Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  He looks around him. The hotel room is cramped and sparsely furnished, but it’s clean and new—in fact, he’s probably the first guest to stay here. It was an expensive night, three hundred dollars for himself, another three hundred for Arlen Farber—the desk clerk refused to allow two men to share one room. Since Manning registered under a false name, he couldn’t use a credit card, so his wallet is running on empty—he doesn’t normally carry so much cash, but he was prepared for a weekend that would be filled with uncertainties.

  Last evening at the planetarium, after Manning filed his story attempting to expose Nathan Cain as a murderer, he and Farber decided that neither of them would be safe at home that night. Manning could at least find scant consolation in the fact that Neil was staying with Roxanne—he was out of harm’s way. Nonetheless, Manning phoned Roxanne’s apartment from the planetarium and left a cryptic message for Neil, cautioning him to stay away from the loft.

  Manning and Farber decided they should find a hotel, no easy feat with the world converging on the city for the festival. But Manning had a hunch, which turned out to be correct. The Gethsemane Arms Hotel was already surrounded with controversy—because of its owners, because of the protest march to be staged there, because of its exorbitant rates—so there were plenty of vacant rooms. The Gethsemane also struck Manning as the perfect hideaway, as no one would think to look for him there, of all places.

  So Manning counted out six hundred dollars to the desk clerk—brotherhood and trust are one thing, but hotel policy is another, requiring payment in advance. Then he retired to his room, needing sleep. Before parting ways with Farber in the hall, he asked the other man to come to his room around noon.

  Manning slept, but he’s not feeling rested. Yesterday was easily the worst day of his life. Neil walked out on him; Hector Bosch publicly humiliated him and threatened his career; his friend and coworker David Bosch was murdered by their boss, who had already killed another reporter; and the victim of this latest treachery was meant to be Manning himself. What’s more, he learned that Nathan Cain is the guiding force behind a complicated scheme with enormously high stakes that Manning cannot begin to fathom. All these disjointed, deadly details are pointing toward a foreboding climax—but what, when, and where?

  The “tenth planet” scam is somehow related to the secretly planned sky show, and both seem related, by virtue of their timing, to the opening of the festival. So: Manning has three pieces to the puzzle (the planet scam, the sky show, the festival), but a fourth piece is missing. He knows from experience that it’s out there—it’s been there all along, close enough to bite him—but he needs a clue, just one more clue, to complete the picture and reveal the hidden motive behind Cain’s machinations.

  These are the questions, the circular thoughts, that bubbled through Manning’s subconscious as he slept, preyed on him the moment he awoke, and now obsess him as he paces the confines of the hotel room. He has switched on the television, hoping for distraction, wondering whether the story of David’s murder has broken yet, but the hotel’s cable system delivers only good, decent, sanitized Christian programming, fifty-some channels of it. Manning’s search for news of current events is reduced to a frustrating bout of zapper surfing.

  Dismayed by the fact that his story in the Journal was spiked (he might have guessed it would happen, and he’s not sure who did it, or how, but he’s got a theory), Manning decides that he’d better tell the police what he knows. If his story, as written, had made headlines, an arrest would already have been made, or at least a manhunt would be under way. But his tampered-with story was drivel, so he needs to inform the police directly.

  Manning is dressed, ready as can be for the unpredictable events that will shape this day. He removes his cell phone from the inside pocket of his blazer, which hangs from the back of a desk chair. Sitting, he punches the same programmed number that he called on the night when he discovered Nolan’s body. His detective friend will listen, will believe Manning, will know how to handle the situation. The other phone rings too long. When someone finally answers, Manning says, “Jim?”

  But it’s someone else. It’s Saturday. The president’s plane is due to land, there are dignitaries all over the city, throngs are already converging on the stadium, and a major demonstration is about to be staged by a bunch of religious wackos. In a word, the police are busy. Jim’s not in. No one knows when to expect him.

  “But this is important,” Manning insists. “Can I leave him a message?” And Manning finds himself instantly connected to Jim’s voice mail. He tries to keep it brief, giving all the details he can before he’s cut off by a beep. Rattled, Manning hangs up the phone, not knowing if or when Jim will get his message.

