Hector spins to face him. “You
made
it my business by baring your soul to me this morning.”
“You can bet I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Your only mistake, young man, was sleeping with
him
!” Hector whips an accusing index finger toward Manning. There’s a collective gasp from the growing pack of onlookers. Manning’s jaw drops. Hector turns to tell him, “My God, just look at the two of you. Now you’re even dressing alike. But you, Manning, you’re a seducer, a predator”—he lunges to grab Manning by the shirt—“a disgrace to the profession of journalism.”
Both David and Daryl rush to pull Hector back.
“Watch it,” Manning warns Hector, rising. Facing him nose-to-nose, Manning controls his anger but tells him firmly, “If there’s something that needs to be discussed, we can go to a conference room. You’ve already strayed into slanderous territory, so I’d recommend that you zip it.”
Hector puffs his chest and smooths the jacket of his natty black suit, ruffled during the brief skirmish. “If that remark was meant as a threat, Mr. Manning, you’re wasting your breath.” He strokes the bristles of his trim little moustache, first the right side, then the left. “If there are any threats to be made, they’ll be coming from me, and they won’t be nearly so veiled. Are you aware that I’m on a first-name basis with virtually every publisher in New York?”
Manning is tempted to ask him, So the hell what?
Hector continues, “Though this whole sordid episode is profoundly embarrassing to me, you can rest assured that I shan’t hesitate to share it with my publisher, who happens to be not only a colleague but a friend of your own publisher, Nathan Cain. They share many of the same values—values that are affronted by your reprobate actions. Your harassment and seduction of a much younger
male
coworker will surely shock the refined sensibilities of these upstanding gentlemen. I would be very surprised indeed if Nathan Cain concluded that your presence in this office is still an asset to the
Journal
.”
There’s a moment of silence. Hector notes with satisfaction that the impact of his words is now reflected in the pallor of Manning’s face. Hector smiles. He touches up the knot of Manning’s necktie. With a curt bow of his head, Hector tells him, “Good day, Mr. Manning.” Then he turns on his heel and struts down the corridor, parting the gaping crowd of onlookers.
David is about to take off after him when he turns back to Manning. “Sorry Mark. He’s drawn the wrong conclusions about this. I’ll try to set him straight.” He reaches to give Manning’s shoulder a squeeze, then scurries after Hector.
Daryl hasn’t said a word, but has witnessed the entire confrontation, absorbing every delicious detail. With a broad Cheshire grin, he sidles into the cubicle and opens his mouth to speak.
“Don’t,” says Manning, fumbling to sit in his chair. “Just don’t.”
The rest of the day doesn’t improve much. Though there are no subsequent shouting matches volleyed over Manning’s desk, news of the one that did occur has spread throughout the paper. While he expected to become the butt of relentless taunting because of the incident, he was wrong. Far worse, he has been shunned. Coworkers won’t look him in the eye. Many actually shift directions in the hall in order not to encounter him. It’s as if … as if they actually
believed
Hector’s exaggerated, misinformed accusations.
Shortly after four-thirty, Manning decides it’s time to head out. He needs to meet Zarnik at the planetarium by five and work out the logistics of getting to the MidAmerica Building by five-thirty—it’s going to be a tight squeeze. He switches off his desk lamp, then lifts the phone and dials an extension. “David? Let’s get going. It might be better if you just met me in the parking lot.”
Outside, behind the Journal Building, a bright afternoon is cooled by a brisk wind off the lake. Manning normally anticipates the first sight of his car after work as one of the little highlights of his day, but today he dreads seeing it. He walks out of his way in order to approach it from the driver’s side, avoiding the view of last night’s damage. Unlocking the car with the fob button, he tosses his laptop carryall and his blazer onto the backseat, then gets it. The black car is hot inside, so he starts the engine, running the air-conditioning while waiting for David.
Not more than a minute later, David trots out of the building and zigzags between the other cars toward Manning. Then he sees the damage, which stops him in his tracks. He approaches with caution, mouthing through the closed windows, “What happened?”
Manning waves him in.
David tosses his own blazer, which matches Manning’s, onto the backseat. Sitting in front, he repeats the question.
“Let’s just say I had a bad night,” Manning answers, and pulls out of the lot.
