Joni enjoyed looking important in big groups, Tim saw, so she was thrilled to increase her small faction by three with the addition of Tim, Randy and Bobby. Plus Bobby was a minority-bonus. She thrust out her hand and gave Tim a painfully firm handshake, and then cut her eyes toward the Manhattan Minute studio and said, "Did you get a look at the broadcast?"
"Just for a sec-"
"They're creaming that poor guy in the hotseat. D'you think he knows what he's talking about? He sounds like he might be pretty smart. If he could get a word in edgewise." She turned toward a pale guy with blotchy skin, a tribal tattoo on his neck, and massive wooden stretcher plugs in his earlobes. He was sitting on a bike rack with a netbook perched on his knees. "What was it he said was affected by the reformulation? Leptin? Look that up."
"I thought you wanted to know why the phones went down."
"That, too. But after you look up this leptin thing."
Stretcher plug guy typed with two fingers, hunting and pecking, clucked his tongue, hit backspace several times, and said, "How's that spelled?"
"Probably just like it sounds," Joni told him. "So, Tim, what's Phil up to lately? 'Cos he told me he could help me figure out how to get out of jury duty. Not that I don't think it's important to serve on a jury if you get picked, but it'd take me like an hour to get there on the C Train, and then most of the time in civil court, once they pick the jury, the whole thing ends up being settled before it goes to trial anyway...."
"I haven't talked to him." That wasn't exactly true, of course. Phil had emailed him only yesterday. The ass.
"Really? I thought you and Phil lived together."
"No. Not anymore."
"Oh." Joni stared at Tim awkwardly. "Sorry. That's too bad." She turned back to the stretcher plug guy and said, "Did you find anything yet?"
Tim watched him trying to type, and while he could commiserate with the netbook keys being impossibly small, it looked like the guy's spelling skills probably weren't helping anything. "How are you even online?" Tim asked them.
Joni pointed over her shoulder with her thumb at the National Public Radio van. "NPR's on 4G and they're letting us network to one of their laptops."
That seemed awfully generous of them. "Really?"
"Theresa interned there last summer."
Tim wasn't sure which one of them was Theresa...but it sounded like something someone in his social circle would have done. He sat down on the bike rack next to the stretcher plug guy with Bobby clinging to his opposite arm and said, "I think I can spell leptin. Can I see?"
The guy shrugged and passed over his netbook, and said, "I guess. I gotta go scope out the porta-potties anyway. The line was a mile long."
Once the guy left in search of a toilet and Joni was busy wondering about leptin to the NPR sound man, Tim gave Bobby a reassuring pat on the knee, set his fingers on the keyboard, gathered his thoughts, and said, "Randy, you know the photo you took...back when we picked up Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"Shoot it over to my email."
Randy pulled out his phone and began keying with his thumb as Tim dictated one of his dozen email addresses. "You gonna send it to someone?" Randy suggested. "Like that person who sent you the video of the riot?"
"Would I have your permission to do that?"
"Why wouldn't you?"
"It's your image. It belongs to you." Did Tim even dare say what he was thinking? "You could sell it."
Randy looked up, first at the NPR truck, which was showing signs of rust around the wheel well, and then at the lavish marble faade of the Manhattan Minute building. Tim regretted saying anything. Yes, Randy could sell it-for a pittance to someone who'd do right by it, or for a fortune, to someone who'd bury it. Tim could have done what most of the bloggers he knew would have done-posted first, asked questions later. After all, he could have argued that permission was implicit in the forwarding of the photo. A jury might buy that. If Randy chose to sue him...what difference would it make? The Voice of Reason could already be sued for libel, which would have scared Tim just a week ago. But his biggest concern was getting caught for hacking into Canaan Products' mainframe. There'd be a prison sentence attached to that bit of snooping...and now that Tim had seen The Tombs, he had no illusions that he'd survive a single day in the clink.
Copyright infringement? Not particularly terrifying. Maybe Tim should have taken that chance and dealt with the consequences later. Especially since Randy was thinking about it so hard, it looked as if he might reconsider.
"If I sold it," he said, weighing each word carefully, "it could end up sitting on someone's desk for days. But maybe your friend, the one who sent you the riot video...maybe they have an in with someone like that conspiracy guy that Marianne's all jizzy over."
"The...Voice of Reason?"
"Whatever. Whoever it is that posts this stuff where everyone can see it. That's what I want. That's why I took it." He stared down at his phone, and swallowed several times, like he was fighting the urge to vomit, or maybe weep. "Because the more people who see it, the more people who know about it, who believe it...the less likely I am to try and convince myself it didn't happen." Tim's email dinged. One attachment. A jpg. "Once everyone knows it happened, then it'll be real. Then I'll know I'm not crazy."
Tim logged into his site's control panel, FTPed the photo to the image folder, then pulled up a text editor to link the new image to the front page, right above the old one where a woman was waving a tagboard sign that read Child Killer.
