The crowded newsroom of the Cleveland based newspaper, The Daily Star, was alive and boisterously pounding with manic action as copyeditors, journalists, and photographers elbowed past one another in the narrow confines like cement mixers at a wingding. The excited buzz of world events filtered through the thick, pungent brume of the room and permeated everything, from editors vigorously debating headlines in embattled budget meetings to the thumping of staff hoofing to and fro. Cub reporters circled the assignment desk expectantly like birds of prey waiting to snatch that next big opportunity as their elders sat at their desks sipping booze and sucking on snipes while struggling to make their deadlines or chase down tenuous leads. Over it all the chattering of the teletype clacked vociferously joined by scores of typewriters hammering out stories by the dozen crafting an industrial symphony of steel patting paper issuing stories from around the globe to the casual Joe with a right to know. The atmosphere could best be described as organized anarchy.

Running at top speed through the cramped quarters, copyboy Joey Shuster ducked and squeezed through the staff while holding his flat cap tight to his head, the latest pulp magazine crammed into the back pocket of his knickers. He vigorously drove through the tumult with little patience or caution jostling everyone who blocked his path.

“Damnit Joey!” Al Plastino shouted at the copyboy after the kid slammed into him knocking a stack of important papers from his hands, the sheets cascading through the air and raining down in a jumbled mess to be quickly trampled by the masses. “You’d better run, you pint-sized Canuck!” he yelled at the rambunctious copyboy’s rapidly retreating back.

Oblivious to the havoc his rampage caused, Joey kept on banging his way through the throng until he came to Jerry Ess’ cluttered desk. A noted reporter, Ess was a mentor of sorts for the juvenile; an idol in the field of journalism the kid hoped to aspire to match someday after he’d traded in his knickers. “Jerry!”

The middle-aged reporter looked up and smiled; his soft Slavic features gave him a gentle, fatherly amiability. “Hey Joey.”

“I heard the news. You got the Pulitzer.”

“I was nominated for the Pulitzer,” Jerry corrected. “I haven’t won anything yet.”

“But you will. Jeepers, you gotta. You’re the best,” Joey cooed.

“I wish I had your enthusiasm.”

“I’ve got good news of my own.” Joey was literally jumping up and down waiting to spill.

“What’s that, kid?”

“They printed my story!” Joey pulled the pulp magazine out of his back pocket and thrust it at Jerry. “Take a look.”

Jerry put his glasses on and took the magazine from the copyboy. He thumbed through the rough pages until he found the boy’s printed triumph. “Well look at that. You’ve been published.”

Joey blushed, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s swell, I know.”

Jack Burnley, a fellow reporter, stopped briefly at Ess’s desk interrupting the two. “Come on, Jerry. Chief’s waiting.”

“Gotta go kid.” Jerry slid the magazine across the desk back to his protégé and rose from his chair, notepad in hand, to head to the editorial meeting. Joey followed in tow.

“You chasin’ any big stories?”

“Always kid. Always.”

“Somethin’ to do with gangsters or big time corruption?”

“Nothing that exciting.”

“Maybe I could tag along some.”

“I’m not sure your mother would approve,” Jerry told the boy before turning a corner desperately trying to slip his shadow.

“We don’t need to tell her nothing. Come on. I could be your sidekick watching your back. Like if some pug tries to plug you, I can say ‘watch out’ and you will avoid the bullet just in time before getting into a scrap.” Joey began shadow boxing mimicking the showdown. “The two of you throwin’ fists like Louis and Baer-”

“Joey!” Don Cameron yelled from across the newsroom making the copyboy freeze mid-uppercut. “Didn’t I send you out to get coffee?”

“I was gonna get it,” the copyboy whined back.

“Go now.” Before Joey could create an excuse, Don repeated, “Go!”

Defeated, Joey dug his hands into his pockets. “Guess I’ll be seeing you, Jerry.”

“Take care, kid.”

Jerry ducked into the editorial meeting, relieved to escape the incessant needling of his greatest juvenile fan. He dropped into the chair next to his friend Julius Schwartz.

“I see Joey found you,” Julius said with a smirk.

“That kid wears me out just listening to him.”

“You’re going to have to learn to deal with your adoring public.”

“If I’d wanted to deal with the public I would have gone into broadcasting.”