David tries to assure him, “They’ll be able to fix it.” After a pause, he says, “I’m afraid to ask, but did you tell Neil?” Manning nods. Almost inaudibly, David asks, “And how’d it go?”
Eyes on the road, Manning answers without inflection, “Not well at all. He packed a few things and went to stay with Roxanne for a while.”
Subdued and thoughtful, David tells him, “I’m sorry, Mark. I’ve done a lot of thinking since yesterday, and I’ve come to understand that this is all my fault.”
Manning turns his head to voice a feeble protest, but David continues, “Don’t tell me—I know—it takes two to tango. But the truth is, I started it. I pursued you, I tantalized you, I lured you into a situation that all your instincts told you to avoid. I thought it was just harmless fun, but it’s made a mess, and I’m sorry. I’m stupid.”
“No,” Manning tells him, “you’re young, that’s all. And I think you’ve just gained a little wisdom.”
The Friday-afternoon traffic is heavy, with many city people getting out of town to avoid the weekend crowds. Many others pour into town to take part in the festivities. Everyone, though, seems headed for the new stadium, eager to circle the just-finished structure and glimpse its avant-garde architecture, its grand entryway, its flowering boulevards. A battalion of specially recruited white-gloved traffic cops practices guiding the torrent of cars with civility and humor, a dress rehearsal for tomorrow’s big opening.
David has been peering at the distant stadium through the side window when Manning takes a turn that will lead them away, toward the planetarium. Manning asks him, “Why did you decide to talk to your uncle about this?”
“Like I said: I’m stupid.”
“No, David, not at all. I know that your uncle means a lot to you, and I know he’s had a big influence on your upbringing. I heard that you came out to him during college and that he didn’t react well. Still, it was a brave move on your part—it showed a lot of integrity. My guess is that you confided in him again today in order to give him a second chance to put this issue at rest between you.”
With a lame laugh, David tells Manning, “You’re more analytical about it than I was—I just wanted to level with him. Trouble is, he was in no mood for honesty, and as you heard only too well, he got the situation backwards.”
Manning turns to face David with a smile. “It doesn’t help that we’ve started dressing like the Bobbsey Twins.”
“You’ve noticed,” says David, embarrassed. They
are
dressed like twins today—khaki slacks, white shirts, striped silk ties, navy blazers. “I wasn’t even conscious that I was doing it till Hector pointed it out. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You look great. And I’m flattered.”
“I’ve arranged to have a talk with Hector later tonight. I’ll make sure he understands what happened. Maybe, when he calms down, he’ll make an apology in the newsroom. I’ll try to work it out.”
Manning sighs. “Any effort in that direction would be greatly appreciated.” The planetarium is now visible beyond the next turn of the road. “Meanwhile,” says Manning, “we’ve got some reporting to do. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect traffic to be this heavy, and we can’t be in two places at once.”
“Can you postpone your appointment at the MidAmerica laser site?”
“No,” says Manning, “it’s nearly five already, and Uttley had to pull strings to book the five-thirty inspection. I can’t fiddle with it now. But here’s another idea:
I’ll
meet Zarnik here at the planetarium while
you
turn around in the car and go to the MidAmerica Building for me.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Pulling into the parking lot at the planetarium, Manning asks, “Do you have your press pass and cell phone?” David nods. Manning tells him, “Drive to the east parking entrance of the building—it’s not very well marked because it leads to the private parking ramp for the Central States Club. They’re expecting my car at the gate, and the guard will direct you. Use your pass if you have to, explain that I sent you, and hope they play along. When you’ve made it up to the laser platform at the top of the tower, call me.”
“Sure,” says David. “I think I can handle that.”
Manning stops at the curb in front of the steps to the planetarium, and they both get out of the car. They grab their jackets from the backseat, making sure each has the right one. Manning takes his computer case, then David gets in behind the wheel. Before closing the door, he reaches to shake Manning’s hand. “Good luck in there, Mark. And thanks for everything. In spite of the glitches, these have been the best two weeks of my life.”
Manning musses David’s hair. “Call me from the tower.”
Just inside the main door of the planetarium, Manning is surprised to find Pavo Zarnik waiting for him, chewing one of his fingernails. When Zarnik sees Manning, he glances at his watch and says, with no trace of an accent, “Thank God, you’re about two minutes early. Come on, hurry.” And he leads Manning toward the back stairs that lead up to his laboratory.
