Providence: Once Upon a Second Chance by Coppernoll Chris

Author:Coppernoll, Chris [Coppernoll, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Small Town, Second Chance, Christmas
Publisher: David C. Cook
Published: 2012-11-12T06:00:00+00:00

An hour later I drove north up I-65 toward Chicago on my first manhunt. I planned to ferret out an ace journalist who fit the description of a coward and a liar. I was working from a loosely fitted plan, one having to do with an up-close-and-personal confrontation. It was something I doubted Bud Abbott had ever seen as a reporter inside the walled city of the Chicago Tribune.

I’d lived in the windy city for a short while, so I knew to exit at Lake Shore Drive and work my way over to the Tribune building on Michigan Avenue. Even with the fresh lakefront snowfall, I was downtown by midday and parked in a structure adjacent to the building. I crossed Michigan and entered the revolving doors.

My honest and famous face worked like a charm, a dual set of keys opening the gates from the ground floor up to the receptionist on the Tribune floor. I wound my way through an enormous room filled with small brown cubicles and found Bud Abbott eating lunch in his. I stood in his doorway, immediately grabbing his attention.

“Clayton?” A nervous thirtyish boy of a reporter looked up at me. His expression froze. He was probably wondering if I’d managed to sneak an Uzi into the building.

“It’s me, Bud,” I said, sounding more like Dirty Harry than Jack Clayton, benevolent, best-selling author.

He reached for the phone but stopped short, his hand suspended in midair at the end of a long, thin arm, a slight tremor visible at his narrow wrist. I’m not a big guy, but the surprise of showing up, an arm’s length away, inside a claustrophobic cubicle stopped Bud Abbott dead in his tracks. Raw emotions read like newsprint on his face.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“That’s right, Bud. I want something. You’re going to give me exactly what I came in here for.”

I could see dozens of story lines playing out in his eyes. Could a reclusive writer snap under the pressure of a newspaper story? Could bad press make a narcissistic hermit leave his shanty for the big city with vengeance on his mind? Would tomorrow’s headline read: TRIB WRITER SLAIN AFTER CRITICAL STORY?

“What do you want?” he asked again, the words coming out so dry, they almost snapped off in his mouth.

“I want you, Bud. I want the next month of your life. I’m going to come live in your house, eat in your kitchen, and watch your TV. And you’re going to let me do that, because the story you wrote was a lie. You don’t know me, Bud, but you’re going to get to know me, and after you do, you’re going to set the record straight.”

Jesus commands us to love our enemies. When someone strikes your cheek, turn and give the other. If they demand you carry their pack for a mile, carry it two. I had caught Bud’s flaming arrow and was now returning it to his door in singed fingers.

Bud Abbott didn’t know whom he was dealing with.

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