Nicole was annoyed when he told her; it was one of the few times she had let him see it. "I'm only cutting two days off the trip," he said the next morning, dressing in slacks and a shirt. He'd made arrangements for them to fly to Miami in a private plane that would be leaving in half an hour. He pulled on his sport coat, then tilted her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. "After I talk to Rourke, we'll find a way to finish our vacation. All right?"
She shrugged. "I thought a vacation meant getting away from everybody and everything."
"We've done that, for a week."
"And now you're ending it. Because of one newspaper article. Can't your wife take care of herself? Do you have to be her shining knight, dashing into combat to protect her poor little reputation—?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm sorry, oh, damn it, Matt, I'm sorry, that was stupid. I didn't mean it." She put her hands on his shoulders. "Please say I'm forgiven. I don't say stupid things so often, do I, that you can't forget this one? Matt? Are you listening? Am I forgiven?"
"Of course." She'd sounded jealous, which was odd, for her, but she'd also sounded worried. "We'll talk about it later," he said. "Are you ready? We should be on time when we're hitching a ride and it's almost noon."
"Yes," she said, very subdued, and they barely spoke on the way to the small airstrip, or later, on the plane to Houston, or later still, driving in from the airport. Matt gave Nicole's address to the driver of the limousine, but he stayed in the car when they pulled up at her house. "I'm going straight to the office; I'll call you when I'm through."
"I'll be waiting to hear how it went. Shall we have dinner here?"
"Whatever you like."
Settling back as the driver wove through the traffic from River Oaks to the Transco Building, Matt thought about what he would say. It wasn't complicated; he was just looking for information. And he had a few small demands to make.
"Chet has to go," he said to Rourke, pacing in the circular office. For the first time in a year, the shape of the room bothered him; he felt imprisoned within the seamless walls, as if they were closing in, with no corners to keep them in their place, and he found himself pacing in a large circle.
Chet had been in the office when he walked in unannounced; he and Rourke had looked up together, surprised into silence by Matt's abrupt appearance two days before he was expected. In that silence, Matt told Rourke he wanted to talk to him alone. Rourke's face had already smoothed out, all signs of surprise gone. He tilted his head at Chet and immediately Chet gathered up his papers and left the office, nodding at Matt as he passed.
"He has to go," Matt repeated. He slapped the page from the Miami newspaper on Rourke's desk. "He ordered this story; he claimed he was speaking for me. I don't know what the hell made him think he could play publisher, but he's not going to get away with it."
"I'm sure he wasn't trying to take your place, Matt," Rourke said easily. "I'll talk to him; it sounds like there was some confusion in assignments."
"Chet doesn't confuse assignments you give him," Matt said bluntly.
Rourke shook his head. "I don't know anything about this. I agree with you: the story shouldn't have been written and it shouldn't have run. But for whatever reason he did it, Chet always acts from zeal, not evil; we don't fire people for that."
"We fire them for overstepping the bounds of their authority, for acting
..
irresponsibly and giving someone cause to sue us for libel, for lying, God damn it!—"
"Matt, Matt, talk about overstepping bounds! We're dealing with a loyal worker! Someone who's been with Rourke Enterprises for over twenty years! Now I agree that he did something he should not have done, but let's keep it in perspective. Chet was trying to protect the concept of free and open development of private and public land. He knows I'm concerned about it; he knows I have investments in a number of these places—"
"In Nuevo?" Matt asked suddenly.