  Returning his attention to the television, he zaps an old rerun of a Billy Graham crusade and lands, to his amazement, in the middle of a local newscast. Manning turns up the sound on a cap-toothed talking head with big hair.

  “… racing to put finishing touches on the stadium grounds, in preparation for the president’s visit.” Then the head frowns. “On a tragic note, the lifeless body of a young man was discovered this morning atop the MidAmerica Building, near one of the three projectors that will be used to create tonight’s sky spectacle. The victim’s identity has not been released, pending notification of his family. He suffered a single bullet wound to his back; routine ballistics tests will be conducted. There was no apparent motive for the murder.” The head smiles again. “Don’t even ask about tickets for this afternoon’s opening ceremonies. There are none to be had, and the mayor’s office warns the public to beware of scalpers. Widespread reports of counterfeit passes …”

  There’s a knock at the door. Manning mutes the sound of the newscast, rises from his chair at the desk, and crosses the few steps to the door. Swinging it open, he says, “Good morning, Professor.” As Arlen Farber slips inside, Manning corrects himself, “Or rather, good afternoon.”

  “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t sleep.” Farber looks terrible—unshaven, unkempt, same ratty tweed jacket. He wears the chain around his neck with the keys and whistle.

  “Still in costume?” Manning asks him. “The act is over.”

  Farber glances at the stuff hanging on his chest. He forces a smile. “Just a habit, I guess. Besides, I don’t have a key ring—some of these are real, not props.” He rattles the chain, then sits heavily on the bed, crumpling the newspaper.

  Manning thinks of something. “On the topic of props,” he says, “I’m curious. That whole setup in your lab at the planetarium, the computers and all the electronics—that’s just set-dressing, right?”

  “Hardly,” Farber tells him. “Sure, the equipment I used for the ‘graphic realization’ was pure theater—a VCR, a monitor, and a few cabinets rigged up with blinking lights and fake dials. But to the best of my knowledge, which is admittedly limited, all the rest of that stuff is genuine. It’s strictly off-limits. I was instructed never to touch it.”

  Manning’s brow furrows. “What’s it used for?”

  Farber shrugs. “Ask Nathan Cain. I was there every day for a month, basically locked in the lab twiddling my thumbs and watching movies, and I never once saw anyone go near all that equipment. But it does get used somehow. Now and then it fires up on its own, grinds away for a while, then shuts down again. There’s no rhyme or reason. Let me tell you, it still makes me jump, and it’s annoying as hell in the middle of a good flick.”

  “Hmm.” Manning sits at the desk, drumming his fingers in thought. “Let’s go back and have a look. By now, anyone who’d try to find us there knows that we’re somewhere else. Once the ceremony is under way, we’ll be as safe at the lab as anywhere.”

  Farber is wary. “Can we eat first? Actually, I could use a drink.”

  Manning laughs, rising from his chair. “Let’s pop downstairs. It ought to be quiet in the lobby—the crazed masses are outside on the street, gathering with their torches in defense of marriage, the family, and hetero sex. Finding some l
unch should be no problem, but you’re out of luck with the booze. Christ may have turned water into wine, but the Gethsemane Arms is dry as a bone.”

  “Shit.” Farber heaves a sigh. “What’s with these people?”

  “Good question.” Manning slips his jacket on. “After we eat, let’s come back upstairs to freshen up before we check out. Ready?”

  “Sure.” Farber stands. Then he sees something on television. “Hey, look,” he says, pointing. “I know that guy. It’s Elder Buchman. He’s the chief goon at this joint. He and some of his boys ‘interviewed’ me on Tuesday. What a prick.”

  “I heard about that,” says Manning. “I know someone else who was there.” He turns up the sound.

  Buchman is talking to a reporter, live, outside the hotel. “So the purpose of our gatherin’ today is to express, in the strongest terms possible, our revulsion with all this special treatment bein’ accorded to homosexuals. We’re especially distraught that the president of the United States has added his own voice to these perverted pleas for ‘tolerance.’ With the good Lord marchin’ at our side, we’re determined to stop all such politicians in their tracks.”

