend Stan said leading Abigail through the morgue.

            “Me too.”

            “Did you want to see the body?”

            “Goodness no!” Abigail exclaimed.

            “Your reaction always makes my day.” Stan remarked trying to contain his laughter.

“Priceless I’m sure; just hand me the records.”

            “Sure, you know the drill.” Stan said passing her a clipboard. Abigail scanned the list in a paranoid fashion. Richard Parks. Sable Yarbro- Mr. Hartsfield’s daughter- and one name jumped off the page.

            “Serena Greaves? The billionaire’s wife?”

            “Yeah, she was in here a couple days ago about this Tate guy.”

            “Really?!”

            “Yeah she wanted his stuff, but I told her only a relative could claim them.” Stan explained.

            “Thanks for the copies. Davidson says ‘Hi’”, Abigail stated grabbing the thin file and headed out the door, still annoyed with her assignment. ‘Time to get started,’ Abigail thought to herself as she headed home.

Once inside the apartment she greeted Sophie and grabbed the mail scattered near the door, which consisted of bills and a post card from L.A. She turned the postcard over to find her sister’s handwriting.

‘Hey Sis, all’s good in L.A. I saw my favorite director. Hope you’re dry in the windy city, Chloe.’

Everyone deals with grief in their own way. That thought was in Abigail’s mind as she headed to her bedroom; this time she couldn’t avoid looking at the seven year old family portrait on her dresser. That photo looked like the perfect family, but cancer and grief were enough to break family ties. Abigail’s mom had gone through her bout with cancer for four years without changing her spirit, but the day she died everyone chose a different road.

Abigail sat on the couch with her mind still trying to focus on the obituary of a homeless guy. “Alright Sophie, just don’t jump on the coffee table,” Abigail remarked as she began to spread out the files from the morgue; certificate of death, birth records, and other evidence of this guy’s life.

 “Eli Benjamin Tate,” Abigail began aloud. “Born June 14^th, 1946; cause of death gun shot wounds. Nice, drugged up too. I’d loved to find out what Montgomery has to do with this.

“Continuing on, Vietnam Vet with a Purple Heart. That should be the army’s next recruiting campaign.”

 “Ah, police records. Possession of narcotics... Kidnapping charges May 2000; that’s strange? ‘Eleanor and Martha Stanford, granddaughters of Mason Greaves, gone missing. No leads… Reward. Homeless man responsible… Eli Tate arrested.

‘Eli Tate released a week later. Martha Stanford’s comment- “Tate was helpful in our rescue”.’

“Bizarre.” Abigail said continuing to read.

‘Tate’s only comment, “It’s all relative”.’

“He must have been ‘high’ when he said that… What else we got? Married once, October 12, 1965 to Serena McAlister.” Red flags and fireworks went off Abigail read that name and began digging through more records.

“No way! Serena McAlister married Eli Tate, 1965. Divorced 1968, and married Mason Greaves in 1969. That’s why she was at the morgue.

Abigail was still a bit confused. “Time to take a step back,” Abigail said flipping on the news.

“Chicago is buzzing for the debates between long standing senator Paulson and thirty-nine year old Greaves.” The announcer said, and then the calculator began to run in Abigail’s head.

 “If Tristan is thirty nine, then he was born in 1966, while Serena was married to Eli Tate. How in the world did Serena pull that off?”

“She changed his name?” Abigail shouted scrambling through her resources. “She must have paid out a lot of hush money. But why in the world does Montgomery want this in an ‘obit’.”

 

Abigail woke to the thud of the paper outside her door.

 She sat up from the couch still confused about Eli Tate, and walked over to get the paper. The front headline caught her attention. “Paulson stirs up the Race”, Abigail read skimming the article. “Character attacks. Greaves to respond at Tuesday’s press conference.

“The press conference! I might get answers there.” Abigail rushed into the shower and out the door.

 Abigail’s nerves began to rise as she got closer to Greaves headquarters. She had never been to a press conference, or even asked questions like the ones in her head. Then it hit her, if she comes out and asks about Eli Tate, it would be just hours before the story hit the fan, and Abigail wanted the scoop first.

The train came to a jerky halt and Abigail dashed out of the doors. Within minutes she could see the crowds piling around Haven Tower. Abigail paused and took a deep breath before stepping into the masses. Through the noise and chaos one voice rang out; the man at the door.

“If you are not on the press list you won’t get in. Miss?” The large man stated.

“Chicago Tribune.” Abigail said with all the confidence she could muster.

