Ep. III - "Reap the Whirlwind"

Thursday, Oct. 24th, 1946
9:50 p.m.

A couple of houses back from the corner of Yakima and Chicago Avenue, an olive-green sedan sat parked with two people inside. A blonde woman sat behind the wheel; a Latino man beside her.

Despite the unusually cold weather, the car's windows were rolled down. Erin Duncan, journalist for The Rain Shadow Report, sat with her hands in her pockets. She shivered into her long, grey coat and eyed her companion.

Isaiah Lopez' eyes were fixed on a row of brown and white stucco apartments at the end of the street. The Bureau of Indian Affairs agent was reclined comfortably, his thick bomber jacket unbuttoned.

"You know," she muttered, "it's really not fair. You're warm and cozy while I'm miserable."

"If you didn't talk so much, we could roll up the windows without fogging them up."

Isaiah's voice held a smile, and he reached across the seat and took one of her cold hands in his. Erin grinned a little at Isaiah's rebuttal, but mostly at the physical contact.

"With the way you mouth-breathe?" she said laughing. "Probably not."

Erin gazed down at her handbag, her smile fading. Inside was a one-way train ticket to Spokane.

Isaiah grunted at her comeback, studying the apartment building. The apartment in the middle had belonged to his former partner, Anthony. The former BIA agent was currently awaiting trial for a number of crimes, including the murder of Jim Wallace.

Anthony had fallen under the influence of a mesmerizing figure named Ivanov, a former monk and Communist agitator who'd organized riots, arson, and murder. Following Anthony's arrest, Ivanov had disappeared, but Isaiah was determined to stop Ivanov at any cost.

The week before, Isaiah and Erin had approached Anthony's next-door-neighbor, a spinster by the name of Ms. Maples. She had provided them with eager surveillance of the property. Two nights ago, Ms. Maples had phoned, reporting a strange man waiting on the street outside the apartment. Every night since then, they had sat in Erin's car, watching the quiet street.

Agent Lopez had ample time on his hands. He'd been attacked in an orchard earlier that month, had killed an assailant, and was on leave while an internal review was conducted.

Isaiah released Erin's hand as a flashlight beam came from the dark apartment, briefly illuminating the drawn blinds.

Agent Lopez bolted from the car, heading for the building.

"Isaiah!" Erin hissed. "Don't go in alone. Let's get backup."

Isaiah paused at her words, but a series of muffled thumps came from the building, sending him sprinting up the sidewalk.

When Agent Lopez got to the back door, it hung ajar. The sound of cracking wood and falling plaster came from inside the house. Isaiah slipped in the door and crept towards the noise.

Inside, a large man hurriedly pulled objects from a hole in the wall, stuffing them into a canvas bag on the floor.

"I sure hope you have a building permit..." As Isaiah spoke, the intruder whirled around to find the BIA agent leaning against a bookshelf, hand resting near his holstered gun. "...because you've got enough trouble on your hands."

The stranger wore dark trousers, combat boots, and a tight knit shirt. Isaiah's teeth flashed in a grin as the man seemed to size Isaiah up, but Isaiah shook his head.

"Don't even think abou–"

The agents words were cut off as the stranger leapt forward with blinding speed. Isaiah only managed to grab his Colt before the large man's fist crashed into his face. Isaiah's gun was stripped from his hand, and Isaiah was thrown heavily to the ground.

Before Agent Lopez could recover, the intruder's weight crashed onto him, driving the air from Isaiah's lungs with a faint crack and a sharp pain in his chest. The man's forearm began pressing down into Isaiah's throat, choking him.

Suddenly, Erin's voice came from the hallway.

"Get off him, or I'll blow your head off."

The pressure on Isaiah's throat released suddenly, and when the agent could see again, Erin stood in the hall pointing her .38 revolver at the big man's head. The stranger rose slowly to his feet and took a few cautious steps towards her, his arms held away from his body.

Erin tightened the grip on her gun, "I'll do it."

The intruder cocked his head, studying her for a moment.

"No you won't," the man's voice was deep and low.

Isaiah scrambled across the floor to his pistol and swung it at the man, firing. Though the shot was wide, the stranger reacted instantly, throwing himself around a corner before crashing out the back door. Isaiah stumbled outside in pursuit in time to hear a motorcycle roar to life and drive off.

