Free The Henderson Equation by Warren Adler Page A

so-called confession. Gunderstein's
instinct."
    "Even you admit that you're not convinced."
    "I have to go with Gunderstein's track record. Hell, Myra, he is, after all, a star in the Chronicle 's crown. We went with his instincts
before."
    "Also our own."
    "True."
    "We knew he was on the right track before. We encouraged
him. We put all our strength behind him. We were committed from the
beginning."
    "We were dealing with an acknowledged enemy, with
ideological differences. That's a hell of a motivating factor."
    "At least we both agree that Henderson's a
friend." She drew deeply on the cigarette again, then added quickly,
"He stands for the things we believe in. He has compassion, decency, a
sense of morality. The country needs that kind of leadership, Nick. He's our
kind of guy."
    "That's beside the point."
    "That is the point." She punched out her
cigarette in the ashtray, a trace of frustration in the act.
    "You really believe we're persecuting him?" Nick
asked, measuring his words carefully.
    "I think he's entitled to a quick resolution."
    "Either way?"
    "Either way."
    He was seeing her differently now, as if the light were
shifting in the prism of his lens. She did, after all, have the power to order
him to shut the tap, a privilege she had never invoked. Was he prepared to walk
away from this, all this? His sudden vacillation frightened him. Her message
came through quite clearly. All subtlety was dissipated, her direction
confirmed. He slapped both his thighs.
    "Well then, let the chips fall where they may."
And let the best man win, he might have said, completing the cliché.
    "I never implied otherwise," she said, lighting
another cigarette. He watched her grope for control, then turned his eyes away.
    "I trust your judgment, Nick," she said, a hint
of pleading in her voice. "Just as Charlie did." She paused, letting
the reference to Charlie take effect. "You believe that, don't you,
Nick?"
    "Yes," he said after a while, but his long pause
had added a note of tentativeness which she ignored, perhaps hoping to dispel
the tension. She stood up and went behind her large desk. Opening a drawer, she
took out a hand mirror and patted her hair.
    "You are coming to the game Sunday?" she asked,
examining her face in the mirror.
    "Yes."
    She turned away, a finger poking at an eyelash. Then
without looking at him she said, "And bring Jennie."
    "Jennie?" He had no time to control the reflex.
She had caught him with a dart outside his field of vision. Rooted to the spot,
he waited for more to come.
    "Come on, Nick. Isn't it time you came out? It's no
secret, you know."
    He remained silent, turning to go, a stammer caught on his
tongue. He felt her eyes on his departing back.
    "Don't be so damned inflexible," she called after
him, her meaning unmistakably clear.

5
    In the elevator, he felt the anger glow inside his gut. He
looked at the bank of buttons and pushed "B," hoping that the cab
would descend without interruption. But he was not to be spared. On the
editorial floor, Bonville emerged, his thin face scrupulously searching Nick's
in his myopic way, as if investigating for skin blemishes.
    "I've put the defense copy on your desk," he
said, insensitivity proclaiming itself in the face of Nick's obviously
distraught look. "Landau said he wouldn't put it in type without your
final okay." The word okay was belched out with contempt.
    Nick grunted and looked above Bonville's head to the
lighted floor signals. When the elevator opened at ground level, Bonville
stepped aside, an obvious act of deference, a deliberate nurturing of
arrogance. When Nick didn't move, he shrugged, the beginning of a sneer arranging
itself on his features as he proceeded out of the elevator cab. Nick made a
mental note to rip the hell out of his editorial, already convinced of his
suspicion that Bonville had reached far beyond the agreed-upon parameters.
    On the basement level, Nick stepped out into a massive
forest of heavy paper rolls, the pulpy