  The reporter asks, “Wouldn’t your march have greater impact if you staged it near the stadium? The mayor’s office has cordoned off a special area for such protests.”

  “We’re safer here on our own turf,” Buchman tells him. “There’s no tellin’ what those people are capable of.”

  “Come now, Elder Buchman, security has never been tighter. …”

  Manning tells Farber, “I’ve heard enough. Let’s eat.” He walks to the door and opens it. Farber follows, stepping into the hall Manning says, “Now tell me about that meeting you had with Buchman.” And he closes the door behind them.

  Inside the room, Elder Burlington Buchman still blusters on the television, having grabbed the microphone from the reporter’s hand. He leans toward the lens, spouting through an evangelical drawl, “… and the work of the Crusade, the work of Jesus, has flourished here in Chicago thanks to the selfless efforts of so many fine local citizens. Our legions of contributors are too vast to name, but there is one man who must be mentioned with a note of special recognition. Without his guidance, influence, and yes, his extraordinary financial assistance, the Christian Family Crusade could not have won this beachhead in the North. We thank you, Nathan Cain. And may God bless you.”

  Lucille Haring’s stomach growls. It’s past twelve-thirty, and she didn’t bother with breakfast this morning. Arriving early at her desk in the top-floor offices of the Journal, she resumed her hacking, digging into Nathan Cain’s files, consumed by her growing suspicion that the publisher has been hiding something monumentally evil.

  It began as a groundless hunch—the man’s arrogant manner and pampered lifestyle have long inspired wild, far-fetched gossip—but her subjective hunch turned to hard, objective suspicion as she worked with him on a daily basis. Her purpose at the Journal, from the beginning, was to assist Cain’s office in its efforts with the Pentagon to establish a next-generation communications network. Her expertise in computers, however, was put to use solely in tutoring Cain, who pleaded utter ignorance of anything more advanced than a typewriter. Then, every day, he proved that he knew far more than he claimed. His questions, his demands, the speed with which he assimilated even the most arcane theories of applied electronics—all of this convinced Lucille Haring that Cain has lied and that he’s up to something.

  Whatever it is, she has deduced, is going to happen soon. So she’s become a hacker. She hates that word—it stands for everything she’s worked against during the course of her career. What she’s doing is illegal, and she knows that she will throw away her life’s work (to say nothing of her freedom and her security clearance) if she’s unable to confirm her suspicion of Cain’s treachery. But that’s a risk she must take. It’s simply the right thing, the moral thing, to do.

  She started to make some headway last night, plumbing deeper through the security levels of Cain’s directories. By that late hour, though, she was exhausted and no longer trusted her judgment. So she went home, slept, and returned early today, Saturday, knowing the executive offices would be vacated. She asked the guard by the elevator, “Has the Colonel come in this morning?”

  “No, ma’am,” he replied. “He’s left town for the weekend.”

  “Of course,” she mumbled. She hadn’t forgotten Cain’s plans; she just wasn’t sure if she believed them.

  Back at her desk, clacking away at the keyboard, she quickly retraced her way to Cain’s most sensitive directories, having already discovered the path. The morning has been spent sifting through file after file, mounds of data, corporate financials—nothing that would suggest a hint of impropriety. She’s been getting frustrated, and now she’s getting hungry.

  She sits back in her chair, stares at the screen, pushes her fingertips through her cropped red hair. Too many details, too much minutiae. Let’s start over. Let’s close down these files, get out of these directories, go back to “file manager,” and look at the big picture. One by one, she scrolls through Cain’s directories, studying the lists on her screen, hoping something may pop out at her. But there is nothing abnormal, just the slugs (newspaper parlance for file names), their lengths, and the date and time they were last opened.

  Then she finds a path to a subdirectory she had not previously noticed, “editorial.” She figures it’s worth a check. It’s a huge directory, containing every story currently in the Journal’s editorial pipeline. However, only the ones that Cain has tapped into have a date and time notation, and there aren’t many of them. While she glances through this much shorter list, one of the stories grabs her attention. The file is slugged “hijinx,” and it was opened by Cain last night at eight o’clock. That can’t be right, she tells herself. She was here all evening—Cain left around five and never returned. She calls up the file.