Angry, the BIA agent sank onto the back stoop, rubbing his throat and holding his ribs. At least one felt broken to him, and every breath made Isaiah wince.

Erin placed a calming hand on Isaiah's arm, "Found these."

In her hands were some maps, photos, and a journal tied shut with a leather thong.

Frustrated at losing the perpetrator, Isaiah said little on the drive to St. Elizabeth hospital.

"You shouldn't have gone in without me," Erin said in irritation.

"You shouldn't point a gun at someone if you're not willing to use it!" he snapped back.

The exchange grew more heated, until the both fell into stony silence.

The nursing student on-call listened to Isaiah breathe and pressed "gently" in several places. Three of Isaiah's ribs were cracked, so a compression bandage was wrapped tightly around his torso, and he was admonished to rest and "take deep, deep breaths to avoid pneumonia."

An hour later, Isaiah climbed gingerly into Erin's car, and she drove towards the office of The Rain Shadow Report.

"You could have been killed," Isaiah scolded her, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs and face.

Erin snorted in indignation, "I could have been?! What about you? You would have been."

He ignored her retort, "Why even carry a gun if you don't know how to use it?"

Her face flushed bright red, "Why even bring me along if you won't listen to me?"

It was almost midnight when Erin pulled up to a laundromat in a brick building. The back of the laundromat had a storeroom, which had become the headquarters for The Rain Shadow Report.

Erin unlocked the door to the newspaper office and walked in. Isaiah shuffled behind, carrying the evidence from Anthony's apartment.

Along one wall had been a large window, but a plywood sheet had been nailed over the empty frame. Two desks had been pushed against the boarded-up window, and a vertical printing press took up the rest of the space, except for a narrow path separating them. At one end was a former supply closet, which now served as de-facto office for the paper's editor-in-chief.

Erin nodded at the closet, "There's a cot in there you can sleep on. I'll be back in the morning."

She turned to leave.

"I've had a perfectly wonderful evening," she tossed out, "but this wasn't it."

Isaiah struggled to say something, but she was gone before he figured out what.

Isaiah Lopez came out of the office a little after 6 a.m. the next morning. Erin Duncan sat at one of the desks, examining items spread out before her. She looked up as he entered, and grimaced.

The left side of Isaiah's face had turned a mottled purple, and his right temple was still bandaged from his head-wound in the orchard. The BIA agent now walked as slowly as an old man on an icy sidewalk.

"Geeze Isaiah, maybe you should get a job where you get hit less. Like 'punching bag.'"

Isaiah laughed briefly, then winced.

"I feel so miserable without you," he said, shambling over to her, "it's almost like having you here."

The injured Bureau agent eased himself into a nearby chair. Erin's eyes fell to her desk in silence, instead of making a clever reply, as he'd expected.

Isaiah turned to the items on the desk, "...So, what do we have?"

Erin gestured to a pile of photographs, "These are all City Council members, judges, and even more former boss, Bob Cordier, managing editor of The Herald..."

As she spoke, Isaiah picked up a photograph and looked it over.

"Gaaah!" he yelled, and quickly threw it down.

"...in extremely compromising situations, yeah."

A ghost of her usual smile crossed her face, "How he got into that corset, I will never know."

Isaiah unconsciously wiped his hand on his jeans, "So it's blackmail."

Erin nodded, "It seems Ivanov was using leverage to stack The Herald with Commie reporters..." She pointed at the journal, which she opened to a list of names, dates, and dollar amounts. "...among other things. At least half of this is a ledger with amounts of money paid out."

Isaiah picked a map up from the desk. It was drawn by hand and showed Yakima County in incredible detail, with radio towers, service roads, and utilities.

Erin's mouth drew to a thin line as she picked up one of the remaining maps, "This one focuses on the Hanford project. The other on the Yakima Anti-Aircraft Artillery Range. Anthony was gathering info, mapping the areas, and apparently sending that information to Moscow by coded radio transmissions."

She flipped to a page of columns of seemingly random numbers, "That's the code key."

Isaiah and Erin studied the materials on the desk for a few minutes, before she started picking them up, placing them into an accordion folder.

"Are you well enough to get home...?" she asked, slipping the journal and the folder of evidence into her satchel.