“Not a chance with a voice like yours.”

Jerry feigned offense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’re no Bob Trout.”

“Now that we’re all here,” Vincent Sullivan, gruff editor of The Daily Star, said aloud bringing silence to the room, “we can stop bumping gums and get to work.” Greedily chewing on his cigar, the ruddy faced veteran newsman surveyed those assembled. “First of all, I’m sure you’ve all heard about Ess’ Pulitzer nomination. I think we all should congratulate him on a job well done.”

Those assembled applauded their fellow journalist. Jerry waived them off, embarrassed by the attention.

“Ok, enough of that,” Vin ordered. “Got to keep you people humble. Now onto business. What have you got for me?”

“Schechter vs. the United States,” someone piped up from the back of the room.

“The sick chicken case?”

“That’s right, Vin. Word is the Supreme Court is close to a ruling that might be used to overturn Roosevelt’s NRA. Even begin a rollback of the New Deal.”

“What’s the response from the White House?”

“Roosevelt has passed even more radical legislation they’re already calling the Second New Deal.”

“People love a good political battle. Keep me informed. What else you got for me people?”

“Babe Ruth played his first game for the Boston Braves.”

“Come on, Alvin,” Vin chastised. “People don’t need to read about a washout at the twilight of his career. People want can do, not down and out. Next.”

“Albert Fish, the Werewolf of Wysteria, was found guilty by Judge Close in White Plains. He’s expected to get the death penalty-”

“That’s old news,” Kirk Alyn abruptly cut in. “I’ve got something meatier. Elliot Ness, former leader of The Untouchables, is now chasing after someone leaving bodies along Kingsbury Run. Get this. The killer’s M.O. is decapitation and dismemberment of his victims, a regular slice and dice.”

“Christ,” Julius muttered.

“These psychos sure love the theatrical.” Jerry snorted. “And they say Vaudeville is dead.” That elicited chuckles from the room.

“An American hero chasing America’s next big villain,” Vin opined aloud to himself, framing the headline in the air with his hands. “Keep on it, Kirk.”

“You got it, chief.”

Vin finally turned his attention to Ess. “What you got for me, Jerry?”

“Well,” Jerry started while rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m covering Clifford Clinton’s ongoing anti-corruption crusade against Los Angeles Mayor Frank Shaw.”

“Oh come on, Jerry. No one in the Midwest wants to read about West Coast Politics unless they’re Hollywood Politics. If people want to read about corruption, we have enough of it in City Hall.” Laughter filtered through the room. “Tell you what; you want to go out to California, then you’ll have to take the Clay story as well. Kid turns up and claims he survived the Northcott child slayings. Interview him and see what he remembers and you get your trip to sunny California.”

“I’d rather focus solely on the Clinton story,” Jerry replied.

Vin scratched his head. “Why bother with unsubstantiated rumors? Clinton’s crusade is run-of-the-mill type political gamesmanship. Nothing more than a humdrum smear campaign. Seems like a step down from the Lindbergh case.”

“I was hoping to write something more uplifting. Average guy against the system, making a difference against impossible odds. Maybe a happy ending this time.”

“Uplifting stories aren’t what earned you your Pulitzer nod.”

Jerry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Don’t remind me.”

Vin nearly bit his stogie in half. “Maybe I should. After what we had to pay for the rights to that bastard Bruno’s story, you should be damn happy that I assigned Hauptmann to you or even trusted your gut on the Lindbergh case in the first place.”

“You’re right,” Jerry reluctantly agreed. “Sorry chief. I’ll do the Clay story.”

The rest of the meeting passed by in a blur as Jerry sat slumped in his chair scanning his notes.

“What’s everyone standing round about for?” Vin asked at the end of the meeting, puffing like a smokestack. “Move! Get on those stories.” As those assembled left, the chief waved Ess over. “Hey, Jerry. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Yeah chief?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Blunt as ever.”

“And you’re as transparent as cellophane. Normally you’re pitching stories like Walter Johnson on the mound. That Pulitzer nomination scramble your brains?”

“I don’t know,” Jerry mumbled.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Vin.”

“You act like you’re not even here. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind is all, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“I would say otherwise. If it affects your work, it’s business related. So spill.”

“It’s nice to know you’re concerned on a personal level.”

“Out with it, Jerry.”

