Chapter 3
Decreasing Range
Thanksgiving of 2012 had been spent on a beach. Sun glinting on the water. Heat shimmering on the white sand and the gentle growl of green surf against it. The aroma of bogus coconut in the sunscreen and the aroma of bona fide coconut in the rum drinks they sipped.
Will returned to the present.
Thanksgiving of 2013 was being spent in their recently updated and restored Carnegie Hill apartment. A pre-war Classic Eight, with three bedrooms, wrap terrace, high ceilings, wide plank floors, and a large bank of windows. The restoration had only just been completed (the final punch-list not scheduled until later in December), so most of their guests had not seen the results of tedious months of renovation.
There was universal approbation.
As a concession to having so many guests when Mac was in an advanced state of pregnancy, Will had hired a caterer to assist with the heavy lifting of meal prep and clean up. He recruited Gary Cooper as bartender (after it had been determined that Martin only knew how to make one drink, a Cosmopolitan, something his fraternity brothers had convinced him was a surefire method to attract the opposite sex at parties). Tamara, Kendra, and Herb each had their own family commitments, but Joey and Tess came unaccompanied.
Don and Sloan arrived early, intending to help, but when they discovered Will had it under control, she joined Mac on the sofa and Don worked to find the football game of choice in the bank of flat screens Will had somehow managed to incorporate into their new dining area.
Sloan took a glass of Chardonnay from Gary and, feeling a tad self-conscious in front of an abstainer, nodded at Mac's orange juice cut with sparkling water. "How's that? Like a Mimosa?"
"It is absolutely nothing like a Mimosa, but it stops me from feeling totally deprived. Plus, it cuts the sugar content, which otherwise would be off the charts." She sipped gamely despite the admission. "What was with the sudden trip last week?"
"Well, Don had the time, what with Right Now still on hiatus. And I had some time—"
Mac threw up a hand. "Cincinnati, Sloan." In other words, Quit deflecting and tell me what is really going on.
"We thought we'd go see Reese Lansing. In my line of work, it helps to be conversant with manufacturing capabilities and industrial trends—" Sloan was aware she had little traction but persisted. "Did you know that Benjamin Franklin refused to patent his inventions, like the stove and bifocals, because he considered them for the public good?"
"Evidently before the invention of the law degree," Don interceded from across the room.
"Seriously?" MacKenzie eyed them both with open skepticism. "I may not know much about economics, but I'm not daft. Once more—what's going on?"
"We brought souvenirs," Don crooned in a sing-songy voice.
Mac looked guarded. "Souvenirs?"
"This, for one." He picked up the wrapped box, roughly the size of the photo frame, from the table where he'd placed it upon entering. "Actually, this one is for Will."
"Did I hear my name?"
Don shoved the package at him. "From Reese."
Will put down his Heineken and tore the wrapping. He lifted the lid of the box and pulled back tissue paper. He gave a gentle huff of recognition.
"What is it?"
"Yeah, he didn't tell us—" Don leaned in.
Will held up what simply looked like a piece of flat white plastic. "This is a pick guard for a Fender Stratocaster." He waited a beat before adding, "That's a make of guitar. And it has a signature on it—hey, Peter Frampton. Guitar god. Wonder how in the hell Reese came by this?"
"Do you have that kind of guitar?" Tess had wandered over, put off by the unified fixation of Joey, Gary, and Martin on the televised football game.
He laughed. "I have Gibsons. But I'm thinking I'll have to get a Fender now, just so I can display this."
"Sorry, Mac," Don apologized, glancing at his watch, "yours is coming along later. Be patient."
"As patient as Job."
Jim and Maggie arrived late, blaming it on the reduced number of subway trains running on the holiday and the post-parade crowds that effectively clogged the sidewalks.
Several days before, Jim had finally confessed a private concern to Mac about the potential for unease in the Jim-Maggie-Don-Sloan quadrangle. He hadn't wanted to introduce any awkwardness into their home during a holiday celebration. Mac, of course, had dismissed his worries out of hand and pleaded for Maggie and Jim to join them. The warmth of their reception by Sloan and Don seemed to reinforce Mac's judgment.