Instead of answering her, Isaiah pointed at her satchel, "What are you going to do with all that?"

Erin shrugged her coat on, "I don't know."

She turned to leave but was stopped by his hand on her arm.

"Wait," he took a deep, painful breath. "I had a lot of time to think last night." He looked to the side. "I'm sorry."

The words seemed to cause him as much discomfort as his injuries, "I shouldn't have run in without you."

Erin's eyebrows raised, "And...?"

She appeared to be waiting for something.

"And I'm sorry I yelled at you."

She continued looking at him, saying nothing, which received a scowl from him, "And what?"

"And you ignored me when I told you not to."

Isaiah gritted his teeth, "...And I'm sorry for ignoring your advice."

"I forgive you," she smiled radiantly, her features clearing like a sunny day after a storm. "You want to get some breakfast?"

The offered truce was tempting to him, and he nodded.

"In a little bit, yeah. But Erin..." Isaiah's voice was soft, and he was forced to speak slowly to due his injuries, "...If you're going to carry a gun, you have to learn how to use it. If you pull it out and aren't willing to kill, you're going to end up getting killed..."

His dark brown eyes bored into her green-blue ones, "...and that would destroy me."

Her smile returned but was interrupted by sudden tears.

"I'm...leaving for Spokane," she blurted out. "The day after tomorrow. I...won't be back."

At breakfast, Erin explained.

A major newspaper in Chicago had offered her a position as a foreign correspondent, and she had gladly accepted.

The thought of losing her caused a hollow to form in his stomach, which almost overshadowed his need to bring Ivanov to justice. Isaiah swallowed his hurt with his coffee and wished her all the best in the world, pretending that he wasn't devastated. For her part, she pretended to believe him.

Their meal turned melancholy, and only the prospect of blackmailing Erin's former employer at The Herald cheered them up slightly.

Isaiah and Erin parked under an elm tree across from the rival paper later that afternoon. Inside the car, they both started in alarm as the big man from the night before stepped out of The Herald's offices.

Slowed by his injuries, Isaiah had barely touched the sidewalk on his side of the street before the man had mounted a gleaming black motorcycle, kicked it to life, and sped off.

The managing editor at The Herald, Bob Cordier, had features and a personality that most people described as "extremely punchable."

He had whitish-gray hair where he wasn't bald, rheumy eyes, and a bulbous nose, and his substantial gut was emphasized, rather than hidden by a wrinkled, loose-fitting suit.

Cordier waved casually from his desk as Isaiah walked into his office, "Good afternoo–"

The editor's greeting choked off as he saw Erin Duncan, "What are you doing back here?!"

Erin flashed an insolent grin, "I'm doing a story on idiots, and I wanted a first-hand source."

Isaiah stepped forward and slapped a photograph onto the red-faced man's desk from a folder he held. Bob glanced down, and his expression turned sickly. Isaiah leaned over the editor's desk, which sent a stab of pain through the Indian Affairs agent's chest.

"Look," Isaiah growled, "we know Ivanov made you hire Communists. We have the dirt he had on you. And we'll give it to you. All you have to do is tell us where he is."

"Or, you can keep it to yourself," Erin chimed in, "and the next issue of The Rain Shadow Report gets a racy cover, featuring you."

Bob Cordier glared at Erin with a naked loathing, "You think anyone reads that trash?"

Erin threw back her head and laughed, "I think they will."

"Ivanov!" Isaiah's barked words cut in before the editor could reply. "Give me his location, and we'll leave."

It seemed to Cordier that agent Lopez was mentally unhinged; speaking oddly and struggling to restrain himself. The Latino man stared at Bob with an uncomfortable intensity, taking shallow, gasping breaths.

The editor dabbed sweat from his face, "I don't know where Ivanov is. He's holed up somewhere. He only communicates with me over the phone, or by messenger."

Isaiah nodded, but not in agreement, "There was a big man that left this office as we arrived. Who was he, and what was he doing here?"

Cordier wiped his sweaty face again, watching Isaiah warily for a moment before answering.

"His name is Aaron Lakey. He was an aimless troublemaker before the war, but found his calling in the army. When he got home, I guess he missed the violence, so he joined a motorcycle gang. Now he works as a gun-for-hire and enforcer for one of the crime syndicates."

Erin looked up from the notes she was taking, "What did he want?"