Ess reluctantly relented. “Maybe I’m just tired of it all.”

“What are you saying? You want to quit? You’re the best we got.”

“Am I? I got into this business because I believed in the importance of the public forum. But people just don’t care about the state of the world or want any part in it. All they want is sensationalism. Tragedy.”

“Like the Lindbergh case.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I feel like I’m feeding jackals with my work.”

“Good to know being nominated for a Pulitzer has put your life in perspective.”

“You know what I mean, Vin.”

“Come on, Jerry. If you wanted to change the world, you got into the wrong line of work.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve gotten to the point where I keep asking myself what have I done with my life. A whole hell of a lot of bunk is all I got.”

“We don’t print truths, Jerry. You know that. Advertisements are the only honest things in newspapers.”

“Ain’t it the truth?” Jerry smiled bitterly. “Any newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a web of horrors. I cannot understand how an innocent hand can touch a newspaper without convulsing in disgust. Especially with the cheap ink you use.” Jerry tacked on that last line trying to inject some levity into his melancholy soaked diatribe.

“A newspaper has to be provocative, Jerry. We need to catch the public eye. That doesn’t mean that everything we print is worthless. You gotta have the flash to catch their eye, but you need substance to keep ‘em coming back. The secret of a successful newspaper is to bang the hell out of every story we get. Give the public what it wants to have and part of what it ought to have whether it wants it or not.

“We’re witnesses to history. To many people, we’re their only window to the world. Maybe what we do is unpalatable at times but that’s why no one else will do it. People have a right to know and we have to make them understand the issues of the day.

“Everyone reaches that point of disillusionment. Don’t think that reaching yours has made you any less of a journalist. You’re a part of this paper, Jerry. If you need time, you got it. But don’t turn your back on this national rag. If anything, the country would lose an important voice if you did.”

***

A beaten, rust-riddled truck tore down the rocky drive leading to the Donner homestead kicking up gravel in dusty plumes while leaving a trail of black exhaust in its bouncing wake. The driver sounded his horn repeatedly, the klaxon screaming “ah-ooh-gah” warning of their approach. Nearing the end of the drive, the driver slammed on the brakes grinding to a halt. The truck’s engine convulsed and then rumbled to a stop. Roy Connelly and Buck Mumford, two of Michael Reynolds’ less reputable associates, jumped out.

Roy, a weaselly sketch of a man, tongued at the lump of Skoal in his lip while gaping at the shadowy farmhouse whose penumbra stretched malignantly towards him. “You think he stuck around?”

“Hope so,” Buck, the beefier of the two, said with a whistle through chipped teeth. “All the more fun for us if he did, especially with that shotgun of his.” He turned to look out at the desolate fields for any sign of Chris.

Roy continued to eye the farmhouse. The state of the rickety building had worsened since Mark’s visit. The walls were greatly warped and appeared ready to rupture while the roof undulated. It was a wonder the house had not collapsed with how deformed it was. The gauzy twilight clinging to the structure only accentuated its decay with the darkness spilling through the slits between the clapboards. “Looks like something out of a monster movie.”

“I don’t care if Dracula’s inside. We have a job to do.” Buck stepped around his partner and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey Donner, time’s up. Reynolds doesn’t take kindly to squatters on his property. If you’re in there, you’d better get out now. This is your one warning.” No one came out.

Roy spit, wiping the tobacco juice off his lip afterward. “Ain’t you persuasive.”

Buck glanced back at his partner. “You know how these things go. First, we need to get his attention.” Buck took another step forward. “Donner, don’t make this harder than it has to be. I don’t care if you got a shotgun or not. Get out here while you can still walk. I’d hate to cripple you over this dung heap.”

Roy leaned against the truck, shaking his head and smiling that crooked brown grin when there was no reply. “Stubborn ain’t he.”

“I got somethin’ for you,” Buck muttered before returning to his truck and grabbing a tire iron from the bed. “Come on, Roy. Let’s make a house call.”

“What if he still has that shotgun?”

“You damn pansy. If you’re so scared, stick behind me.”

The toughs swaggered up to the house wandering through the ambient gloom without a second thought. Buck gently thumped the tire iron against his chest as he thought about what he was going to do to Donner. He owed the man for threatening him with that gun. No one pulled a gun on Buck. No one. Just thinking about it incensed him. He took the porch in one step and kicked in the front door.

