The Mark (A Henry Parker Novel, 1) - Softcover

Pinter, Jason

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0778324893 ISBN 13: 9780778324898

Verlag: MIRA, 2007

Inhaltsangabe

Right as I'm about to die, I realize all the mythsare fake. There's no white light at the end of atunnel. My life isn't flashing before my eyes.

All I can think about is how much I want to live.

I moved to New York City a month ago to become the bestjournalist the world had ever seen. To find the greatest storiesnever told. And now here I am—Henry Parker, twenty-fouryears old and weary beyond rational thought, a bullet onetrigger pull from ending my life.

I can't run. Running is all Amanda and I have done for thepast seventy-two hours. And I'm tired. Tired of knowing thetruth and not being able to tell it.

Five minutes ago I thought I had the story all figured out.

I knew that both of these men—one an FBI agent, the otheran assassin—wanted me dead, but for very different reasons.

If I die tonight—more people will die tomorrow.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jason Pinter is the bestselling author of THE MARK and THE GUILTY. A graduate of Wesleyan University, he wrote his first novel while working as a book editor. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers, and is a co-founder of Killer Year. He lives in New York City . Visit him as www.JasonPinter.com.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

One month ago

I watched my reflection in the doors as the elevator rose to the twelfth floor. My suit had been steamed, pressed and tailored. My tie, shoes and belt matched perfectly. I nervously eyed Wallace Langston, the older man standing next to me. My brown hair was neatly combed, the posture on my sixone frame ramrod straight. I'd bought a book on prepping for your first day at a new job. On the cover was an attractive twenty-something whose dentistry probably cost more than my college tuition.

Security downstairs had given me a temporary ID. Not yet a member of the fraternity, still a pledge who had to prove his worth.

"Make sure you have your picture taken before the week's up," the husky security guard with huge, red-rimmed glasses and a personality-enhancing cheek mole told me. "If you don't, I gotta run you through the system every day. And I have better things to do than run it through the system every goddamn day. You get me?"

I nodded, assured her I'd have the photo taken as soon as I got upstairs. And I meant it. I wanted my face on a Gazette ID as fast as the lab could develop it. I'd take it to Kinkos myself if they were backed up.

When the doors opened, Wallace led me across a foyer with beige carpeting, past a secretary's desk with the words New York Gazette in big, bold letters mounted on the wall. I showed her my temporary ID. She smiled with an open mouth and chewed her gum.

Wallace pressed his keycard against a reader and opened the glass doors. As soon as the silence was broken, I thought how strange it was that all my hopes and dreams were embedded in one beautiful noise.

To an outsider, the noise might seem incessant, cacophonous, but to me it was as calm and natural as an honest laugh. Hundreds of fingers were pounding away, the soothing rattle of popping keys and scribbling pencils drawing a smile across my lips. Dozens of eyes, all staring at lighted screens with type the size of microorganisms, reading faxes and emails sent from all over the world, faces contorted as though the telephone was a human they could emote to. Some people were yelling, some softly whispering. If I hadn't clenched my jaw trying to project confidence, it would have hit the floor like I'd stepped into a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

"This is the newsroom," Wallace said. "Your desk is over there." He pointed to the one unoccupied metal swivel chair among the sea of tattered felt, showing how every day I would be wading through greatness. Soon I'd be seated at that desk, computer on, phone in my hand, fingers rattling at the keyboard like Beethoven on Red Bull.

I was home.

If you're in media or entertainment, New York is your mecca. Athletes count the days until their debut at Madison Square Garden. For classical pianists, Carnegie Hall is their holy ground. Professional stripper—sorry, exotic dancer—yeah, New York is their Jerusalem, too.

It was no coincidence, then, that this was my holy land. The newsroom of the New York Gazette. Rockefeller Plaza, New York City. I'd come a long, long way to get here.