"He came by for this month's payment to Ivanov, but I told him I wouldn't have it until the end of the day. When he comes back, if you want, you can talk to him about it."

Agent Lopez turned to leave, but the managing editor waved a hand weakly, "The pictures...?"

Isaiah neither slowed nor turned as he answered, "After we get Ivanov."

The door closed behind the Bureau agent and the reporter. Bob Cordier wiped his forehead again, and reached for a nearby phone and dialed a number. A few moments later, it was picked up at the other end.

Bob quietly muttered into the receiver, "Forewarned is forearmed..." Bob glanced nervously at his office door. "...I need to speak to Viktor."

Erin and Isaiah sat parked under the elm tree in the gathering gloom of late afternoon. On the bench seat between them was Erin's handbag and a folder with the journal and the rest of the evidence from Anthony's apartment.

From up the street, the same black motorcycle from earlier that afternoon approached and parked. Aaron Lakey clambered off, went up the front steps, and into the building. The reporter and the BIA agent scanned the building intently, watching for Lakey's return.

Without warning, Isaiah lurched suddenly to the side. A large arm had grabbed his shirt collar through the open passenger-side window, pulling nearly over.

Erin froze as a black pistol was shoved against Isaiah's temple. Isaiah's breath came in ragged gasps. Aaron Lakey leaned slightly into the car and spoke quietly, his breath puffing in the cold afternoon air.

"Hands out front. I'm just here to get the stuff from last night," Lakey's voice was low and deep. "I'm not getting paid to kill you, but if you give me trouble, I won't hesitate."

Erin looked over at Lakey's unshaven face, "Do you know what kind of man you're working for?"

Despite her resolve, her voice held a quaver.

"Do you know what kind of man I am?" he growled in reply.

The evidence was handed over, followed by Isaiah's peacemaker and Erin's .38. Lakey unloaded the pistols and slid them under Erin's car. Then, he ran across the street to his bike. Within seconds, Lakey and every scrap of evidence from the case were gone. Isaiah cursed loudly as he got out and retrieved their guns.

When he returned, Erin spoke in a conversational tone, "You know, I don't think we can trust Bob Cordier."

Isaiah stared at her, and a sour grunt of almost-laughter escaped from his lips, "You think?"

Erin nodded solemnly, "Dim-witted newspaper editors with sordid secrets are usually beyond suspicion, but something about him doesn't sit right."

Isaiah rolled his eyes, "Well, we just got outsmarted by Cordier, so I don't know how smart we are."

Erin calmly reached into her handbag, withdrew a compact, and began checking her makeup.

"My position," she said archly, "is that you were outsmarted by him. I was merely an innocent bystander."

This provoked a cry of indignation, "This is your car!"

Satisfied with the results, Erin folded up her mirror, "That sort of observation is beneath you."

A short drive later, Erin followed Isaiah into the Yakima Police Department. Isaiah ignored the white marble and hardwood of the lobby, leading her past the front desks. He called out greetings to friends as he headed for the office of records.

They passed the County Prosecutor, Roman Buermann, leaning against a receptionist's desk, chatting with the pretty brunette who sat there.

Buermann was a cherubic-faced man with curly brown hair in an expensive dark suit and a silver-tipped cane in his hand. He marked Isaiah and Erin's passing, then broke off his conversation and followed the couple at a leisurely pace.

The prosecutor walked with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on the cane. His suite was well-tailored, and his glossy black shoes freshly polished. In all, he presented a vastly different picture from three years earlier, when he'd parachuted into Italy with the 504th Airborne; those "Devils in baggy pants."

The only souvenirs he'd brought home were a piece of shrapnel from a panzergrenadier shell and a "Dear John" letter that had arrived in an Allied hospital in Naples.

He had eventually traded the shrapnel for a limp and a cane, and the letter for a drinking problem and flask of rye whiskey.

Roman Buermann made his way to the records room in time to see the officer on duty, a slender, lantern-jawed man in horn-rimmed glasses, place a folder on the counter in front of the Bureau agent and the woman. The tap of Roman's cane announced his approach, and Roman grinned beatifically at them as they turned towards him.

"Please forgive me if I intrude, agent Lopez...Miss," Roman nodded towards Erin Duncan before returning his gaze to Isaiah. "What dire matter could have sent you to us?"

