Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  Eye Contact

  A Mark Manning Mystery

  Michael Craft

  The author wishes to thank a circle of friends and trusted readers who acted as an informal “brainstorming committee” in developing the core idea for this story. They are Michael Gudbaur, Mari Higgins-Frost, Leon Pascucci, Tim Radigan-Brophy, and Brian Schend. For their assistance in lending technical credence to various aspects of the plot, the author also thanks Bill Althaus, Roxanne Decyk, Frank Gerlits, and Andris Kursietis. Finally, he expresses his ongoing gratitude to Mitchell Waters and John Scognamiglio for nurturing this series in print.

  —M.C.

  Seulement, toujours à Léon

  Contents

  PART ONE Discovery

  Wednesday, June 23

  Thursday, June 24

  Friday, June 25

  PART TWO Asteroids

  Saturday, June 26

  Sunday, June 27

  Monday, June 28

  Tuesday, June 29

  Wednesday, June 30

  Thursday, July 1

  PART THREE Cataclysm

  Saturday, July 3

  Epilogue

  Saturday, September 4

  Preview: Body Language

  A Biography of Michael Craft

  PART ONE

  Discovery

  CELESTIAL SHAKEUP!

  Astronomer claims discovery of a long-sought tenth planet

  by Mark Manning

  Journal Investigative Reporter

  JUNE 22, 1999, CHICAGO, IL—Dr. Pavo Zarnik, the renowned astrophysicist who was named director of Chicago’s Civic Planetarium just three weeks ago, stunned the scientific world late yesterday when he announced his discovery of a tenth planet in Earth’s solar system.

  Issuing a prepared statement, he told the press, “This tiny, remote body is of course not directly observable, but its existence has been verified by a computer model that accounts for minute anomalies, or perturbations, in the gravitational fields of Neptune and Pluto.”

  Planet Zarnik is said to orbit the sun at a distance of 7 billion miles, roughly twice the distance of Pluto, with the Zarnikal year lasting more than 600 Earth years. But because its equatorial diameter is less than 1,000 miles, compared to Earth’s 8,000 miles, it spins through a day in about two Earth hours. The planet is said to be solid, not gaseous.

  Reaction from other experts came quickly. A spokesman said that NASA would not recognize the new planet until Dr. Zarnik’s claims have been independently verified. Replicating Zarnik’s complex computer model would take months under ideal circumstances, but because of funding setbacks, the research could take much longer.

  Although news of the discovery has been met with broad skepticism, none of the critics has questioned Dr. Zarnik’s professional integrity in making the claim. The NASA spokesman conceded, “The man’s credentials are impeccable.”

  Zarnik, 56, took up residence in Switzerland several years ago, fleeing the civil war that still ravages his Eastern European homeland. His recent appointment as director of the Civic Planetarium was arranged, with help from the State Department, as part of the city’s Celebration 2000, marking the millennium with a yearlong festival of arts and sciences, to open July 3.

  Wednesday, June 23

  MARK MANNING GAZES across the expanse of the Chicago Journal city room, then lowers the newspaper to his lap. This morning’s article, repeated from yesterday’s late editions, wasn’t exactly his best work, certainly not typical of the in-depth investigations that have marked his career and secured his reputation among the city’s top journalists. But then, this particular assignment didn’t qualify as “reporting” at all—not in his book.

  Yesterday afternoon, the paper’s managing editor, Gordon Smith, nabbed Manning in the hallway and thrust a copy of a one-page press release into his hand, telling him, “Cobble something together for the next edition. This might be big, and we’ve got squat.”

  Manning skimmed a couple of paragraphs—something about an astronomical discovery. He asked Smith, “Shouldn’t this go to Cliff Nolan?”—referring to the Journal’s science editor.

  “It did, Marko. Nolan was supposed to interview this Zarnik character and write up the discovery in layman’s terms, but he never delivered.” Smith was already backing away from Manning, taking a turn down another aisle. “I’m late for the daily editorial meeting,” he explained. “Just piece something together and get it into the system. We need to have something in ink, or we’ll be playing catch-up to the Post.”

