Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  In the hush of the apartment, he senses that his ears are ringing—but no, it’s not that—it’s a different sort of noise. What he hears is a low electronic hum. It comes from the next room, which he knows to be Nolan’s study. Manning again calls, “Clifford?” but this time his voice is colored with apprehension. He crosses the room to the doorway of the study and looks inside.

  There in a chair sits Clifford Nolan, his body slumped forward onto the desk. Manning steps closer. “Good God,” he mumbles. “Cliff?” But he knows that his colleague will not answer. The underside of the reporter’s face has turned purple, swollen against the surface of the desk. Bullet wounds, several of them, pierce his back. Blackened blood has caked down his shirt, disappearing into his pants. He’s starting to stink. He’s been here awhile.

  Manning stands at his side for a moment, head bowed, then heaves a sigh of resignation to this grim discovery. Carefully, he nudges Nolan’s shoulder. As he suspected, the body is limp and flaccid—it has been here for at least a full day.

  Aware again of his surroundings, Manning notices that the hum he heard is still sounding from a stereo system housed on shelving along the wall opposite the desk. Stepping over to it, he sees that the volume has been turned to its upper limit. The lights on the amplifier indicate that a CD was playing and has finished. There are many CD cases stacked in the vicinity, and it is not apparent which one contained the disc that’s inside the machine. He’s tempted to tap the button that will open the drawer and give him a look—but no, he reminds himself, don’t touch anything. He shouldn’t even switch off the amplifier, even though it’s running very warm.

  He returns to the desk and studies the articles atop it, which seem to radiate from Nolan’s lifeless body. There’s a phone, of course, pencils and pens, a few pictures and other personal mementos—including the coveted Brass Bird, shoved unceremoniously into a dark corner behind the lit desk lamp. There are several reporter’s notebooks, some of them open to blank pages, all of them sprouting shreds of missing pages from their spiral bindings. At the edge of the desk sits Nolan’s modem, identical to the one issued to Manning by the Journal. It’s plugged in, and its standby light indicates that it’s ready to transmit over the phone line. Missing from this tableau is Nolan’s laptop computer.

  Manning checks. It’s not hidden beneath the hunched body. It doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the room, although its carryall case is plopped next to the desk on the floor, zipped open and empty. Glancing around the carpet, Manning also notices that no shell casings were left behind—they’d be conspicuous within the tidy confines of Nolan’s study.

  Manning reaches for the phone, then stops himself before touching it. Instead, he pulls his own phone from his hip pocket, flips it open, and punches in the code of a programmed number. When someone answers on the other end, Manning asks, “Is Jim in?” He waits. Jim is a high-ranking Chicago police detective who has become Manning’s principal contact at headquarters. “Evening, Jim. It’s Manning from the Journal. Glad I caught you in.”

  “Always good to hear from you, Mark—but I assume this is no social call.”

  Manning allows himself a short laugh. “No, Jim, it’s not. I’m at the apartment of a fellow reporter, Cliff Nolan.” He gives the address. “He’s missed some work, and I just found him shot to death, multiple wounds to the back.”

  “Ouch. Any signs of break-in or struggle?”

  “No. He was working at his desk. His computer may have been stolen, but robbery isn’t a likely motive—his place is full of pricey stuff. All the lights were left on, so it must have happened at night.”

  “Is he stiff?”

  “Beyond stiff,” answers Manning. “The rigor is resolved.”

  Jim can be heard scratching notes. “Then the corpse should be at least thirty-six hours old. If he was shot at night, it couldn’t have been yesterday, Tuesday.”

  “Right,” says Manning. “And he was alive on Monday afternoon—he conducted an interview at Civic Planetarium. So Clifford Nolan was murdered Monday night, sometime after dark, while working on something at his desk.”