Neither Isaiah nor Erin answered immediately, but Isaiah surreptitiously scooped up the file.

The records officer cleared his throat and spoke up, "Agent Lopez asked for any information we have on someone named Aaron Lakey."

The County Prosecutor nodded, learning forward and whispering in a confidential manner, "My advice would be to keep that information away from him."

Roman tilted his head significantly at someone behind them. Isaiah and Erin turned to see who he indicated, and Roman deftly snatched the folder from Isaiah's hand, tucking it under his own arm.

When they turned back, the Prosecutor spoke to the policeman at the records desk, "Would you please go fetch officers Shaw and Connors?"

Roman turned back to Isaiah and Erin and gestured towards a nearby office, "Would you two please join me?"

Without waiting for a reply, Roman turned and limped into the indicated room. Erin went first, and Isaiah stalked in after her, a deep scowl on his face.

"Oh, don't glower that way, Isaiah," Roman said, sitting down. "Have a seat."

Erin sat down in one of the chairs across from him.

"What this all about?" she asked.

The Prosecutor sighed heavily, "I don't like to dance around. I like to just jump into things directly without preamble."

Roman stretched out his leg, wincing, "...clearly. Isaiah, if this case involving Aaron Lakey impacted the tribe in some way, you could have had Indian Affairs call us, and we'd have helped you right away."

Roman paused significantly, waiting for a response. When Isaiah didn't reply, Buremann continued.

"But you're on suspension, and you can't. In fact, you don't have any authority to pursue this case at all. What's more, your involvement endangers an ongoing investigation. The last thing I need when we catch Ivanov is for the trial to get gummed up by a suspended Bureau agent gone rogue."

Two officers appeared in the doorway, one with blonde hair, the other with sandy.

The blonde man spoke up, "Jongeward said you wanted us, sir."

Roman Buermann nodded brusquely, looking at Isaiah and Erin, "I am willing to forget that you two were ever here, and you two can forget this case and go home. Or I can have you both arrested."

Isaiah stomped forward aggressively, "You think you can? I don't ca–oof!"

His last sentence was cut off by a swift elbow from Duncan to his injured ribs.

"We're both very thankful for your offer, and we gladly accept," she said hurriedly. Though she spoke to Roman, her eyes were locked fiercely with Isaiah's. "...Isaiah is speechless. In fact, he is weeping tears of gratitude."

Erin rose to her feet and grabbed Isaiah by an elbow and hauled him towards the door.

Sunday, Oct. 27th
9:46 a.m.

The bright morning sun shined down on Erin Duncan as she walked beside the baggage car where her suitcases had been stowed. Her elbow-length gloves were shoved into the pockets of her long coat, a red purse dangled from her arm.

Leaning against the wall under the eave of the depot, Isaiah Lopez had come to see her off. He wore his customary bomber jacket, jeans, and boots. Erin smiled as she joined him.

"Most people change their clothes once in a while."

He returned the smile and took her gloved hands in his. They stood in silence for a few moments, brown eyes gazing into blue-green.

Isaiah briefly considered asking her not to go. But he knew if she did stay, she'd regret it all her life, so despite himself, he refrained from asking her.

From the platform, a conductor called out, "All aboard!"

Isaiah took her arms and leaned in to kiss her, but she ducked away, eyes misty with tears.

"This is hard enough already," she whispered, stepping back.

As space opened between them, Erin drew a steadying breath, "See you around, handsome."

Isaiah forced a grin as he held a hand up in farewell, "See you around."

She gave a last glance before stepping up into the passenger car. A few moments later, she had disappeared inside.

Isaiah stood on the asphalt as the train lurched into motion. The pain in his chest came from more than his busted ribs.

If it weren't for Viktor Ivanov, I would have joined her.

Erin Duncan sat down heavily in an aisle seat. As the train left Yakima behind, she burst into tears, sobbing into her hands. Booted feet stopped nearby, and a man's voice intruded on her sorrow.

"Can I sit with you?"

Erin looked up in shock at Isaiah Lopez.

"I can always find another villain..." he said, pausing significantly, "...but I'll never find another Erin Duncan."

His presence and words brought a fresh deluge of tears. Nevertheless, she bounded happily to her feet.

"If you sit here," her tone was fierce, "the window stays closed!"