  “What happened to Cliff?” asked Manning, but Smith was already rushing away toward his meeting. So Manning got to work. Even though he was more than qualified to rewrite a press release for print, he still felt qualms about putting his byline on a science story that was out of his realm and, to his way of thinking, not very interesting. There was nothing in this claimed discovery that roused his curiosity. Other than the skepticism of Zarnik’s peers, which might well be dismissed as professional jealousy, there was no conflict in this story. Manning would simply relay the known facts, like some talking-head TV anchorman. Grousing, he told himself, This story has no element of mystery—does it?

  Now he leans back in his chair, folds the paper, and sets it squarely on his clutter-free desk, which accommodates only the essential telephone, appointment book, steno pads, pencil mug—and a framed photo of a handsome man of thirty-three who stares at the reporter with a fixed, worshiping smile. Half-walls surround the desk on three sides, demarcating the limits of Manning’s work space. A babble of organized confusion, intensified by an approaching deadline, fills the vast room, but he does not hear it, immersed in thoughts about a promising story he’s eager to begin drafting. There’s a ghost-payroll scandal at the local water utility that’s about to burst wide open, ripe for a round of investigative journalism.

  He switches on his computer terminal and begins transcribing notes, originally written, as always, in the blue-black ink of an antique Montblanc, his pet fountain pen. His right leg pumps autonomically, burning off energy not consumed by the action of his fingers on the keyboard. The heel of his spit-polished cordovan shoe taps the hard carpeting. A summer-weight blazer, only recently brought out of storage, drapes the back of his chair.

  He stops typing and leans forward to check his words, searching for a tighter phrase. He squints, unsatisfied, and the clean, strong features of his face turn momentarily comical. If a stranger were to glimpse him at work and guess his age, he might be pegged for thirty-something, but in fact, he’s forty-two now, fit and trim—the waist size of his khaki slacks hasn’t changed in years. His eyes, uncommonly green, appear even more so, their color amplified by the background hue glowing from the screen. Finding his phrase, he resumes typing, then uncaps his pen and checks off several items on a page of his steno book.

  “Say, Mark. Got a minute?”

  Manning swivels from his computer to find Gordon Smith standing behind him with a cub reporter, David Bosch, in tow. The eager kid was a newsroom intern from Northwestern until a year ago, when he finished his journalism degree and was kept on full-time. His broad shoulders and owlish glasses give him the air of a boyish Clark Kent—a likeness that has not escaped Manning, who has taken care to keep their chummy relationship strictly professional.

  “Of course, Gordon,” Manning answers while standing. “What’s up?” As a casual aside, he adds, “Hi, David.”

  “A few minutes ago,” the editor says, “I got a call from Nathan Cain….”

  “Oh?” asks Manning, a hint of caution coloring his voice. A phone call from the Journal’s legendary publisher may be an everyday occurrence for Gordon Smith, but others in the newsroom rarely see the man, let alone speak to him. As the result of this call from on high, Smith
is now standing at Manning’s desk. “And …?”

  Smith laughs, scratching the back of his head. “It’s the damnedest thing, Marko, but Nathan was really knocked out by your Zarnik piece this morning. He told me to keep you on the story, and he wants to make a splash with a page-one follow-up on Sunday. We’ll be promoting it for the rest of the week—broadcast and print.”

  Manning opens his mouth to protest, intending to tell his editor that the story was nothing, a rehash of a press release. If Cain wants it taken further, Cliff Nolan is clearly the best writer for the job. Besides, Manning is itching to get started on that waterworks story.

  But before Manning can voice the first syllable, Smith tells him, “I know how you feel about it, and between you and me, I agree. But Nathan gave a direct order, and I’m not inclined to tell him he’s wrong.” Again Smith chuckles—his customary technique for dispelling tension. “It’s just a couple of days’ work, then you can get back to whatever steamy exposé you’re cooking up. And to sweeten this story, Nathan suggested that I assign you an assistant.”

  Peering over Smith’s shoulder, David Bosch waggles the fingers of one hand as if to say, That’s me.

