The Henderson Equation (27 page)

Mr. Pell looked up from his contemplation of the face of
the madwoman and shook his head.

"I never pretended."

"Christ, I can't stand this," Charlie exploded.

"Easy," Nick said, gripping his arm. Charlie
turned from the coffin and walked out into the corridor.

"I can't stand it," he said, pacing the
thick-carpeted floor. A man in a pinstripe suit poked his head out of the
office.

"Dr. Hansen is waiting for you. First office off the
right." He pointed showing the way.

"Dr. Hansen?" Charlie seemed puzzled.

"Yes," the main said. "He asked me to inform
him when you arrived."

Charlie glanced at Nick, mystified, then followed the man's
directions, finding what was presumably Dr. Hansen in the little office. Nick
had followed him. The doctor was red-haired, sweating, pools of perspiration
staining the armpits of his seersucker suit.

"I would like to see you alone, Mr. Pell," he
said.

"This is Nick Gold. My closest friend."

"Please, Mr. Pell. Alone."

"I'll wait outside," Nick said, stepping out of
the room and closing the door discreetly behind him. He walked outside and lit
a cigarette. It felt good to hear Charlie refer to him as his closest friend.
When he finished his cigarette, he punched the butt out in the box of sand near
the door. The doctor, still sweating, rushed past him and walked quickly down
the street.

In the corridor, Charlie, his face chalky, leaned against
the wall. Nick noted that his hands were shaking.

"What the hell happened?" Nick asked. He wondered
if Charlie were about to faint. It took him a while to get himself under
control.

"He killed her, Nick, the old man killed her," he
said hoarsely.

"You're not serious?"

"There's good evidence. The doctor took a blood sample
and analyzed it himself. Definitely an overdose and knowing the condition of my
mother, he knew that she would not administer it herself. He saw the empty pill
bottle."

"My God."

"He didn't confront the old man. He was waiting for
me. I told him I appreciated that. The son of a bitch."

"I don't understand."

"I gave him a check for five thousand dollars."

It was a burden not easily shared, Nick thought, confused
by the knowledge, since it also made him a conspirator in a crime. This is the
ultimate test of friendship, he thought, feeling a sense of his own
selfishness. Charlie had given him another piece of his private hell. And Nick
accepted it proudly.

"Will that be the end of it?" Nick asked as if to
verbally validate his participation.

"For the doctor, perhaps," Charlie whispered.
"For me, never."

The funeral had been arranged for the next morning, making
it necessary for Charlie to stay over, a step to be feared since it meant
bedding down in his old room in that tainted house.

"You don't have to stay," Charlie protested.
"It's not your problem."

"Of course I'll stay." What is friendship for? he
wanted to add, but checked himself.

Nick called the office. Margaret's voice on the other end
was cold.

"Who gives a shit?" she said.

"He needs me," he said lamely.

"Who gives a shit?" she repeated, slamming the
phone. It had not disturbed him, an expected response. With almost a whole day
and night to get through while waiting for the burial, Charlie and he walked
through the town in the hot sun. Charlie talked about his life.

His mother had apparently cracked early, since his life as
a child and later as a teen-ager was tied to the subterfuge of keeping her
condition hidden from neighbors and friends. Early on, his father had made him
a reluctant partner in his martyrdom.

"You can't believe what living with that was." He
shook his head. "It's left me injured, Nick, and scared to death that her
condition was congenital."

"That's ridiculous," Nick argued.

"I've studied it. It runs in families."

"I doubt that," Nick protested.

"I have less doubt as time goes on. The inclination
does run in families, although experts can't agree on whether it's prompted by
the fear of the propensity or the propensity itself."

"If you think you're going to be sick, you'll get
sick," Nick scolded.

"Exactly. Myra buys it. She won't have kids. Had her
tubes tied. I can't really blame her, although it galls the shit out of
me." He shrugged. "Who the hell wants kids, anyway?" He spat on
the curb. "That would give the old man a laugh."

"Doesn't he know?" Nick asked.

"No."

Later they had eaten silently in a restaurant. Charlie's
father looked haggard, lost. When he had gone to bed, Charlie and Nick sat
together on the back stoop watching the fireflies. The noise of the crickets
was soothing, stirring memories for Nick of quiet times in the yard of his
father's house. His own childhood was a happy time. Having emptied himself of a
measure of his pain, Charlie began to dwell on his life in Washington.

