Free Fall

Thirty-Nine

Manhattan, New York

“There she is, crackerjack investigative reporter and celebrity panelist!”

Mark Reston, Kate’s newsroom neighbor, ducked when she threw a crumpled news release at him as she settled in at her desk.

“Knock it off, Reston.”

“Seriously, you done us proud there, Ms. Kate. I’m sure you riled up the crazies who’ll want some of your stardust.”

“Leave me alone-” her keyboard clicked “-I’ve got work to do.”

“I’m grabbing a coffee.” He stood. “Want one?”

“Sure, if you’re buying.”

Kate shook her head at Reston and at the whole CTNB thing. My teacher said she saw you on TV, Mom, Grace had said at breakfast that morning. So did my friends at work, Vanessa had added, forcing Kate to acknowledge the reach network news still held in the digital age.

After scanning the competition online, Kate determined that no one had hit on any new developments with the London or New York incidents. She was annoyed that no new leads had emerged for her in the wake of her CTNB panel-other than messages from friends and former colleagues across the country and around the globe who’d seen it.

Kate checked her public email box for the address tag that was affixed at the end of the story she wrote. The email count following the show was one hundred and ten. Thankfully, much of the spam had been filtered but, as usual, the crazies and idiots had weighed in.

“Nice job yesterday on the show.” Chuck stopped at her desk.

“Thanks.”

“It went well. You got anything new in the way of a concrete lead?”

She shook her head. When her phone rang, she looked at Chuck.

“Go ahead, take it. We’ll talk some more later,” he said, leaving her to answer her call. The number was blocked.

“Newslead, Kate Page.”

“Hi, it’s Erich.”

“Hey, what’s up? Got anything?”

“Not at the moment, but I wanted you to know that your TV panel has generated some chatter on the Darknet.”

“Really? What kind of chatter?”

“Let’s call it freestyle debate on myths, conspiratorial beliefs and the president’s statement.”

“Sounds weird.”

“Listen, Kate, I’ve got to leave the country again. But I’ve reached out to a guy I know who may be intimate with some classified initiatives in this area.”

“Really? What’s his code name?”

“Very funny. This guy’s extremely sensitive about the press, but I’ve urged him to talk to you and he’ll deny knowing me. That’s our thing.”

“I’ll take any help I can get.”

“I gotta go.”

After hanging up, Kate found herself gazing across the newsroom at the empty workstation where Sloane F. Parkman used to sit.

“Chuck sure is cleaning house.” Reston placed a coffee on Kate’s desk.

“Thanks. Yeah, well, Sloane was no great loss.”

“You heard the latest on Reeka?”

“That she’s taking time off.”

“Word is she’s been told not to come back.”

“Are you serious?”

“I heard they’re working out terms of her departure and keeping it low-key. I’m telling you, little by little, step by step, Chuck Laneer is restoring the integrity of this place.”

Reston’s phone rang and he answered with “Be right there.”

“Gotta go,” he said to Kate.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

It didn’t take long before Kate had disposed of half the emails in her inbox. She’d flagged two to consider later. Before resuming, she reached for her coffee and locked onto the subject line of one email:

YOU FAILED ZARATHUSTRA-A TOLL WILL BE EXACTED

She opened it and read:

We offered you a place in history. We selected you because we regarded only you and your work worthy of the honor. We chose you to announce our triumph with Flight 4990 but you failed. The cost was 15 innocents from Flight 418. Then you insulted our victory with your televised lies. Why did you deny that we have taken control of the skies? Why did you lie? Like Peter’s denial of Christ, it was preordained. We warn you now to tell the ordinary masses that we are extraordinary people destined to soon achieve a monumental victory on a colossal scale, the likes of which the world has never seen. We will take civilization to unprecedented heights, lighting the way forward for all of human existence. We are Zarathustra, Lord of the Heavens.

Kate felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she read the postscript:

Do not doubt the seriousness of our intentions. We know you live with your daughter and sister in Morningside Heights.