His phone trills, and the voice of his secretary rasps over the speaker, “It’s Manning. Line one.”
Smith slides into his chair and grabs the receiver. “What’s up, Mark?”
“I put a story in the system two days ago, Gordon. It’s not finished, but I’ll wrap it up soon. You’ve got access—why don’t you call it up?”
“I’m one step ahead of you,” says Smith, typing codes into his computer. Manning’s directory appears on the monitor. “Which slug?”
“AbbyCat.”
Smith cursors to the title, enters, and a story fills the screen. Its headline reads, EXCLUSIVE: HELENA CARTER LIVES!
Smith begins scrolling through the text, spellbound. His mouth hangs open. His eyes sparkle. He has just been handed the plum of an editor’s career. The article stops at the point where Manning finds Carter in Assumption.
“My God, Mark,” Smith says into the phone, “you’ve actually done it—but how does it end?”
“It ends at the hearing today when I march Mrs. Carter into the courtroom. She’s on a plane now, due at O’Hare around noon. But it’s even juicier than I thought.” Manning tells him about Father McMullen and Brother Burt, the second will, the death threats.
Smith howls with delight. “Long-lost brothers, evil twins—too damn delicious to be true! Unsolved Mysteries even did a segment on this Bertrand nut. Imagine our headline: SEMINARY SLASHER VOWS VENGEANCE …”
“Whoa, Gordon,” Manning tells him, laughing. “First things first. The afternoon edition—can you hold page one?”
“For the biggest story of the year? You betcha, Mark. Need a photog at the airport?”
“Sure do. And a limo with a phone.”
“Got it. Now get your butt out there—sure as hell wouldn’t want to miss that plane! Call me from the car as soon as you’ve snagged the ol’ gal.”
Smith hangs up. He wrings his hands with glee. He literally skips around the office before returning to his desk and punching an extension number into the phone.
“This is Smith,” he tells the secretary upstairs in the tower. “Let me talk to Nathan.” Pause. “Of course it’s important.”
Nathan Cain, publisher of the Journal, a living icon of Chicago newspaper lore, is a man of few words and vast power. He is never seen in the newsroom, and not many of the people who write and edit the paper have ever spoken to him. Sardonic humor colors his voice as he picks up the call. “Morning, Gordon. Sad to observe, Mr. Manning’s hourglass seems to be running on empty. Anything to report?”
Smith tells him … everything.
With no audible trace of excitement, the publisher says, “Pull out the stops. Give it the works. If those union loons down in production give you any crap about what ‘their people’ can or cannot do, just let me know.” Dryly, he adds, “Please extend my personal thanks to Mr. Manning. And have a happy New Year, Gordon.”
Manning is waiting at O’Hare. Because of the strike, and in spite of the approaching holiday weekend, the terminal is calm—in sharp contrast to the mayhem he found here only a week ago on Christmas Eve. Pockets of people cluster near the gates that serve CarterAir flights, but the long corridors are deserted. A noon radio newscast plays throughout the halls from unseen speakers:
Early reports confirm that the threatening letter sent to Mark Manning two months ago was in fact written on Humphrey Hasting’s typewriter. Chicago Post publisher Josh Williams has called a news conference for later this afternoon, during which he will make a public apology while announcing stiff reprisals for the paper’s flamboyant and best-known columnist.
Manning makes a few notes describing the scene inside the airport, which he will use to add color to the ending of his story. A Journal photographer waits with him, chomping on a big wedge of pizza that he got at one of the concessions in the concourse. At the gate, Jerry Klein directs airline personnel in various matters—it is he, of course, who arranged for Helen’s return after she phoned him earlier this morning.
He has also arranged ground transportation for her and the cats. Outside, three matching limousines are lined up at the curb, sputtering exhaust into the cold air. It seems the cops have been alerted that something’s about to happen—they don’t even bother to shag the cars away from the door.
Meanwhile, a wondering public awaits the opening of today’s session of the Houseman Trial, set to begin in about an hour. Contempt charges will surely be leveled against Journal reporter Mark Manning, stemming from yesterday’s stunning but groundless claims that he has recently spoken to Helena Carter, the missing heiress who will be declared dead by the end of this afternoon’s hearing.