  Thursday, June 24

  THE NEXT MORNING, Gordon Smith leads Manning past a Journal security guard and into a small elevator. He fidgets with a seldom-used key, inserting it into the control panel. With a twist of his wrist, the elevator begins to rise. Under the black gaze of a video lens, Smith turns to tell Manning, “Nathan Cain looked upon Cliff Nolan as an intellectual equal—few reporters can make that claim. I haven’t talked to Nathan since yesterday, but I’m sure he’s devastated by the news of Cliff’s murder.”

  Manning shakes his head in recognition of the tragedy. “Nathan didn’t know about the murder when he called this meeting. I wonder if there’ll be a change of agenda.”

  “He’s the boss,” Smith says with a shrug. “I’m sure he intended to discuss the Zarnik story. Did you bring your notes?”

  Manning answers by patting the breast pocket of his jacket, which contains a notebook. He asks his editor, “Do you spend much time up here?”

  “Where, the inner sanctum? My fair share, I guess. But it still never fails to impress. Prepare to be wowed, Marko.”

  Throughout his life, Manning has been grateful that his given name is one of those that don’t lend themselves to nicknames—but his editor has managed to invent one. Though older than Manning by only ten years or so, Gordon Smith has grown increasingly paternal toward his star reporter, showing signs of proud, manly affection that are altogether new to Manning, who never really knew his own father. Mark Manning, Senior, died when his son was only three, leaving the boy to grow up without his influence—or the tag of “Junior.” He’s always been Mark, just Mark, to his mother, his friends, his coworkers, even Neil. Now this “Marko” business….

  The elevator stops, opens. Manning and Smith step into a small lobby that leads to a single door, wide and heavy, constructed of rich walnut panels, bearing a plaque with gold lettering: Colonel Nathan Cain, Publisher. Cain’s military days are long past, but the title has stuck. A security guard, seated at a ridiculously petite desk, rises, nods to Smith, and swings the massive door open.

  Manning and Smith enter an outer office, a windowless room with walls covered in the same walnut paneling. The dark wood, combined with the deep carpeting underfoot, creates a hushed atmosphere, churchlike. Manning’s throat tickles, but he stifles the urge to cough. The room’s sole occupant is a receptionist at an oversize desk, atop which there is only a fresh arrangement of flowers, a telephone, and a computer terminal—no pictures, papers, or clutter. A bundle of cords slithers down the side of the desk and disappears into a slit in the carpeting—a clumsy installation, notes Manning, inconsistent with the impeccable fit-and-finish of these posh quarters. The computer is clearly a recent addition, never envisioned by the architect who won the international competition for design of the Journal Building back in the twenties.

  The receptionist rises, greets Smith, is happy to meet Manning, bemoans Nolan’s murder, then ushers them down a hall. They pass through another windowless room, which houses Cain’s secretarial pool, four well-dressed women, all on the high side of middle age, who tap away at their computers. Cords and cables again spoil the finesse of the room’s decorating.

  They pass file rooms, a lounge, and several closed doors, arriving at last in Cain’s outer office where they meet his special assistant, Lucille Haring. She’s a tall woman, lean and mannish, with carrot-red hair worn short and parted. She speaks and moves with military precision, an impression that is reinforced by her olive-colored gabardine suit. She wears no makeup or jewelry, just a Swiss Army watch, a no-nonsense timepiece with a large, readable dial.

  Manning can tell by her conversation with Smith that they have not met before, so she is apparently a recent addition to Cain’s staff. She makes no mention of Cliff Nolan, whose murder has been all over the news this morning, and Manning concludes that the woman never met the late science editor. As they cont
inue to talk, the receptionist who escorted them from the front office excuses herself, and Manning turns to acknowledge her departure from the room. Doing so, he notices that this office has windows, and his glimpse of the skyline confirms that they are at the top of the Journal’s landmark tower. He also notes that Cain’s outer office, now Lucille Haring’s domain, is cluttered with even more computer hardware. Racks of electronics line one of the walls, covering part of a window—a hasty, makeshift setup.

  “This way, gentlemen,” Miss Haring tells them. “The Colonel is expecting you.” Manning could swear he heard her heels click. She leads them through an imposing doorway, and Manning gets his first glimpse of the fabled inner sanctum. He fully expected the publisher’s office to be grand, even lavish, but he wasn’t even remotely prepared for this.