"Washington is like the head of a pin. Everyone
crowding to get on it. People slide on and off. The place stinks with ambition
and intrigue. When I first went down there, I thought: Gee, I'll stand back and
observe this crazy play and tell people about it. Actually it's not that
simple. You wind up being a player, the playwright and the audience all at the
same time. I hadn't realized it until I took over the
Chronicle
. At
first I thought I was watching and listening to them. Then I discovered that
they're all watching and listening to us, the media. We're where it's
happening. It's frightening. I keep thinking that someday I'll wake up and find
the
Chronicle
the only newspaper left in Washington, the fucking capital
of the U.S.A. The handwriting is on the wall, Nick. We've just bought out our
only morning competition and the unions will eventually squeeze out the
afternoon papers. And then"--he paused and lit a cigarette--"and then
they'll all be listening to me, watching me."

"I'd say that makes you a pretty important
fellow," Nick joshed.

"I'm not without ambition, kid. But I never aspired to
be God."

"It's everybody's fantasy," Nick said.
"Think of all those people kissing your ass."

"I'll admit that at first I used to revel in the
obeisance. Everybody throwing their guts at you, pawing you for favors."

Nick saw flashes of his friend's face in the brief light of
the fireflies.

"But when it finally occurs to you that you really
have a kind of superhuman hold over these people, the ass-kissing becomes
offensive, ugly. You begin to develop a kind of moral armor. Everything you do
gets measured against this standard that you've set for yourself. The power of
it becomes a hot potato. If you don't hold it in just the right way for just
the right amount of time, it begins to burn your fingers."

"You have to learn to handle it, I guess," Nick
said, feeling compelled to say something. "Otherwise you'll bleed to
death."

"You've got no one to learn from, Nick. You're playing
God, remember? You make the rules. Who lives? Who dies? Who gets theirs today?
Who gets smiled upon? Who gets pissed upon? Who are the good guys and who are
the bad guys?"

"Do you always know?"

"You never know. You can only guess, trust your
instincts, your judgments. Whip your people to gather facts. Then you begin to
question your motives. Am I being fair? Am I being honest? Am I doing good? At
that point you're feeling like a goddamned hypocrite because you know that
inside, deep inside, you're asking yourself: Is this a story? How will it play?
Will people read it? Will it get attention?"

"At least it keeps you from being too
self-righteous."

"It also keeps you on your toes. I swear, Nick, I
never sleep. I'm always guarding the damned gate. I'm scared to death to let a
single wayward word creep in without my knowledge. Right now I'm going out of
my skull wondering what's happening."

"You make it sound as if the
Chronicle
were printing
the Gospel, that every word were coming directly from Mount Sinai."

"I used to be skeptical too, Nick. What the hell? We
were just one paper in one city. But America is the center of the world and
Washington is the center of America and in this dead center the words of the
Chronicle
are, in a way, a kind of Gospel. And who sits in the eye of the storm, right in
the deadest of the dead center, deciding the information that goes into the
minds of the people who move America, which is the center of the world?"

The sound of crickets grew louder, the air heavier, the
fireflies more intense. The question hung in the air.

Nick searched the darkness for the outlines of Charlie's
face, envisioning its anguish.

"You actually begin to think of yourself as the keeper
of the Holy Grail, an avenging angel with the power to decide who shall live
and who shall die." Charlie's voice cracked briefly, then recovered.
"It's a monster and no single man can control it, Nick. I'm frightened to
death at what it could become. And I'm not sure if I can hack it myself."

Charlie's words came rushing through the heavy air like gas
escaping from a fallen balloon. Was it self-pity? Nick wondered.

"Why me?" Charlie said. He seemed angry now.
"That bitch." He appeared to be having a dialogue with himself.
"It was pure random selection."

"You've lost me," Nick said.

"Myra. She's made me the sacrificial lamb." His
voice rose.

"I'll never let her get her teeth in it, never."
It was suddenly beyond Nick's comprehension, this sudden attack on Myra. It was
the measure of his friendship that he accepted this view without question.
Later it had become somewhat of an affliction, seeing Myra through Charlie's
eyes.

Charlie remained silent for a long time, then Nick felt a
grip on his arm, tight and urgent.