  Lord, Manning tells himself. All I need. If there’s no way to get out of this nowhere story, I’d rather work it alone. But now we’re going to turn it into a “learning experience” for some rookie.

  Resigned to the inevitable, he forces a smile and tells Smith, “Okay, Gordon, we’ll have it wrapped up within forty-eight hours.”

  “That’a boy, Marko.” Beaming, Smith pats Manning’s back, then strides off toward the city desk, leaving the cadences of yet another chuckle in his wake.

  Manning shakes his head and sits. David steps into the cubicle, telling him, “Sorry, Mark. I know you’ve got better things to do. The whole setup sounds goofy to me too—but the truth is, I’ll be honored to work with the best in the business.”

  There now, Manning thinks, this may not be so terrible after all. In spite of the kid’s limited reporting experience, he’s already a pro at pushing the right buttons. And he’s certainly not hard on the eyes.

  Manning gestures that David should sit, telling him, “Actually, I’m a bit rusty at ‘team reporting,’ so it may turn out that you’re just along for the ride.”

  “You’re the boss,” David assures him. “And I’ll try to keep out of your way.” As he perches on the edge of the desk, Manning can’t help but notice the long, knotted muscles of David’s thighs—he’s clearly invested some time at the gym.

  “And I’ll try to make you feel useful,” Manning tells him. Glimpsing at his desk calendar, he asks, “Is your schedule open this afternoon?”

  “Now it is.”

  “Let me give Zarnik a call and see if he has time for us to visit him later.” He pulls a file from a drawer, retrieves Zarnik’s original press release, and makes note of a phone number, telling David, “In all honesty, I shouldn’t grumble about this. With Celebration Two Thousand set to open in less than two weeks, we’re both lucky not to be writing sidebars for the ‘Arts’ section.”

  With a laugh, David nudges his glasses, which have crept down his nose. “That’s exactly what I was doing five minutes ago when Mr. Smith rescued me. I know the festival is a big deal and all—it seems the whole world is pouring into the city these days—but I think it’s being blown way out of proportion.”

  “Tell me!” Manning flumps back in his chair, eyeing the framed picture on his desk. “I have more than a passing interest in seeing this festival up and running.” Indicating the photo, he asks, “You know Neil Waite, don’t you? My, uh … loftmate?” Not that Manning would ever deny his relationship with Neil—these have been the happiest, most liberating two years of his life. But he just doesn’t care for the term “lover,” finding it entirely too earthy for most contexts. The language is full of other descriptors—roommate, companion, partner, husband, friend—all of them borrowed from other settings, none of them le mot juste. “Loftmate” will suffice.

  “Sure,” answers David. “You introduced us when he dropped by the office one day. He seems like a great guy—an architect, right?”

  “Right. And that’s what got Neil involved with the festival. He’s really got his hands full with the architecture committee—so involved that most of his building projects have been back-burnered till after the Fourth. And now he’s tied up with another committee that’s planning the human-rights conference.”

  David hesitates, uncomfortable with the topic. “That’s like, gay rights, right?”

  Manning stands. “It sure is.” He closes Zarnik’s folder. “And it’s got a lot of people upset. The Christian Family Crusade wasted no time announcing they’d stage a counterdemonstration at the opening.”

  David stands to look Manning in the eye. “Don’t mind them. They’re just a bunch of crazies.”

  Manning exhales an odd noise, something between a sigh and a laugh. “That’s what makes me nervous.”

  From the aisle, a lilting voice interrupts their discussion. “Here you go, darlin’. A fresh supply of bedside reading.” Into the cubicle sidles Daryl, a gay black copy kid, still a student at Northwestern, who has never made a secret of his general interest in men—or his particular interest in Manning. He carries a hefty stack of oversize books, foxed and musty-smelling, just plucked from the reference section of the paper’s morgue. He nudges between the two reporters—“’Scuse me, David”—and drops the books onto the desk with a dusty thud.

  Manning looks askance at Daryl. “What’s this?”

  “Basic astronomy, hon. Time to brush up on the cosmos.”