"We're talking about the entire southwest; Chet knows I'm always interested in new properties; he knows I want land opened up for mining and lumbering, for housing, ranching, recreation ... I don't believe in government owning too much land, and Chet knows that. You know it, too. You've written editorials on opening up more land; you ran a brilliant series of articles on the subject last year and we've talked about a new series for this year. We're not in disagreement on that. Our small disagreement at the moment is over one single decision that Chet made independently. Of course he thought he was helping us, but he went too far. He ignored the fact that Elizabeth is your wife, and I confess I'm surprised that he took it upon himself to allow criticism of her in our paper. Of course I intend to speak to him about it, but I must say I'm surprised at your overreaction, Matt: flying back from Florida, rushing in here demanding Chet's head on a platter because the man made the mistake of working too hard for our interests—"
This man is lying. After telling me for months how much he trusts and relies on me, he's telling me a pack of lies. "Listen to me," Matt said, his voice hard and cold as it never had been with Rourke. "This isn't an overreaction and I'm not overstepping my bounds; I'm defining them. First, I will not have Elizabeth or anyone else smeared in a paper of mine: I don't run that kind of operation. Second, as publisher I decide what is printed in my papers. I can't force you to fire Chet; he works for you, not me. But I expect you to tell him that never again will he talk to anyone but me about my newspapers; he will never again go near my papers or my editors; he'll never again attempt in any way to influence what goes in my papers—"
"I think you'd better stop there, Matt. Whose papers are you talking about?"
"Mine. I bought them; I'm publisher of them. I was given complete control of—"
"You weren't, but the important word there is given. You were given
those papers by me. And since I gave them, I can take them away." Rourke leaned back in his chair. A stranger would have said he was relaxed, but Matt knew those half-closed eyes hid a glint that made powerful men quail. "If you think you can behave as if those are your newspapers, and order me to tell one of my staff how to conduct himself, you don't know the meaning of bounds, much less overstepping them. God damn it, I made you! I freed you from that piddling rag you were turning out once a week behind a cactus somewhere; I widened your boundaries, I made them limitless, I made you known and respected not in an adobe wasteland but in the whole country!"
Matt had stopped pacing. "You didn't make me anything. I've been running those papers; I've made my own reputation."
"You fool. If you have a reputation, it comes from working for Keegan Rourke."
"It comes in spite of working for Keegan Rourke. You gave me my start—God knows, I've never denied that—but do you know how often I've been hampered by you? I should have supported Dan Heller for senator in New Mexico, gotten in on the ground floor with him, but I lost that chance because you insisted on backing Andy Greene—poor, tired Andy, who shouldn't have run again, much less been supported. And our readers know it. So now I have to work at getting back the confidence they had in us before. And I shouldn't have given in on that highway in Colorado; I knew it wasn't necessary and would damn near destroy a wildlife area, but I gave in when you asked me to, and now I have to deal with readers who know what I've always known: that nobody benefited except a handful of men who owned land along—"
Rourke lunged forward, sending his chair skidding backward until it bounced off the marble window ledge. "Who the hell do you think you are to make accusations in this office?"
There was a sudden silence. Accusations? Matt plunged his hands into his pockets and contemplated Rourke's sleek figure at the far side of the circular room—not quite so sleek now, hunched over the desk, leaning on his hands, returning Matt's look through those half-closed eyes. Accusations, If he says I'm accusing him of supporting a highway because his friends own land along the right of way, it's a good bet his friends own land along the right of way. Or he doe
s. And he's probably lined up someone for Andy Greene's senate seat; I asked him about it once, and he dodged it. And it's a good bet he owns some or all of the new Durango ski area. And skipping past a few other developments—how close is he to Terry Ballenger?
Watching Matt's face, Rourke knew he had made a mistake. "Listen,
son," he said, and Matt heard the echoes of that phrase go back over the years. Rourke walked around the desk so that nothing stood between the two of them. "We tend to get overexcited about issues that aren't as important as our relationship. A very special relationship. We both went too far in some of the things we said; I think we ought to exchange apologies." He paused, but Matt was silent. "I'll talk to Chet; no question he touched on subjects and people, a person, he had no right to touch; no question he went too far. But so did you, my boy. We all have to follow orders, you know; you think I don't hop on a plane when the President of the United States calls and tells me to come to Washington?" He chuckled. Matt remained silent. "All right, that's enough, we don't have to wring this turkey's neck long after it's dead. We know where we stand and there's no reason to go around again. All I want is to hear you tell me you're part of Rourke Enterprises, and that you understand that means teamwork and no indulging in sentiment."
