Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  Besides, the main event is drawing near. People have come to see and hear the president, not these legions of wanna-bes. His address is sure to set the stage for intense debate during the last year of his term and could well turn the tide of public opinion on issues that have been all too divisive.

  Neil tries to remain attentive, but his mind wanders from the message and his gaze wanders from the podium. Security people are starting to line a pathway from a ground-level field entrance through which the president will doubtless be escorted. There’s the distant sound of engines from helicopters hovering far overhead with television crews, Neil assumes, or security, or both. Neil concludes that the warm-up speeches are at last winding down, and he checks his watch. It’s eight-fifteen; the president is scheduled for eight-thirty.

  The sky still glows with daylight from the setting sun, but inside the stadium, most of the spectators now sit in full shadow, and the evening has gotten chilly. Neil says to Claire, “I think it’s time for those sweaters.”

  “Good idea, darling.” And she takes the sweaters from the empty seat next to her, keeping her own, passing the others to Neil.

  “Bundle up, Rox,” Neil says.

  Roxanne takes the sweater, thanking Neil, then laughs. “I don’t need these anymore,” taking off her sunglasses and returning them to her purse in the vacant seat at her side. Looking inside her bag, she notices something. “I forgot, Neil—your mail.” And she hands him a stack of envelopes.

  The speeches are dragging on, and there are still a few minutes until the presidential address, so Neil decides this is a good time to review the mail. There are a couple of credit-card bills, a solicitation from a gay-rights group, another from the alumni association of the university he attended. These can all be dealt with later.

  Then he glances at the one remaining envelope and notices the Journal’s logo with its return address. For a moment, he assumes that it contains something for Manning, that he sorted it incorrectly at the loft. But no, confirming that the envelope was in fact addressed to him, Neil works his index finger under the flap and tears it open. He extracts a letter from within and flips to the end of it to identify the sender. It was written by David Bosch.

  Christ, Neil fumes, folding the letter. He didn’t need this, not now. Here he sits, trying to enjoy himself, trying to put out of his mind, at least for a few hours, the emotional crisis that has tormented him for the past two days. And now this, a disembodied communiqué from that bastard, the rotten kid himself. He’s tempted to rip the thing up and scatter its shreds on the ground, to be trampled by the multitudes as they leave the stadium tonight. And in fact his fingers pinch the folded sheets of paper and begin to tear them, but then he stops, restrained by a sense of fairness, or perhaps by sheer curiosity—he’s not sure which.

  Neil opens the letter, braces himself for its unknown contents, then reads:

  Thursday, July 1

  Dear Neil,

  Mark and I spoke at the office this morning, and he told me of his intentions to talk to you tonight about what happened in Door County. I tried to dissuade him from telling you about this, but I have since realized that this decision to be truthful with you is decent, well intentioned, and inevitable. That’s simply how Mark operates, as you surely know. That’s what makes Mark … well, Mark.

  I’m ashamed of what happened, and I feel that I have especially betrayed your friendship, which you offered so freely. Because I have a hunch that Mark will not make this plain to you, I must tell you point-blank that I seduced him. I still don’t understand my motivation for doing it—likely it was something more akin to hero worship or gaming than to out-and-out lust—but that doesn’t excuse my actions. You can rest assured that Mark wanted no part of the game I was playing. In the end, he succumbed simply because I played the game too well. I won, I got what I wanted, and I realize now that I’ve created a horrible mess.

  There can be no doubt that news of this incident has hurt you greatly, and I’m sorry. I know that my apologies offer you scant consolation, if any, so I will try to keep my distance for now, while vowing never again to act in any manner that might darken your relationship, your home, or your life.

  You probably won’t care (and I certainly wouldn’t blame you), but I want you to know that this experience has helped me grow up a bit. I won’t try to dismiss what happened as simply a regrettable result of the raging hormones of youth, though I think, in all honesty, that such an argument could be made. The more important point, however, from my own perspective, is that I have learned how every action, each decision, produces a consequence. This should be self-evident, but a week ago I was still suffering from delusions of maturity, confident that my twenty-four years had taught me all I needed to know.

