Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  “As I told you before—truthfully, in fact—I get checks from the planetarium. But where does the money really come from? I have no idea.”

  “And Victor’s hush money?”

  Arlen Farber shrugs. “It’s a mystery. The envelope was couriered to my secretary, but I don’t know the source. I have a contact, of course. It’s a man. But I know him only by his phone number.”

  “That’s a start,” says Manning. “Phones are easily traced. May I have it?”

  Uttley steps between them, interrupting, “You two are too much.” His tone is pissed. “Arlen Farber, two-bit actor, running to the press with some half-baked conspiracy theory, hoping to grab more headlines. What’sa matter, Arlen? Haven’t you gotten enough ink in the past two weeks?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but spins his attention to Manning. “And you, Mr. Hotshot Reporter—is this any way to treat a contact from the mayor’s office? Don’t forget, I pulled some strings to arrange for your access to the MidAmerica laser site.” Uttley remembers something, checks his watch. “Why aren’t you there, instead of here, entrapping me?”

  “David, my assistant, went in my place—that’s who called.” Arlen Farber looks confused by this exchange, so Manning explains to him, “I’m working on another story, unrelated to all this, about a sky show promoting gay rights to be staged as part of tomorrow’s ceremonies at the new stadium. It involves some laser equipment that’s been installed on top of three tall buildings, including the Journal’s tower. I saw something while visiting my publisher’s office earlier this week that made me want to examine the equipment at one of the other buildings.”

  Uttley butts into the conversation again. “I still don’t understand why you just don’t examine the projector at the Journal.”

  “Simple,” says Manning. “It might irk the man who signs my check. If this story pans out, Nathan Cain will be pleased, naturally. But it might turn out to be a non-story altogether, and if that’s the case, he won’t appreciate any attention I draw to the sky show, let alone the company’s time I’d spend pursuing it.”

  “Why not?” asks Uttley. “The whole thing was his idea.”

  “Hardly,” Manning tells him. “Cain’s support of the project is grudging at best. He’s a traditional-values sort of guy, certainly no advocate of gay rights. The only reason he agreed to allow one of the projectors to be installed at the Journal is that the paper might be perceived as ‘unenlightened’ if he didn’t play along. But he resents it—he told me so.”

  “Ha!” Uttley laughs, limping to the door, envelope of cash in one hand, sunglasses in the other. He turns to tell Manning, “Nathan Cain himself came to the mayor months ago to propose the sky show. He volunteered technical assistance with the hardware as well as use of the Journal’s tower platform. He felt strongly that the whole spectacle should be kept as a surprise finale for the opening ceremony, and the mayor agreed. I sat in on the meeting and heard every word.”

  Manning has taken a few notes, but stopped, truly confused by Uttley’s claim.

  Satisfied that his words have produced the intended effect, Uttley puts on his Ray-Bans again, opens the door, and steps into the hallway. Before closing the door behind him, he tells Manning, “You really ought to get your facts straight, Mark. And hey, we’re friends—no charge.”

  As soon as Uttley is gone, Manning retrieves his carryall from the hiding space behind the cabinets and moves it to the desk, where he unpacks his laptop and modem, as well as several manila folders containing handwritten notes, morgue photos, and clippings. Adding to the clutter, he unloads his pockets—steno pad, phone, datebook, fountain pen, and wallet. There’s no longer room on the desk for Arlen Farber’s things, so Manning hands him a brown paper bag that holds an extra peanut butter sandwich. As if ravenous, Farber unwraps the sandwich and begins to gobble it, pacing the room.

  Manning thinks of something. Riffling through the wallet, he finds the business card that Gordon Smith gave him in Nathan Cain’s office on Monday. He flips it over and finds Cain’s pager number, written there by Smith as instructed. Manning really ought to beep Cain and discuss Victor Uttley’s claims about the laser show. And he owes David a call, too. What’s more, he now knows the identity of Zarnik’s impostor, which deserves page-one treatment in the next edition—as does the extortionist he’s discovered in the mayor’s office. But where to begin with all this?