"It isn't sentiment. It's a question of justice."
"I don't know what that word means, and neither do you. Your wife got treated roughly in a newspaper story; we all regret it, but if there are errors in it, I'm sure she'll correct them. The story was written from the best motives, and as far as I'm concerned that's all that counts. And it ends there."
"Not for me. That wasn't a news story; it was a smear. It was written by someone who's had a grudge against both of us for years, and I'm not going to allow him to get away with it; I'm not going to let that story stand without correction—"
"You're not going to let it stand? I thought I made it clear who owns that paper, and I'm telling you there will be no retraction, no new story. / decide what's in my papers. Matt, this has gone on far too long. We had no trouble before this came along; if your wife weren't involved we wouldn't be having any trouble now."
"We're having 'trouble,' as you call it, because a pack of lies was published in my—in a newspaper with my name on the masthead. But in one way you're right: I compromised in the past, on Andy Greene and dozens of other issues, but I won't compromise on Elizabeth. I won't see her name dragged in the mud. She's been through a lot lately, largely because of me; she's made a brilliant reputation on her own and I won't be a party to anything that damages it." He walked toward the door. "I'm a journalist, you know. I'd almost forgotten it, I was so busy being an executive, but it's coming back to me, and I'm going to find the truth behind that story, and write it the way it should have been written the first time."
"Stay right there!" Rourke's face was dark; in contrast, his silver hair
and eyebrows had a metallic sheen. "If you write one word on that story, you're through. Your career is over. You'll never work for this corporation again and I'll see to it that you don't get a job on any other paper in the country. In the world, damn it! I have connections! Is that clear? Did you hear me?"
Matt paused, but all that came through the pounding thoughts in his head was a sick feeling of betrayal with every word Rourke flung at him. Almost automatically, he went on toward the door. "I'll send you an advance copy of the paper when the story comes out."
"Sit down! You fool, you're not walking out of here! Where would you go? You're bluffing; trying to make me bend. You ought to know by now that I don't bend. I gave you the dream that's dominated you all your life; you wouldn't walk away from it. Listen to me! I'm giving you one more chance to become the most powerful publisher in America! All you have to do is say you're with me! That's all—your word that you won't fight me. There are so many things we can accomplish, Matt; you don't even know yet all the uses of power; there's so much I still have to teach you. But only if I'm sure of you! Matt, my boy. . . . Do you hear me?"
Matt had opened the door. "I hear you more clearly, Mr. Rourke, than I've heard you for two years." Very gently, he closed the door behind him and walked through the reception room, down the spiral staircase, and along the hallway to the office at the end, with the brass plate beside the door that read, "Matthew Lovell, Publisher."
It was after six; everyone had left. The corridors were empty, the offices silent behind closed doors. Matt sat at his desk, looking through his own door, left open, down the hallway lined with offices of the other vice-presidents of Rourke Enterprises—all of whom, he surmised, understood exactly where the center of power was and never made assumptions about control over their own departments.
He pulled a sheet of his personal stationery from his desk and unscrewed the top of his pen—Mont Blanc, heavy, black, successful-looking; a gift from Nicole—and swiftly wrote a single-sentence letter of resignation from Rourke Publishing and Rourke Enterprises. His pen stuck briefly on Publishing —the dream of a lifetime, as Rourke had put it— then moved on, finishing the sentence. Without reading it over, he put it in an envelope, wrote Rourke's name on the front, and placed it precisely in the center of his desk, beside the wrinkled page he'd ripped from the Miami paper.
What now?
You mean this minute? Tomorrow? Six months from now?
All of the above.
Irresolute, he looked about the plush office so skillfully decorated by Nicole. Then he shrugged. He wanted to get away from there before he began to doubt himself, and that meant he had to clean out his desk.