  “How’d you know?”

  Daryl’s gaze glides first over one shoulder, then the other. Coyly, he responds, “My ear’s to the rail.”

  Manning flips through the titles, recognizing that Daryl has chosen well. “I suppose I should thank you for your efficiency.”

  Daryl purses his lips, cooing, “You owe me one, Mark.”

  David smirks at the comment, but Manning lets it pass, picking one of the books from the pile, a thin primer of astronomical theory and vocabulary. He hands it to David, telling his new assistant, “Spend some time with this over lunch. It’ll be helpful background if we get to meet Zarnik this afternoon.”

  David tucks the little book under one arm. “Will do, sir,” he tells Manning, cuffing him on the shoulder with his massive fist—a playful gesture typical of his jock-friendly manner. Then he turns and leaves the cubicle, heading toward his own desk at the far side of the newsroom.

  “Unh-unh-unh,” croaks Daryl. “Remember, gorgeous—you’re ‘married.’”

  Manning sits. “What’s that suppose to mean?”

  “I saw you watching David’s sweet derrière strutting down the aisle.” He plants himself on the edge of Manning’s desk and looks down at the reporter with an accusing grin. “If you’re entertaining a dip in the company inkwell, I’ve got first dibs.”

  “Christ, Daryl, there’s no harm in looking. I confess, you caught me—David’s an eyeful. But he’s off-limits. I’m happily coupled, and he’s happily straight.”

  “Ha!” Daryl’s reaction is so explosive that it briefly quells the surrounding hubbub. He leans into Manning’s face to say, “That four-eyed muscle-boy may look like a big butch stud, but I’m telling you, honey, when the lights go out, his feet hit the ceiling.”

  Manning’s blank stare conveys disbelief.

  “It’s true,” Daryl assures him. “We were in school together. Not that I’ve had the pleasure, mind you, but I know plenty of others who have.”

  “I had no idea,” says Manning. “He’s worked here almost two years….”

  “He’s a closet case, Mark. Or would it be more charitable to call him ‘guarded’?” Daryl’s tone turns confidential. “In any event, if you’re interested, he’s makable.”

  Manning laughs at the idea, pointing out, “I’m old enough to be his father.”

  Daryl tells him, “H
e’s twenty-four; you’re forty-two. That would make you one very young, very attractive daddy.”

  “Get off it. He’d never be interested in me.”

  “I happen to know otherwise.” Daryl gives him a lascivious wink.

  “Besides”—Manning’s voice rises a register—“I’m not available.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Daryl, sounding unconvinced.

  “Now hold on,” says Manning, dead serious, needing to sort this out. “Neil and I are committed to each other. I changed my whole lifestyle, my very self-identity, in order to build a life, a home with him. And he moved cross-country, walked away from an established career in Phoenix, in order to be here with me. We love each other, Daryl. We’re happy. Why would I jeopardize that?”

  Equally serious, Daryl tells him, “Because you’re human, Mark. You’re a man. You’re curious. Neil brought you out—God bless him—and I can see why you were bowled over. But that was two years ago, and you’ve never played the field. Neil has.”

  “Before I came along, sure.”

  “Sure.” Insinuation hangs in the air.

  They eye each other warily for a few long seconds, then, as if responding to some unspoken signal, they each break the stare. They have often sparred like this, though always over trivial matters, office chat. Daryl has never strayed into such intimate territory, and he has gone too far. “Sorry,” he says, removing his butt from Manning’s desk, “I oughta keep my yap shut. You and Neil are great together. Keep it that way.”

  Manning smiles. “Coming Saturday night?” He and Neil have just finished an extensive renovation of their loft on the city’s Near North Side, and they’ve invited Daryl to a housewarming party.

  Sheepishly, he answers, “If I’m still welcome.”

  “Of course,” Manning assures him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get hold of Dr. Pavo Zarnik.” As Daryl turns to leave the reporter alone with his work, Manning mutters into the messy pile of books strewn on his desk, “I still think Cliff Nolan would be a far better choice for this assignment.”