Chapter 26
“Yeah,” Leo Palmer said. “That’s it. You look—”
“Chrissake, Leo, can we not have a discussion about how I’m supposed to look for once?”
The press were in the media room Leo had insisted they fit out years ago, when Kane had started this whole dog-and-pony show. Kane was at his window in his office, dragging on one last cigarette; Leo was there to give him his talking points. But they always spent a good part of the conversation on Kane’s appearance and manner. It had been funny, once. Now he felt as if he were being strangled. He knew Leo was itching to pull his tie just a little bit looser, to indicate his serious concern for his employees, rather than loss of profits. He wanted to rip the thing off altogether, but loosened it himself instead. Like the well-trained monkey he was.
Leo sat on the corner of Kane’s desk. “Calm down. I’m on your side, remember? You know most of the work is done by how you look.” Kane blew smoke hard out of the window. “Think of it as helping you.”
“So what am I supposed to look like today? Pissed-off shareholder? Concerned employer? Traumatized son?”
Leo winced. “You know that was never part of the...” He paused.
“Act,” Kane finished for him. Shit, how much of the last thirteen years had he spent acting? Did he even know anymore when he was and when he wasn’t?
Yeah, he knew. When he was with Ellen.
From the minute he’d met her, he’d wanted to be more to her than just the playboy he showed everyone else. Thinking about how easy it had been to let her in made him feel as vulnerable as that kid from the first press conference: the kid that hadn’t been schooled in how much to loosen his tie, whether he should have his hands in his pockets, or which reporters responded best when he looked at them. The kinds of things that had been his native language for years. That press conference and this were overlaying each other in his mind. He was worried that he’d slip today, let out some of his fear and uncertainty. And that if he did, they would come down on him like ravenous wolves.
“All right,” said Leo. “Yes, it’s been an act, and a damn good one, and you’re welcome.” He caught Kane’s eye, and Kane gave a reluctant, one-sided smile. “Remember,” he went on more seriously, “you can shut down any question you don’t want to answer.”
He meant, any question about Ellen. The feeling that he had lost control of his life intensified.
She was pulling away from him; he could see it. Every set of her jaw, every time she said she was “fine.” Even when she did hold onto him, he got the sense that she was doing it while she still could.
He’d wanted the comfort of switching to work mode; he’d always been able to make things go his way at the office. But here he was, and he was dreading the press conference, and he wanted to be home with her, letting someone else deal with Fielding Paper for a few hours. For the first time he began to think his time might have been better spent attending to his private life. He hadn’t had enough time, he thought, stubbing out his cigarette. Not enough time to become as indispensable to her as she was to him.
Anna came in. “Agent Hernandez and Superintendent Nolan are here.”
“Okay,” said Leo. “We’ll be right there.” Kane stood up and straightened his shoulders, trying to put on the mantle he had created for himself, that now felt like a noose.
• • •
The FBI agent and the superintendent said their piece, throwing out “suspect” and “ongoing investigation,” and “federal offences” as he’d heard them do a million times before, in other people’s worlds, fixing other people’s problems. This newest arrest, at least, Kane could almost understand. He was local: had been fired from a lumber yard not far from the Vermont border. He’d been caught stealing food at a gas station in Canada. Apparently he’d been trying to live off the land and had nearly starved for two weeks. He had been the one, in between cursing out the police, the government, and the Canadians, to confirm that the leader of this sick little crew was Henry Tennant.
Someone put a poster up of the three mug shots, and then blown-up pictures of Tennant—found God knew where, maybe his driver’s license—on easels on either side of the podium. Tennant was... unremarkable. Somewhere around sixty, balding, gray hair, small blue eyes, pouchy cheeks. Just another guy, doing his forty-hour week, his life blown to pieces when Kane’s was.
Kane scrubbed his hand through his hair. He should be feeling better: Ellen was safe in his apartment. Besides, Tennant couldn’t do any more harm without his team, could he? But not knowing where he was was worse, almost, than not knowing where any of them were. Tennant had gotten this far in destroying his company; maybe he wasn’t done yet.
He caught his name; the superintendent was introducing him. He walked in front of the half-dozen or so people that for some reason needed to be behind the podium, and automatically fell into his habitual nonchalant pose: standing back a little, one hand on the podium, the other in a pocket. He thought of the bullet points that Leo wanted him to remember.
Then the poster of Tennant caught his eye. He turned to look at it. Ignoring how he was supposed to stand, and the list of platitudes in his head, he leaned his elbows on the podium, shoulders hunched, and with no preamble said, “This man.”
He paused for a long moment. “I can’t think what hell he went through, being in that fire.”
Absolutely nothing and no one moved. He hadn’t talked about that fire in a decade. “They’ve told me about his injuries, the rehab,” he continued. “You and I have no idea how painful, how hard that must have been.” He searched the crowd, following protocol enough to catch individual reporter’s eyes, to look into the cameras one at a time. “It changed both of our lives, that fire. And the lives of others; don’t anyone think I’ve forgotten the families who lost men.
“So I don’t know why he’s doing this, in this way. I’ve done everything I can for thirteen years to stop anyone else from going through what I—what we—went through. I’m proud of our company, of the products we sell, but I’m most proud of our safety record. And this guy... well, he’s trying to make history repeat itself.” He couldn’t look at anyone now; he fixed his gaze on the double doors at the back of the room. “I really don’t want that to happen.”
He swallowed. He realized his fist was clenched, and as he flexed it, hoped it was hidden behind the podium. Going back to the script a little, he thanked the local police departments in the towns and cities that had Fielding buildings in them. “I know how important these mills are in some towns,” he said. “I appreciate how hard you’ve all been working to keep them running, and all those who’ve been disrupted, with extra shifts coming in and the added security. No one can want to get back to normal on this more than me, I can tell you. So please, anyone who recognizes this guy,” he threw a hand out toward the poster, “don’t give him another chance to destroy what you’re all working so hard to keep.”
He leaned back, indicating that he was done and they could ask questions. But instead of the usual cacophony of voices, it seemed to be a few seconds before someone had something to ask. Most of the questions went to the investigators, so Kane just stayed hovering, going over what he’d said, hoping he hadn’t totally messed up.
“Mr. Fielding?” he heard, and moved up to the microphone. “How’s Miss Hunter?”
There it was. But it was asked in a diffident, almost apologetic tone, and he found himself able to say, “She’s doing okay, thanks. Better.”
But when some cocky journalist started asking more searching questions, Kane just stepped back and was grateful when the commissioner came forward to tell the reporters to read the press release about the mugging, and if they didn’t have any more questions about the arsonists, thanks very much and the conference was over.