  If the outer offices seemed churchy, this room is more like a cathedral. Indeed, the curved wall at the far end of the room, two stories high, resembles an apse, replete with Gothic arched windows overlooking carved limestone gargoyles and the city beyond. The high altar enshrined by this vaulted space is the desk of Nathan Cain, which lacks only candlesticks to complete the image. The computer terminal on the desk seems not only anachronistic to this setting, but baldly offensive to it.

  Cain is not at his desk, so Smith and Manning feel free to explore a bit. Manning gapes at the timbered ceiling, the stone and paneled walls, as Smith explains, “There’s more beyond that door, an entire living quarters. Nathan can hole up in here for weeks on end if he wants—and occasionally he does.” The main room contains not only the desk, but a large conference table, a glass-doored cabinet that displays a collection of rare firearms, a sitting area furnished with a tufted-leather chesterfield suite, a fireplace big enough to barbecue a steer, a fully stocked bar, and a circular stair that corkscrews its way up to a library loft overlooking the room below. The library is no mere display for decorative volumes, but a serious research center, with books arranged on shelving that protrudes at perpendiculars from the wall. Some of these shelving units, Manning notes, have been replaced by vented metal cabinets, the type that often houses electronics.

  From behind these cabinets, a voice announces, “Good morning, Gordon.”

  Smith and Manning turn to see Nathan Cain appear on the balcony. Smith sweats with the knowledge that their boss has overheard their conversation. Trying to remember exactly what has been said, he concludes that he has made no fatal slip, but nonetheless resents the fact that Cain would allow Smith to put himself in jeopardy.

  The publisher descends the circular stairs, telling them, “In light of last evening’s disturbing developments and the grievous loss to all of us within the Journal family, I’m especially pleased to see both of you today. It’s good to be together at times like these.” His tone lightens momentarily as a thought occurs to him. He asks, “I don’t believe you’ve been up here before, Mr. Manning?”

  “No, sir. It’s … beautiful.”

  “Hngh,” grunts Cain. Wryly, he adds, “Thanks. We like it.” Then he laughs at his little joke.

  A tall man of rigid bearing, Cain takes the stairs slowly. He’s sixty-four, but will never retire. His heaps of Journal stock, his years of deferred compensation, his seven-digit salary—it all means nothing to him. Like his ever-present black silk pocket handkerchief and his custom suits, his wealth is simply a fact of life, another quirk that defines him to himself and to others. He has never married, and the ultimate disposition of his fortune has become, with the passing of years, a popular subject of speculation. He doesn’t give much thought to his material rewards because his greater pleasure, an obsessive pleasure, derives from power.

  He has focused that power on only two goals: building the Journal and serving his country. A war injury (a wound to one of his thighs) sustained in Korea (he was too young for the Big One) left him with a bad leg. He has since walked with difficulty, bearing his pain silently, too proud to use a cane, which would in fact suit his style to a tee. With one hand he grips the railing; in the other he holds a book.

  Arriving at the bottom stair, he again speaks in a somber tone, quoting: “‘Day of wrath and day of mourning. See fulfilled the prophets’ warning.’”

  Smith smiles awkwardly, not knowing what to make of this verse.

  Manning recognizes Cain’s words. “Aren’t those the opening lines of a medieval dirge, sir?”

  “Bravo, Manning. Very good. I intend to use them at the top of Clifford’s obit.”

  Manning finds the lines overly morose and melodramatic, a throwback to his own Catholic upbringing. Though he has renounced the theology of his youth, he is still fascinated by its trappings. As an altar boy, way back when he still believed, he was sometimes sprung from school to serve at funeral Masses. He remembers the melody of that dirge well. Chanted in Latin, it was grimly exciting, the perfect aural counterpart to the nostril-sting of incense, to the flicker of huge orange candles in their black-lacquered bases flanking a coffin in the center aisle. That was thirty years ago, when words of godly wrath still held power over him.