Jim extended a slip of paper to Will. "I think I've found the one you're looking for."
Catching Maggie and Mac staring, Will explained, "I've heard music calms the savage beast, so I thought I should have a lullaby or two in my back pocket." He looked at the paper then back to Jim. "Tom Petty?"
"I think it's what you're looking for."
"I'll give it a try."
Later, as Mac was making a watchful visit to the kitchen, she heard a sudden gush of happy voices.
"Mac—come out here," Will shouted over the din. "Your souvenir from Cincinnati just arrived."
She rounded the corner and at the center of a crush was Neal Sampat, holding a bouquet and sporting a new silky moustache. Still unmistakably Neal.
Her face crumpled with delight and Neal, with a sheepish grin of pleased resignation, acquiesced to her hug.
"Is this a visit or are you—?"
"Just a visit for now. There's some lawsuit pending with Atlantis Dynamics," he explained, using the name of the AWM division involved with jet engine manufacture. "I'm supposed to give a deposition to that law firm, the same one involved with Operation Genoa—"
"Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday?" Will leaned in.
"That's the one." He pushed the flowers at Mac. "There wasn't much time to talk last summer—I'm glad you—"
Mac's eyes registered her absolute delight. "You can come back any time, you know. Save me from the internet trolls."
"Bree and I are like chalk and cheese—"
"You don't have to point out who is who in that analogy," Don muttered.
"It's better that I am where I am right now."
"But we're still permitted to miss you."
"Of course." He gently shook his head.
oooo
"Mac?" Will touched her shoulder, waking her from where she'd fallen asleep on the sofa as he'd seen the last of the guests (Martin and Gary, the former wobbly under the sway of too many Cosmos, and the latter tsk-ing and muttering about the lethality of girly drinks) to the elevator.
"Come on. Let's get you to bed."
He steered her to the right room, extinguishing lights as they went, finally allowing her to lean against him as she struggled to doff the clothes she'd worn for the party and pull on a T-shirt.
"I feel positively ponderous."
"You look positively wonderful," as he ran his palms over her upper arms and shoulders, gazing at her with a mixture of intensity and bemusement. He leaned in for a gentle kiss, then pressed her to him. "This is exactly what it is supposed to be. I love you."
"Hmmm?"
"I said, I love you."
"Make me an offer?"
"Raincheck? I think you're exhausted."
"I was counting on you to rouse me."
"There's lot of time. Four day weekend, Kenz."
oooo
As she had for several weeks now, Mac stopped by Dr. Stone's office Wednesday on the way to work for a quick blood pressure measurement and urine sample. Today, however, once the BP cuff had been removed, she was told to wait.
"MacKenzie." The doctor entered, obviously harried. "Sorry, I'm incredibly rushed today, but I wanted to see you." She rubbed her palms together in a nervous gesture. "I don't want to alarm you, but I'm becoming… concerned… about your blood pressure readings and the proteins in your samples. I have to ask you a few questions and I need you to be utterly candid with me."
"What's wrong?" Mac asked, immediately tensing.
"Have you had any episodes of vomiting or nausea recently?"
The night of the last bulletin about the Syrian captives.
"I had an emotional reaction to a story we did—"
"Headaches?"
"One or two, but—"
"Last question. Any changes to your vision? Seeing spots, or flashing lights—blurring?"
"I sometimes have to review long columns of numbers—"
"MacKenzie." The doctor held up a hand to silence the rationalizations. "This is serious now. You've just given me three reasons to be concerned on top of the blood pressure readings and urinalysis."
"Something is going wrong—"
"I want you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?" The doctor's eyebrows shot up. "I know we spoke about gestational hypertension last time. It's not uncommon. But there's another situation, one that can be slightly more serious for both you and the child. Preeclampsia, or just PE."
"You're still taking the calcium supplement? Good. I want you to stay with that and add a low-dose aspirin daily. Try to take it easy—make sure you're getting enough rest. PE isn't behaviorally affected, so you don't have to change your routine. Any questions?"
"Am I going to lose the baby?" The only question that occurred to her and the only one that mattered. How would she tell Will? Her mouth was dry and her hands icy with anxiety.