  Manning’s bylined story appears on her screen, exactly as it appeared on page five of this morning’s paper. She had rushed through the Journal before leaving the house this morning, but Manning’s story caught her eye because of its headline about “stunning developments.” Intrigued, she read it, disappointed that the story never delivered on the headline—almost as if it were a mistake, the product of sloppy editing. She wonders …

  If the story has been edited, its previous version is still lurking somewhere in an electronic limbo. Most people wouldn’t have a clue as to how to undo a file’s revisions, but it’s child play to Lucille Haring. After a few keystrokes, her screen blinks, then an earlier story appears. Same headline. Same opening. …

  What? She can’t believe what she’s reading. “The scheme turned murderous when Cain shot and killed two of his own reporters, Clifford Nolan and David Bosch.” With mouth agape, Lucille Haring reads through the rest of the story, learning the details of David’s death as he investigated the laser projector at the MidAmerica Building. Mesmerized, she reads that Cain was also responsible for promoting the hoax of planet Zarnik. Manning’s article concludes, “Many questions still surround this tragic charade, but recent developments have propelled this story beyond the realm of mere journalism. As mastermind of a baffling but deadly subterfuge, Nathan Cain has betrayed the Journal and the public. He now must answer to society and to the law.”

  Just as Lucille Haring reads the last line, she hears voices down the hall, out by the elevator. She hears a key in the door as the guard swings it open, saying, “Sorry about your trip, Colonel. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Christ. Does he know I’m here? wonders Lucille Haring. There wasn’t much conversation with the guard. She decides that Cain does not know she’s in the office. She wants to keep it that way. She’ll hide.

  She gets up from her chair, swiftly steps to the back side of her desk, and crouches on the floor. While listening to the approach of his footsteps through the outer offices, she realizes that Manning’s story—his original story—is still brightly displ
ayed on her screen. If Cain sees it, she assumes that he will not hesitate to kill again. She pops up for a moment, taps a few quick keystrokes that blacken the screen, then hunkers down again behind the desk. Holding her breath, she watches Cain’s legs scissor past; he carries the same briefcase he had yesterday. She hears him stop at his door, fishing for the key.

  Her stomach growls—a long, rubbery rumble. Cain silences his keys, listening. Her heart pounds in her ears. She’s not sure, but she thinks she’s peed her pants. Then she hears Cain slip his key into the lock. The door opens. He steps into the inner sanctum and thuds the door behind him, locking it again.

  She breathes, gasping for air. She feels her crotch, sniffs her fingers—no, thank God. Then she sits at her desk again, stretching her fingers like a concert pianist preparing to tackle Schoenberg. Calling up a new directory, she smirks, thinking aloud, “Now then, Colonel, let’s see what else you’ve been up to.”

  Neil unlocks the front door to the loft and pokes his head inside, expecting to hear the warning alarm of the security system, but it is silent. “Anybody here?” he calls. Hearing no response, he turns behind him to say, “Come on in, ladies.” Then he ushers Roxanne Exner and Claire Gray into the loft.

  The space seems eerily quiet—not only has the alarm not been set, but there is no sound from the refrigerator, from the air-conditioning, from any of the sources of house-noise that contribute to the usual background murmur. It’s as if the electricity has been shut off, but Neil notices the microwave clock running, the light on the answering machine. He steps to the kitchen’s center island and plops a pile of mail on the counter, yesterday’s and today’s, collected from the lobby—Manning has not been home since Friday morning, after Neil wrote his note and walked out.

  That’s why the place seems so quiet, he realizes. Mark is gone. It was one thing for Neil himself, the wronged lover (“loftmate,” that is), to walk out in a display of pique, but it’s another matter entirely for Mark to abandon the place. Did their home together mean that little to him? Or can’t he face the empty space? Either way, where did he spend the night? Has Neil sent him scampering back to David? That would be a monumental backfire; perhaps Neil should have listened more and reacted less. He makes a mental note that he still needs to replace that broken glass. While mulling all this, he sorts through the mail, making four stacks—two bulky piles of junk mail, his and Manning’s, and two smaller stacks of first-class, one for each of them.