Ch 5

A Final Word

Reaction set in virtually the moment the door closed behind him.

He was gone. Gone back to the world he still moved through so effortlessly, so unthinkingly.

And MacKenzie was alone, the headiness of rediscovered feelings slowly yielding again to overwhelming doubt, to the persistent naggings that this reconciliation hadn't been earned, wasn't deserved, could only be childish wishing that would be cruelly exposed in the final chapter.

Get out of my sight. I can't stand to look at you.

His words back then had wounded her, grievously, and sent her spinning across three oceans

Had anything changed to make her worthy of forgiveness?

Moreover, was he capable of forgiving her?

She didn't believe he had lied to her this weekend, that he would be capable of such subterfuge—but perhaps he would have a change of heart later. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to un-hear that long ago confession, un-see Brian in his mind's eye, undo the damage that she had inflicted three years earlier.

Could anything ever change between them?

She owed him for having hurt him—it was why she'd come back, albeit with Jim as her proxy. Even if they wanted to reconstitute this relationship, there would always be an imbalance between them. If it wasn't merely the past, it would be the future as well, because of this misshapenness—this malformity—this scar that physically branded her perfidy.

Will may have been magnanimous earlier, but reality would inevitably return. He was an attractive man, brilliant and gregarious. He wouldn't want to be tied to a scar forever.

She went to the closet and rummaged, finally retrieving an old duffle bag and tossing it on the bed.

You expect too much of me. And I would disappoint you again.

Moving to the dresser, she began to empty the drawer.

oooo

Will's jaunty mood at Monday's final rundown meeting was so unmistakable and so out-of-character as to provoke exchanged glances and raised eyebrows up and down the table. Martin and Maggie, each of whom had suffered withering dressing-downs from the anchor in the previous week—Martin for having screwed up the teleprompter feed and Maggie for having spilled diet soda over Will's handwritten draft copy—did a great deal of eye-rolling while trying to maintain poker faces. Neal, on the other hand, had no such compunction and wore his astonishment openly.

Will ignored them all. He was encouraged. Mac actually seemed better. Not fixed—not yet—but better.

Things will be better, he declared internally. New beginning. They would start fresh.

"Okay, Will?"

Jim hung in his sight, hunched over the table. "I said, the A block is going to be either the resignation of the Japanese Prime Minister or the new UN sanctions against Iran. Your call."

Will pushed back in his chair, deciding to exercise his position as managing editor. "I don't like either one. Don't we have something a little more relevant to, I don't know, Americans? Our viewers?" He grimaced. "Seriously, we can't find something important that's going on in any of 50 states?"

"It was the fourth Japanese prime minister in three years," Jim began, before realizing that defending the choice was doomed already. "Okay, okay. We could move up the story about ethnic clashes in Kyrgyzstan, a hundred thousand fleeing across the border to Uzbekistan—"

"Whoa. Stop," Will waved his hands to stop the recital. "You're missing my point." Then, turning to Kendra, "Don't we have anything—um, more local? Say, anywhere on the North American continent?"

"Well, there's some late word from the Pentagon that General Stanley McChrystal may be coming home early from his assignment as commander of the American forces in Afghanistan," Gary Cooper piped up from across the table. "Probably on account of the interview in The Rolling Stone where he trashed Obama."

"Okay," Will stabbed a finger in exaggerated agreement. "That's what I'm talking about. Did we get a date for the turnover and who's reliving him?"

"Well—no." Gary looked down. "Actually, it wasn't a release, it was just some—"

"Gossip." Will tossed his legal pad on the table with a sigh of disgust. "Puzzle palace gossip."

"They said a release would be coming tomorrow," Gary added, somewhat apologetically, reluctant to let it go.

"There was a pipeline explosion in west Texas this morning." When the table of faces turned toward her, Tess added, "No one injured," and deflated.

"High rise fire in New Jersey," Martin volunteered. "Right now. There's a lot of smoke on the East River."

"Maybe that's a bit too local," Will admitted. "Leave it for NBC-4."

Jim nodded slowly. "So, we'll go with the original slate?"

Long pause. "Yeah."

At Will's uneasy acquiescence, the staff began to file out.