And while the photo, dark and grainy as it was, would have a certain artistic resonance if Tim posted it with no explanation and simply let people create a buzz-there was no time to let its significance percolate through the layers of online posturing, discussion and debate. Tim typed the current date, and a caption below it: Manhattan Detention Center-Children crazed with hunger, in restraint. Melodramatic? Completely. It sounded more like a trailer for a B-movie than a news item. But Tim had been there-seen it, heard it...smelled it. And he didn't care if his damn caption was impartial or not.
He hit "upload."
In the B-movie of Tim's imagination, something big would have happened as his finger pressed the enter key. A camera sweep-with dramatic music, and maybe a closeup. But instead, Bobby wiped his nose on his sleeve, some of the LGBT activists snickered at a joke one of them had made, and a plastic bag blew through the crowd, caught on a cameraman's rig for a moment, fluttered, and blew away.
Since even the queer activist crowd didn't know Tim was the Voice of Reason, he erased the browser's history and cleared the cookies before he took a deep breath and pulled up the site live, online. "Hey, Joni?" he called. "Come take a look at this."
"Did a pair of sunglasses happen to come with that groovy outfit?" Nelson asked Marianne as they walked past the guard station in the lobby toward the revolving doors, all brass and glass and glare. "Cos it's bright enough out there to give me a nosebleed."
"Nothing in the pockets but one of those little packs of tissues and a starlight mint."
"I'd take the mint."
"It's probably older than you are."
"Anything to distract me from the feeling of my head splitting open like a pistachio..." which Marianne had probably never seen. Nelson knew it was bad when he started making uber-geeky food science references. "Never mind."
Javier caught Nelson by the sleeve, and said, "Wait." They all stopped. "Something's going on outside."
"I'll have to trust you on that. All I see is sunlight bouncing off chrome."
"You're right," Marianne said. "It was crowded outside when we got here, but now everyone's facing the building." She looked at Javier. "You don't think they're here for us. Do you?"
"We're the only ones willing to stand up to Canaan Products."
Nelson took a few steps forward and squinted out through the glass, but the bright white glare outside washed out any detail that would hint at what was going on. "Don't be drama queens. That interview in there bombed. You know it, and I know it. And anyone who saw it probably thinks I'm jonesing to get home to my tinfoil hat. It's crowded outside because it's Manhattan, and three million people live here."
Javier caught him by the elbow again and squeezed. "If a reporter tries to talk to you, don't say anything. Don't let them bait you. You need time to regroup, and if they don't have any choice, they'll wait. We can prepare a stateme-"
A radio squall. Behind them, the guard's two-way sparked to life. "Yeah, Frank, the cops are on line three. Did anyone named Tim Foster sign in at your desk?"
Javier's fingers dug into Nelson's arm. Hard.
The guard paged through his clipboard. "Nope."
"Buzz me if he does. They say he's here somewhere. We're supposed to detain him."
"Dangerous?"
"They didn't say."
The guard shook his head. "Will do."
"Holy crap," Nelson whispered, "what're we gonna-" and Marianne took off at a run, clomping and skidding across the polished marble floor in her red sequined slippers.
"Marianne," Javier barked, but she ignored him and flung herself out through the revolving door. He glanced at Nelson-who realized he shouldn't have found it amusing, not at all. Still, he couldn't help but smile as he cocked his head toward the blinding glare of the entryway, and together, they made a dash for it.
Nelson had a sense of people-lots of people, jockeying for position, yelling things that all blended together-but all he saw was bright white light. "Stairs," Javier said-and Nelson might have thought something about the blind leading the blind-only the cliche jar had been blown to bits...and besides, Javier saw plenty.
"...can you explain about leptin...?"
"...what proof do you have on this formula...?"
"...when did the reformulation take place...?"
"Give me your card," Javier said, "and he'll call you when he has a statement."
"Doctor Oliver?"
Doctor? No one ever called Nelson "Doctor" in person. On the phone, looking for some hole in his resume so they could reject his job application? Maybe. But not once they'd taken a look at him in all his rough-edged, longhaired glory. Even the Manhattan Minute bimbo hadn't called him "Doctor." This reporter had done her homework. "Is there a cure?"
Although Javier was attempting to drag him down the stairs, Nelson paused and squinted in the direction of the question. He didn't watch the news as a rule, but he recognized the reporter who'd called him "Doctor," a striking black woman with the cool, composed attitude of a pro...plus her microphone had an ABC logo on it. Nelson paused, and said, "Stop eating manna."
The reporters went silent for the space of a breath, and then it was pandemonium. Pushing, shoving, shouting. Nelson did his best to block out the commotion along with the searing brightness of the sun, and focus in on the reporter's calm face.
"Just until it's tested," he said. "Just until you can figure out where it's been made. Most manna's still fine to eat-and it'll have manufacturing information stamped on the packaging. But Canaan Products ships the base ingredients for other brands, like Park Avenue, so you'll need to sort out where the manna came from before you can say it hasn't been reformulated. The stuff in your cupboard, especially. Just toss it all out. They've been trying to pull it from the shelves, but you don't want to take a chance that you get an older batch."