"There's got to be someone I can trust, kid. I need
you with me, Nick."

"I'm here, pal." Nick laid his hand over his
friend's. "Old Nick is here." What was there left to say?

In the morning, Charlie's mother was buried in a grassy
knoll of a small cemetery at the edge of town. Mr. Pell, a yellowing apparition
in the bright morning light, stood beside the open grave, his head bowed.
Dry-eyed, Charlie watched the coffin descend into the ground, the quiet of the
morning shattered by the hollow sound of the first clumps of earth hitting its
lid.

A disaster intruded in mid-morning, refocusing the routine
of the entire paper. A crazed gunman had sprayed bullets indiscriminately in a
crowded bus, killing or maiming nearly twenty people, all black.

Despite the horror of the event, Nick welcomed the
intrusion. The Henderson matter was becoming corrosive to his concentration.

Ben Madison, as animated as a fledgling reporter, had
sprinted into the glass office, the bulletin clutched in his large fist.

"It's a donnybrook," he cried, the term itself a
casualty of chronology. Nick looked at the bulletin, envisioning at once the
layout of the front page.

"Get photographers down there pronto," Nick said,
rising from his chair, the new excitement a mounting release.

"I've got the bases covered, Nick."

Nick nodded. There was no need to be redundant. Madison was
a professional; covering the bases meant reporters at the scene, the death
list, the eyewitness accounts, the visits to relatives, the inevitable story of
fate intervening, lives saved or lost by a whim of fortune. There was little to
tax the ethical sense, no moral mountains to traverse. Just the facts
embellished with irony, fleshed out by details, a buffet of horror to fascinate
the greediest palate. It was the kind of disaster story that newspapermen cut
their eyeteeth on. He had covered stories like it at the
News:
subway
wrecks, fires, explosions, airplanes colliding with skyscrapers. It was the
measure of a newspaperman's maturity, this recording of life's major horrors,
brutal memories to be relived over drinks in the coolness of a paneled taproom
on a lazy summer afternoon.

Ben Madison had come in again, flushed from the release of
his inner spring, which had catapulted him to rare physical action. He showed
Nick the yellow UPI bulletin.

"It's like a war," Nick said. Madison rubbed his
large hands in mock glee.

"Now we can stop bullshitting around," Madison
said. Nick, feeling his elation, slapped him on the back.

"Now you can do some newspapering for a change,"
Nick said sarcastically.

Activity in the city room accelerated. People moved quickly
like characters in a stepped-up movie film. Sounds of voices and typewriters
rose in decibels. The budget meeting would be greatly curtailed, the available
space gobbled up by the tragedy.

He saw Myra hurrying toward him, her face tight. She
advanced stiff-legged, the perpetual sweater neatly arranged like a cape on her
shoulders.

"My God, it's horrible," she said, sitting primly
in a chair. It was a revelation of her lack of journalistic poise. She was
merely a spectator now, hopelessly inexperienced.

"We've put a lot of staff to work. May cost us some
overtime."

"I'm sure you'll do what's best."

He watched her light a cigarette, using his Lucite lighter.

"You really don't get the feel of a newspaper except
from here," she said, looking out into the busy, crowded room.

"Yes," he said, riffling papers on his desk,
hoping she would feel her redundancy.

She remained silent for a while, puffing deeply, blowing
smoke through her nostrils. "Have you thought over what we talked about
this morning?" she said quietly. He knew she was searching for relevancy.

"This morning seems an age," he said. "As
you can see, we've suddenly got other fish to fry."

"I know, Nick," she said. Her presence in the
room was an annoyance. Busying himself with a pencil, he made notes on a piece
of copy paper.

"Stock called me," she said suddenly.

"That son of a bitch." He refused to look up from
his papers.

"Are you really planning to kill his column?"

"Yes."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"What do you mean, wise?"

"Well, you know, he's black."

"That's his problem."

"He could be irritating."

"Not to me."

She puffed again. Feeling her eyes watching him, he looked
up. Surely she could sense his annoyance.

"I'm sorry, Myra. These stories have made the day
somewhat less than routine."

"I know, Nick. I'm sorry." She punched out her
cigarette, then, almost as if it were an afterthought, she said, "Come up
later. We'll have a drink and talk it over."

"I'll try, Myra."