"Very unlikely. I don't want you worrying about that." The doctor sighed. "Let's just say that PE poses complications we don't want. There's no need to be unduly frightened—"
Mac found herself wondering what might constitute duly frightened.
"—We just want to take every precaution."
Mac nodded slowly, already resolved to research the hell out of this as soon as she got back to the office.
"Oh, and don't go scaring yourself by reading up on the subject on WebMD or one of those other goofy web sites," the doctor added. "Make an appointment with Kathy for next Thursday and bring your husband with you. He needs to be a part of the decision-making process."
"What decision needs to be made?" Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears.
"Not whatever you're imagining right now. We may have to consider a Caesarian, that's all. A change of venue, so to speak. But it is a surgical procedure and carries some of the risks of surgery, so we need to weigh all the options."
oooo
When Mac finally reached the AWM tower, Millie relayed, as sympathetically as she could, an imperial summons to Pruit's magisterial chambers two floors up. Millie exchanged a pad and an executive schedule of events for Mac's briefcase and sent her up without her even entering her own office.
"Good, you're here." Pruit consulted the wall clock with calculated theatricality.
"I had a doctor's appointment."
He nodded, obviously unwilling to follow up with any pleasantry about babies or her health in general. "I wanted to talk to you before I have to leave for the Upfront. I've been thinking we should do some promos on the Murdoch situation—sort of like how Ted Koppel and Nightline kept the whole Iranian hostage scenario in the public eye in the 1980s. Open each night with—" He stopped. "You're wincing—"
"You don't think it wouldn't appear somewhat self-aggrandizing to do that, considering that he's a correspondent for ACN?"
"I think it's fucking news, Mc-Cubed," disdain plain in his voice. "I've heard a rumor that the Department of State asked Murdoch's next of kin to provide DNA swabs. That means there's a possibility there either is or might be a body that needs identification."
"It could be preemptive," she protested through her repulsion at this new bit of information.
He shrugged. "It's still news. That is what you do around here, isn't it?"
"Will simply won't—"
"Will is product. He's part of what we sell." He looked briefly at the single sheet of paper on his otherwise empty desk. "You killed Bree's idea about the psychic. Yeah, well, you'll be surprised to hear that I think that may have been the right call. I think I'd rather send it over to entertainment instead of the news division. Better package—might even be able to bring in Simon Cowell or Melissa Rivers for development." He looked up and his expression darkened. "But I want you to stay out of Digital's way. You're taking much upon yourself—particularly in your current, um, state. Be careful it isn't too much."
"Is that all?"
"Not yet. I want you to get a counter in the top right corner of the screen for all three shows, News Night, Capitol Report, and Right Here. Stop wringing your hands over this guy who got himself snatched by the bad guys. He's there and we're here and this is what we do."
"We eat our own?"
Pruit tapped his forefinger to his temple. "That's good, Mc-Cubed. Real good. But you're living with wishful thinking and not real news collection. I am not going to sit here and let CNN or ABC eat our lunch on this Murdoch story. You want to be fucking Charlie Skinner, then I'll tell you again: the status quo around here is dee-you-el-el, and I don't give a rat's ass what you think."
oooo
The 2013 Upfront presentation, at which cable television networks would announce new programming and court sponsors, was being held in early December, itself a concession to how greatly cable broadcasters had managed to alter the landscape of television "seasons." ACN, now under the banner of Pruit's Intuitive Media, Corp., and other cable networks would converge at Radio City Music Hall to shower corporate sponsors with live musical extravaganzas, comedic offerings from the usual line-up at Comedy Central, and the opportunity to meet-and-greet familiar media personalities as new shows would be touted and familiar ones given the equivalent of a royal audience.
So, on the Wednesday morning following Thanksgiving, as MacKenzie sat in her doctor's office, Will McAvoy and Elliot Hirsch shared a limo to the affair. Will plucked at his tie, tugged at the confines of his collar, grumpy with discomfort. He was unused to wearing a suit so early in the day.
"I thought the morning crew was coming to this event, too."