"Uh—Will?" Jim capped his dry erase marker and stood awkwardly at the end of the table until they were alone. "Is Mac—"

"She's fine."

"But she took it okay when you—saw her? I mean, she's pretty sensitive about—"

"We've got to stop thinking of her as if she's some kind of ghost—and stop treating her that way, too. Mac's going to be okay. Needs some reassurance—and something to do besides sit alone and brood."

Jim shook his head in disbelief. "You aren't going to make this go away with a kiss, Prince Charming. There's a bona fide neurosis that has to be acknowledged and—"

"—And treated. You've just been indulging it, Scooter, almost aiding and abetting it. Maybe even projecting your own anxieties a little. Mac's problem has a solution, and we're going to find it. Treatment, doctors, whatever she needs—"

"You just don't get it. There's been a long line of doctors and a Frankenstein's laboratory of treatments. She needs—"

"—She needs a roadmap for the way back. She can't stay on the sidelines forever. And we both know that there's nothing wrong with her, not really—well, nothing that can't be put right with some time and patience and—"

"—And you."

Will let a beat go by. "That's right."

"Jim?" Gary Cooper hung in the door. "We're having problems rendering the feed from the guy in Istanbul. Some kind of problem with the RTX interface. I think Jake could use your brain right now."

"Be there in a minute."

When Gary had departed, Jim gathered his papers, not noticing when his phone fell to the carpeted floor. He looked at Will. "What we were talking about before—you're willing to take this on?"

"Not that it's any of your business—but, yeah. I am."

"Well, for both your sakes, I hope you're right."

oooo

Thirty minutes into the show and everything was going smoothly. Will had worked his way through the international stories and was parsing the complexities of the four "—Stans" (Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgrzstan) a half a world distant, both literally and in concept to Middle America.

It was a grueling slog.

In Control, Jim hovered over Jake's switching console, watching to see if the tweaks to the graphics processing unit worked.

"Back in sixty," Herb advised the room.

"Hey, Jim. You know that high rise fire that Martin mentioned earlier? You might want to take a look at this." Gary held up his cell.

Jim's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Where's the feed?"

"Local. Pooled stuff—"

"That's changing," Kendra interjected. "CNN's got an inset right now."

"Live?"

"Yep."

"Five alarms now. I've never even heard of five alarms for one fire."

"How many firefighters is that?"

"Depends on the municipality, but it has to do with trucks and ladders and resources, not just the firemen. A hundred guys, maybe." Gary shrugged. "I'll find out, though."

"Good." Jim made a swift calculation. "Okay, when we come back, we're dumping out of C block and we're going to a live shot from Channel 7. Kendra, I need some fire authority—"

"I'm already calling."

"You following all this, Will?"

"So, we're really covering fires now?"

"Back in thirty," Herb interrupted, of necessity.

"I'm putting the feed on your monitor so you can—"

"Jesus Christ." Will's utterance made plain that he now had the video. "If we're going live with this, I'm going to need some information at hand—"

"We're waiting for the deputy fire chief—" It seemed like the best time for Kendra to volunteer her booking coup.

"Got it," Jim affirmed. "Maggie, pull together some building stats and get me a read out on stability—in fact, just find me an architect who can go on air."

"Back in ten." Herb's countdown was relentless.

"Will, we're going to be sending you stuff as we get it and we'll patch you to the fire chief when he comes on line. In the meantime, you've got the video. Pictures are worth a thousand words, so let the video feed talk while we scramble in here."

Heady with the fast, spontaneous pace of breaking news, Tamara reacted immediately when Kendra called to her to take the incoming call and then connect the caller through to Will in the studio. But because this was, in fact, breaking news, a lot of the usual cues were bound to be missing. Which is why Kendra thought her meaning was obvious (answer the new call, then patch through the caller who was holding). Also, it was why Tamara made the epic but entirely understandable mistake of forwarding the wrong call.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"This is Will McAvoy and you're on News Night." Oh, so smoothly the patter rolled out. "Who am I speaking to, please?"

"Russ—Russell Frost."

"I understand you're on the scene of the blaze at the National Building in Newark—"

"That's right."

"At the fire command post?"

