Eye Contact (39 page)

Just as Lucille Haring reads the last line, she hears voices down the hall, out by the elevator. She hears a key in the door as the guard swings it open, saying, “Sorry about your trip, Colonel. Let me know if you need anything.”

Christ. Does he know I’m here? wonders Lucille Haring. There wasn’t much conversation with the guard. She decides that Cain does not know she’s in the office. She wants to keep it that way. She’ll hide.

She gets up from her chair, swiftly steps to the back side of her desk, and crouches on the floor. While listening to the approach of his footsteps through the outer offices, she realizes that Manning’s story—his original story—is still brightly displayed on her screen. If Cain sees it, she assumes that he will not hesitate to kill again. She pops up for a moment, taps a few quick keystrokes that blacken the screen, then hunkers down again behind the desk. Holding her breath, she watches Cain’s legs scissor past; he carries the same briefcase he had yesterday. She hears him stop at his door, fishing for the key.

Her stomach growls—a long, rubbery rumble. Cain silences his keys, listening. Her heart pounds in her ears. She’s not sure, but she thinks she’s peed her pants. Then she hears Cain slip his key into the lock. The door opens. He steps into the inner sanctum and thuds the door behind him, locking it again.

She breathes, gasping for air. She feels her crotch, sniffs her fingers—no, thank God. Then she sits at her desk again, stretching her fingers like a concert pianist preparing to tackle Schoenberg. Calling up a new directory, she smirks, thinking aloud, “Now then, Colonel, let’s see what else you’ve been up to.”

Neil unlocks the front door to the loft and pokes his head inside, expecting to hear the warning alarm of the security system, but it is silent. “Anybody here?” he calls. Hearing no response, he turns behind him to say, “Come on in, ladies.” Then he ushers Roxanne Exner and Claire Gray into the loft.

The space seems eerily quiet—not only has the alarm not been set, but there is no sound from the refrigerator, from the air-conditioning, from any of the sources of house-noise that contribute to the usual background murmur. It’s as if the electricity has been shut off, but Neil notices the microwave clock running, the light on the answering machine. He steps to the kitchen’s center island and plops a pile of mail on the counter, yesterday’s and today’s, collected from the lobby—Manning has not been home since Friday morning, after Neil wrote his note and walked out.

That’s
why the place seems so quiet, he realizes. Mark is gone. It was one thing for Neil himself, the wronged lover (“loftmate,” that is), to walk out in a display of pique, but it’s another matter entirely for Mark to abandon the place. Did their home together mean that little to him? Or can’t he face the empty space? Either way, where
did
he spend the night? Has Neil sent him scampering back to David? That would be a monumental backfire; perhaps Neil should have listened more and reacted less. He makes a mental note that he still needs to replace that broken glass. While mulling all this, he sorts through the mail, making four stacks—two bulky piles of junk mail, his and Manning’s, and two smaller stacks of first-class, one for each of them.

“What’s wrong?” asks Roxanne, studying Neil’s scowl as he stands there in the kitchen, lost in thought.

Neil snaps out of it. “Sorry. It’s just that I expected the security alarm to be set, and it wasn’t. Also, I get the feeling that Mark didn’t sleep here last night.”

“You mentioned that he left a message at Roxanne’s. What was it?” Claire asks.

Neil strolls toward the big east window. “He sounded really strange, but maybe he just felt awkward leaving the message, knowing I didn’t want to talk to him. He said that something big had developed on his story, that he wouldn’t be able to make it to the stadium today, and that he was glad I was staying with Roxanne for a while. I could tell by his tone that he wasn’t being snide. The implication, which makes no sense at all, was a concern for my safety, as if there might be some danger lurking here.” He glances around the loft, then shrugs his shoulders. “Everything seems okay, though.”

“Of
course
everything’s okay,” Roxanne assures him with a hug. “You need to work this out with Mark. Concentrate on what’s been right between you. And for God’s sake, dismiss any notions of boogeymen under the bed.” She pecks his cheek, reminding him, “You’re not the paranoid type, Neil.”

