Lucille Haring can’t shake the uneasy grief she now feels, having learned the circumstances of Cliff Nolan’s demise. She detested the man—indeed, she hated him—for his unwelcome advances and his spiteful threats of recrimination, but she understands that his death was a noble one. He fell, as it were, in the line of duty, attempting to share the truth of his knowledge with the public. In his last act, he became an unwitting martyr to journalistic integrity.
She knows, as Manning does, that Cain has murdered two of his own reporters, but she can’t fathom why. What could possibly warrant such treachery? All she can do is to keep on hacking, hoping that something will catch her attention and provide her with a hint, a tip, some mere suggestion of a motive.
It’s nearly six o’clock. She’s getting frustrated, tired—and hungry again. Glad to have that candy bar in reserve, she rips the wrapper from it and chomps a mouthful of nuts and chocolate. With her free hand, she scrolls through a list of Cain’s recent correspondence, finding nothing of note. Then she cursors along an obscure path and spots a subdirectory that has till now escaped her attention: “E-mail.”
She smiles, swallowing the lump of candy, tossing the rest into a wastebasket. Typing, she says aloud, “I wonder what dirty little notes you’ve been swapping with unseen partners in seedy, far-flung chat rooms.”
She frowns. She can tell from the slugs that most of Cain’s E-mail is just interoffice memos. But then she scrolls past a long sequence of files titled “Buchman0l” through “Buchman88.” They were all written within the last few months, the most recent ones only hours apart. Interesting.
She opens the last of these, sent yesterday afternoon, Friday, at four. It begins without salutation, “Urgent errand at MidAmerica site later today, serendipitous clue at lunch with Brad and Carl. Will detail at our nightly meeting, may be late. Schedule is firm for tomorrow. Green switch at eighteen hundred, pink at twenty-one. God bless America.”
Lucille Haring stares at the words, perplexed. She knows from Manning’s original story, filed by modem last night, that Cain’s reference to an urgent errand must refer to the killing of David Bosch, mistaken for Manning. But what does Cain mean by “Green switch at eighteen hundred, pink at twenty-one”? Surely, he’s referring to six and nine o’clock tonight, but what’s with the colored switches? And to whom was this E-mail sent? Who’s Buchman?
She glances at her watch—it’s a few minutes before six. Something’s going to happen, and she really ought to tell Manning about it. Maybe if they put their heads together, they could figure this out. And what, if anything, should she do about Cain? He’s still in his suite, somewhere in the inner sanctum, and he ought to be arrested. She needs to talk to Manning, but how is she to reach him? He’s undoubtedly in hiding, hardly likely to be sitting home by the phone.
She remembers that he carries a cell phone and a pager, but doesn’t know how to get those numbers. Maybe a little more surfing of the Journal’s mainframe will provide that information. It’s worth a try. She checks over her shoulder, confirms that Cain’s office door is still closed tight, then sets to work at her keyboard.
A few minutes before six, Manning gets out of the cab with Arlen Farber at the steps to the planetarium. The parking lot is deserted, the building dark. Manning bounds up the stairs and rattles the main doors. He asks Farber, “Can you get in?”
Farber trudges up the stairs behind him, lugging the computer case. He rattles his neck chain and says with his Zarnik accent, “A man of my esteemed position is accorded total access.” Arriving on the top step, he sets down the case and slips a key into the lock, opening the door. Once inside, he taps a security code into a touchpad, then locks the main door behind Manning.
Without its usual queues of gabbing tourists, the vaulted lobby seems unnaturally quiet, like a sanctuary they have invaded. The terrazzo floor, freshly waxed, lends to the place the smell of an empty school. As Manning and Farber cross the lobby toward the back-hall stairway, their footfalls reverberate between the hard floor and the high ceiling.
Rushing up the back stairs, Manning says, “This place is dead—there doesn’t even seem to be a janitor on duty. Everyone must be down at the stadium.”
“Or watching the ceremony on TV,” adds Farber, “sipping a stiff one.” He hasn’t had a drink all day.