  I was wrong, of course, and now at least I grasp the extent of those things that I have yet to learn. Whether you know it or not, people like you and Mark have had an immeasurable influence on my life. You are so self-confident with your love for each other—and so unremarkably open about it—that I am inspired to follow your course and claim my own self-worth. This is a tricky threshold for me to cross. Only once have I acknowledged my gayness to family or friends, but the time is now right to come clean, and I have you to thank for leading me to this peace.

  First on my list is Uncle Hector. I tried once several years ago to discuss my budding homosexuality with him, expecting a sympathetic ear, but it was he, really, who slammed the closet door on me. I can’t exactly blame him—he did what he thought was best for me—but I see plainly now that he was wrong. Very soon, I will reopen this discussion and hope for better results.

  Meanwhile, Mark will have broached a tremendously difficult topic with you. In all likelihood, you now loathe me. You have every right to, Neil, but please, don’t let that anger spill over and infect your love of Mark. What you have together is too special to be spoiled by the mindless actions of a dumb kid. That kid has learned a hard lesson. He’s going to concentrate for now on building the skills of his career. He needs to bring some focus to his life.

  That kid also wants to let you know that he loves you, both you and Mark. If you can ever forgive his unconscionable intrusion, he hopes once again to enjoy your friendship.

  With profound apologies and heartfelt affection,

  David Bosch

  Neil has held the letter in his lap, staring at the words through the blur of moist eyes. He remembers that Manning had tried to invoke some “extenuating circumstances” when he related the incident Thursday night, but Neil wouldn’t listen—he was too busy breaking glassware. He is still deeply hurt by what happened between Manning and David, but the letter has indeed lent a different cast to Manning’s participation. He knows, after all, that Manning loves him. Neil also knows that Manning is the only one he has ever truly loved. He wishes that Manning were here right now, so they could try to talk this through again, with Neil in a more balanced state of mind.

  His thoughts are interrupted by the uproar of the crowd as everyone in the stadium rises, cheering the entrance of the president. The combined symphony orchestras of Chicago, Milwaukee, and Minnesota thunder “Hail to the Chief.”

  Some fifteen minutes later, at a quarter to nine, Manning and Farber are still at the lab in the planetarium, watching the president’s televised address. Manning is torn between the rousing speech, which is naturally of interest to him, and the story on his laptop computer, which he is trying to finish. After speaking to Lucille Haring earlier, he switched his modem over to the desk phone to conserve the battery in his portable, so he’s had an open line to Lucy’s computer terminal at the Journal.

  Farber gets up from his chair and steps to the other side of the desk. Opening the bottom drawer, he pulls out the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pours a fresh drink. Referring to the president’s speech, he says, “That guy’s got guts. I don’t agree with everything he’s saying, but I have to hand it to him for going out on a limb.”

  “I feel as if I’m goi
ng out on a limb—with this story,” Manning tells him. “There’s a nine-o’clock deadline, but I don’t know why. How does this all end?”

  “Don’t ask me,” says Farber, sitting again to watch the speech. Over his shoulder, he reminds Manning, “You’re the reporter.”

  “Thanks,” Manning says dryly, returning to his typing. He pauses to gather his thoughts, and just as he’s about to begin a new paragraph, his cellular phone warbles with an incoming call. He tries typing with one hand as he picks up the phone and punches the button. “Yes?” he answers.

  “Hello, Mark? Jim here.”

  Manning stops typing. “Hey, Jim! I forgot about you. Busy day at headquarters?” He uncaps his pen, ready for note-taking.

  “You might say that,” the detective answers with heavy understatement. “Sorry to be so late getting back to you, but I just got your message.”

  Manning hesitates. Doodling on his pad, he asks into the phone, “Did it make any sense?”

  “Sure did. You said that you knew details of David Bosch’s murder at the MidAmerica Building. The victim’s identity hasn’t been made public yet—with the city in such flux today, we’ve had trouble reaching his parents—but you identified him, so I can draw one of two conclusions. Either you killed the kid, or you know who did. I figure you wouldn’t be calling me if you’d pulled the trigger, so maybe you’ve got a useful tip.”