"Tony and Maria are on air now," Elliot answered without even looking up from his phone. "They're coming later."
"This is my sixth Upfront and they always remind me of a never-ending cocktail party where the cocktails can't possibly compensate for the people you have to talk to at the party." He moved his eyes back inside the limo. "Hey, we caught your show last night. Welcome back."
"Thanks."
"But what was all that stuff about the FCC?"
"Don's idea. The Federal Communications Commission took a lot of crap for the way it handled the digital TV roll-out a few years ago. Giving away public spectrum without auction. Outright awarding of parts of the spectrum to the cable companies. Recently, the FCC announced it would scrutinize how broadcasters compress and transmit data. Packetized transport streams, I think they call it. Essentially, streaming technology. And since the FCC has never been especially accountable to the public, Don thinks that some light needs shining on the subject."
"And won't that make Pruit uncomfortable, what with the potential for a conflict of interest? Not to mention the Upfront happening this week?"
Elliot frowned and considered. "No one's told us to stop. Mac would've—"
"Mac would tell you to go with throttle up. God only knows what Pruit will say."
oooo
Pruit's assistant, Andrea Wells, met Will and Elliot and directed them to an alcove separated from the stage by a heavy curtain. She pointed out several trays of cold breakfast hors d'oeuvres, chilled bottles of water and juice, and a coffee canteen. There was a steady hum of voices from the other side of the curtain, where the dais was located.
While Elliot checked his phone for messages once more, Will filled a cup with coffee and moved away from the table.
"—what was I saying before?"
"But aren't you constrained by, ahem, ethics?"
Voices bled through the curtain, words becoming distinguishable. One voice seemed familiar. Laughter.
"Ethics. We're up to our fucking armpits in ethics right now. But give it a few more weeks and I promise you a more congenial atmosphere for the changes I have in mind."
The reply was inaudible.
The first voice spoke again and Will suddenly placed it. He saw recognition in Elliot's eyes as well.
Pruit.
"She's not working out. I'll be able to ease her out the door in a month or two—I'm working on a couple of fronts, you know… Yeah, he'll stay. Pussy-whipped but not totally stupid…"
Elliot caught Will and dragged him back a dozen feet, his arm restraining him but not without considerable effort.
"Wait—wait, Will, listen to me," he whispered urgently. "You'll make things worse if you fly out there right now. For one thing, you'll lose. Pruit will make sure of it, he has to, if there's an audience. Second, think. You won't be doing Mac any favors. She's such a great president of the news division that she needs her husband to defend her from impolite words?" Elliot began to relax the pressure that pinned Will to the cinderblock wall. "Forewarned is forearmed, you get my drift? We know what we're up against now—I guess in a way we always did, but now you're seeing what she has to contend with. She hasn't been telling you about any of the daily conflicts, I'll bet?"
Will slowly shook his head.
"I'm not wise, Will—I'm not Charlie or anything. But I think Charlie would have you watch and wait right now. Don't rob her of agency in this. She's capable of fighting her own battles. And you'll get the satisfaction of kicking the sonofabitch as soon as she's got him on the mat."
oooo
Unaware of the disturbance on the other side of the divide, Lucas Pruit spotted another corporate sponsor with whom he wanted to schmooze and moved towards the dais, smug satisfaction on his face. Suddenly, his expression curdled. Leona Lansing was traveling an intercept course and he had no alternative but to meet her.
"Leona. Didn't think I'd see you here."
"Atlantis World Media still includes media, Lucas. We have other broadcast and publishing outlets."
"Ah, yes. The old movie channel. The old TV show channel. The other old TV show channel. I must congratulate you on the demographic niche you've carved out."
She managed a thin smile in return. "You're taking care of my news organization?"
"Well, we're still trying to crack the under-age-70 market. Oh, and you might want to check that possessive."
Her eyes swept the crowded auditorium before they returned to him. "Are you chasing cash or chasing audiences?"
"They're the same thing." It was his turn to smart at the retort. "I'm not afraid of you, Leona."
"Then you haven't been paying attention." She shifted her gaze in a gesture of condescension. "See you 'round, Lucas."
oooo
MacKenzie was reading in bed when Will got home that night.
