Ep. II - "Writing on the Wall"

Erin Duncan, aka "Juliet Jones," journalist for The Rain Shadow Report, unfolded her umbrella and stepped out of the Liberty Theatre and into a driving rain. A large, square leather case hung from her shoulder and her gloved hand clutched a purse. The leather case held her brand new Webster-Chicago wire recorder; a gift from her father in view of her chosen profession, which had cost him a shockingly large amount of money.

Erin's eyes swept over the parked cars across the street. A lead knot seemed to rest under her sternum. Though some sunlight still remained, her practice of checking for danger had become a habit in the last few days.

The whole journalistic world, it seemed, was focused on the Nuremberg Trials, but Erin had gone and written an article about the growing threat of Communists in the valley. Community organizers spouting Marxist rhetoric had called for strikes across town, and the Yakima police had quelled one gathering after it sparked into a riot.

The head of the local Communist chapter was a short, heavy-set man named Jim Wallace. Wallace had gone around offering "protection from riots" for a price. Establishments that hadn't paid, like the theatre she'd just left, had been harassed or attacked. Several business owners had spoken with her only on condition of anonymity, or wouldn't speak with her at all.

"If I say anything," one man told her, "they'll come for me."

Earlier that month, following a manager's refusal to pay for "riot insurance," a mob led by Wallace had set a fruit warehouse ablaze. A few days after that, the threats against her had started. Rocks had been thrown through the RSR's windows, hateful messages scrawled in paint had been found outside the office, and letters addressed to Erin had been delivered, full of crude, vile promises of violence.

Erin had called the police. They'd taken her statement and the letters as evidence, but they regretfully told her not to expect too much. Even The Herald reported on the attacks, though in their customarily unhelpful way:

"The Rain Shadow Report is a part-time activist publication which has been printing inflammatory articles for the fringe elements of Yakima for the past two years. Despite the Rain Shadow's history of inciting anger, they reacted with shock and horror Wednesday to a broken window and some messages which they say are 'death threats.' Employees at the publication have made the claim that 'Russian Agents' are to blame for the window and the messages."

One night, after The Herald ran its article, Erin had seen a man loitering near her after work. That evening, she'd had a male reporter escort her to her sedan, and every night since. The shadowy figure had frequently made a reappearance. On one occasion a fellow journalist, Juan Gonzalez, had gone to confront the man, but the stranger had slipped away before Juan had been able to get close.

Erin completed her scan; down the block, a man in a long coat and a fedora slouched in a doorway. She couldn't tell if he was one of the lurkers from before, or even if he was watching her.

Erin blew out a breath and clutched her handbag as she stepped into the street and walked away from the figure to a nearby parking lot. A crowd had assembled, despite the pouring rain and gathering gloom, to huddle under their umbrellas and hear a Communist organizer named Viktor Ivanov speak.

Viktor Ivanov had dark hair, wide cheekbones, and deep-set eyes. His long beard flowed over the black, robe-like garment he wore. His eccentric clothing evoked the monastic order he'd served in Ukraine before he'd joined the Bolsheviks. Ivanov was tall and skinny, and made taller by the fact that he stood in the back of a red and black flatbed truck. He held a bullhorn, which he screamed through in heavily accented English at the gathered crowd.

Erin made her way through the onlookers and stopped near a pair of seated men on a covered bench. One rose and offered the blonde journalist a seat, which she accepted, opening her case to start a recording.

For the most part, Ivanov's address was neither original, nor controversial. Prosperity, he claimed, could only be achieved and secured when all property was held in common. It was the tone of his voice, carrying passion and conviction, and the light of zeal in his eyes that made Ivanov a compelling speaker. The tone of the former monk's speech changed significantly as he decried the free market with a fiery, near-apocalyptic condemnation. He claimed to foresee a coming "worldwide collapse" of all the economic systems.

After Ivanov finished speaking, Erin switched off her recorder, stowed it back into its case, and began the long walk to her car. It had stopped raining during Ivanov's speech, and Erin folded her umbrella away with a relieved sigh. She came to the corner and stopped suddenly; the leaden weight in her stomach returned with sudden force.

Slouching against the wall of the post office and courthouse, was the man in the fedora from before.

His hat was pulled down low over his eyes, but he straightened and faced her as she came into view. Erin Duncan's throat went dry as she shifted the heavy recorder behind her left hip and slipped her free hand into the purse she carried. Her gloved fingers wrapped around the comforting mother-of-pear grip of a .38 snub nose revolver; her other gift from a concerned father.

Bolstered in courage, Erin approached her stalker. He was of average height and had reddish-brown hair and a beard along his jawline. Under his long, dark wool coat he wore a uniform form the "Maid O' Clover Dairy and Ice Creamery." His voice was soft and high like a woman's, and his tone was insolent.

"You don't got your bodyguar–"

"Excuse me," Erin interrupted, "who said you could talk to me?"

The bearded man's mouth gaped in surprise, "W-what?"

Seeing that she'd pushed him off balance, the journalist repeated herself, like a school teacher to an unruly and particularly slow-witted student, "I did not say you could speak to me."

Despite the direction things had taken, the man collected himself and moved forward threateningly, "Watch yourself. We don't like your writing."

"Are you sure it's just my writing, or is it everything without pictures?"

The click of the hammer being drawn back was deafening in the pause following her words, drawing the man's wide eyes to the chrome Smith & Wesson .38 she aimed at his midsection. He backed up slowly, arms out, palms up. When the man spoke again, it was almost a growl.

"Keep up the way you're going, and no pop gun is going to save you."

She watched him walk to the far corner and get into a waiting car, which sped off. Erin got into her olive-green Plymouth and placed the recorder, umbrella, and handbag on the seat next to her. She held the pistol in her lap and, once her trembling had stopped, Erin eased the hammer forward, decocking the weapon.

"One of these days," she said, "I should really learn how to use this thing."

Isaiah Lopez was slowly and laboriously pecking away at a typewriter when Erin entered the Bureau of Indian Affairs office. Isaiah's partner, Anthony, was leaned back in the chair at his own desk; his hat was pulled down low, and he appeared to be napping.

The small office at the train depot in Toppenish was just as cluttered as Erin remembered, and the persistently wet weather had given the place a musty smell. The damp, combined with aftershave, burned coffee, and other, less identifiable odors, created an atmosphere very similar to the man she'd come to see: strong, persistent, and potentially deadly.

Agent Lopez looked up at her entrance and scowled darkly at the blonde reporter, "And today started off so nicely..."

Erin broke into a wide grin at his sour greeting, "Whoever told you to be yourself was being really mean."

At her riposte, Anthony's head lifted, and she caught a flash of white teeth. Before Isaiah could respond, Erin spoke again, "I'd challenge you to a battle of wits, but I won't attack an unarmed man."

She placed her purse, umbrella, and recorder onto a table which appeared to serve as a coat rack and filing cabinet.

Agent Lopez let his scowl fade for the first time as he smiled at the reporter, "Alright, I surrender. How can the humble BIA help you, Miss Jones?"

In a few minutes, Erin had laid out the threats, vandalism, and stalking. Isaiah's scowl returned and deepened throughout her story. When she was finished, he spoke up.

"You can't really be sure the people threatening you are Communists, though. Communists are fairly peaceable. Sure, they agitate communities, but for things like getting coal for poor families in the winter, or raising wages. They don't skulk in doorways, or throw bricks through windows. Heck, they helped us win the war."

Erin frowned in response, "Every tank, plane, and battleship that Germany used to kill Allied soldiers was manufactured in Russia by 'Uncle Joe' and his 'peaceable' Communists."

Isaiah ignored the reference to Stalin and gestured over to his somnolent partner, "Anthony is a Communist. You think he's throwing bricks through windows, or burning down buildings?"

Anthony sat fully upright and pushed his hat back, holding up a finger in clarification.

"I don't really consider myself a Communist," Anthony's tone was friendly. "I'm more of a Marxist. I happen to disagree with several things the Soviets have done, which I don't feel are wholly in-line with Marx's theory. And while most Communists are peaceful, unfortunately there are violent extremists in the Party who could be behind these attacks on Erin."

At his words, Erin shifted gears like a cement truck climbing a hill. She moved to her instrument, opened it, and began recording as Anthony continued.

"There's a local group calling themselves the Democratic Socialist Labor Party, led by a man named Jim Wallace," Anthony's face soured at the man's name. "They would be inclined to threaten people and burn businesses."

"You don't like him much, do you?" Isaiah asked.

Anthony scoffed slightly, "If incompetence and Crisco had a baby, it would be named Jim Wallace."

Erin spoke up, "Whoever's responsible, I intend to find them and stop them."

She turned to Isaiah, "If your work could spare you, do you think you could accompany me? It's sort of why I came."

Isaiah's response was quick, and he moved to grab his bomber jacket.

"I don't have anything that needs doing except paperwork..." Isaiah glared darkly at the typewriter he'd been working on. "...which can wait."

Erin thanked Isaiah warmly and turned to his partner, "Do you have an address for Jim Wallace?"

Anthony mulled for a few moments and said that he'd need to make some phone calls. A few moments later, Erin was occupied in the task of stowing her wire recorder and Anthony drew Isaiah aside.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" his words and tone were guarded. "You don't have any authority to pursue a non-tribal case. If something happens to you, I can't back you up."

"She needs my help. What else can I do?"

Noting the determined set to Isaiah's jaw, and the defiant glint in his eyes, Anthony signed in resignation and clapped the younger man on the shoulder.

"If you call in about an hour and a half, I should have an address for you."

Isaiah moved to rejoin Erin as Anthony's final words reached his ears:

"I worry about where that impulsive nature is going to lead you."

Erin and Isaiah at lunch at a small diner on the outskirts of Yakima and called Anthony afterwards. The address he gave them sent them along Tieton Drive until it turned to an unpaved road bordered by orchards. At the 6500 block, they arrived at a dilapidated white farmhouse that stood in front of an old barn.

Erin parked her Plymouth in the dirt outside the house, and she and Isaiah walked through the strip of weeds and debris that was the front yard. They carefully made their way past old tires, rusting car panels, and broken furniture. Upon reaching the porch, the smells of burned rubber, cat pee, and gasoline nearly overwhelmed them.

Erin rapped her knuckles on the screen door. After a few moments, a man's voice called from inside the house, asking who they were. Awkward introductions were hollered out, and there was a long pause.

"Come in!" the man finally answered. "I'm working in the kitchen, and the door sticks, so push hard!"

Erin reached for the doorknob, twisting it and shoving the door open. Isaiah never knew what alerted him – the harsh chemicals scents, the man's behavior, or something else. Instinctively, the agent grabbed Erin, and in one motion, pulled her back and threw her to the porch, tumbling on top of her.

A metal twang resounded inside, and the entryway erupted with a concussive blast, sending shards of metal flying into the space Erin had just occupied.

Stunned, Isaiah sprawled on top of the reporter for a few moments, but the sounds of retreating footsteps and a screen door slamming at the back of the house roused him. Erin appeared dazed but unharmed. Isaiah staggered to his feet and charged around the corner of the house.

Erin climbed shakily to her feet and checked her recorder, then approached the wrecked doorway and peered cautiously inside. Singe marks and shrapnel from the improvised explosive littered the foyer, and a figure lying inside it, which proved to be the body of Jim Wallace.

Despite the damage from the bomb, there was surprisingly little blood around the stout corpse. The strange blast had scarred the walls and floor with metal or heat, but it had left Wallace's upper body nearly untouched. The man's shoes, however, were badly mauled by the detonation.

Erin knelt, setting her Webster-Chicago onto the floor, and rolled the body onto its side with effort, inspecting the pristine rug underneath.

Gunshots erupted suddenly outside, shattering the afternoon silence.

Erin ran through the old house and out into the backyard to find Isaiah leaning heavily against a shed. On the ground, several feet away, lay the stalker that had threatened her the night before and a dropped semi-automatic pistol. The man was gasping shallowly as a spreading stain of blood soaked his "Maid O' Clover" uniform. Erin approached the BIA agent.

"So," she asked, smirking slightly, "still think the Commies are just peaceful disside–"

Her words cut off when she noticed the blood soaking Isaiah's shirt.

