"I don't know." Matt was shifting into serious self-protection mode, and his tone had taken on an every-man-for-himself quality. I reached for the remote control and started surfing the dial. "Is someone giving you a problem?"

"I don't want to get on Lenny's shit list. You've heard what he's been saying about you, right?"

My finger froze mid-surf, and my hamstring started throbbing again. "What has he been saying?"

"That you can't handle the union and he's probably going to have to come up there himself. And if he does that, then he's going to have to bring someone else in, and he's all concerned about the management turnover in the station and what it's doing to 'those poor employees because they've been through so much already.' You see why I don't want him mad at me?"

"He said he's going to replace me?" I dropped the remote behind me. It fell off the edge of the bed and clattered to the floor. "Who's he been talking to?"

"The only guy who counts."

"He said that to Bill Scanlon?" That was one question answered. I now knew what Bill was being told. What I didn't know was what he believed. "How do you know?"

"He told Scanlon's entire staff. He brought it up at the monthly planning session. If you ask me, he's covering his ass in advance in case anything else goes wrong."

"Goddamn him. He is such a liar. I just got off the phone with him at the airport. He was unbelievably supportive. 'These things happen,' he said, 'don't worry about it, it's not a reflection on you.' He's flying up here tomorrow."

"We don't call him the Big Sleazy for nothing."

"The what?"

"He's from New Orleans. That's what we call him."

In spite of everything, I had to smile. The Big Sleazy. I'd never heard that one before.

"You still want all this stuff," he asked, "if I can find it, right?"

"Yes, and call me when you have something."

He hung up and so did I. My channel surfing had stopped on the Animal Planet station. The mute was still on. In the silence I watched a baby turtle on his back in the sand on a beach. He was fighting to roll over, to right himself so that his shell was on top. His tiny turtle flippers flapped desperately as he rolled from side to side. I knew how he felt. I was starting to understand how Ellen must have felt. Lenny was my boss. He was supposed to be on my side, to provide cover while I was fighting it out on the front lines. Everything I found out about Lenny made him more contemptible to me. But in the end, I knew I could deal with Lenny. What I couldn't deal with was the thought that Bill Scanlon might start to question my abilities, to believe that I was failing out here. I went to my briefcase and found my address book. The phone number was right where I'd put it, unlabeled and written lightly in pencil inside the back cover. I hadn't used it in over a year, had even made myself forget the number that I had known by heart. But I'd never erased it and I never forgot it was there.

I sat on the bed staring at the phone until I could make myself pick up the receiver. Even after I'd dialed, the pattern on the keypad so familiar, it was an effort not to hang up. The call rolled to voice mail and I thought I was saved, but then I heard his voice. It was a recorded message, but it was his voice and my entire being responded as it always had to the timbre, the cadence, the rhythm of his voice. It was the perfect pitch to reach something inside of me, and the sound of him reminded me of the feel of him, the taste of him. All I had to do was speak, to leave a simple message, to say what I needed, but all I could do was sit on the edge of the bed, the room blurring around me, listening as the electronic operator demanded that I put up or hang up.

I hung up.

The baby turtle was gone when I checked the screen. I found the remote under the bed and waited a few seconds before turning off the TV, but he was nowhere in sight. I would never know if he had walked away or been carried away.

Dan turned from the window and paced the length of my office. He'd rearranged the chairs to give himself a lane in front of my desk. As he paced, he continued his report, ticking off the points one by one. "We're using USAir's inbound claim until we can get ours up and running again, which might take up to two weeks. They're charging us an arm and a leg for it, but we don't have a choice. We're closing off all access to ours while we put it back together. No damage to any of the aircraft, but Maintenance had to check out everything that had been parked at that end of the building when the thing went off. We delayed three flights, canceled the last, and rebooked everyone on United and American."

"We lost the revenue?"

"We didn't have any choice, boss. Nothing of ours was going that way that would have gotten them to Denver last night. A few people were so spooked they didn't go at all."

"I guess we ruined a few vacations. How many bags were lost?"

"Thirty-seven items for twenty-two passengers. Everything in the cart was blown up or burned beyond recognition, mostly skis."

"I know about the skis. I spent several hours in baggage service last night letting people scream at me. It's amazing how attached people can get to their skis. A couple of guys even wanted the pieces back. It was painful."

"We've got inspectors all over the place," he said, "Port Authority security, investigators, state troopers. I'm dodging the media and trying not to trip all over the headquarters people who've come out to 'help' us."

"As far as the media," I said, "I called Public Relations again this morning. Refer all inquiries to them." I stood up and leaned back against my credenza, resting my hips against the edge of the work surface. Somehow, it didn't feel right to be sitting down through all of this. "This is because of Little Pete, isn't it? About not bringing him back to work?"

"If it's not, it's an incredible fucking coincidence. I talked to Vic yesterday morning about delaying the decision, yesterday afternoon the bag room blows up. I'd say the two could be related."

I didn't know whether to be nervous or angry. I settled for being generally uncomfortable and continuously on edge. "What do you think we ought to do, Dan?"

"We've got the employee meetings set up. You had your say with the Business Council last night."

"Sure, that was effective. 'We'll do everything we can to help you through this,' " I said, mimicking Victor's insipid tone, " 'but we need to know exactly how you're gong to protect our men.' "

Dan stopped pacing. The second he slipped down into one of my side chairs, I took his place. The distance from wall to window was exactly seven paces. On one of my laps, I closed the door. "There has to be something we can do that will get their attention."

"I think you've already gotten their attention, boss. As far as doing something about it, here's what's going to happen. We'll do our investigation, the fire department will do theirs. No one will talk, which means nothing concrete will come out of it, which means you can't blame the union because you can't prove they did it, which means you can't take formal measures against them."

"I don't want to back down on this, Dan."

"You might not have much choice. If Terry McTavish was not talking before, he sure as hell is not going to be talking now. Besides…" He gazed out the window at an empty expanse where an aircraft should have been. The gate closest to my window was out of service while the jetbridge was being repaired. "I'm not sure it's the best thing for you to hold out against Big Pete."

I turned and stared at him. "How can you say that? Should we give them what they want because they blew something up? Or set something on fire? Or slowed down the operation? That's why we're in this spot to begin with."