  He opens a computer file and scrolls through his notes while Arlen Farber wolfs his sandwich. Manning tells him, “Let’s start with the big question: Why have you pretended to be Pavo Zarnik?”

  Through a mouthful of mush, Farber answers, “They told me to.”

  “Who did? And why?”

  Farber swallows. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know where the real Pavo Zarnik is?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy—that’s what I wanted to know. They told me he was away somewhere, ‘on vacation,’ they said.”

  Manning scrolls through more notes. “You were insistent that I alone would report Zarnik’s story. You said that you chose me because I had a reputation for being scrupulous, insightful, and fair—and I was flattered enough, dumb enough, to buy it. Okay, Arlen, what was the real reason for my exclusive?”

  Farber tosses his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know.” The last remaining wad of his sandwich hurtles through the air and lands in the guts of a rack of electronics. “I did what I was told, but they never told me why.”

  Manning looks up from his computer. “Then why in hell did you drag me down here today? All you’ve told me is your name.”

  Farber approaches him at the desk. He speaks calmly, but there’s an intensity to his stare that reveals desperation. “I’m telling you, Mr. Manning, that I’m scared. I don’t know who’s behind this or why, but there’s obviously big money at stake, or power, or something. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and I still don’t know what it’s about, but I’m growing more and more convinced that I won’t get out of it alive. Please, Mark. Help me!”

  Manning wasn’t expecting that. He has thought of the actor as part of a plot, but now he understands that Farber is more a pawn than a perpetrator. Manning also realizes, with sudden clarity, that he, too, has been made an unwitting participant in a sinister scheme that he cannot yet fathom. He, too, is in danger.

  “I’ll do my best, Arlen. Let me call David first. I’ve got him on another story, but let’s concentrate on this one. I’ll get him back here, he’ll bring the car, and we can all go somewhere and try to sort this out—we may not be safe here.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Farber resumes pacing as Manning picks up his cell phone and punches in David’s number.

  David scratches his head. Clearly, he’s located the laser projector—the equipment looks brand-new, and the immediate area is littered with debris from its installation—knocked-down crates, scraps of cable, bolts and other hardware. What’s more, it’s at the corner of the roof that points toward the new stadium, which makes sense. Otherwise, what he sees doesn’t tell him much. It’s just this … device. He can’t imagine why Manning was so interested in it.

  Then he notices a panel on the side of the housing, attached with thumbscrews. It should be easy enough to remove the panel and expose the innards, which may be of use to Manning. He squats in front of it, working on the first of the screws, when his phone rings. He answers, “Hi, Mark. I found it.”

  “David,” Manning’s voice buzzes through the phone, “I don’t have time to explain, but it’s important that you leave there now and drive back here to the planetarium. ‘Zarnik’ and I will meet you in the parking lot. We all need to get out of here and hole up somewhere.”

  David laughs. “You’re suddenly sounding very mysterious. What’s up?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got a lot on my mind today.”

  “Don’t worry about that scene with Uncle Hector,” David assures Manning. “I’ll iron things out with him when we meet later tonight.”

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p; “I’ll appreciate that,” says Manning, “but that’s not the issue right now. Just get yourself back to the planetarium.”

  “Aren’t you even curious about what I’ve found up here?”

  Manning hesitates. “Actually, I am. Describe the projector for me. For starters, is the housing a drab olive color?”

  “No,” says David, “it’s black. Flat black.”

  “What about its shape? Is there a long snout in front and a tractor seat in back with lots of mean-looking controls?”

  David double-checks. “None of the above. It’s just a big black box. There’s a slit on the outer side—I assume that’s where the beam comes out. Otherwise, it looks something like a big transformer. There’s a panel here with thumbscrews.”

  “See if you can get it off and have a look inside.”

  “I’ve been trying to do exactly that,” David says with a laugh, “but it’s slow going with the phone in one hand.”

  “Good work,” Manning tells him. “There may be more to this than I thought. Listen, David. Just put the phone down—that should speed things up for you—then tell me when you can see inside. I’ll stand by.”