"Uh, no." Pause. "Are you really Will McAvoy?"

For a moment, Will almost lost his composure. This was the best the goddam prodigy EP could give him? Will was supposed to be talking with the scene commander of the Newark fire department, but this guy sounded like a total rube.

He cleared his throat and tried to resume. "Okay. What exactly is your position with the fire department, Mr. Frost?"

"I work here. At MCI Worldcom. We're on the 31st floor."

Will was aggravated at having to feel his way through this interview and extract the info the viewers would want. "But you're at the Incident Command Post now—"

"No, I'm on 31."

"You're, uh, where? Did I understand you to say that you are presently inside the building? You're on the 31st floor right now? As we speak?"

"Yes."

As Will struggled to recalibrate in the face of an unexpected interviewee, the ACN Control Room erupted in voices.

"Who's he talking to?"

"I'm soooo sorry—I must've patched through the wrong—I mean, I've got the Deputy Fire Chief holding on line 3—"

Jim mustered a glare that squelched further apology/explanation from Tamara and barked over his shoulder, "Someone get ahold of the cell service—I want some assurance that that call is really coming from the building on fire. I don't want Will punked on live air."

"What do I do with the guy on line 3?" Tamara was squirming now.

Jim toggled his mic.

"Will, we put the wrong call through. Why don't you stay with this guy until the station identification break coming up in 15? He's on scene, lends some color and immediacy. We'll switch you to the Incident Commander when we come back from break."

Jim exhaled heavily, arching back, lacing hands behind his head. "Okay, let's scramble. I want to know everything about the structure and fire protocols."

"Uh," Maggie held up her notepad like a trophy. "Newark National Building Newark, built in 1931. Former Essex Bank Building. Architectural style called Mid-Atlantic, brick and limestone. Same architect that did Newark city hall. There are some famous murals on the mezzanine." She shrugged. "Thirty-four stories, last major renovation in 2002 but there some sort of repairs or facelift has been underway on the 28th floor. Sixteen elevators. Class II Standpipe and sprinkler system, retrofitted." Whatever that means.

"Stairs?"

"East and west stairwells, but the west stairs are offset above the 21st floor because of the placement of elevator machinery."

"Coming up on break," Herb warned from the console. "Three—two—and we're out." He pushed back in his chair, the screens of three monitors having shifted to the ACN logo and stinger.

"Will, we've got only 15 seconds, so we're going to transfer the caller to—"

"No." Will's eyes flashed from the monitor. "I'm staying with Russell."

"But the deputy fire chief's waiting—"

"Let him wait. And, oh, by the way, ask him what he's doing to get people out of a building on fire."

"Will—"

"Don't touch this call, Jim."

"Roll in."

"We're back now and I'm talking with Mr. Russell Frost, an employee of a firm located in the National Building, where we've had reports of a fire. You said you were on the 31st floor, Mr. Frost—why weren't you evacuated?"

"I'm the warden for 31 through 34, so I was the one doing the evacuating up here. By the time I got everyone out, the stairs were real smoky, so the fire people told me to stay put until they could get someone up here."

"Your building, the National Building, was built in 1931, but I'm told it has been retrofitted with sprinklers and a stand pipe system—"

"I heard that, too. The sprinklers haven't actuated where I am—I guess that's a good thing, because it means the fire isn't near me—"

From Control, Jim toggled his mic again. "Will. I—uh—just so you know—I mean, I was just told—the fire fighters can't get above 27 right now—"

"—But I don't mind tellin' you I'd like to see some fire rescue soon. Everything just smells like burnt toast."

"Is there fire where you are?"

"Smoke. Lots of smoke coming from the stairs. The door is ajar and smoke is just pouring through."

"Can you move away?"

"Trust me, I'm about as far away as I can get."

"Okay, hang in there, Russell. People are on their way to you."

It was a lie. He was lying to this poor man now, not to mention lying to the viewers. The lie was one of comportment as much as compassion, because even a highly-intelligent, well-educated TV news anchor didn't have the emotional tools to serve up death to the audience in real-time.

oooo

"Charlie Skinner! I thought that was you!" The man in the too-tight suit lunged forward with his hand outstretched.