She slid her glasses down the bridge of her nose. "Long day."
"Yeah. Not an especially good one, either." He kicked off his shoes and went into the bathroom.
"Good show," she called out.
There were several missed beats until he stuck his head around the door, toothbrush in his mouth, and gave an exaggerated nod.
"How was the Upfront?"
He came out, towel around his neck. "Same as always, except that Pruit is a real piece of work."
She barely stifled a chuckle.
"Honestly, Mac, how do you put up with it? That smarmy, devious, arrogant little shit."
"You have the list of affinities right." She patted the bed. "Come here. What on earth did he do to you today?"
Will pulled on a clean T-shirt and crawled beside her. "I just can't figure out how you manage to work with the little bastard."
"In my experience, bastards come with the territory." She paused, desperately wanting a change of tone before she proceeded. "Will, I want you to go with me to my appointment with Dr. Stone next week."
"Sure." He yawned and snuggled closer. "Another ultrasound?"
She allowed a long pause, during which his breathing began to even and deepen.
"Of course, Will."
oooo
Every Friday at 11:00, Pruit deigned an "hour of power" conference with the president of the news division. Rarely was it more than a one-way communication, but at least it was a face-to-face encounter, and Mac prepared rigorously for it. Studied the Nielsen and Rentrak books. Reviewed the AQH (Average Quarter Hours, measuring audiences by the quarter hour) snapshots. Focused on content-to-revenue equations and, particularly, familiarized herself with the current Q factor of each personality in the ACN stable.
But, in the end, for all any of it actually helped her, Mac would have been better off to have followed her predecessor's preparatory technique: three fingers of bourbon, neat.
Knowing Mac would be in Pruit's office for the weekly summit, Millie had decided to finally start unpacking Mac's boxes for her. She straightened the books on the shelves, turning their spines outward and deliberating how best to arrange them, whether to group them by subject or alphabetically by title. A dozen books into the process, however,she changed her mind and began to arrange them alphabetically by author. It simply occurred to her that Mac probably didn't consult the books, that they likely were gifts from the individuals who had written them.
Millie particularly wanted to dig out and display the Peabodys and the 2009 RFK Journalism Award. She knew Mac would characteristically eschew anything that smacked of trying to impress office visitors with her awards—Mac felt she neither needed nor wanted the extra validation afforded by visible awards. But Mac was young, and Mac was a woman, and sometimes, Millie firmly believed, it didn't hurt to hit people over the head with your qualifications. Particularly when they might be inclined to dismiss you otherwise.
It was really a shame Lucas Pruit couldn't be expected to come to Mac's office and see her credentials, realize what an asset had fallen into his grasp.
So, when Will sought out Millie for a long-postponed talk, he found her shelving books.
"She's at the—"
"Yeah. I know. The weekly meeting with Pruit." Will also was well aware of Mac's customary Friday morning engagement, since it was invariably preceded by a Thursday night session of chasing papers and colored highlighters across the dining table. "Actually, you're the one I wanted to speak with, Millie."
This was odd.
"What about?" She tried to sound nonchalant. Millie Hanover was too established in her position to be overly-awed by the anchor, but she was wary of what sort of conversation she could reasonably expect with Will McAvoy. Their only common denominator was MacKenzie McHale, and Millie knew, acutely, that the fact that Will McAvoy was now married to Mac in no way diluted her obligation to her boss.
"I need to know if there's anything unusual—anything out of the ordinary that may be going on with Mac. She's taking quite a strain and I just want to get a feel for anything that might be causing her—"
"She doesn't know you're here?"
"Well—no. I just want to know so I can, you know, shield—"
"I'm sorry, Mr. McAvoy, you're putting me in a difficult position. I really can't—"
"Sure, you can. I'm her husband."
"In this office, that doesn't matter."
He looked taken aback but stepped nearer to remonstrate.
"Will."
Both turned to see MacKenzie at the office door, watching the confrontation with puzzlement and dismay. "What is this about?"
A/N: The titles for chapters 2 and 3, "Constant Bearing" and "Decreasing Range," are maritime terminology for a collision course.