Claire snorts. “I wish I could say as much about Hector. He’s still in a snit over all this, and yes, he is most definitely paranoiac. I was with him at the hotel yesterday morning when David dropped over to have his talk. Hector turned irrational and put his own spin on everything David told him. Then he stormed off to the
Journal
to confront Mark, and I understand he put on quite a performance. Hector and I argued about it into the afternoon, only to be interrupted by David on the phone. David was calm, and he tried to get Hector calmed down, insisting that we all meet again later. Then, of course, Hector’s suspicions were fed all the further when David, offering no explanation, never showed up last night. It sent Hector right off the edge.”

David didn’t show up? That’s news to Neil, firing a suspicion of his own.

Claire continues, “The bottom line is that I didn’t stand a chance of getting Hector to the festival today. The
last
thing he’s in the mood for right now is the gay-rights agenda. He’d rather sulk in his room.” She laughs, but it’s bitter. “I told him he should join the march at that Christian hotel. To my amazement, he said he had a mind to. Anyway,” she steps to Neil and Roxanne, grasping their hands, “thanks for letting me tag along today. Sorry to be the third wheel.”

Roxanne pats her hand. “We’re all in the same boat today, just three singles looking for fun. It’s ironic. Carl has been trying to wheedle out of this for weeks—he truly doesn’t like crowds, not even football games—but I finally had him convinced that this will be the event of the decade, something he’d hate to miss. Then what happens? Nathan Cain phones him at home this morning, Saturday, with another corporate crisis that no one else seems capable of handling. So at this very moment, Carl is strapped into a puddle-jumper, winging his way over Lake Michigan to Grand Rapids. He’ll be back tomorrow morning, but he’ll have missed the big spectacle.”

“Well,” says Neil, “buck up, sob sisters. We’ll make the best of this outing, in spite of our missing menfolk. I just need to change clothes, so you gals make yourselves comfortable, then let’s discuss lunch. We’ve got plenty of time before the stadium gates open.” He heads toward the stairs that lead up to the balcony.

“There’s not much to discuss,” Roxanne calls after him. “I’ve got a table booked at Zaza’s in fifteen minutes, so shake it.” Neil bounds up the stairs, leaving the ladies to settle themselves on the sofa while gabbing an appreciative commentary on the view of the lake—it is indeed a perfect day for the open-air festivities that will launch Celebration Two Thousand.

Neil’s need to change clothes is the purpose of this midday visit to the loft. When he wrote the note to Manning and left early yesterday morning, he took a few basic toiletries, but no extra clothes. He was so angry he couldn’t think straight, and he had no idea how long he’d be away, but his principle reason for not packing was that he didn’t want to wake Manning and explain what he was doing. He just wanted out. If tensions didn’t ease, he might have to
buy
clothes as he needed them—he really couldn’t predict how the near future would shape up between Manning and him. Fortunately, their day apart has lent an uneasy calm to the whole situation. This morning, Neil decided he’d risk a run to the loft to get a few things. Manning probably wouldn’t be there, but just in case he was, Neil brought the ladies along so that he wouldn’t be stuck alone with him—Manning would surely want to talk things out then and there, he’d want to reconcile, but Neil isn’t ready yet.

One step at a time. For now, he’ll be happy enough to get into some fresh clothes. He reminds himself that even though it’s the middle of summer, they’ll be at the stadium till after dark, and the night could turn chilly. Planning his outfit, he decides he should carry a sweater.

These thoughts end abruptly, though, as he walks into their dressing room and gasps. The place is a shambles, with clothes thrown everywhere, drawers emptied … Then he hears a scream. It’s Claire.

“What’s wrong?”
yells Neil, rushing to the edge of the balcony, looking down at the sofa. Both women are convulsing with laughter.

“Sorry, Neil,” Claire calls up to him, “but your friend just told me the most deliciously lewd story.”

“Oh.” Neil cautiously returns to the dressing room, grasping the doorjamb as he looks within. What the hell? His first theory is that Manning did this—a declaration of war—but Neil quickly dismisses the notion, ashamed, for Manning’s things have been trashed too. Did Manning’s obscure message attempt to forewarn Neil of this? Neil can’t be sure, but it doesn’t seem that anything has been stolen. Downstairs there are all kinds of expensive things that might have been taken but weren’t even touched. So this wasn’t a robbery. And the motive couldn’t have been vandalism, or there’d be damage throughout the loft. No, it appears as if someone was searching for something. Then Neil thinks of Cliff Nolan’s dossiers. Of course. Carl Creighton asked about them Thursday night at dinner, and Manning told the table that he was keeping them at home. Now Carl has been called away (supposedly) on urgent legal work in Grand Rapids (of all places). Was he
that
threatened by Nolan’s files?