It was surprisingly easy; he hadn't realized how few personal items he had brought to that office. Two photographs in a hinged frame: one of Peter and Holly at Peter's graduation almost a year ago, the other of himself and Zachary in front of the printing plant, Zachary grinning widely because he was alive and out of the hospital, with his son beside him; an antique silver letter opener Matt had found in Zachary's desk after his death; a brass pen holder with a quill pen that Elizabeth had given him the first time the Chieftain showed a profit. He put them in his briefcase and opened the top drawer.
Automatic pencil, pocket calculator, business cards, a Kundera novel he hadn't finished, a Ross McDonald mystery he hadn't begun, personal stationery, private address book, a bottle of aspirin. And a note he'd scrawled in early January, when he'd returned from Saul and Heather's wedding: "Send Elizabeth Chet's report on resettlement help for Nuevo residents."
He'd never sent it, because he'd never found it. And Chet had never responded to his requests to get him a copy. Suddenly the report seemed too important to ignore: another example, like Artner's story, of something that should have been in his control, and wasn't. He riffled through his files, clearing out personal letters and memoranda as he looked once more for the three stapled pages headed "Nuevo: Compensation and Resettlement." He remembered it, remembered the map of settled valleys within fifty miles of Nuevo, remembered the budget showing moving and resettlement costs, farming start-up costs, even an amount for replacement of damaged equipment.
It was not among his papers. The only other material on Nuevo, that he knew of, was in Chet's office. He found a box in the closet, crammed it with files and records he intended to keep, and the possessions from his desk, set it beside the door, and walked down the hallway toward Chet's office.
The cleaning crew was working in Rourke's office upstairs; Matt heard the rattle of miniblinds being dusted, the clatter of objects moved about— and then Rourke's voice, raised in anger, drowned out almost immediately by a vacuum cleaner starting up.
What the hell, he thought; I saw him leave an hour ago. But the voice came from down the hall. Frowning, Matt walked on, past closed office
doors, until he came to Chefs, where he heard, beneath the hum of the vacuum cleaner, Rourke's voice—and then his own.
"You'll never work for this corporation again and I'll see to it that you don't get a job on any other paper in the country. In the world, damn it! I ha
ve connections! Is that clear? Did you hear me?"
There was a pause. "I'll send you an advance copy of the paper when the story comes out."
"Sit down! You fool, you're not walking out of here! Where would you go?"
The voices went on. Matt stood outside the closed door, his hand clenched on the doorknob, shaking his head in disbelief. The little son of a bitch! The loyal employee of twenty years—gopher, righthand man, advance man, Rourke-worshipper—bugging his boss's office! And no one suspected; not a rumor, not a word of suspicion, in all the time Matt had been there. Clever Chet: covering his tracks like the weasel that he was.
And now he sat behind a closed door, listening to a tape of Matt and Rourke's conversation after Rourke told him to leave. And this is what he does every night, Matt thought grimly. Sits in his little nest, listening in on the day's events so he can plan tomorrow. A worried, frightened little man. Even after twenty years, unable to trust himself or his revered chief, stockpiling information in case he ever needed to blackmail someone to keep his job.
A frightened, dangerous little man. And Matt remembered that Elizabeth had seen that the first time she met him.
He listened to the last few moments of the conversation, heard himself on tape open and close the door of Rourke's office, and then, tight with anger, he thrust open Chet's door and strode in.
Chet was hunched over his desk, reaching out to turn off the recorder. He froze when he saw Matt bearing down on him, then leaped to his feet. "What the fuck do you think you're doing—coming in here without knocking—spying like a goddam peeping Tom—?"
"Sit down!" Matt's voice lashed across the desk. "I want to talk to you and I want you where I can see you."
"You can't order me around! You don't even work here anymore! You've been fired!"
"Sit down!" Matt stood over him, six inches taller and thirty pounds heavier, lean and muscular to Chet's pudgy softness. Chet looked at him, tried to look past him, failed, and sat. Matt looked down at him, his hands at his sides, and watched him begin to squirm as the silence lengthened.
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