  Manning has to laugh at the soundness of Jim’s reasoning, though of course he finds no humor in this. “I’ve got more than a tip, Jim. I can tell you the whole story—killer, conspiracy, and all.” And he proceeds to do just that, relating how Nathan Cain murdered David and how Manning identified him by the sound of his beeper. “I’m reasonably sure that the bullet in David’s back will match the ones that killed Cliff Nolan, linking Cain to both murders. Too bad Nolan’s ballistics tests were inconclusive—they could have led you straight to the weapon.”

  Jim has listened without comment, probably taking notes. He says over the phone, “Our press release called the tests inconclusive because we didn’t want to tip our hand. Actually, the ballistics were a no-brainer. The bullets that killed both victims had a caliber of eight millimeters. I don’t need to tell you how unusual that is. In fact, it’s virtually unknown. Then, at the Bosch kid’s murder scene, our killer did us the favor of leaving behind a shell casing. He must have run out of time—or daylight—and couldn’t find it in all the rubble on the roof. But we found the shell, and it was clearly of Japanese manufacture, pointing to a Nambu-model pistol. The last year those were made, in the early forties, only five hundred were produced. We’ve been trying to trace the few that are known to exist. They’re collectors’ items.”

  Manning caps his pen. “God,” he says with a chortle of disbelief, “I’ve actually seen the weapon. Cain has a gun collection, enshrined behind glass in his office. The Nambu was used by a Japanese general to kill himself after the war, so Cain must have attached some ritualistic significance to the murders he committed with it.”

  “If we could locate it,” says Jim, “we’d have this whole thing sewn up, but Cain is surely smart enough to ditch it.”

  Manning insists, “He’d never ditch that piece. It’s the pride of his collection, a gift from some bigwig at the Pentagon.” Manning tells Jim exactly where to find it, adding, “You can’t miss it—it has a jade handle.”

  “That wraps it up then. Any idea where we might find Cain?”

  “I’m making this too easy for you. As far as I know, he’s at his office right now. He often spends the night there. So get your warrants, then go get him and the gun. One-stop shopping, Jim.”

  The detective laughs. “We’ll tidy this up as soon as the crowds at the stadium start to clear. And next time you call, I’ll make a point of getting back to you sooner. In fact, here’s my cell-phone number.”

  Manning jots it down. “Thanks, Jim. Now go fight some crimes.” They say good-bye, and Manning hangs up the phone.

  Arlen Farber has kept an eye on the television and an ear on the phone conversation. He tells Manning, “That’s a relief.”

  “I guess so,” says Manning, unsure. He scrolls through some of the story on his screen. “But we still don’t know what happens at nine o’clock, or why. So fasten your seat belt.”

  Farber shrugs, downing more Jack and Diet Rite. He returns his attention to the television. The president is finishing his speech, and the crowd has risen to their feet, cheering. It’s nearly nine o’clock.

  Waiting atop the Journal Building for the second hand of his watch to point skyward, Nathan Cain rises from his stool and makes a final inspection of the laser apparatus, assuring himself that all is ready. Last Monday, downstairs in Cain’s office, Manning saw this contraption through the window and commented that it looked like a gun. He was right, of course. And even though Cain drew the curtains to hide the view that morning, he was confident then, as he is now, that Manning couldn’t begin to fathom the true nature and purpose of this device.

  It is indeed a laser projector, as are the other units, to be used in creating the sky show that will spin a dazzling pink triangle in the heavens, a symbol of gay rights hovering over the new stadium as a finale to tonight’s opening ceremonies. But this unit alone has special capabilities, developed with the reluctant assistance of Buddy, Cain’s friend at the Pentagon. This unit alone employs a new laser technology born of devilish theories of electromagnetic physics understood by only a handful of military specialists. This unit alone is linked to an orbiting communications satellite. This unit alone is linked to vast banks of computer power that will enable it to perform dizzying calculations during the course of the spectacle, that will enable it to reprogram its linked satellite for a covert purpose. This unit alone has the power to kill.