"What are the specific dates?"
"I have no idea. But a good rule of thumb-if you've had a sudden, unexplained weight gain," or if your kid was trying to consume you, "then chances are, your usual brand is no good, and you need to lay off the manna."
The reporter said, "Then what should people eat?" and tilted her mike toward Nelson again.
"Anything high in protein and fat should help ameliorate the hunger until your hormones even out again." Even the clever reporter looked blank in response to that explanation, and no wonder. It ranked up there with the pistachio joke in terms of obscurity. "Anything made with dairy or eggs. Nuts. Peanut butter."
"That would cost a fortune," one of the reporters deep in the group called out.
"Then some of the soy manna-alternatives should work. And if you can't afford that-even the pre-packaged veg mixes will be better than nothing. They're mostly water and fiber, but at least they'll fill you up while your leptin receptors recover."
Someone pushed into Nelson's side as he got the final words out and shoved a Fox News microphone in his face. "How long have you been trying to get a job at Canaan Products, and how many times have you been rejected?"
"That's it," Javier snapped. "This interview is over." And when it seemed as if the reporters and the cameramen would physically prevent them from leaving, he gave one of them a good shove, and another a searing, one-eyed glare, and grudgingly, the media stepped aside and let Nelson and Javier make their way down the marble stairs-albeit through a gauntlet of insulting questions.
"Did you see," Nelson said in Javier's ear. "That was ABC."
"That was live," Javier said. Oh yes, he saw plenty. "You're lucky it was Melinda Jackson and not Rob Hewitt."
"I know I went against orders, Sir, but come on. I couldn't just say nothing."
"Shut up," Javier said affectionately. He slid his arm around Nelson's waist and shoved through a tenacious group of newspaper reporters with his shoulder. "There's Marianne-I see her hair. And that ridiculous coat. And...Tim."
Tim? Nelson gave Javier a shove of his own. "Then get a move on."
His eyes began to grudgingly adjust to the light as they shoved and hustled, and the farther away from the forefront of the reporters they got, the dicier the credentials became-and the more willing Javier was to smack someone with an elbow or stomp on their foot to make some room. No doubt Nelson would find a fresh crop of bruises on himself-it was almost as bad as the riot-or maybe he could entice Javier and Tim into taking a look, too. Tim-there he was, towering above the mega-political-looking dykes all around him, face lighting up as he caught Nelson's eye. Almost there now, just a few more ranks of reporters to push through. Closer still, and yes, there was Marianne in that funky old coat. One more row of guys with digital recorders, and there was Tim, opening his arms wide...
...and gesturing, beside him, to Bobby.
Nelson broke away from Javier and rushed to gather Bobby in his arms. The kid smelled like smoke and B.O. and vomit-and who cared? Nelson squeezed him hard enough to lift him off the ground, and swung him around and around until he fell into someone-Randy-laughing and crying and saying his boy's name, over and over, as if it was impossible to comprehend he was really, truly here.
"I love you, kiddo," Nelson said as he pressed kisses into Bobby's reeking hair. "I love you so much."
"Can't...breathe..." Bobby said.
Nelson laughed, and eased up on the squeezing. Slightly.
He was so giddy with relief to have his son in his arms, he didn't notice the security guards closing in until one of them jammed a bullhorn in his face, and out thundered the words that nearly split his head in two: "Which one of you is Tim Foster?"
Chapter 33.
It was amazing, really, how quickly elation could turn to horror. One moment, Tim was watching Nelson whirling Bobby around, and he was bursting with pride-pride that he'd done that, him, the guy who'd thought he could only make a difference through pixels and bandwidth, but instead he'd delved into the belly of the beast, and come out the hero.
The next moment, Tim thought he might wet his pants-because they'd been onto him from the moment he hit the "upload" button-and now he was completely, and utterly, screwed.
One of the security guards shoved Tim out of the way, raised the bullhorn to his mouth, and shouted at the NPR van, "Where is Tim Foster?" The van. Somehow, the 4G connection had been traced. And fast. Tim closed the netbook and slid it into a trash can. He scanned the crowd. It was thinning all around them as news crews backed up and trained their cameras on the security guards in case the situation turned newsworthy. Maybe he could slip away. There-a path was opening up. If he was casual about it, security might never notice one guy in the crowd walking the opposite way.
And then they converged on Joni and the NPR sound engineer she'd been networking with.
Tim's heart sank.
The guard lowered his bullhorn. His eyes darted nervously as he shouted over the crowd noise, "Tim Foster. Which one is he?"
Without missing a beat, without so much as glancing in Tim's direction, Joni said, "Who?"
"Tim Foster."
She shrugged. "I don't know anyone by that name."
Gratitude surged through Tim. He'd never think that Joni had a big nose again. As far as he was concerned, her nose was perfect. All noses were perfect. On everyone. Everywhere.
"I need to see some I.D.," the other guard, an older guy with graying stubble, told the sound tech. The tech shrugged, unclipped a press pass from the hem of his shirt, and held it up for the guard to read.