Stone - 25 - Collateral Damage

promised not to tell anybody even that.”
    “Baby, are you in some kind of trouble?”
    “In a way,” she said. “I’m in the kind of trouble that a journalist gets into when she knows about something but can’t write about it.”
    “Why can’t you write about it?”
    “Because I promised—I signed an agreement not to.”
    “A business agreement? With Vanity Fair ?”
    She shook her head. “No, it’s bigger than that—it’s bigger than anything, any story I’ve ever heard of.”
    “Well, let’s see: bigger than the attack on Pearl Harbor?”
    “Yeah, in its way.”
    “Bigger than nine-eleven?”
    Kelli thought about that. “No, but it could have been.”
    “Are we talking terrorist attack here?”
    “We’re not talking,” Kelli replied. “I can’t do that.”
    “I haven’t heard anything on the news or seen anything in the Times about anything like that.”
    “That’s the thing—you won’t see it or hear about it anywhere, because nobody can talk about it.”
    “Who comprises the category of ‘nobody,’ in this case?”
    “Anybody who was there.”
    “There in L.A.? That’s the only place you’ve been lately.”
    She nodded her head.
    “Did something happen in L.A.?”
    “Almost.”
    “I saw the president’s TV address, and I read about the three bombs in the Times ,” Jim said. “But only one went off, and the only people killed were terrorists.”
    “That’s accurate,” Kelli said, “to a point.”
    “Was there another attempt on the president’s life?”
    “I can’t talk about it anymore.”
    He put his hand on hers. “Kelli, whatever it is, it’s eating you up. You might feel better if you talk about it. You know I’ll keep your confidence.”
    “I know you would, Jim. But I thought I would, too, and here I am talking about it.”
    “Then do this: write it all down, pour out everything, then lock it in your safe and forget about it.”
    She frowned again. “You know, that might work.”
    “Well, I have to go to work,” he said. “I’ve got to oversee the installation of some new lighting at High Cotton.”
    “I thought you were finished with that project.”
    “Yeah, well, when you think you’re finished with a project, something always comes up. There have been some complaints about inadequate lighting in the programming department. People look at their brightly lit screens, then look at something on paper, and their eyes can’t adjust quickly enough. The new fixtures have arrived, and we need to get them in today.”
    “You go ahead,” Kelli said. “I’ve got to do some grocery shopping. Anything you need?”
    “More bourbon,” he said, “and more vodka.”
    “Okay, I’ll call and have it delivered.”
    “And we’re out of Parmesan cheese.”
    “Already on my list.”
    He stood up, held her face in his hands, and kissed her. “Feel better,” he commanded, then he left.
    Kelli slowly finished her breakfast and drank her coffee, then she went into her little workroom and sat down at her computer.
Last week in Los Angeles, during the Immi Gotham concert at the opening of The Arrington, a new hotel, a nuclear bomb came within three seconds of detonating. I was there. I saw it happen.
    She wrote rapidly for an hour, editing as she went, then she saved the document, printed it, copied it to a thumb drive, put the hard copy and the drive into her safe and locked it, then deleted the original from her computer.
    Then, unburdened, she called in the liquor order, stuck her wallet in a pocket in her jeans, and went grocery shopping.

Jasmine was awakened by the cell phone on her bedside table. She was disoriented for a moment, then she reached for it. It could be only one person. “Hello?”
    “I think you should do some light grocery shopping this morning,” he said.
    “What?”
    “After all, you’ve been away, your fridge must be empty.”
    “I need to sleep,” she said.
    “Sleep then. Do your shopping early this afternoon; take a walk, get some air. The park is nice this time of year.”
    “All right.”
    “Tell me what things you will buy.”
    She was hungover, but she tried to think. “Milk, bread, sliced beef for sandwiches, mayonnaise, eggs. And scotch.”
    “Famous Grouse all right?”
    “Fine.”
    “Later.” He hung up.
    Jasmine rolled over and slept for another two hours, then she struggled out of bed and got into a hot shower, letting the water drum against the back of her neck to make the hangover go away. She