“The rest of your party isn’t here, but go on in.” The door man said stepping aside. For another hour more press and cameras filtered through the door until the noise was deafening and the clock on the back wall hit 9:30. Abigail found a corner where she could be heard, and not seen by anyone from the Tribune.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your future senator, Tristan Greaves” a campaign aide announced as the well dressed son of a homeless man stepped up to the podium, followed by his family.

The questions soon began, and Abigail’s eyes focused on the family sitting around the handsome man. Tristan’s face was nothing like the angular features of his family. He was rugged and strong, like a face belonging in a GQ or a Calvin Kline ad. But it surprised her that no one had looked closely at the prestigious Greaves family.

Abigail listened and absorbed the experience for about thirty minutes, but when the call for final questions came. Abigail’s hand shot up, and her eyes locked onto Tristan Greaves.

“How will your strategy change to ‘ELI’min‘TATE’ Paulson after the debate?” The other reporters looked over and scoffed at Abigail. But the pale frozen faces of the Greaves family let Abigail know her real question was heard.

“No more questions thank you.” Greaves announced. He quickly turned to his aide and pointed in Abigail’s direction.

 “Please, come with me.” The aide commanded moments later taking Abigail by the arm. The aide led her to a back room filled with the nervous Greaves family.

“How do you know that name?” Serena Greaves nearly shouted once Abigail entered the back room.

“Mother, please. Sit down with everyone and I will ask your questions.” Tristan Greaves said, while his family took a step back.

“Please follow me.” Tristan Greaves said softly, placing his hand firmly on the small of Abigail’s back leading her into a small office.

“Now, Miss”-

“Abigail Roades, sir.”

“Well Miss Roades, how do you know that name?” Tristan asked gathering his composure.

 “I was assigned to do his obituary, sir.”

“By whom?” Greaves asked.

“It was a special assignment from Samuel-”

“Montgomery.” Tristan completed with disdain. “How much do you want?”

            “Money? I guess those tactics worked before.”

            “Yes, they have.” Greaves replied calmly. “How did you put the pieces together?”

            “Public records are hard to contain and easy to connect, when half of it’s on the internet.”

            “Alright then, how well do you know Montgomery?”

            “I only work at the paper, sir.”

“Do you know why Montgomery is so interested in my father?”

            “I am curious about that too.” Abigail replied.

            “Montgomery financially supports my running mate, Paulson.”

            “Then why not go straight to the press?”

            “Well-”

            “If he went public with this, all you’d need to say is that you never knew him. Where you come from doesn’t have to define you.” Abigail interrupted.

            “The world has a hard time seeing past your family. Look, there’s nothing more I can say.”

            “But?”

            “You’re a journalist. Trust me; this is something you don’t want to dig into. Good day Miss Roades.” Tristan said. Within seconds his aide came over to escort her out.

Frustration and confusion filled Abigail’s mind as she left. Her office was the next destination. She still didn’t know how she would come up with an obit for the five-o-clock deadline.

           

“Hey Abby, how is that ‘obit’ going?” Mitch asked.

            “I just don’t get it.” Abigail said slouching down in her chair.

            “Get what?” Mitch asked rolling over to Abigail’s cube.

            “Ok, this guy is the father to a very important person. And “Big Wig” Montgomery gave it to me instead of going to the press himself. Now I have to choose sides.”

            “What sides are there?” Mitch asked.

            “Do I screw over a good man’s career, or destroy my own.”

            “You have to decide which is more important, the scoop or this guy.” Mitch said returning to his work.

Abigail mulled over her choices. “And I still don’t see why he wants to hide where he comes from.”

“Don’t you do that?” Mitch asked. Abigail turned around in her chair, confused. “You have no pictures of your family. No personal items in your cube to let anyone know who you are.”

“I don’t want-”

“Why? Will we think differently of you?” Mitch asked rhetorically.

 Abigail thought over Mitch’s words and soon her fingers went a mile a minute filtering through all the information on Eli Tate’s life. With fifteen minutes to spare she found herself in Davidson’s office.

“So this is the ‘obit’?” Davidson asked quickly reading it over. “Not your normal stuff.”

“Not a normal man.” 

 

Sophie greeted Abigail at her apartment door; after changing clothes she began making Mac and cheese. The water slowly started to boil, but her thoughts couldn’t escape Tristan’s desire to forget his father, while Mitch’s comments echoed in her head. Embracing where you come from is part of self discovery, but why was she running from it?

Suddenly the fire alarm sounded. “Dinner!” Abigail pulled the pot off the stove.  She grabbed the paper and began to fan out the steam. “Well, looks like dinner out tonight.” Abigail stated once the fire alarm stopped. “I’ll be right back, Sophie. No, you stay inside.” Abigail scolded keeping Sophie from succeeding in her daily escape attempt.