Roy giggled wickedly behind Buck’s bulky form. “Knock, knock.”

Despite his hotheadedness, Buck shivered when he crossed the threshold. “It’s cold as an icebox in here.”

Roy pushed past Buck into the murk. “Why’s it so dark?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I just want to get this over with so I can get some suds.”

Roy snapped his fingers and pointed at his friend. “You’re buying.”

“Like hell I am.”

The light from the open door streamed between the two men and dimly illuminated the front room. Buck and Roy noted the overturned furniture and smashed picture frames.

Roy shuffled into the room to inspect the damage, lightly kicking one of the broken frames. “He’s been bustin’ his place up good hasn’t he?”

“Wonder what else he’s been up to.”

A shadow streaked through the room surprising the two. Roy instinctively pulled his knife. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” Buck answered tremulously, struggling to regain his composure. The place gave him the creeps. “Donner, get out here. I ain’t got all day for these games. Now scram before you really steam me up. This here house belongs to Reynolds now and you’re trespassin’.”

“Damnit.” Roy stumbled over some unseen debris and bumped into Buck.

Buck shoved his partner off. “Will you watch where you’re goin’?”

“I tell ya I can’t see nothin’ in here.”

“Yeah, well you poke me with that pig sticker and you’ll be wishing you could.”

The room brightened to their left drawing their attention. Chris appeared from the back of the house, his form carrying a mild glow while the shadows continued to veil his face.

Buck grinned wickedly. “Well there he is.”

Roy noticed Chris’ ashen skin. “He looks a little sick.”

“He’ll be worse for wear if he tangles with me.”

“You two need to go,” Chris told the men.

Buck let out a short, barking guffaw. “Excuse me? Roy, did I hear that right? I believe the man asked us to get out.”

Roy clucked his tongue. “Impolite if you ask me.”

“Mighty impolite.” Buck jabbed the tire iron at Chris. “Didn’t your momma teach you no manners?”

Chris’ voice hardened. “Get outta here before you make me do something I’ll regret.”

“Oh, I don’t think so Donner. I don’t see no shotgun in your hand today.” Buck gripped the tire iron reassuringly. “Today’s moving day. We’re here to help you on your way.”

“We’re regular good Samaritans,” Roy added.

Chris crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Is that a fact?” Buck glanced back at his smirking partner. “The man is slower in the head than you are, Roy.”

“Yeah,” Roy confirmed, beaming idiotically.

“You made a deal, Donner. You failed on your part. Time to pay what’s owed.”

The house groaned around them. Chris seemed to loom larger as what little light there was faded and his shadow grew. “This is my home and you aren’t takin’ it.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time to argue with you. I’m here to do a job. Now, I’m giving you a free pass. Just go through that door and get off this land. Despite what you’ve heard, I don’t want this to get messy. But I’m warning you, my friend Roy here has a tendency to get a bit excited with that knife of his.” Roy held his knife up for Chris to see.

Chris didn’t flinch at the threat. “What are you going to do? Beat me like you did Hubbard?”

Buck rolled his eyes. “Sure we worked ol’ Ben over a bit, but he had it comin’.”

“He sure did.” Roy sniggered. “Thought he could tell us what’s what. We do the tellin’.”

“That’s right. You see, Ben made a debt he couldn’t pay. Just like you.” Buck clenched his fist making the knuckles crack. “He knew the consequences. You goin’ to learn from his mistakes or do I have to teach you too?”

Chris failed to hide his disgust for the two men. “You’re nothing but animals.”

“Yeah? Well you’re homeless, so hit the skids.”

The creaking of the house became threateningly loud. It was soon accompanied by the sound of splintering wood and a skittering in the walls.

“Buck,” Roy anxiously uttered.

Chris’ flesh shone brighter acquiring an unearthly luminescence. “You’re going to have to make me leave.”

“What is it with you farmers and wanting to do things the hard way?” Buck strutted up to Chris, twirling the tire iron in circles like a baseball bat and he Lou Gehrig about to swing for the fences. “I hear you’re a pretty bad boxer. So you should be used to taking a beating. Hope you’re ready. Hey Roy, ring the bell.”

“Ding ding,” Roy nervously blurted through his cockeyed frown.