Dumbly, Charlie shook the man's hand, trying to place the face and account for the overweening familiarity.

"Mike Kaufman. Most recently with CBS."

Oh. Perhaps their paths had crossed at CBS during Charlie's tenure at CBS? But before Charlie could make any association, the man hurried with more data.

"Not when you were there, of course—although you were still being talked about by then. In a good way, I mean."

"What're you doing for CBS?" Charlie managed, trying to be conversational.

"Unfortunately, we parted ways in the last round of news division cuts. Freelanced a couple of projects for NPR, but I was hoping ACN might be looking—"

Uh oh. Job seeker. Charlie's head swiveled, looking for a way out.

"—And given what's happening right now, I thought I might as well make the pitch."

"What's happening right now?" Charlie frowned and leaned closer.

"The fire—I mean, ACN has it live, which is good, but whoever's producing McAvoy tonight has got him tied to some sort of survivor narrative, and there's—"

What the fuck?

Charlie wasn't alarmed, not really, but he knew he ought to check out what the other man was telling him. If for no other reason than to exit this conversation before it reached the awkward questions about whether ACN was hiring.

"Where's the TV?"

"Empire Ballroom, just outside."

Charlie made an abrupt about-face and weaved between fellow conference attendees, faces familiar and un-, toward the meeting room. A monitor was on, turned to News Night. There was no audio but the chyron blared, Survivor Clings to Hope Amid Conflagration.

What English major crafted that one-liner, Charlie wondered, beginning to build a head of steam.

In the anchor chair, Will McAvoy was visibly anguished and uneasy. He leaned heavily upon one arm, a vertical line of concern between his eyebrows and a strange twist to his mouth. Charlie recognized immediately the parallels to that long ago 9/11 marathon broadcast.

Jesus Christ. This was eavesdropping on death.

Knowing he had to stop it, Charlie reached for his phone.

oooo

Her packed bag was at the door.

She would contact Jim about the rest, the lease. Perhaps she could return eventually, when time and distance had muted Will's impulsive optimism about them. About her.

Common decency required that she give him some reason for running out on him (again), so she looked at a blank piece of paper and tried to think of the right words. Honest, gentle, but brief and final, so that he would understand the impossibility of them… together… now…

But the words wouldn't come. She couldn't say she didn't love him (she did), nor that he didn't care for her (she had at least been convinced of that). He had been trying to give her something—empathy, courage, faith in herself—and the attempt alone was touching. She couldn't simply repudiate his compassion. She had to honor his gift without accepting it.

Perhaps if she could see his face once more—

MacKenzie turned on the television.

As soon as she comprehended what was happening, she fumbled for her phone.

Why didn't Jim—or literally anyone else—realize the folly of putting that caller from the burning building on live air? It was ghoulish, it smacked of voyeurism—more like snuff television than genuine news. Apart from the cringeworthy pathos, this was not valid information for a news telecast. It wasn't some feel-good human interest fluff—this story would have an inevitable, tragic end.

Moreover, she realized it had to be personally torturous for Will. Having to moderate someone's last moments, as overheard by an audience of one million strangers. There was no dignity in this for either the doomed victim or the hapless journo who took the call.

Jim didn't pick up, so she took a deep breath and tried Charlie Skinner directly, but his office phone was obviously not staffed after normal business hours. She didn't have a mobile number for him. Finally, in desperation, she tried the ACN switchboard, the least precise of her efforts to communicate.

Thank you for calling Atlantis Cable News. Your call is very important to us, but all our operators are busy at this time. If you will wait on the line, someone will be with you in-

oooo

"What is going on there? Who made the fucking editorial decision to put a dead man walking on my flagship show?" Charlie raged. "This isn't reality TV—Will isn't some goddam bachelor who awards a lily to the man who dies on live air."

Instinctively, Jim ducked at the chewing out he was getting. "I know—I'm sorry—we're going to—"

"Listen to me, son. You're going to cut that feed as delicately and as humanely as you can in the next two minutes, or I will be over there to beat the shit out of you, I don't care how much kale you eat!"

"Yes, sir," Jim managed, wincing as he put down the Control landline and turned back to his crew, all of whom now feigned ignorance of what they'd just overheard from the news division president.