  “Okay, Mark.” David sets the phone aside, just around the corner of the projector housing, where it won’t be damaged if the panel should fall when he removes it. Then he sets to work on the rest of the thumbscrews, about a dozen.

  One by one, he removes them, setting them in a neat pile in front of him. That’s five, six, halfway there. The wind howls around him, flapping his jacket, tousling his hair. Far overhead, pink-edged clouds drift over the lake in a perfect azure evening sky. David whistles a tuneless ditty, content to perform this menial task, learning the ropes of a profession he loves, determined more than ever to master his craft. Ten down, all but the top two corners.

  In that instant, everything changes. “That’s far enough!” screams the voice of an assailant from behind. “You’re dead, Manning!” And the shot is fired.

  David’s body is thrown forward. He sees the metal surface of the laser housing approach his eye, but he does not feel it smash against his face. As his head hits the tar-covered surface of the tower platform, he hears the rasp of Manning’s voice screaming his name from the phone—once, twice, but no more. In a flash, the blue sky blackens. The clouds are sucked away into oblivion.

  Seated at the desk in Zarnik’s lab, stunned and panicky, Manning now whispers, “No, David, no …” Tears slide down his face as he tells the phone, “I’m so sorry, David. …”

  Arlen Farber shakes Manning by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, Mark? What happened?”

  Manning turns to look at him, but doesn’t take the phone from his ear. He tells Farber, “David’s been shot.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Manning frantically waves for Farber to shut up—he hears something—the footsteps of the assailant approaching the phone. He hears the man’s voice again. “David? Hngh. My apologies for so untimely a death, but rest assured, Mr. Bosch, it must have been God’s will.”

  The murderer is apparently unaware of the phone. Manning listens to an odd little noise, the sound of some prolonged activity at the scene. He concludes that the murderer is methodically reinstalling the thumbscrews.

  Then it all clicks, and Manning feels his heart stop. He has recognized the voice of the killer. It sounded like none other than … Nathan Cain. But it couldn’t be—could it?—even in light of Victor Uttley’s unlikely revelation that Cain was the planner of tomorrow’s laser spectacle.

  Suddenly, the pieces start falling together. With his mind in a spin, Manning realizes that Cain’s own computer savvy gave him direct access to reporters’ drafts. It was he, not Lucille Haring, who discovered that Cliff Nolan was preparing to expose Zarnik. David Bosch was caught in the act of discovering something that warranted his murder as well. The Zarnik plot is therefore directly related to the laser spectacle, and David’s murder was an extension of Nolan’s.

  What’s more, the Verdi Requiem was played to mask the gunfire that killed Cliff Nolan. Shortly after the murder, but before Manning had learned what music was played, the words of the “Dies Irae,” the medieval dirge, were on Cain’s lips. He said in English, “‘Day of wrath and day of mourning,’” speaking of the obituary he planned to write for Nolan.

  Most obvious of all—and Manning berates himself for not picking up on this—Cain’s war injury left him with a stiff walk that could easily be described as a “limp.” A tall man, always impeccably dressed, he fits Dora Lee’s description to the letter.

  Manning now knows who killed Cliff Nolan and David Bosch, but there’s no way to prove that Cain is the person up on that rooftop right now with David’s body.

  Ah, but there is! With sudden inspiration, Manning sifts through the things on Zarnik’s desk, plucks up a business card, and hands it to Farber. He covers the mouthpiece of his cellular phone and tells Farber, “There’s a number on the back. Call it on your phone. It’s a pager. You’ll get a signal, then—”

  “I know how they work,” Farber tells him as he starts dialing.

  “Don’t use your own number. After the signal, punch in the weather lady.”

  Farber nods. He gets the signal, dials, then hangs up.

  Manning raises a finger, commanding silence, pressing the cell phone to his ear. A moment later he hears it—the beeping of Nathan Cain’s pager on the roof of the MidAmerica Building. Then he presses the “end” button on his phone, sets it down, and exhales a sigh of disbelief.