In the upstairs hall, on the way to Zarnik’s lab, Farber breaks stride long enough to drop some coins into the vending machine and pluck up a can of Diet Rite. He scurries to catch up to Manning, arriving at the red-signed door that has a lock but no knob. Manning takes the computer case, allowing Farber to juggle the cold soda can with his keys. A moment later, they step inside the lab.
All is still, absolutely quiet. Farber switches on some lights, and their fluorescent hum seems amplified in the silence of the room. As Farber closes the door, Manning crosses to the desk and sets his case on it. Then they both meander cautiously about the lab, taking care not to trip over the thick black bundle of cables that snakes across the floor, making sure they are alone. Manning says, “We’ll be just fine here for a while. Can you tell if there have been any ‘visitors’ since last night?”
“Looks the way we left it,” Farber answers, visibly relieved. Then a sparkle lights his eye, the first such expression Manning has seen from him since the events of last night. Farber suggests, “How about a drink, Mark? There’s some Jack in the desk.”
Manning is tempted. “No thanks, Arlen.” Manning smiles. “I’ve got work to do, but you go ahead. Rough day, huh?”
Farber just shakes his head. There’s no need to answer. He crosses to the desk, sets his soda on it, and opens the big bottom drawer, pulling out a glass (a used jelly jar that he finally remembered to bring from home) and a two-liter jug of Jack Daniel’s. He pops open the can—a piercing sound in the quiet, hard-surfaced room—and pours his cocktail, half booze, half soda. Bitsy bubbles of carbon dioxide rise through the glass, hissing from the surface.
Then a much louder noise makes both men jump. At six o’clock precisely—Manning checks his watch—the banks of computers stacked throughout the room power up in unison with a clicking, a whirring, a flashing of tiny lights.
“I hate it when that happens,” says Farber, who has spilled some of the whiskey he was pouring. He dabs it up with the grimy handkerchief he carries.
“Jeez,” says Manning, “is this what you were describing back at the hotel?”
“Right. That’s how it always kicks in—when you least expect it. But it won’t stay that loud. In fact, you can hear it settling down already. It’ll just drone on like that till it shuts itself off. Sometimes it lasts a few minutes. Other times, hours.” Farber picks up his glass, wipes its bottom, then drinks a long slug. He sighs, contented at last.
Perplexed, Manning walks around the various stacks of equipment, all of it churning busily, thinking electronic thoughts, performing intricate calculations for unknown purposes. What’s it doing? Clearly, all these computers are linked and working as one—the foot-thick bundle of cables is evidence of that. Also, it’s safe to assume that the computers in Zarnik’s lab are somehow related to the sky show—Nathan Cain was behind the setup of both. But the last piece of the puzzle is still missing. Manning needs one more clue in order to fathom Cain’s motive. He needs to think, really think. And the way he thinks best is through the process of writing.
“Excuse me,” he tells Farber, returning to the desk. “Do you mind if I sit here? I need to work on another story. With any luck, this one may get through without being intercepted.” He mumbles, “It’s worth a try,” already unzipping the case, setting up his computer, modem, and cellular phone.
“Be my guest,” says Farber, moving away from the desk with his drink. “Okay if I watch the tube while you work?”
“If you keep it quiet,” replies Manning, opening folders, spreading material on the desk, digging crumpled notes from the pockets of his blazer.
Farber wheels the large television monitor, the on
e on which he displayed the “graphic realization,” to the far side of the desk and switches it on. He also turns on the VCR, using it to tune various stations, which flicker in sequence on the screen. Most of the channels carry coverage of the event at the stadium. Regardless of the channel, though, the picture is quartered by the thin white lines of the crosshairs—Farber still hasn’t figured out how to get rid of them.
Manning glances at the screen and notices the crosshairs. He laughs. “I can’t believe I almost fell for that.”
“Live and learn,” Farber tells him, swigging his Jack-and-Diet Rite, settling on a station that shows dancers at the stadium performing a surrealistic, pagan-looking tribute to the dawn of a new millennium.