  Cain completes his walkabout of the device and laughs aloud at its fearsome, outlandish appearance. It looks like a prop out of some cheap sci-fi flick. In truth, it was cobbled together from various parts of existing hardware, a secret prototype of a sinister weapon that will be used only once. The tractor seat and its array of controls serve no purpose whatever, more easily left intact than removed for purity of function. No marksman, however accomplished, could operate this contraption with sufficient speed and precision; it must be guided by the simultaneous calculations of a hidden computer network, harnessing together innocuous banks of gigabytes and megahertz. Racks and cabinets bulge with electronics at three separate locales—in a basement in Washington, in Cain’s suite of offices, and across town in the laboratory assigned to Dr. Pavo Zarnik at Civic Planetarium.

  So the Zarnik ruse, the tenth planet, was merely a cover, a diversion, to keep the press busy while the final phase of this project was readied for tonight. But the planet scam was nearly exposed, twice, and two of Cain’s reporters had to die at his own hand. He is convinced that their deaths, though regrettable, will be far overshadowed and quickly forgotten in the wake of the climactic finale to tonight’s spectacle.

  It was ironic that Clifford Nolan tided his exposé “Requiem for a Small Planet.” It was clever, succinct, and ever-so-slightly smug—qualities that Cain always admired in Nolan’s writing. But when Cain saw that headline on his own computer screen while Nolan sat at home drafting the story, he knew that Nolan’s phrase-turning days must end. Visiting Nolan at his apartment that night, Cain laughed with the writer as they discussed Zarnik’s preposterous claim. While Nolan typed, he suggested to Cain, “Why don’t you play something while I drive the final nails into Zarnik’s coffin. A Requiem would be fitting. Take your pick—Mozart, Berlioz, Verdi.”

  Verdi, thought Cain. Perfect. He removed the CD from its case, scrupulously polished both sides of it with his black silk pocket handkerchief, and dropped it into the machine. Behind Nolan’s back, he pressed the “play” button, his index finger covered by the handkerchief. The solemn opening measures of the music began to fill the room. “Scan to the good part,” Nolan told Cain over his shoulder.

&nbs
p; Cain knew what Nolan meant—he was asking for the “Dies Irae” section, the “Day of Wrath.” With a silk-clad finger, Cain cued up the music, spun up the volume, and pressed “play” again. Then, timed to Verdi’s four explosive blasts, the crack of doomsday, he fired four bullets into Clifford Nolan’s back with the rarest of rare Nambu pistols, the one sent to him by a friend he called Buddy.

  Again Cain recalls the hospital tent in Korea and Buddy’s horrible admission of love. Cain remembers when Buddy sent him the pistol, a token of friendship that made it all too easy for Cain, years later, to threaten sending it back, to threaten he’d return it so that Buddy might fire it into his own temple. It never came to that, thank God. Buddy proved both his friendship to Cain and his love of country. He knew how to accomplish tonight’s spectacle. He was the builder, while Cain was the architect. And the “client,” so to speak—the inspiration behind the whole project—was none other than the Christian Family Crusade and its guiding force, Elder Burlington Buchman. So, then, knowledge of tonight’s plan is shared by only three people: Cain, Buddy, and Buchman.

  Conspiracy is an ugly concept, Cain tells himself, but at times it is necessary—times like these. These are the times when the perversion of homosexuality has broken out of its closet and thrust itself upon society at large. The plague of AIDS might have stopped it, but failed. There’s been talk of “gay rights” for over a generation, and by now it’s crept into the national consciousness. It’s gone so far, politicians routinely pay lip service to it and even the archbishop has begun blathering about “inclusion”—so much for his friendship. The agenda it clear enough: Homosexuality is to be placed on an equal moral footing with heterosexuality. That’s just for starters. Then comes job protection, marriage, and finally, that last holdout of decency, the military itself. If the courts don’t ram it down our throats, eventually the sway of public opinion will. It must be stopped. The CFC has waged a noble war, but now, just when their efforts have begun to reverse this hideous trend, the homosexual agenda is glorified by a festival that will be watched by the whole world. Politicians can’t line up fast enough to add their voices to the din, hoping to curry favor with this powerful minority as the stakes are raised for the next election. They’re all here tonight, down at the stadium, raising their voices in a sordid plea for “tolerance.” My ass! And worst among them, a traitor to his nation who has betrayed every principle of traditional values, is a sitting president of the United States.