Manning watches the horizon through the glass walls of the terminal. There are so few planes in the air today, it’s easy to spot the CarterAir flight as it appears low in the sky and touches down on a distant runway. Within a couple of minutes, it taxis up to the gate and stops.
“Right on time,” Jerry Klein tells Manning, tapping his watch with fatherly pride. He ushers Manning and the photographer through the crowd of onlookers to the door of the ramp that leads to the plane.
The door swings open, admitting the whine of engines, smell of fuel, and patter of approaching footsteps. Then, from around the corner, emerges Helena Carter. She carries one of the cages—it’s Abe. Neil, at her side, carries her coat, a voluminous red fox that matches her hair.
“Mark!” she says. “So tickled you could come—I do hate fussing with cabs.”
Manning can tell she’s a little tipsy as he steps forward to greet her, kissing both cheeks. “Smile,” he whispers. “We’ll be all over the next edition.” The photographer snaps frame after frame, capturing every nuance of the moment.
We will forgo our regular programming for the remainder of the afternoon in order to bring you live coverage of the hearing from Daley Center. Between now and the opening gavel, we’re happy to feature this station’s own celebrity commentator, Bud Stirkham, who will interview an expert witness not called to testify yesterday—a clairvoyant who’s had startling dreams of late, revealing the grim details of Mrs. Carter’s death.
Manning goes to Neil, who has stood out of range of the picture-taking, and hugs him with his good arm, sandwiching the fur coat between their bodies. Tousling Neil’s hair, Manning tells him, “My God, I’m glad you’re here.”
Airline personnel file out of the plane carrying the cages; Manning and Neil step aside to let them pass. Jerry Klein, who’s been hugging Helen, takes Abe’s cage from her, hands it to one of the attendants, and directs them down the concourse toward the cars. People waiting for passengers at the gate exchange confused shrugs, then someone figures it out. “Look, everybody, it’s them—that reporter with the dead woman!”
Some laugh, some wave, some begin to nudge toward them, so Manning, Helen, and Neil start walking toward the exit. The coach passengers are only beginning to get off the plane, and the crowd stays put to greet them.
Friends, this is Bud Stirkham. We’re going to open up the phone lines soon and try to determine the consensus of the common man. We’ll ask: Is Mark Manning guilty of perjury? And how should he be censured? For just two dollars a call, you can be judge and jury. Dial 1-900-U-B-JUDGE to phone in your verdict.
The threesome strolls down the corridor, arms linked, Helen in the middle. Manning explains that he will phone his editor from the car to dictate the final paragraphs of his story; another reporter will cover their appearance in court.
Other passengers from Phoenix—most conspicuously the corporate types who were bumped out of first class—begin rushing past, anxious to claim bags or attend meetings. Then, out of the Jetway hobbles a crazed-looking man from the rear of the plane who jostles and weaves, in spite of his limp, through the throng.
But first, we’re honored to share the microphone with Adam X, a renowned psychic who has come to the rescue of baffled police forces in Copenhagen, Tangiers, Singapore, and now finally Chicago. Tell us, Mr. X, how these visions first came to
you.
Helen says to Manning, “I understand you received a Christmas gift this morning. Your young friend here must be very talented.”
“Indeed he is,” replies Manning with a broad smile. Then to Neil, “The plans are incredible. I’d start the project tomorrow if I could, but it’s a tad ambitious.” He laughs at the understatement.
Neil asks, “Did you see my note on the last page?”
“Sure did. Nothing would make me happier than building it with you. But even if we pooled our resources …”
Helen interrupts, “The half-million bucks ought to get the ball rolling.”
Manning stops them in their tracks. “Now Helen, you already know how I feel about that.”
She plants her hands on her hips and faces him nose-to-nose. Being shorter, she rises on her toes. Her no-nonsense tone is firm: “You told me last week that you wouldn’t accept the reward because it would be like forcing me to pay you for something I didn’t want. Now it’s clear to me that I did want to be found, and I needed someone to shake some sense into me—which you did, Mark. I’ve already spoken to Jerry Klein about it. The check is written. It’s yours.”
