Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

To outward appearances, Steve Pace looked healthy and chipper when he walked into the Chronicle newsroom on his first day back at work. He timed it to arrive earlier than most of the national staff because he didn’t want to make a grand entrance. He didn’t want anyone making a big deal of his return. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything. The appearance of good health belied the turmoil he felt.

He put Melissa on an airplane home on Saturday after spending a sleepless Friday night in his newly empty bed. His daughter spoke barely six sentences to him, but in those few words, she managed to express her conviction that he was wrong to return to the Sexton investigation, he was stupid to treat Kathy like a child, and she didn’t think much of his sending her away, either.

When he kissed her at the gate and said he would see her during the summer, she replied, “Yeah, well, maybe.” Then she disappeared into the airway to her plane.

Back at home, dirty dishes were piled in the kitchen and his bed was unmade. He’d busied himself cleaning the place, trying again not to notice Kathy’s things in his closet and bathroom. By early afternoon, he came face to face with the reality that there was no more housework to divert his attention.

In the guest bedroom, where he had a small office setup, he saw that Sissy had stripped her bed, made it up again with clean sheets, and folded and piled the soiled bed linen and towels on the old metal trunk at the foot of the bed. Kathy would have done something thoughtful like that, too. That image twisted the cold knot in his gut.

He’d thumbed to the C listings in his telephone file and found Eddie Conklin’s number. Unlike his first attempts, which seemed like months ago, he reached the technician on the first try.

“Hey, I read about your run-in with the bad guys,” Conklin said sheepishly. “I kept meaning to call you, but—”

“No sweat, Eddie,” Pace said quickly. “I wasn’t in much of a mood to talk to anybody. I’m back in business now, but it occurs to me I haven’t seen any stories recently about the flight data recorder. Is there anything new?”

“I’m not working the Sexton case anymore, Steve,” Conklin said. “Since the bird-strike finding, we’ve pulled back to a small crew. The metallurgists are the only ones still fully geared up, and they’re about to give way to the Converse people.”

Pace frowned. “What do you mean?”

“About what?”

“Giving way to the Converse people.”

“You know, the engine will be sent back to Converse, and their people will tear it down and try to find out if anything could have been done differently, better,” Conklin said. “Same old same old. You let the guys who built the thing figure out how to fix it.”

“That’s crazy!” Pace insisted.

“Why? It’s SOP.”

“What if there’s something there the NTSB hasn’t found yet?”

“Like what?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Eddie. Anything.”

“Is there something you know that I don’t?”

Pace took a deep breath. “No,” he acknowledged. “But none of this feels right.”

“Why, I ask again?”

“Because if there’s something wrong with that engine, instead of or in addition to the notorious bird strike, you’re putting the evidence right into the hands of the people with the biggest stake in covering it up.”

“That’s paranoid,” Conklin said.

“That’s right,” Pace admitted. “It is. I give you that. I subscribe to that, in fact. But I stand by my concerns.”

“The only way the NTSB could hold onto the engine is if a court ordered it impounded in response to a lawsuit.”

“What sort of lawsuit?”

“An injured survivor, in some cases. In this case, the family of one of the victims.”

“And there aren’t any suits yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard of. At least none that asked the court to keep the engine under government control.”

“What’s the timetable for shipping it back to Ohio?”

“Don’t know. I’ll see if I can run it down for you.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“I’ll collect, too,” Conklin replied.

Pace had to force himself not to pick up the phone again to ask Kathy if she and her father, or maybe Betsy, would be willing parties to a suit that would keep the C-Fan in government hands. It would be completely improper and unprofessional for him to get involved. Even if he could justify it, Kathy wouldn’t do it, not for herself, not for Jonathan.

And certainly not for him.

More colleagues than he would have liked stopped by Pace’s desk to chat about his ordeal and to ask how he was feeling. Others waved and called greetings across the newsroom. Paul Wister said it was good to see him and they would talk later, after Pace had a chance to go through his mail and telephone messages. Avery Schaeffer stopped by, too, and sat down at the always-vacant seat assigned to Jack Tarshis, the peripatetic environmental writer.

Schaeffer clapped his hands to his thighs. “So, how you doing?”

“Well, thanks,” Pace replied. “Except for a few black-and-blue marks, I’m doing well.”

Schaeffer bent closer and lifted his head so he could look out of the bottom of his bifocals. “There’s still some swelling on the cheek, I see. You’re going to have a nice scar. Hurt much?”

“No, not much.”

Schaeffer leaned back in the chair. “The women taking pretty good care of you?”

“Pretty good,” Pace said. He didn’t want to get into that. “A little overbearing.”

“How long’s Melissa going to be here?”

Pace sighed. It looked as though he was going to get into it, like it or not. “I put her on a plane back home Saturday morning, Avery. We felt it was time.”

“Oh?” Schaeffer looked surprised. “I thought she said she was staying two weeks.”

“She was supposed to, but it didn’t work out.” Pace was growing impatient. He wanted to get on with work.

“I hope it wasn’t a problem between Melissa and Kathy,” Schaeffer said, prying without meaning to. “They seemed to be good together.”

“No,” Pace said. “That wasn’t it.”

Schaeffer regarded him for a moment longer. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Pace said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ve got a stack of stuff piled up here, and I’ve got to talk to Paul and Glenn about the Sexton investigation.”

“We’re worrying that one to death. You think it’s still worth it?”

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t see a whole lot of movement by the NTSB,” Schaeffer said. “They’ve pretty much closed the book on the investigation.”

“There are still the two murders… and one mugging I’m particularly interested in.”

“If there was no cover-up, doesn’t that kill the theory that the violence was intended to preserve a conspiracy?”

“I’m not certain there was no cover-up,” Pace insisted. “Because we haven’t found it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And if it is there, the violence theory stands.”

Schaeffer pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Take it where it leads. But don’t obsess on it.” He got up and started to leave, then turned back. “And be careful.”

As Schaeffer walked away, Pace concluded the talk was the editor’s way of putting him on notice that lacking developments, his time on the Sexton story was limited.

“Well, lookie here,” Glenn Brennan said, pulling up to Pace’s desk. “We have a bona fidey, garunteed, right-on newspaper reporter back at his desk after a narrow brush with the Grim Reaper, praise be. Makes me proud to be an American. How the hell are you?”