Along the streets painful memories slipped to the surface. The McDonalds on the corner- Saturday morning breakfast with dad. The magazines stand- Chloe dreaming of Hollywood. Suddenly, drops of rain began to hit her face and the clouds opened their storehouses, bringing another memory to mind.

 

“It’s raining.” Her mother said watching the water pound the hospital windows.

“But where is the fresh start? You’re dying.” Abigail said from her mom’s bed side.

“Let it wash away the pain and suffering you have gone through, and start anew.”

“I can’t do that without you Mom.”

“Start fresh, sweet one.”

 

Abigail couldn’t tell the difference between her tears and the rain soaking her face. To escape the memories she ran back to her apartment building and up the stairs, but she froze at the landing at a familiar sound, “Meow!”

“Sophie?” Abigail whispered. She was certain the cat had been inside when she left. She picked up the loving cat and heard the floor boards inside her apartment squeak, and she froze again. ‘Who was in her apartment—what could they want?’

In a split second she was face to face with a black ski mask, “Hey!” the person shouted and reached for Abigail’s arm, but she was off, and Sophie was back on the ground. The stairs came faster than her feet could move rushing down the stairs. Her wet shoes couldn’t keep up with her panicked mind, causing her to slip and tumble down the stairs. Abigail hit the first floor landing with a paralyzing thud. Her wet body tried to find the ability to stand but she felt a hand grab her shoulder. With every ounce of strength she hit the man with a sloppy kickboxing move. The man collapsed in pain on the floor, once Abigail finally got her feet beneath her she dashed out the door.  The rain continued to pour all around her, but from the alleyway came another ski mask. “Hey!” The figure shouted making Abigail turn and run faster. She knew she couldn’t out run him, but the thunder of Chicago trains spurred her on.

She grabbed the stair railing and pushed through the people exiting the train and slipped through the doors with her chest pounding.  The man with the soaked ski mask pounded on the closed door in defeat as the train started to move. The other passengers just looked at the man, at her, and then returned to their own business.

The train cars rolled on and Abigail’s heartbeat began to steady, but now she had to figure out where she could go, and who in the world would want to catch her?

‘Montgomery. He must have received an early edition. I guess he is not a fan.’ Abigail thought to herself as the train made a routine stop. After a few passengers left and new ones rushed on, “Haven Plaza,” was announced. ‘Greaves headquarters is the next stop,’ Abigail said to herself. ‘Tristan Greaves; he has to help.’

Once the train stopped at the station, Abigail rushed out with the same momentum that got her on the train. The rain had stopped but the streets and her clothes still bore witness to the storm. Her feet splashed through puddles making her way to the building.

“Miss Roades stop.” a voice shouted from the shadows.

“Mr. Greaves? What’s going on?” Abigail asked walking toward the politician.

“Get in the car.” another voice commanded from the shadows, as someone took Abigail by the arms.

Two thugs shoved her and the politician into the car before pealing out on the wet streets. In the passing street lights Abigail could see the panic in Mr. Greaves eyes, and with her body shivering and her heart racing she knew her eyes told him the same.

They drove about thirty minutes before the car pulled into a dark alleyway. The rain picked up again as the thugs pulled them from the car.

Tristan and Abigail were pushed through the alleyway door; then directed up the stairs with little care into a room that made Abigail even more confused.

Books lined the walls, and a marble fireplace roared; it looked like a room from an English novel; the last place Abigail would have imagined being high jacked to.

“Good evening Samuel.” Tristan directed to the figure at the window.

“Mr. Montgomery?” Abigail exclaimed.

“Tristan, what has it been; eight months?”

“Something like that-”

“Take a seat.” Montgomery commanded, his henchmen pushing them into chairs on the cue.

 “I must say Miss Roades, Davidson made you out to be a better journalist than this.” Montgomery stated grabbing a newspaper from his large oak desk.

“Excuse me?”

“You were given the scoop of a lifetime and “-a man of simple means with a life full of stories-”? Eli Tate was a ‘druggie’ with a son that people want in government; that is what you were supposed to write.”

“Obituaries are about spinning bad things to honor the dead.”

“You had the chance to make the front page!”

“But that’s what you wanted.”

“That is exactly what you should have given me.” Montgomery screamed.

“Leave her alone.”

“Why? Does she mean something to you Tristan Tate?” Montgomery said emphasizing the last name. “You were always a sympathetic man, which makes you a bad politician.”

“No, just not your kind of politician, and I hold firm to my decision.”

“We won’t be asking you to join again, Mr. Greaves.”

“Join what?” Abigail insisted.

“The Eamon Group.” Tristan answered. “It is a group of millionaires that influence the government.”