As the camera pans away from the stage, it shows the faces of people in the audience. Most of the crowd in the stadium can be seen only as a blur of humanity, but the rows nearest the stage are clearly visible, and there sits Neil with Roxanne and Claire, intently watching the dance. Manning’s eye was first drawn to them because of the empty seats around them, conspicuous in the tightly packed arena. But then he saw Neil’s face, and Manning choked on his own breath. He longs to earn back Neil’s affections and can’t fathom the pain of a prolonged separation, let alone a permanent one. When this is all over …
As the camera swings to the stage again, Farber pulls up a chair, plops into it, and sets his drink on the edge of the desk.
Manning’s attention is now focused on the screen of his laptop, where a message confirms that he is online with the Journal’s newsroom—at least that’s what it says, but he has no way of knowing whether this story, like the last one, will be waylaid. He slugs his new story “hijinx2” and assigns it highest priority. He pauses before he begins writing, wondering what tone to take with the story. Since he doesn’t know the outcome of the mystery he will write about, but can only expose those facts that have become known to him, he hopes to involve his readers in the active process of working out the puzzle. This will not be, he recognizes, a conventional piece of journalism, so he decides to write the story in the first person, as if “thinking aloud” in a diary. He positions his hands over the keyboard and begins:
I am Mark Manning, a reporter for the Chicago Journal. Ten days ago, I began investigating the claims of Dr. Pavo Zarnik, who announced his discovery of a tenth planet in the Earth’s solar system. As this story unfolded, I learned not only that there is no such planet, but also that the man claiming the discovery is an actor. Even more disturbing, I learned that the instigator of this deception was Nathan Cain, publisher of the Journal.
Last week, Cain murdered Clifford Nolan, the Journal’s esteemed science editor, as he attempted to expose the Zarnik ruse. Last night, Cain murdered David Bosch, another colleague and a friend of mine, mistaking the young reporter for me. The motive for Cain’s treachery is still unclear, and I am frightened, not only for my own well-being, but for the safety of a city that has trusted and revered this man.
As I write these words, I am in hiding. While this great city revels in the opening ceremonies of Celebration 2000, I have taken temporary refuge within the laboratory of Dr. Pavo Zarnik at Civic Planetarium. Here with me is Arlen Farber, the actor recruited by Cain to impersonate the famed astronomer. Mr. Farber, fearing that his involvement in this scheme has placed his own life in danger, is now attempting to assist me in unraveling the conspiracy. …
Manning continues to write, detailing the events that have brought him to this moment, pleading with the public to come forth with clues to help solve the puzzle, when Zarnik’s desk phone rings.
Manning and Farber freeze, staring at each other. Manning motions for Farber to turn down the sound of the television, then he reaches for the phone and lifts the receiver to his ear. “Yes?” he answers.
“Mr. Manning?” asks a woman’s breathless voice. “Is that you? This is Lucille Haring.”
“Miss Haring …” he stammers, stunned that she has reached him, still wondering if she has played a role in the conspiracy. “How did you …?”
“I’m at my desk in the Colonel’s outer office,” she tells Manning, all business. “I’ve been here since morning, digging through his computer files, fearing he’s been up to no good. Then I found your story, the original version, confirming my worst suspicions. The altered version was Cain’s doing, of course. He’s been intercepting all your work. As you suspected, he also intercepted Cliff Nolan’s exposé.”
“How?”
“You both filed those stories by phone; he must have picked them up by phone. He could have done it from anywhere. But he wasn’t here last night—I was.”
Manning asks, “Where is Cain now?” At the mention of Cain’s name, Farber reaches for his drink, needing renewed fortitude.
Lucille Haring replies over the phone, “He’s somewhere in his suite of offices. He’s been there for hours, but he hasn’t logged on to his computer—I’d know if he had. I’ve found something that might be important, Mr. Manning, but I didn’t know how to reach you. I was scrolling through Cain’s editorial directory a few minutes ago, when I saw a new entry, ‘hijinx2,’ pop up on the list. I opened your story, reading as you wrote. When you mentioned being in Zarnik’s office, I had no trouble locating the number in the crisscross,” she explains, referring to a directory used by police, reporters, and other investigators.
“Most resourceful, Miss Haring,” says Manning. “What have you found?”
“Some peculiar E-mail,” she tells him, “tons of it, in fact, sent to someone named Buchman.”