"Do try, Nick," she said emphatically. There was
no mistaking her message. It was an order. She turned and walked out of his
office, through the bustling city room, a stranger. Hardly anyone took notice.

The budget meeting had an air of excitement as the editors
quickly reeled off the plans for their space allocation. He listened, fighting
for concentration. Myra had unnerved him again.

"Let me see the British party story," he asked
Margaret pointedly.

"Yes, Jennie will bring it up." He felt the edge
of her sarcasm.

"Good."

"Have they identified the race of the bus
killer?" he asked Madison.

"White," Madison replied.

"Oh my God," someone said.

"Do you think there will be riots?"

"We've got three men covering Police
Headquarters," Madison said. "It's still too early to tell."

The meeting passed quickly. There were too many variables
to make fixed decisions possible. When he returned to his office, Miss
Baumgartner followed him in, her face pinched.

"The Mayor called. He seemed anxious."

"Get him for me."

Thoughts of Henderson were crowded out by new anxieties.
The possibility of riot was a real fear in this city, balanced tremulously on
the brink of ghetto frustration. The intercom buzzed. He nodded to Miss
Baumgartner and punched the blinking hold button.

"It's a bitch, Nick," the Mayor said. Nick could
picture his black face and the fringe of white hair that gave him a sagelike
dignity.

"How does it look?"

"It's quiet now. But I'm worried about the way the TV
boys may play it. I've already alerted the police who are watching for any
signs of agitation. Treat it gently, Nick. You know this city; the slightest
inflammation..." His voice trailed off.

"We'll watch it, Howard," Nick said.

"Do you know anything about the killer yet?" the
Mayor probed.

"Not a thing. The reporters are out. What's your
information?"

"White. About thirty-eight. Dressed in work clothes.
Carried a shotgun, which he calmly reloaded time after time, spraying the shot
into the passengers. It was horrible, Nick. Horrible."

"Let's stay in touch, Howard," Nick said, feeling
the rising hysteria in the Mayor's voice. He knew what the man was pleading. Go
easy! Pull the punch! Was the motivation of the killer racially based? Would
the emotion of learning feed the emotion of hatred in the reporter, inflame his
words? Would the anger of the photographer embellish the horror? He must keep
himself steady, alert to all nuances, cool, analytical, objective. In his mind,
he sorted images of the front page, rejecting each in turn, waiting for the results
to be in. He pushed the buttons of Madison's extension, seeing him turn almost
at the moment of the ring, watching him through the glass.

"Let me see everything that comes in. Tell Nichols to
show me all the pictures on both stories."

Within himself, he could feel the elation of command again,
the challenge of his carefully honed skills, the meaning of his editorship.
This was the part he loved best, he knew, quintessential newspapering. He felt
released, relaxed. Looking up, seeing Jennie, he felt a smile form, hardly
remembering what she might have come about.

"You wanted to see my copy," she said, anger
bubbling, her lips pressed tightly together. He could tell by the way she held
herself, taut, stiff, that she might have lashed out in temper if they were
alone.

"What the hell is eating you?"

"She said you wanted to see my copy. Did you have to
make a point of it like that? We could have handled it as always. She seemed to
enjoy making a special point of telling me that she hadn't the authority to edit
the British party copy."

"That's what I told her, Jennie. I made a special
point."

"It was a shitty thing to do."

"Don't tell me how to run my business," he said,
edginess returning.

"You know what you can do with your copy?" Jennie
began, her reserves starting to go. He lifted both hands, palms outward, and
stood up, annoyed that the others could see this angry gesture. He could see
her eyes move toward the glass into the city room, the sight quieting her,
stifling the hysteria that seemed on the verge of bursting through.

"Just hold on, Jennie. I'll explain it later." He
knew she was not placated and would certainly be difficult, pouting, aloof.
"I'll explain later," he said again. "At the moment we've got
two big stories running and I have no time for this shit."

She flung the copy on the desk and turned, her shoulders
pulled back, a contrived symbol of her hurt pride, as she walked swiftly out
the door and through the city room. He looked dumbly at the sheets of copy that
had floated carelessly over his Lucite desk, hiding the snapshots of his past,
him and Charlie, him and Chums, him and his mother, his father, faces of his
history. It seemed suddenly comforting to be reminded that he had not simply
dropped into this glass cage, an egg hatched in limbo.