I briefly wondered what the hell a twenty-four-year-old with little more on his résumé than the Bend Bulletin, was doing here, but this was everything I'd worked for. What I was destined for. Wallace knew what I was capable of. Ever since my first page-one story in the Bulletin, the one that was syndicated in over fifty papers around the world, Wallace had been following me. When he heard I was accepted to Cornell's prestigious journalism program, he made the threeand-a-half-hour drive to take me out for lunch. And during my senior year, before I could even start to look for jobs, Wallace made me an offer to join the Gazette full-time.

The newsroom needs some new blood, he'd said. Young, ambitious kid like you, show the skeptics out there that thenext generation has its head on straight. There are other papers in this city, but if you want to chase down real stories instead of celebrities on vacation, you'll make the right choice. Make your mark, Henry. Make it with us. Plus, our first-year salary is five grand higher.

I drank three bottles of champagne that night, and passed out in John Derringer's shower with a Bic mustache and sideburns.

I felt Wallace's hand against my suit jacket. I hoped he didn't press too hard—my threads probably cost less than Wallace's haircuts. Yet though Wallace was my professional benefactor, the top shelf on my wall of professional hero worship was permanently occupied. That man was seated just a few feet away. But as far as being indebted to a person, right after my mother giving birth, Wallace hiring me was a close second.

We snaked through the skewed chairs and cups of cold coffee, past writers who were too busy to tuck their chairs in. This was how they worked. I loved it. I knew not to interrupt a reporter on deadline, and sure as hell didn't expect them to move. I was here to purify the blood of the newsroom, not to disrupt its flow.

I recognized some of the writers. I'd read their work, knew to look for their bylines. It was scary to think of them as my new colleagues. Not to mention how seldom they appeared to shave or shower.

I wanted them to respect me, needed them to respect me. But for now I was just a mark. A newbie. The guy all eyes would be on to see if he produced.

And then I saw him. Jack O'Donnell. Then Wallace pulled me forward and I remembered to breathe.

As we walked by, I let my hand swipe O'Donnell's Oxford blue shirt sleeve. A silent brush with greatness. I couldn't have been any less subtle than if I'd taken out his latest book, asked for an autograph, then smacked him across the face with it. Talk to him later, I told myself. Follow him to the bathroom. To lunch. Offer to shine his shoes, raise his kids, whatever.

Man. Jack O'Donnell.

Five years ago, if someone had said I'd be working fifteen feet from Jack I'd have kicked his ass for mocking me. A few years ago, Jack O'Donnell was profiled in the New Yorker. I had a copy of the article at home. I taped one page above my desk, underlined one quote, the quote that threaded its way through every story I ever wrote.

News is the DNA of our society. It shapes how we think, how we act, how we feel. It dictates who we are and who we become. We are all beneficiaries—and byproducts—of information.

Many people, myself included, credited the first injection of this strand of DNA to William Randolph Hearst. Hearst took over the San Francisco Examiner in 1887 at the tender age of twenty-three. The only guy who made me feel lazy.

Hearst was the first to truly sensationalize print media, splashing his newspapers with big, bold headlines and lavish illustrations. Conspiracy mongers blamed Hearst for inciting the Spanish-American war with his constant editorializing on the Spanish government's civil rights atrocities. As Hearst reportedly said to illustrator Frederic Remington, "You furnish the pictures and I'll furnish the war."

Since then, it almost seems like journalism has taken a step backward. The scandal at the New York Times proved that. Some people laughed it off as an isolated incident. Others who knew their stories couldn't hold up to scrutiny quietly updated their résumés. And I followed the whole thing shaking my head, trembling in anger, wanting to shake up the system.

And if Jack's quote was accurate—as I believed it to be—when that blood became tainted, it could spread disease through every capillary of society. Liars and fabricators and egos the size of Donald Trump were popping up like rats in the subway, from men and women who were supposed to report...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: MIRA
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2007
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0778324893
• ISBN 13: 9780778324898
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 384
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar