letter was typed on plain white paper. The words were few. It stated that if I did not withdraw from the coming election, that everything would be revealed. The person who wrote the letter knows all, Sarah. They know about Winifred, they know about the drugs, and they know about . . . about . . .” “About what, Obee?”
“My God, Sarah, they know about Westfall, about Frank Westfall!”
This last statement caused O’Brien to weep again, and move his head about so fitfully that Sarah thought he might never regain his composure. Nevertheless, she needed a few questions answered to ever make sense out of any of this.
“Obee, try to hold yourself together. Let’s take this slowly. Now first, what does this person claim to know about Winifred?”
“Oh, Sarah, please don’t judge me too harshly.”
“I won’t, you know I won’t. Now tell me, what is it?”
“Sarah, my friend, I should have told you long ago.” O’Brien’s expression became even more pained. His face contorted into deep rivulets. “No, no, I can’t!”
“Obee!”
“All right! Winifred was pregnant before we were married! Do you hear me?” he nearly screamed. “I got my wife pregnant before we said our vows, months before! And now someone, someone horribly evil is trying to use it against me!” He reluctantly glanced at Sarah.
Calmly, she nodded. When the idea had first occurred to her months ago, she dismissed it as utterly fanciful, first, because she had what she believed at the time to be convincing evidence to the contrary, and secondly, because she was so hurt by the possibility. Since then, however, circumstances, particularly the hastiness of the wedding and Winifred’s extended holiday, had forced her to suspect that Obee had indeed married the young woman out of necessity. But for someone else to actually have proof and use it so viciously was another matter entirely. That this blackmailer—for that was clearly what they were dealing with—also knew about and was willing to expose Obee’s drug problem was even more disturbing. As far as Sarah knew, she was the only one, outside of the doctors who attended him, who possessed that information.
There would be time enough to ponder the identity of this dangerous individual, however, let alone figure out what to do if she were to actually discover it. But the ominous reference to Frank Westfall took the air from her lungs. Because according to the extremity of Obee’s reaction when he mentioned the former county commissioner, the worst was yet to come.
“All right, Obee, I admit that this situation looks a bit hard. But, really, you must know that you haven’t actually done anything that wrong. You’ve done right by Winifred in marrying her, and people will understand about the drugs. It’s not as if you’re an addict, and no one can prove that your current lapse is anything more than overwork. I mean, that’s what it’s always been due to anyway, hasn’t it, Obee?”
“Yes, yes my dear. Of course.”
Sarah chose for the moment to ignore Obee’s unconvincing tone in responding to this question and proceeded on.
“Okay, then, all we need to really be concerned with is Frank Westfall. I hardly remember him, Obee. What could anyone possibly know about him that would be injurious to you?”
Obee looked away with such an odd, far off expression, that Sarah feared he might stop talking altogether. When he remained silent after she repeated the question, she tried a different tact.
“Obee, tell me more about the letter. Do you have it here?” O’Brien shook his head. “Where is it?”
O’Brien now did turn to her, but with deranged eyes. “I burned it. I tore the letter up and burned it! I couldn’t let anyone see it, Sarah. Not anyone, especially Winifred. She knows nothing of the drugs, nothing of Westfall, and if she thought the pregnancy might be exposed, why, why . . . it would be too horrible to imagine!”
Very foolish, Sarah thought. Very foolish. But of course he wasn’t aware of what he was doing.
“Obee, tell me about Frank Westfall. If I’m really the only person who can help you, then I must know what—”
“I can’t tell you, Sarah. No, I refuse to tell you that!” O’Brien started to weep again.
“Obee, Obee, you’re being irrational. How am I supposed to help you if I don’t have all the facts? You must tell me. Obee, do you hear me?”
Sarah took O’Brien’s face in her hand and tried to force him to look at her. But his eyes were closed now, and even when she shook him a little, he lay there listless and limp.
Frustrated, confused and exhausted, Sarah retied Obee’s arm. Perhaps it was just as well. What he had told her so far was disturbing enough. Better to digest these terrible facts first than become surfeited with any more. She stood up, walked toward the door, and turned off the light.
“Sleep well, my friend,” she whispered, and headed shakily toward Dr. Miller’s office.
5
Scribbling some notes to himself, Mitchell Dobrinski, a lone figure in The Blade’s still empty newsroom attempted to map out his coverage of the upcoming election. It was only 5 a.m., but as one of the paper’s most dedicated and insomnia-prone reporters, Mitchell was already considering what new angle he could use to breathe life into what was undoubtedly going to be a stale campaign. The fact that he was selected to exclusively cover O’Brien O’Donnell, the Democratic candidate for probate judge, made this task especially difficult. Not because O’Donnell wasn’t newsworthy or even interesting. The man was undeniably both. But his reelection was a foregone conclusion. After all, although he was a Democrat, O’Donnell managed in his previous five terms to attract voters from both parties, and there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t do the same thing again. He was still known for his unique ability to strike a compromise, still considered one of the most intelligent and eloquent men in Toledo, and he still worked tirelessly for social reform. And, especially important to the majority of Toledo’s citizens fed up with the city’s corruption, he was still thought to possess the highest moral standards of any public official. Naturally, he had his share of detractors. That movement several years ago by the Housewives League to remove him from office, for example. And John O’Dwyer’s failed but nevertheless persistent attempts to defame his character. But even those situations had changed in his favor, making O’Donnell currently one of the most popular and trusted men in the city.
Nevertheless, as a seasoned reporter, Mitchell knew that some careful investigating would bear fruit. Having worked for The Blade for over twelve years, the tough forty-five year old had enough experience to know that no one was beyond reproach. There was always a crack, something overlooked, forgotten, or simply not taken far enough. Not that he enjoyed digging up dirt for its own sake. On the contrary, he considered himself a man of journalistic integrity who believed in giving his readers as unbiased and serious an account as possible. This was why he worked for The Blade rather than The Bee, that noisy gossip rag that passed itself off as a newspaper. But a commitment to objective reporting also meant providing readers with as much information as possible, the good and the bad, and in this case, the possible flaws of a candidate even his own paper was supporting.
Lighting his fifth Lucky Strike of the morning, Mitchell leaned back on his well-worn swivel