“Even America Must Obey Nobility.” Montgomery said proudly.

“How in the world does that work?” Abigail asked.

“Those with influence in foundations across the nation donate money to sway decisions in politics.”

“So it’s a political mob?”
            “Far from it Miss Roades.” Montgomery insisted. “Those that can make decisions to push our nation forward can’t decide which leg to put in their pants first, so we are their bearings.”

“How can that be democratic?”

“The last thing I want is to spill this out to a journalist.” Montgomery said, acting like he had come back to his senses.

“Then why bring us here, Montgomery?” Tristan remarked.

“Since this attempt was a failure,” Montgomery stated, throwing the newspaper into the fireplace. “Tristan, you will back out of the race, or watch your adoptive family make headlines.”

“If that was your only threat, why drag me here?” Abigail remarked portraying a false strength

“Since you now have damaging information in your head, you will only be writing shopping lists in the suburbs.

“If I don’t? You have no targets on me.”

“Oh, you keep good secrets, but you cannot hide where you come from. ‘On the Road Hardware’; Hard Rock Café-”

“How?”

“Just focus on the resources I have to make sure you never talk. Now get rid of them.” Montgomery remarked. His thugs quickly ushered them back to the car. Once the Lincoln doors were shut, the car weaved about in the streets, but stopped after driving only fifteen blocks.

“Get out!” the driver demanded.

“But?”

“Get out now, before I blow you out!” The driver stated waving his 8mm. Both Abigail and Tristan exited quickly watching the car peel out leaving them on the wet streets.

“I am sorry you got pulled into this.”

“That’s it?! You’re giving up?”

“I have little choice.” Tristan stated walking toward a nearby bus stop.

“We have hundreds of choices.”

“And just as you start to speak, you’re dead. I guess it’s time to face the lives we’ve tried to escape.”

“How so?”

“I have to leave the country, and change my name back to Tate.”

“This needs to be exposed!” Abigail exclaimed.

“It can’t be- don’t you see? It’s a modern day Al Capone storyline. Be silent or dead. You’ll be running the rest of your life.”

“We have to do something to stop them!”

“Can that be done? I was trying, and look at where we are now.” Tristan exclaimed taking a seat on the bus stop bench.

“But-”

“Look! As long as America is run by self-serving people it has flaws.”

“This isn’t a flaw; it’s rebellion against democracy!”

“Do what you want. Look me up if you’re ever in Hong Kong.” Tristan remarked as a bus pulled up and he stepped onboard.

 

 “Abigail?” A sweet voice said from behind her as she turned the door knob of her apartment.

“Yes Mrs. Carver?” Abigail replied to her neighbor with fake enthusiasm.

“I found your cat, and-.”

“Thank you,” was all Abigail said taking Sophie from the woman’s arms. She knew she came across rude, but her mind was still in shock.

With the door and the window to the fire escape locked, Abigail plopped on her couch while Sophie curled up nearby.

An hour passed, the clock hit 1:15 AM, and Abigail jolted as if struck by lightening, which sent Sophie scurrying under the bed. All Abigail could do now was type. The minutes and hours clicked as fast as her fingers on the keyboard. Soon the morning sun was filtering through the windows. Abigail triumphantly pulled a disk from her laptop and began dialing a phone number.

“Hey! Stan, I need a favor…”

 

 “Roades, where have you been?! Your phone is disconnected.” Davidson exclaimed.

“I know.”

“What’s going on?”

“This is all I have.” Abigail stated handing Davidson the disk.

“What?”

“Just read the files on the dates I’ve marked.” Abigail explained turning to leave.

“Where are you going?” Davidson asked.

“I need to disappear.”

“Vacation? Sure.”

“Not vacation, I don’t work here anymore.”

“But!?”

“Just read the files. You’ll put it together.” Abigail said with a smile.

 

‘Philanthropists Manipulates Government’, was the next morning’s headline, and the following day read, Train derails, one fatality, Abigail Roades, body burnt beyond recognition.’

 

“You know, Sophie, it’s strange to read your own obituary. And blonde hair is going to take some getting use to.” Abigail said, looking in the rear-view mirror as she pulled up to ‘On the Road Hardware’.

“Hi pops,” was all Abigail found to say as she entered the store.

“I just got off the phone, and… Your hair, Abigail?!” Her robust dad exclaimed.

 “I’m sorry but you have me confused with someone else. I’m Alyssa Varick.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Dad, we have to catch a flight.”

“Where are we going?”

“First stop, California, then Spain, maybe Hong Kong.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain on the way; right now we have a race to run.”  

 

Author's Note

written in 2005, my writing has imroved dramatically since, but its fun to pull out the old stuff too :)