"Kendra, make sure DC is standing by for the hand off. Herb, I'll need a count-down and Jake, you need to make sure that commercial package is ready on his cue."

Toggling his mic, Jim lowered his voice for an anchor who would have to follow his instruction over another conversation. "Will, we're going to have to cut—"

Unable to respond directly, Will looked directly into the camera and slowly, almost imperceptibly moved his head from side to side. No.

"It isn't optional, Will, Charlie's insisting. Try to bring this conversation to a point of closure, or something, in a minute or so."

On the monitor, Will's eyes narrowed and his lower lip jutted up a tiny bit, but he forced his thoughts back to the voice in the studio.

"You still with me, Russ?"

"Yeah." The voice was muffled and there may have been low coughing. "Is there any word yet—about firemen—"

"Perhaps—perhaps you'd rather be talking to someone else right now—perhaps there's someone we can connect you—"

"No one else to talk to. Divorced, no kids. Folks gone a long time. Can you stay on the line with me, please, until they get here?"

More coughing. "I tried to cover the vents with folders. Used bottled water to soak my shirt."

"Is smoke coming through the vents, too?"

"I think so. Hard to tell. Everything three feet above the floor is kind of hazy." Pause. "It's gettin' kind of hot, and I'm hearing some really strange sounds."

"What kind of strange sounds? Describe them."

"Like a groaning sound, maybe? I don't know. And running water, I hear water."

Through the IFB, Will heard an unrecognized voice from Control provide, sotto voce, the reason: "Probably a breached standpipe. That would account for the sound of water."

"Ten seconds," Herb intoned.

"Tamara, keep the patch call with Will—Kendra, tell DC to take it on Herb's count—"

"—Three, two—and we're out." Herb rolled back in his chair, plainly displeased at the perturbation to routine.

"Maggie and Martin—stay on Will. Whatever he needs… do that."

Jim slid the headset to his shoulders.

Shit. Did all that really happen?

"Jim, you've got a visitor downstairs. Wants to come up. You want me to take care of this?"

Shellshocked from the course of the evening, Jim was only capable of a single nod.

oooo

Will held the call from his News Night desk even though the broadcast had been transferred to the more detached Terry Smith on Capitol Reports. During those minutes, Will tried to coax responses from a fading interviewee. At a half past the hour, when the line had been unresponsive for a while, Will finally sat up and looked straight at the camera. It was his acknowledgement to Control that the call and the show were both finally over.

The bright rectangular panels of LED set lights were still on but the studio floor staff had withdrawn, uncomfortable at witnessing the latter half of tonight's show. And no one wanted to be there when Will had to end the call.

Will pulled out the IFB earpiece and sat there, slowly decompressing.

Gradually, he became aware of a figure standing in the shadows just beyond the bright circle of light.

Mercifully, someone in Control picked this moment to kill the set lights. As his eyes adjusted to the ambient light, he saw MacKenzie move closer, toward his desk.

She canted her head and smiled sadly.

He allowed one side of his mouth to twist in some ironic grimace. "It wasn't like this ten years ago—that morning, everything happened so fast—and all we could do was just post mortem amidst the noise and fear and bullshit. But this—" Pause. "I wanted to make a difference this time."

"You did. You treated him as a person and not as a casualty. It was the human thing to do, Will."

"I wasn't prepped for the existential." Another long pause. "I wish—I wish I hadn't lied to him. Promised him that they were on the way and would get there in time. Not very heroic on my part. Not good for ratings, either." He smiled weakly. "I guess you know. Charlie made them yank me."

"Charlie made the right call. You know he did."

Will wet his lips and nodded.

"Billy, you gave that poor soul human compassion until the end. You made him heard. You saved him from anonymity in a moment where he was asking himself big questions. What's meaningful doesn't always come underscored and with capital letters. Sometimes it's just—listening."

"Or being here." He focused on her again and said, wonderingly, "You came. You knew I needed you and you came."

She remembered the packed bag sitting near her apartment door. Running again was a bad choice, even if this would not have been the scenario she would have picked for reconciliation. He needed her. He sustained her.

"I thought that we might need each other tonight. And—"

"And?"

"From now on."