“Who’s Buchman?” says Manning, thinking that the name sounds familiar.
“Buchman?” echoes Arlen Farber. “He’s that fat-ass zealot with the CFC.”
Manning grabs his steno pad, uncaps his pen, and clears some space on the desk so he can take notes. Brushing aside the scraps of paper that he earlier removed from his pockets, he says into the phone, “Let me get this straight, Miss Haring. Are you telling me that Nathan Cain has been in contact with Elder Burlington Buchman, board chairman of the Christian Family Crusade? That doesn’t make sense—Cain has always been palsy with the archbishop. He and Buchman move in two different worlds.” Manning absentmindedly picks at one of the crumpled notes, flattening it on the desk.
Lucille Haring’s voice says over the phone, “I don’t know who Buchman is, but Cain has been sending him weird E-mail. Listen to this one, sent yesterday: ‘Urgent errand at MidAmerica site later today, serendipitous clue at lunch with Brad and Carl. Will detail at our nightly meeting, may be late. Schedule is firm for tomorrow. Green switch at eighteen hundred, pink at twenty-one. God bless America.’”
Huh? As Manning ponders the improbability of such an alliance, he glances down at the note he has unfolded, recognizing a corner of the acid-green Zaza logo. On the night he and Neil had dinner with Carl Creighton and Roxanne, Manning wrote notes on these scraps, torn from the paper tablecloth. He opens and flattens more of them. Of course—there are repeated references, in Manning’s own handwriting, to Carl’s inquisition by the CFC. Carl was mystified as to how the CFC got wind of his impending appointment as deputy attorney general; he had confided the news only to Cain. And yesterday, Carl lunched with Cain and the MidAmerica Oil chairman at the Central States Club. Manning mentioned his planned inspection of the laser projector to Carl, and Carl must have mentioned it to Cain.
“Good God,” says Manning, talking both to Farber at his side and Lucille Haring on the phone, “Nathan Cain has been conspiring with the Christian Family Crusade. I’d never have believed it, but they’re working together toward some common goal. Miss Haring, what do you make of that ‘green switch’ business?”
“It sounds as if there were plans to pull two coded switches, one at six tonight, the other at nine. It’s well past six now, nearly seven. I wonder if anything happened.”
Manning leans back in his chair, exhaling. “Something did happen,” he tells her. “At six precisely, a shitload of computers went into ac
tion over here, and they’re still humming away. They seem to be related to tonight’s sky show at the stadium, which was also Cain’s brainchild.”
“Isn’t the laser show scheduled for around nine?” Lucille Haring asks.
“You’re right,” Manning tells her. “The pink triangle, the pink switch. Conceivably, the pink switch might simply turn the whole display on. But if the plan was that innocuous, there’d be no reason to murder Cliff and David.”
At the mention of murder, Arlen Farber is again on full alert. Manning motions for him to turn up the television sound—there may be clues to glean from the stadium event. Manning says into the phone, “We have a couple of hours before this all comes to a head, Miss Haring. We’ll do what we can at this end. Could you continue to dig through Cain’s computer files, please? And see if there’s some way to get my stories—uncensored—down to the newsroom.”
“Even as we speak,” she tells him, “that’s exactly what I’m doing.” The sound of her keyboard rattles clearly over the phone.
Manning grins. “Lucy,” he says, “you’re wonderful.” Then he asks, “Do you mind, Miss Haring, if I call you Lucy?”
“Not at all—Mark.”
Seated at the stadium, Neil, Roxanne, and Claire listen as one of the speakers tries to rally the crowd for broader support of gay marriage. The entertainment portion of the program has concluded—the opera singers, rock stars, dance troupes, and orchestras have all strutted their most polished performances—and now the evening’s political agenda rushes forward full tilt.
Local and state politicos are all here, as well as national candidates of every stripe, posturing and preening for the primaries that will lead to next summer’s conventions. Tonight, everyone is backing gay rights, or at least mouthing support for the general concept of “equality for all.” And so, even though Neil recognizes that this event is unprecedented, indeed historic, the message is getting a tad stale—there are only so many ways to say it, and it’s been said.
Eye Contact Page 33