Like all reputable psychics, I keep a diary of my dreams, and I began to notice a pattern of irregularities in them, a clear signal that someone from the other side was trying desperately to make contact.
Sweaty-browed, panting, Brother Burt spots his quarry through the shifting crowd.
Because these atypical vibrations always occurred during otherwise pleasurable flight dreams, I drew the irrefutable conclusion that they were a sign from the missing—and alas, dead—airline heiress.
Now, when Manning at last feels that all crises have passed—when he dares to imagine for the first time in his life that an elusive joy, born of total self-acceptance, may at last be within grasp—his thoughts are broken by the shriek of a woman passing behind him. Brother Burt lunges into view from the line of travelers, knocking Neil to the floor. He brays insanely, “Yea, the Lord God rained down fire and brimstone from the heavens upon Sodom and Gomorrah!”
Stunned, Manning is easy prey for Brother Burt, who pins Manning’s good arm powerfully from behind. The demented cleric raves, “He smote those cities and destroyed all the plain—with everyone that liveth there and everything that groweth in the ground!” He twists Manning’s head to bare his throat and in one swift movement pulls the ancient hatchet from his coat and arcs it to the top of his swing.
Everyone watching screams, not knowing how else to react.
But Manning knows. Remembering what he learned on Christmas night at the cable studio—that the injury suffered during Brother Burt’s youth can still cause excruciating pain—Manning jerks his knee upward, then smashes his heel onto his attacker’s deformed right foot. Brother Burt’s ear-piercing wail silences the horrified onlookers as he collapses in unspeakable agony, dropping the hatchet, shattering its blade on the terrazzo paving.
The Journal photographer has captured it all, and security guards now arrive (better late than never) to restrain Brother Burt with handcuffs.
While he thrashes on the floor, Helen steps over and looks down upon him. Wistfully she says, “This isn’t Bertrand. Bertrand died many years ago. So did my brother Jamie. Something bad happened.”
I have succeeded in establishing contact with Mrs. Carter on the other side and have had many conversations with her. I am saddened to report that she has at last revealed the shocking truth of her brutal demise.
Neil has rushed to Manning, and they hold each other tightly. Unable to fathom the loss that was so narrowly escaped, Neil nuzzles his head against Manning’s, telling him, “I had no idea that reporting could be so hazardous.”
Manning’s tone is casual. “Not to worry. It’s really just a desk job. Such an incident could never happen twice in one man’s career.”
Neil gives him a skeptical look. “Promise?”
Manning doesn’t answer. Instead, he kisses Neil—it’s no mere “airport peck,” but a fairly serious lip-lock.
Helen watches them. Turning impish, she says, “There’ll be time for that later, boys. Right now, Mark, you’re due in court.”
Manning tells her, “So is my surprise witness.”
“Race you to the car!” She winks, then takes off down the concourse at a surprisingly spry clip.
Manning and Neil exchange a bewildered glance, then trot off together after her, soon catching up.
I see these things so clearly. Such a ghastly fate …
They laugh, running all the faster. Their footfalls echo in the sprawling halls of the terminal.
Epilogue
3 months later
WINTER HAS ENDED. IT was a rough one, but now, in late March, there are signs of spring in the city—shrinking snow drifts reduced to runny black ice, buds here and there, a bird or two. A few hearty souls even frolicked in Lincoln Park when the clouds broke last weekend, but the weather is still cold enough to keep most people indoors.
In a loft near the park, overlooking Lake Michigan, Manning and Neil work in tandem to position the antique Biedermeier console along a wall beneath the contemporary painting by Clarence Bird. Stepping back to inspect the new arrangement, Neil proclaims, “Perfectly mated.”
“They were made for each other,” Manning agrees.
Some of Neil’s furniture was shipped to Chicago earlier this week, and he and Manning have spent recent evenings dressing up the all-but-raw loft space. It’s a temporary decorating scheme, a stopgap till summer, when the interior construction project will get under way. The floors are still bare concrete, but the place is starting to feel like home—for both of them.