He pushed Jennie's copy aside, too busy to cope with such
trivia. Perhaps later, he thought, automatically judging the available time
until deadline. He buzzed Madison again.

"Anything new on the killer?"

"Pratt just called in. He lived in Prince Georges
County. Had three kids, wife, worked for GSA. Apparently one of his kids was
recently knifed in school."

"Motive?"

"I'd say it would be a good bet."

He knew Madison's prejudices, the conservative mind. Would
objective judgment hold? It never did. He'd have to be watchful.

"Who's writing?"

"Downes."

He thought a moment, recalling Downes. He knew the styles,
the subtleties and nuances, the points of view, the coloration of the lenses,
the extent of vision, the tools of vocabulary and speed of each writer. Downes
was a good choice, a master of the clipped sentence, the short paragraph, the
absence of ideology. A classical journalist, hewing to the textbook line.

"Any casualty lists?"

"Not yet. They're waiting for next-of-kin
notification."

Henry Landau came in, his tan fading swiftly.

"It's like covering a war zone," he said, shaking
his head. Nick liked Henry, felt his softness.

"I hope you're not upset with me, Henry."

"I'm used to you, Nick. You take too much on
yourself."

"Inertia, Henry."

"You can trust me, Nick. Let me inside that
complicated head."

"Sure, Henry."

Landau had been carrying a ticker clip, which he put in
front of Nick, holding it up as if it were a sign. Nick read it quickly. It was
the Harris poll, another syndicated feature that the
Chronicle
had
bought. Reporting a trial heat among Democrats, it indicated that Henderson was
leading the pack. Henderson again!

"So?" Nick said.

"You're the Henderson maven, Nick. Do we run it or
don't we?"

"You've heard about Stock?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Of course we'll run it," Nick said calmly.
"Did you have any doubts?"

"No, Nick. Frankly, I'm fishing for answers. I just
don't understand your sudden passion for downplaying Henderson. I need some
answers for myself, for my own..."

"Self-esteem." Nick chuckled.

"You might put it that way."

"You'll get them," Nick said, knowing that it
would hardly be that simple, truth seen through distorted mirrors. How can you
articulate gut feelings, little private clues? He determined to keep his own
counsel. Henry Landau stood over him for a few more moments, shrugged, then
stepped out of the office.

Actually, he knew he had been gratuitous. There was no way
that he could not carry the Harris poll. The
Times
would have it. It
would be splashed over every television screen in the country.

It was far beyond the province of his own control. Not like
Stock at all. He remembered Jennie's copy, took a pencil in hand, and began to
read. Today he had little patience with her awkward phrases, her heavy quips.
Henderson was embedded in the story, woven through it like a glistening thread,
"the rugged Redford looks in brunette," and "the incredibly blue
eyes, still piercing, as others reddened." He sliced with ruthlessness,
enjoying the surgery, telling himself that he was restoring objectivity. When
he had finished he motioned through the window for a news aide, who would
return the copy to the Lifestyle department. Now Margaret would know for sure.
Why this sudden delight in Jennie's humiliation? he thought.

The phone buzzed. He picked it up. It was Madison.

"There's been a fire-bombing," he said. "The
police moved in fast."

"Does it look like the beginning?"

"The police think it's merely a test. I think they're
right."

When he hung up, Miss Baumgartner came in, harlequined,
wearing a puzzled look.

"A Mrs. Henderson called. Said she was Senator
Henderson's wife. I told her you were in a meeting." It was part of their
silent understanding to take no calls without giving him preparation. He told
himself that he had expected it. The counterattack. By now Henderson had
established command posts, was sifting intelligence, calling in reserves, going
over options. He knew the game, although the new tactic, coming in the midst of
this new excitement, had taken him off guard. Perhaps they had done it deliberately.
He wondered again who Henderson's spies were in the
Chronicle
. Other
than Myra.

Political wives, he thought contemptuously, searching for
some excuse not to call her back. Her face was familiar to him from pictures
and he had met her once or twice a few years back, when he was traveling the
Washington cocktail circuit, before he had deliberately hermitized himself. He
dreaded making the call, as if the conversation would somehow personalize his
judgment. Thankfully Nichols intervened. He laid a group of pictures on Nick's
desk. Incredibly graphic, they depicted unrelenting brutality and gore.