Almost an hour later, Anthony drove up to the old house. The interior of the home was dark, gloomy, and in no way cheered by the addition of Jim Wallace's corpse. In his years with the Bureau, he'd received few calls as unwelcome as when Erin Duncan had called him, hysterically crying that Isaiah had been killed.

She had told him that she was scared, didn't know who to trust, and had asked him to come pick her up.

"Of course," he'd said, his voice had been dull and heavy with grief. "I just wish... well, sit tight. I'll get there as fast as I can!"

"Erin!" he called out, stepping into the dim foyer. "It's Anthony!"

Erin stepped timidly out of an adjoining room. Her hair was disheveled, and her makeup was smeared from crying. Anthony approached slowly, as though she were a wild horse that might bolt.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you somewhere comfortable."

"I hid my wire recorder..." she mumbled. It seemed she might be in shock and wasn't speaking entirely lucidly. "...I was able to record the gunman before he died. He said he didn't work for Wallace or the DLP. He said he worked for Viktor Ivanov."

Anthony stopped in surprise, "Then I'll need that recording to prosecute him, Ms. Jones."

Her brows knitted in confusion, "You don't have jurisdiction to prosecute a non-tribal case."

"I mean," he clarified, approaching her, "that the police will need it to prosecute him."

The reporter's eyes met the Bureau agent's, "You said 'I need it.' Why would you need it?"

Anthony's response was silence, and Erin's mouth opened in understanding and horror, "...because you work for Viktor Ivanov. You set the bomb."

Anthony looked away, shamed, "I always said his sense of justice would get him into trouble."

The Bureau agent looked up and met the journalist's eyes. At once, Anthony's demeanor changed. His face clouded with anger, and he spat out, "I just made a phone call. You pulled him into this!"

Anthony took several swift steps towards Erin and grabbed her roughly by the arm, shaking her.

"Where's that recorder?" he hissed.

"Let her go, Anthony."

The words were flat and hard as asphalt as Isaiah stepped around a corner; his Colt Peacemaker pointed at his partner.

Isaiah wore a ragged bandage around his head, where a piece of shrapnel had hit him, and his shirt front was bloodstained from the head wound.

Anthony had a brief moment to be surprised by Isaiah's seeming resurrection, before the heel of Erin's free hand struck Anthony in the solar plexus, which doubled the man over. Erin stomped to Isaiah.

"You couldn't wait two more minutes?" she demanded. "He would have told us everything!"

Night had fallen as Erin made a few notations on a notepad. Nearby, Isaiah watched Anthony get loaded into a Sheriff's patrol car. The coroner would be arriving soon to take away the bodies of Jim Wallace and the man Isaiah had killed.

As Anthony was Bureau of Indian Affairs, Isaiah Lopez had been able to use his authority to arrest him, though it would take a while to determine if the treacherous agent would be tried federally, or by the tribe.

"Explain it again," Isaiah said when she'd finished writing. "How did the unmarked floor prove to you that Anthony did it?"

Erin's infernal smile far outshone the risen moon, "You want me to tell you again how clever I am?"

Isaiah rolled his eyes before nodding.

"Okay," the journalist was beaming in excitement as she held up an index finger. "I found Wallace on his back, and the bottoms of his shoes were burned the worst because they were already facing the blast."

"Also," Erin held up a second finger as she continued, "there wasn't a bare spot of walls behind the body, which there would have been, if Jim Wallace had been standing up to shield it."

Isaiah jumped in, "So Wallace was dead before the bomb went off. I suppose his body was left in case we survived, to make us think he'd been killed by his own bomb."

"Exactly!" Erin waved three fingers in the air. "And since I knew that Wallace's body was a red herring, it made sense that the person who tried to kill us was the same person who'd sent us there in the first place, and not the Maid O' Clover man."

Isaiah nodded faintly, "Anthony told us how much he hated Wallace."

Agent Lopez looked nearly lost at the remembrance of his partner's betrayal. Erin elbowed him in the ribs, shaking him from his melancholy. She beamed another smile up at him.

"Hey, you want to help me take Viktor Ivanov down?"

Isaiah's eyes met Erin's.

"You bet. But afterwards, I get to take you on a date where there isn't any shooting, stabbing, or arson."

Her trademark smile grew even wider.

"I guess that rules out Granger, then. It's a date."