“She’ll be here any minute,” says Neil. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
It’s just past six on a Friday night, and Manning has invited Roxanne over for drinks after work. The three of them have not socialized since Neil’s permanent arrival in the city in February, when he was transferred to his architectural firm’s Chicago office.
“I mean,” Neil continues, “she might think we’re trying to rub it in.”
Facing him squarely, Manning places his hands on Neil’s shoulders and tells him, “She’ll be fine. She’s already dealt with ‘us.’ Now we need to deal with her. She’s been a great friend to both of us—and hey, we owe her a lot. I thought she’d enjoy seeing a semblance of order here before this place gets completely torn up, and I could tell from her voice that she was happy to be asked.”
Neil hugs Manning. “Okay,” he says over Manning’s shoulder, “you’re right. But it’s a little awkward.”
“How so? Ashamed to be seen with me?”
“Hardly!” Neil takes Manning’s face into both hands and kisses him. His tone turns suggestive: “Do you suppose we’ve got time … ?”
But the door buzzer squelches Neil’s carnal notion.
It is indeed Roxanne, who makes a grand entrance wearing a fur-lined trench coat and a big-brimmed hat. Neil takes her coat, but she keeps the floppy hat, which seems attached to a new hairdo. If she harbors any grudges, they’re not evident, and it’s clear from the outset—from their instantly animated discussion—that the three friends have a lot of catching-up to do.
She asks Manning, “When did they chisel that cast off your arm?”
“Weeks ago,” he tells her, stretching and flexing his mended limb. “Good as new.”
“Before we settle in,” Neil says to Roxanne, “can I get you something?”
“Just water, thanks. But don’t mind me, boys—the cocktail hour is nigh.”
Manning offers, “I think we’ve got a Pellegrino. Maybe a club soda?”
“Whatever,” she says. “The important thing is, we’re all here.” She strikes a pose against the Biedermeier console, the rakish rim of her hat juxtaposed against the oil painting. Sobriety has been good to her—she looks fabulous.
Neil fetches their drinks, and Manning suggests they get comfortable on some of the new furniture (new to
him, anyway). “I’m not used to living with upholstery,” he quips. “What a luxury.”
When they are all seated, Roxanne offers a toast. “To your new home—and your new life together.” It’s a gracious gesture, but with bittersweet overtones. After they drink, there’s a clumsy pause.
Changing the subject, Roxanne tells Manning, “I see that your pal Brother Burt is back in the news.”
“From behind bars, no less.” Manning shakes his head. “It seems the charges just keep mounting. Most serious, of course, is the murder of his fellow seminarian. Then there’s his attempt on my life. And now he’s under investigation for fraud—one of those ‘Expose the Right’ watchdog groups figured out that his so-called ‘ministry’ was no more than a fund-raising machine for the strictly political agenda of the Christian Family Crusade. His connections appear to run so deep and so dirty that he just may bring down the whole organization.”
“And did you hear how they figured it out?” asks Neil. His tone is gleeful, his expression beaming.
“Something to do with his cable program,” says Roxanne, whirling a hand as she tries to remember the details. “Wasn’t there a … mishap?”
“I’ll say.” Neil licks his lips before continuing. “Brother Burt was arrested here in Chicago on December thirty-first. His weekly cable show, The Holy Altar of Mystic Faith, was scheduled for live broadcast the next day, New Year’s, from Phoenix. So Miss Viola had to go solo, attempting to explain to her followers how their archdeacon had managed to land himself in the slammer. At the start of the program, she always descends from the ‘heavens’ on this chintzy crescent moon, but that night, something went wrong. The smoke machine, the mechanical angels—everything was out of whack. Miss Viola’s moon was within a few feet of landing on the floor, when it lurched. She carries this cat, and it freaked. It leaped from her arms, and in midair, snatched the wig off her head! So then she freaked and jumped off the cardboard moon. In her scramble to get out of camera range, she snagged her gown on the moon’s pointy tip, ripped off her skirt, and ran screaming from the studio in a pair of black lace panties.”
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