Chapter twenty-two
Rook
I’d had Kovac’s reply on my phone since Tuesday in the truck, and I hadn’t let myself read a word of it.
Wednesday morning I stood at the island with my coffee going cold and turned the phone face-up. Varga was still asleep upstairs, sleeping off the intensity of the day before. I opened the thread.
Kovac:Mattias — understood, and no apology needed. The piece is yours to give or not. If you ever want to talk again, hockey or otherwise, you know where I am. Good to see you. Daniel
I stared at the message. I’d expected a defense of the story, with a message that was a careful version ofyou can’t stop this.What was there instead was a man stepping back and leaving the door open behind him on his way out.
For six years I’d carried Kovac as the one leak I couldn’t plug. He’d never been that. He’d been a diligent reporter who happened to know something but had been cautious with it. I’d been bracing against a man who wasn’t a threat.
I didn’t want to close the door or lock any of it away.
I typed a message back.
Rook:The West Loop place, this morning, if you can. I pulled the piece yesterday, but now I want to un-pull it. New terms.
Kovac:I can be there in an hour.
I went back upstairs with my coat already on.
Varga hadn’t moved. He lay facedown, one arm off the side of the mattress, both feet kicked out from under the bottom of the sheet. I sat on the edge of the bed and slowly raked my fingers through his hair before I said anything.
He surfaced halfway without opening his eyes, and he reached a hand across the sheet to my knee.
“Hey.” I ruffled his hair playfully. “I’m going to see Kovac. This morning.”
One eye opened. “Kovac. Why? You pulled it.”
“I’m un-pulling it. I’ll give him my terms—holding it until we’ve spoken publicly in our words.”
He blinked. “You want me to come?”
“No. This part’s mine.”
He rolled over and pushed up onto his elbows. “You didn’t have to wake me up for that.”
A week ago, I wouldn’t have. He’d have woke at nine and found a text, or found me already home after it was over.
“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
“Go,” he said. “Go get him.”
***
Kovac was in the same booth as before. His cup was half-empty, and he had a closed notebook on the table beside it.
Last time, I’d come in as if it were the last minute of a one-goal game, ready to defend a lead I couldn’t afford to lose. I ordered my own coffee so I wouldn’t owe him anything.
This time I sat and let him buy.
“Black.” He went to the counter and ordered it. While I waited, I scanned the room leisurely. He came back, set my cup down, and didn’t reach for the notebook.
“You said new terms.”
“We’re breaking the story ourselves. It will be our words, with our timing. There will be a statement going out after a home game. Mark already has it. You hold your story until that’s public.” I turned my cup a quarter turn on the table the way he did. “After that, you get the full piece. It will be the one you wanted to write. All questions answered.”