  Today, he would never invoke such sentiments to eulogize the passing of a friend. He knows, though, that he’s in no position to express these thoughts to Cain, so he simply nods, acknowledging that Cain’s intentions are understood.

  In contrast to Manning’s passive acquiescence, Smith effuses, “That’s brilliant, Nathan! Do you mean to tell us that you’re writing Cliff’s obituary yourself? I’m sure he’d be honored by such a send-off.”

  “Noblesse oblige,” Cain tells him dryly. “I owe him that much.”

  Manning says, “We’ll all miss him. He was one of the most cultured and intelligent writers I’ve ever worked with.”

  Cain approaches Manning and rests a hand on his shoulder. “And to think—you were the one to discover his body. It must have been terrible for you.”

  “I’ve seen the aftermath of murder before, but you’re never prepared to find a friend with bullets in his back.”

  “Ughh,” Cain breathes a shudder, “bullets again.” He grips the area of his thigh where fragments of lead still abrade nerves and rob sleep. With measured steps, he crosses the vast office toward the case that displays his gun collection. He gestures toward the weapons behind the glass. “In light of Clifford’s tragic demise, I’m sorely tempted to issue an editorial calling for a broader ban on handguns—they’ve become tools of such wanton violence.”

  Smith and Manning have followed him to the showcase. “Gosh,” says Smith, “I never thought I’d see the day when the Journal jumped on that bandwagon. Not that I disagree—there are strong arguments on both sides of the debate—but this paper has always been a staunch defender of the Second Amendment.”

  “I haven’t decided,” Cain reminds him. “I said that I’m tempted. We’ll see.” He notices Manning peering close at a jade-handled pistol enshrined within the display. Cain chortles. “It didn’t take you long to zero in on the centerpiece of my collection, Mr. Manning.”

  “I have no great knowledge of guns,” Manning responds, “but that one certainly seems … unique.”

  “Indeed it is,” Cain assures him with grave understatement. “That gun has a remarkable history that, one day, I may share with you. Suffice it to say, that rarest of Nambu pistols has been used solely to defend honor, never to commit treachery.”

  There is a pause. Enticed by Cain’s statement, Gordon Smith eagerly says to him, “Well, come on, Gordon—tell us the story!”

  “Patience,” commands Cain, one hand raised to fend off further inquiry, the other still grasping the book he carried down from the balcony. “That can wait. We have important business to conduct this morning. First, the most urgent question, one that must be answered quickly: Who killed Clifford Nolan?”

  Smith stammers, “The police, well, they’re working on it even as we speak.”

  “The hell with them,” snaps Cain, “and damn their bureaucratic bumbling.” He repeats, louder, “Who killed Clifford?
And why?” He’s a powerful man, and he expects answers.

  Flustered, Smith suggests, “The Journal could undertake its own investigation.”

  Cain smiles, silently thanking Smith for not forcing him to make the suggestion himself. Watching this exchange, Manning can predict with near certainty that Smith will later assign the investigation to him. That’s what he hopes, anyway—and there’s a good chance that someone else may now inherit the Zarnik story.

  Content that a Nolan investigation will soon be under way, Cain waves Smith and Manning toward the grouping of leather sofas. As the three of them walk across the room, Cain continues, “I’ve been brushing up on my textbook astronomy”—he hefts the book he has been carrying—“and I can’t decide if this Zarnik character is a crackpot or if he’s actually on to something. What have you learned?” He drops the book onto a low table. The thud actually echoes in the cavernous room.

  Sitting, Manning consults his notebook. “In a nutshell, Zarnik’s credentials are solid and his research seems sound, but I was put off by his inability to answer some straightforward questions of fact. He promised me a video demonstration—he calls it a ‘graphic realization’—that he claims will prove the existence of his tenth planet unequivocally.”

  “Yes,” says Cain, “Miss Haring showed me the notes you sent in last night.”

  Manning stops short, unaware that his computer stories were accessible to anyone while still being drafted, before being filed in the editorial pipeline.