Neil gingerly picks through a few things on the floor, assembling a fresh outfit as best he can, then changes clothes fast and traipses back downstairs, anxious to leave.

“All set?” he asks, striding toward the sofa. He’s decided not to mention what happened—there’s no point in burdening the ladies with his own fretful thoughts.

They rise. “Raring to go,” Roxanne tells him.

Neil leads them without comment to the door, then, as he opens it, he turns back to ask, “Rox, could you grab that last stack of envelopes, please? There, in the kitchen—the smallest pile. I’ll deal with it later, mostly bills.”

Roxanne picks up the mail, drops it in her purse, and joins the others at the door. Neil takes a furtive look back into the loft, setting the alarm as they pass into the hall. Biting his lip, he makes a point of double-locking the door behind them.

Manning checks his watch. It’s three-thirty already—he’s wasted the middle of the day. Standing on the curb outside police headquarters, he asks Arlen Farber, “Hold this, will you?”

Farber takes the handle of the zippered nylon carrying case and is surprised by its weight. Packed inside is Manning’s computer, charger, modem, disks, and an assortment of file folders. Farber says, “You don’t exactly travel light, do you?”

“That’s just the half of it,” says Manning, patting his jacket. “I’ve still got my phone, pager, and pocketfuls of notes that I ought to get organized—but there’s been no time.” He doesn’t need to mention that he carries his pet fountain pen, the antique Montblanc, clipped to the inside breast pocket of his blazer.

“Where to now?” asks Farber, positioning the strap of the case over his shoulder.

“If we can get a cab—and that’s a big ‘if’—I’d like to head over to the stadium and cruise around a bit. I want to see firsthand what’s happening there, and there’s a long shot I might spot Jim. Then we’ll drive back to the planetarium.”

He steps off the curb into the street and tries hailing a cab that’s working its way through the traffic. This may take a while. The streets seem crowded all over the city—everyone’s outdoors today, and many need cabs to the stadium. Manning has mixed feelings about his own car, which he didn’t even try to retrieve from the MidAmerica Building, assuming he should steer clear of the place after what happened to David. If he had the car now, he and Farber would be on their way, but there would be nowhere to park it when they arrived at the stadium. It’s much too far to walk, so the only solution is a taxi, and one of them just cruised by, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with passengers. Manning’s only option is to venture farther into the street and keep waving.

It was bad enough getting here from the Gethsemane Arms. Throngs of the righteous were gathering noisily, the voice of intolerance preparing to march, raising a war cry against the forces of Sodom. Some of the marchers had stayed at the hotel, but most were converging from elsewhere in the city, so there were plenty of cabs available as they arrived to disgorge the placard-hoisting moralists.

Funny, Manning thought, watching them step from their taxis—most of them look like ordinary folk, people with whom he might have grown up. What happened to them, though? Where did they get their goofy ideas, their irrational sense of certitude? What kind of brainwashing has transformed these probably decent people into a mob of narrow-minded zealots? These questions, Manning knows, are purely rhetorical. He knows exactly what force has robbed these people of their innate ability to think straight. He knows exactly what force has clouded their reasoning and stolen a slice of their very humanity. They have been infected by the force of religion.

To their credit, though, they delivered an abundance of empty cabs, so Manning hopped into one with Farber, telling the driver to take them down to police headquarters. The ride, which should have taken about twenty minutes, took more than an hour and cost Manning the remaining bills in his wallet. So he replenished his funds with a stop at a cash machine before ducking inside headquarters with Farber, hoping to catch his detective friend on the run.

It wasn’t meant to be, though. Jim wasn’t there—he hadn’t returned since Manning called around noon. With everyone so busy with the president’s visit, the offices were in the grip of bureaucratic deadlock, manned by assistants and other underlings who seemed confused at best. The urgent pleas of a reporter to tell a tale of murder were met with a stack of forms to fill out and an endless wait on a bench in a hall.