  “Hey,” says Farber, “wait a minute.” He thrusts the card under Manning’s nose. “This pager number—this is my contact, the guy behind the whole Zarnik scam.”

  “What?” Manning rises, studying the card. “Are you certain?” But he doesn’t need an answer. He himself now recognizes the number, the one with all the sevens. He saw it on the blackboard the day of his first visit to Zarnik’s lab; next time, it was partially erased to make room for a grocery list.

  The conclusion is inescapable: Nathan Cain, publisher of the Chicago Journal, one of the city’s most prominent, wealthy, and powerful citizens, has masterminded a complex plot with many seemingly unrelated threads. And although there is no apparent motive for the Zarnik ruse or for the secrecy surrounding the laser spectacle, something highly sinister must underlie his actions, for the man is guilty of cold, passionless murder.

  Manning sits at the desk again, telling Farber, “You were right, Arlen. You’re in danger, and so am I. The bullet that killed David was meant for me.” Manning connects a gadget between his laptop and his phone—it’s the modem.

  Farber leans over the desk. “Then we’d better get moving—we’re not safe here.” But Manning doesn’t budge. He’s busy with the computer. With mounting panic, Farber asks, “What are you doing?”

  “I need a few minutes here, then we’ll run. I have no idea what’s behind all this, but the time for circumspection is past. I’m going to blow this story wide open in the next edition. There.” Something appears on Manning’s computer screen. “I’m online with the Journal’s newsroom.” He types in a code, assigning his story top priority. “This’ll end up on page one first thing in the morning.”

  Then, with hands trembling over the keyboard, Manning assigns his article the brief title, or slug, “hijinx.” Stories like this don’t come along often in a reporter’s career, and he wants the opening to be a grabber. He writes:

  “Recent claims of a newly discovered tenth planet, coupled with secret plans to surprise the city with a laser spectacle Saturday night, are mysterious elements in a complex conspiracy masterminded by Chicago Journal publisher Nathan Cain. The scheme turned murderous when Cain shot and killed two of his own reporters, Clifford Nolan and David Bosch. …”

  PART THREE

  Cataclysm

  HIGH-TECH HIJINKS

  Stunning developments leave unanswered question: Why?

  by Mark Manning

  Journal Investigative Reporter

/>   JULY 3, 1999, CHICAGO, IL—Recent claims of a newly discovered tenth planet, coupled with secret plans to surprise the city with a laser spectacle Saturday night, are but a few of the elements in a complex plan to dazzle the world with a yearlong display of Chicago’s scientific, cultural, and architectural achievements.

  The festivities get under way this afternoon with the opening ceremonies of Celebration 2000, which will also serve as the inaugural event of the city’s new stadium, itself an eloquent testament to Chicago’s progressive architectural legacy.

  Today’s program includes brief performances by many of the most esteemed artists in all genres of music, from opera to pop. This evening’s human-rights rally will feature a long roster of political and cultural figures speaking on behalf of gay rights, culminating in the presidential address. At the program’s end, the crowds at the stadium, and indeed throughout the city, will be wowed by a high-tech laser show. Details of the spectacle are still incomplete, as the surprise event was announced just this Thursday by the mayor’s office.

  A comprehensive schedule of the first week’s festivities can be found on page 1 of the Life Section of today’s Journal.

  COUNTERDEMONSTRATION PLANNED BY CFC

  In response to the human-rights rally being staged at the stadium, the Christian Family Crusade will mount a demonstration of its own, opposing the expansion of gay rights and calling for a constitutional amendment that would allow states free reign in legislating protection of family values.

  Elder Burlington Buchman, CFC board chairman, has confirmed that the march will take place on the grounds of the Gethsemane Arms, a new North Side hotel built and managed by the CFC, some five miles removed from the rally at the stadium.

  Saturday, July 3

  MANNING HURLS THE paper onto the bed. It’s noon already, it took all morning for an inept room-service staff to get a paper up to him, and when it arrived, he found his story buried on page five, altered beyond recognition.