Over the clatter of their feet on the metal stairs, Manning asks, “Why the big rush, Professor? What could be so time-sensitive about the technical notes you’ve prepared for me?”
At the top of the stairs, Zarnik stops, facing Manning. With a featureless expression, he says flatly, “There are no notes. Did you really expect any?”
Manning senses that at last this charade may unravel. He does not answer Zarnik’s question, but merely jerks his head in the direction of the door to the laboratory. “I’m at your disposal, Professor.”
Zarnik nods, leading the reporter down the hall. He walks with quick, sure strides, not the skittering shuffle that has previously characterized his gait. Arriving at the door with the red plastic sign, he unlocks it with a key that hangs with the whistle around his neck. He pushes the door open for Manning, who steps inside. The lights are already on, but the banks of computers are dark and silent. Zarnik closes the door behind them.
Manning stands in the clearing near the center of the room. Zarnik says nothing, but crosses to his desk, checks a page of the calendar, checks his watch, checks for something in a drawer, chews a hangnail. Manning asks, “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Not yet,” says Zarnik. “Things will soon begin to explain themselves. Come here, please.” And he walks beyond the desk, behind a row of metal cabinets.
Manning follows. There are a few square yards of clear floor space behind the bank of electronic hardware, where a pair of sturdy wooden chairs flank a small table. There’s nothing on the table till Manning sets his computer there—it seems that the furniture has been hastily arranged.
Zarnik gestures that Manning should sit, telling him, “You’ll be able to hear everything from here. Have your notebook ready, and for God’s sake, be quiet.”
At several minutes past five, all is quiet in Nathan Cain’s outer offices. There are often projects that keep people working late in the publisher’s suite, but with the approach of the long holiday weekend, everyone has managed to be out the door on time—except Lucille Haring, who sits at her desk staring at the clock.
She tidies some clutter on her desk, then rearranges files in a drawer, stalling. Having not yet logged off her computer, she poises her fingers over the keyboard, hesitates, then stands up. She paces once, smartly, toward the window, turns, and marches back to her desk. Biting her lip, she drums her fingers on the plastic shell of the computer monitor; the clacking of her nails resounds in the quiet office.
But that noise is overpowered by the clank of heavy brass hardware—Lucille Haring jumps—as the timbered door to Nathan Cain’s inner office opens. Cain steps through, closing the door behind him and locking it with a key that Lucille Haring has never seen him use. He also carries a briefcase, which is not his habit.
“Good evening, Colonel,” she says, stepping forward. “I was wondering whether you’d left yet. I thought you might be in residence here this weekend.”
He grunts vacantly. “No. The holiday and all. With all the hoopla, I’ve decided to go north for a few days.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding, “that’s probably a good idea, sir. We could all use a bit of R and R. But it looks as if you’re taking some work along with you.”
He glances down at the briefcase, then up at her. “No, Miss Haring.” He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I’ve been a little nervous about our security of late. This is material I’d rather have with me while I’m gone. Just a precaution.”
“Oh, really?” She steps to her computer terminal and calls something up on the screen. “I assure you, Colonel, there’s been no evidence of a breach—your offices are tight as a drum.”
“Well,” he bounces the key in his palm, “they are now.” He pockets the key. “Enjoy the Fourth, Miss Haring. And don’t forget to turn out the lights.”
As he walks down the corridor toward the outer door, Lucille Haring calls after him, “Thank you, Colonel. Have a happy Independence Day.”
When the door closes after him, she pauses, listening to the pervasive silence of the office. Then she sits down at her desk, back straight as a board, and begins typing codes into the computer. Now and then, the machine asks for more, which she feeds it. Finally, she relaxes in her chair and waits. Then she smiles.
The message on the screen says, “Welcome, Mr. Cain.”
Manning checks his watch—it’s nearly five-fifteen. He’s had a few minutes to settle into his hiding space, wondering what, if anything, is about to transpire. He’s discovered a crack between two of the cabinets through which he can see Zarnik’s desk, the door, and not much else. Sitting in the shadow of the cabinets, there’s sufficient light for him to take notes, but since the rest of the room is relatively bright, he’s confident that he won’t be seen peeking.