Buck tensed up in excitement. “Round one, hoss. Let’s see what you got.” Buck swung a mighty arc aimed at Chris’ head. Donner side stepped the blow with little effort. “Fast one ain’t ya. I’m gonna earn my money today.” Buck swung again. In a blur, Chris seized Buck’s swinging arm by the wrist with his left hand and Buck’s neck with his right slamming the bigger man against the wall. Once pinned, Chris twisted Buck’s arm until he dropped the tire iron with a clang.

Roy stared in shock, the chaw falling out of his mouth. “Buck?”

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Buck choked out.

Roy lurched forward to join the fray. Chris’ lit face jerked towards the oncoming man and flashed. Roy screamed when an invisible force threw him crashing backwards through the front room’s window.

Buck gawked wide-eyed at Chris. “How-”

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” Chris asked, his voice reverberating throughout the structure. “I just want to be left alone!”

The blazing sheen of Chris’ skin stripped away the shadowy mask revealing his sharp, slender face. His black eyes with their searing silver centers were what shook Buck the most, their gaze piercing his soul. “Sweet Jesus,” he rasped.

Chris’ hands tingled as Buck squirmed in his grasp. “How’s it feel?” Donner snarled, letting Buck’s right arm go to deliver a left to the thug’s gut that made Buck clench up. “How’s it feel to be at someone else’s mercy?” Chris’ grip tightened around Buck’s throat cutting his air supply. The tough thrashed wildly, clawing at Chris’ face. Donner responded with another left to the ribs. Buck gasped at the crack of bone. “What? Can’t take as good as you give?” Chris lifted Buck off the floor by his neck. Buck gagged, his dangling boots kicking against the wall. “I can see into your soul. You are a pathetic thing. A drunk. A bully.”

“Please,” Buck sputtered.

“Do you want mercy? Why should I give it to you? After all you’ve done. Did you give Ben mercy? Making his kids watch as you beat him!”

Chris could sense the fear and panic rushing through Buck. It made Donner’s heartbeat ramp up, the blood rushing through his veins lightning fast leaving him lightheaded. He struggled to breathe as the oxygen was sucked right out of his lungs. Numbness gradually crept into his pores followed by a building pressure in his head. Reality came unhinged and the room listed violently. Moans shook the walls. Whispers hissed from the dark. With a roar, the shadows encroached swallowing everything.

An icy tide poured over Donner flooding his mind with images and sensations accompanied by a cacophony of voices and sound all booming together in a babbling chorus. Disoriented, he felt himself spiraling into maddening incomprehensibility. Steadily the great deluge settled over him and the images, sensations, and sounds took on a stratified, sedimentary form. Struggling up from the depths, he soon realized he was awash in Buck’s memories.

Donner relived years upon years of pain and suffering, all played out beneath the monolith of Buck’s abusive father whose shadow cast a pall over his life obscuring any hint of empathy. Beatings. Neglect. Loneliness. These were the skewed foundations of Buck’s life laid haphazardly by that paternal wraith that served as the corrupting font of Buck’s anger, his bitterness, and his sense of worthlessness. Even now those repugnant currents threatened to flow into Chris’ very own heart. Horrified by the evil that hovered over Buck and now reached for him, Chris directed all his spiritual essence against the turbid shade driving it back and exorcising it in a paroxysm of cleansing fire baptizing Buck’s occluded soul in a brilliant, divine light.

Exhausted, Chris limply let go breaking their incorporeal union. Buck dropped to his knees coughing and wheezing. Dizzy and reeling, Donner struggled with the memories now burnt into his mind.

“Please don’t kill me,” Buck pleaded between sniveling breaths, unable to meet Chris’ stare.

Chris looked down at that bent, pathetic figure who asked for mercy. His illusory façade shorn away, Donner perceived the scared, scarred boy that Buck truly was. Chris shuddered at the revelations he had witnessed. With such knowledge he found it impossible to continue to hate the man or wish harm upon him. Chris touched his shoulder and the two shared an intimate moment. For the first time in his bleak life, Buck received sympathy and that warmth stirred his stunted heart.

“Go,” Donner hoarsely pleaded. Buck crawled away before staggering out of the house into daylight. Chris sorrowfully watched him go while he remained in the shadows. “Just leave me alone.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 9