Eye Contact by Michael Craft Read Free Book Online

back.”
    “Ughh,” Cain breathes a shudder, “bullets again.” He grips the area of his thigh where fragments of lead still abrade nerves and rob sleep. With measured steps, he crosses the vast office toward the case that displays his gun collection. He gestures toward the weapons behind the glass. “In light of Clifford’s tragic demise, I’m sorely tempted to issue an editorial calling for a broader ban on handguns—they’ve become tools of such wanton violence.”
    Smith and Manning have followed him to the showcase. “Gosh,” says Smith, “I never thought I’d see the day when the Journal jumped on that bandwagon. Not that I disagree—there are strong arguments on both sides of the debate—but this paper has always been a staunch defender of the Second Amendment.”
    “I haven’t decided ,” Cain reminds him. “I said that I’m tempted. We’ll see.” He notices Manning peering close at a jade-handled pistol enshrined within the display. Cain chortles. “It didn’t take you long to zero in on the centerpiece of my collection, Mr. Manning.”
    “I have no great knowledge of guns,” Manning responds, “but that one certainly seems … unique.”
    “Indeed it is,” Cain assures him with grave understatement. “That gun has a remarkable history that, one day, I may share with you. Suffice it to say, that rarest of Nambu pistols has been used solely to defend honor, never to commit treachery.”
    There is a pause. Enticed by Cain’s statement, Gordon Smith eagerly says to him, “Well, come on, Gordon—tell us the story!”
    “Patience,” commands Cain, one hand raised to fend off further inquiry, the other still grasping the book he carried down from the balcony. “That can wait. We have important business to conduct this morning. First, the most urgent question, one that must be answered quickly: Who killed Clifford Nolan?”
    Smith stammers, “The police, well, they’re working on it even as we speak.”
    “The hell with them,” snaps Cain, “and damn their bureaucratic bumbling.” He repeats, louder, “Who killed Clifford? And why?” He’s a powerful man, and he expects answers.
    Flustered, Smith suggests, “The Journal could undertake its own investigation.”
    Cain smiles, silently thanking Smith for not forcing him to make the suggestion himself. Watching this exchange, Manning can predict with near certainty that Smith will later assign the investigation to him. That’s what he hopes, anyway—and there’s a good chance that someone else may now inherit the Zarnik story.
    Content that a Nolan investigation will soon be under way, Cain waves Smith and Manning toward the grouping of leather sofas. As the three of them walk across the room, Cain continues, “I’ve been brushing up on my textbook astronomy”—he hefts the book he has been carrying—“and I can’t decide if this Zarnik character is a crackpot or if he’s actually on to something. What have you learned?” He drops the book onto a low table. The thud actually echoes in the cavernous room.
    Sitting, Manning consults his notebook. “In a nutshell, Zarnik’s credentials are solid and his research seems sound, but I was put off by his inability to answer some straightforward questions of fact. He promised me a video demonstration—he calls it a ‘graphic realization’—that he claims will prove the existence of his tenth planet unequivocally.”
    “Yes,” says Cain, “Miss Haring showed me the notes you sent in last night.”
    Manning stops short, unaware that his computer stories were accessible to anyone while still being drafted, before being filed in the editorial pipeline.
    Cain continues. “If Zarnik’s claims are fraudulent, he talks a damn good story—I’ll grant him that.” He settles against a long credenza that faces the sofas. Its top is cluttered with two television sets, a computer monitor, a rack of black-box hardware, and a pedestrian-looking VCR, its clock flashing