Eye Contact (37 page)

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.”

“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. …”

by Mark Manning

Journal Investigative Reporter

J
ULY 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.

M
ANNING 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.

He looks around him. The hotel room is cramped and sparsely furnished, but it’s clean and new—in fact, he’s probably the first guest to stay here. It was an expensive night, three hundred dollars for himself, another three hundred for Arlen Farber—the desk clerk refused to allow two men to share one room. Since Manning registered under a false name, he couldn’t use a credit card, so his wallet is running on empty—he doesn’t normally carry so much cash, but he was prepared for a weekend that would be filled with uncertainties.

Last evening at the planetarium, after Manning filed his story attempting to expose Nathan Cain as a murderer, he and Farber decided that neither of them would be safe at home that night. Manning could at least find scant consolation in the fact that Neil was staying with Roxanne—he was out of harm’s way. Nonetheless, Manning phoned Roxanne’s apartment from the planetarium and left a cryptic message for Neil, cautioning him to stay away from the loft.

Manning and Farber decided they should find a hotel, no easy feat with the world converging on the city for the festival. But Manning had a hunch, which turned out to be correct. The Gethsemane Arms Hotel was already surrounded with controversy—because of its owners, because of the protest march to be staged there, because of its exorbitant rates—so there were plenty of vacant rooms. The Gethsemane also struck Manning as the perfect hideaway, as no one would think to look for him there, of all places.