He adjusted his tie as he tried to make himself comfortable in the hard wooden chair Ritts tortured his reporters with. The editor came around and seated himself on the edge of the desk, lighting up a Lucky Strike. He no doubt thought of himself as a tough guy of the old schooclass="underline" hard-drinking, tough-talking, cigarette-hanging-off-the-lip kind of guy. The fact that smoking on the job was now illegal seemed to make him enjoy it all the more. Harriman suspected he also kept a cheap bottle of whiskey and a shot glass in a desk drawer. Black polyester pants, scuffed brown shoes, blue socks, Flatbush accent. Ritts was everything that Harriman's family had trained him all his life, sent him to private school, given him an Ivy League education, never to be.
And here he was. Harriman's boss.
"This Menck story is fabulous, Harriman. Fucking fabulous."
"Thank you, sir."
"It was a real stroke of genius, Harriman, finding this guy the day before he left for the Virgin Islands."
"Galápagos."
"Whatever. I have to tell you, when I first read your piece, I had my doubts. It struck me as a lot of New Age bullshit. But it really hit a chord with our readers. Newsstand circ's up eight percent."
"That's great." Here at the Post, it was all about circulation. In the newsroom of the Times , where he used to work, "circulation" had been a dirty word.
"Great? It's fucking fabulous. That's what reporting is all about. Readers. I wish some of these other jokers around here would realize that."
The piercing voice was cutting a wide swath across the newsroom beyond. Harriman squirmed uncomfortably in the wooden seat.
"Just when the devil-killings story was flagging, you find this guy Menck. I have to hand it to you. Every other paper in town was sitting around with their thumbs up their asses, waiting for the next killing, but you-you went out and made the news."
"Thank you, sir."
Ritts sucked in a few quarts of smoke and dropped the cigarette on the floor of his office, grinding it in with his toe, where about twenty others lay, all nicely flattened. He exhaled with a noisy, emphysemic whistle. He lit another, looked up at Harriman, eyed him up and down.
Harriman shifted again in his chair. Was there something wrong with the way he was dressed? Of course not: it was one of those things he'd been schooled in from day one. He knew just when to break out the madras, when to put away the seersucker, knew the acceptable shade of cordovan for tasseled loafers. And anyway, Ritts was the last person who could criticize anyone else's taste in clothes.
"The National Enquirer 's picked up the story, USA Today ,Regis, Good Day New York. I like the feel of this, Harriman. You've done well. In fact, well enough to make you a special correspondent at the crime desk."
Harriman was astonished. He hadn't expected this. He tried to control his facial muscles: he didn't want to be seen grinning like an idiot, especially to Ritts. He nodded his head. "Thank you very much, Mr. Ritts. I really appreciate it."
"Any reporter that pushes the circ up eight percent in a week is gonna get noticed. It comes with a ten-thousand-dollar raise, effective immediately."
"Thank you again."
The managing editor seemed to be observing Harriman with ill-concealed amusement, looking him up and down again, eyes lingering on his tie, his striped shirt, his shoes. "Listen, Harriman, as I said, your story touched a chord. Thanks to you, a bunch of New Agers and doomsday freaks have started congregating in the park in front of Cutforth's building."
Harriman nodded.
"It's nothing much. Yet. They're gathering spontaneously, lighting candles, chanting. Flying Nun kind of shit. What we need is follow-up. First, a story about these guys, a serious story, a respectful story. A story that'll let all the other freaks know there's a daily gathering they're missing out on. If we handle this right, we could build up quite a crowd up there. We could stimulate some TV coverage. Who knows, there might even be demonstrations. See what I'm getting at? Like I said: here at the Post , we don't sit around waiting for news to happen, we go out and make it happen."
"Yes, Mr. Ritts."
Ritts lit up again. "Can I give you some friendly advice? Just between you and me."
"Sure."
"Lose the repp ties and the penny loafers. You look like a goddamn Times reporter. This is the Post. This is where the excitement is. You sure as hell don't want to be back with those ass-puckered types over there, do you? Now, go on out and talk to every nut who's shaking a Bible. You've touched a nerve, now you've got to keep the pressure on, keep the story building. And bring in a couple of colorful personalities. Find the leader of this rabble."
"What if there isn't a leader?"
"Then make one. Set him up on a pedestal, pin a damn medal on him. I smell something big here. And you know what? In thirty years, I've never called a bad one."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Ritts." Harriman tried to keep the contempt out of his voice. He would do what Ritts wanted, but he would do it in his own way.
Ritts sucked deep on his cigarette, tobacco hissing and spitting. Then he tossed the butt onto the floor and ground it out again with his foot. He coughed and smiled, displaying a rack of uneven teeth as yellowed as the stem of a corncob pipe.
"Go get 'em, Harriman!" he cackled.
{ 42 }
Vasquez worked off a piece of green chile beef jerky, chewed it meditatively, swallowed, and took a swig of bottled water. He went back to the cryptic crossword from the Times of London, pondered, made another entry, erased an earlier one, then set the puzzle aside.
He sighed. He always felt a little nostalgic at the close of an operation: knowing he would have to leave, that all his preparations and deliberations and the cozy little world he had created would quickly become ancient history, pawed over by police officers and photographers. At the same time, he looked forward to seeing sunlight again, breathing fresh air, and listening to the thunder of surf. Funny, though, how he never felt quite so free and alive outside as he did within a cramped kill nest, on the brink of a kill.
He checked his equipment yet again. He looked through the scope, made an infinitesimal correction with the windage adjuster, then raised his eye to examine the flash hider. Just a few minutes now. The box magazine held four rounds, with another in the chamber. All he'd need was two. Once again he shed his clothes and put on his disguise.
Five minutes to one. He glanced regretfully around his nest, at everything he would have to leave behind. How many times had he actually had the opportunity to finish a Times cryptic? He rested his eye against the scope and watched. The minutes ticked past.
Once again the door to the porte-cochère opened. Vasquez slowed his breathing, slowed his heart rate. Once again Pendergast's head and shoulders appeared in the reticle. This time Vasquez couldn't make out the butler, who must have been standing too far inside the door to be seen, but he was clearly there, because Pendergast was faced back toward the doorway, obviously talking to somebody. So much the better: an off-center shot to the back of the head would be just as hard to analyze later.
His breath suspended, timing his shots between heartbeats, Vasquez pressed his cheek against the pebbled stock and squeezed the trigger slowly. The weapon bucked in his hands; in a flash, he'd drawn the bolt, resighted, and fired again.
The first shot had been perfectly placed. It spun the target in exactly the right way, the next shot coming a split second later, entering just above the ear, the head exploding in all directions. Pendergast fell back into the shadows of the door frame and disappeared.