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storming into the barn.”
    Peter laughed and took a sip of his beer. They were sitting in a small bar on Boston’s waterfront overlooking the harbor. From long habit as a reporter, Peter kept his voice low. “So all this hero shit I’ve been hearing is just Ben Harris giving yet another subject a bad case of red eye.”
    Ben nodded. “About sums it up. That distance from the flash, he’ll probably have some permanent vision loss.”
    “Well, there’s that.”
    “The picture was cool, though. Parker is this huge black force erupting from the floor; what you can see of Johansen’s whited-out face has this funny little expression like he’s just getting how much trouble he’s in.”
    “I saw it. You might have a career in this business.” Peter touched Ben’s mug with his own. “Congratulations. And when I write the article I’ll make you a hero too.”
    “Get in line.” Ben told him that after NBC released the footage, his answering machine at his studio in Fort Point Channel held over twenty offers for interviews. Kurt Tattinger, the new editor-in-chief, had fielded dozens more at the magazine. A literary agent who had unsuccessfully shopped around a book proposal of Ben’s work about two years back had called to say, “Better strike while you’re hot. Time/Life just returned my call, and they want to take a fresh look at you.”
    Peter lifted his eyebrows. “Enjoy your fifteen minutes. May work out to a half hour or more, given the TV coverage.”
    “Better than last time.”
    Peter nodded. “That thing with the priest? That was before I knew you, but I read the articles at the time. Thought you were a sleazeball paparazzi. Same kind that chased Princess Diana into that tunnel.”
    “You and several million people. This time, if I can land that book and guarantee some autonomy from Kurt it’ll all be worthwhile.”
    “The book, maybe. Kurt, he’s a fact of your life that’s not going to go away as long as you work for Insider. Get used to it.”
    Peter Gallagher had joined Insider shortly after Ben, about three years ago. They had hit it off immediately. Gallagher was about twenty years out of Columbia’s journalism school, and had traveled the world looking for stories ever since. He was tall, lanky, and prematurely gray. A recurring case of malaria he had contracted while covering a story in Papua New Guinea had cut into his health, contributed to his divorce, and forced him into the marginally more sedate pace of a weekly magazine rather than the adrenaline-pumping pace of his Chicago Tribune days.
    At forty, he looked about fifty.
    But none of that dampened the intelligence or curiosity in his steady gray eyes. Along with the publication’s emphasis on photojournalism—one of the few remaining publications as dedicated— Gallagher’s political and criminal investigative reports were the backbone of Insider’ s growing reputation.
    “So what have you got on?” Ben asked.
    “Me? Nothing that would interest a man of your caliber.”
    “C’mon.”
    “Hell, I can’t take you places. Robert DeNiro comes to town to promote his new movie, and I take you up to the Ritz to cover the interview, next thing he’ll be asking you about your motivation, your love life, and all about those shutter speeds and f-stops. And you know I hate to hear about that shit.”
    “Like Kurt would send you in to interview someone who could cause him trouble.”
    Peter shook his head, marveling. “He’s got a reputation for standing up for his people. That was his reputation at Boston Magazine.”
    “Uh-huh,” Ben said, not wanting to pursue it. Because he knew Peter was right. Kurt was a solid guy, took his hits, seemed to be fair. Ben just didn’t like him, and he had the best of reasons. “Tell me what you’re working on now.”
    “Let’s see, we’ve got a politician who can’t keep his pants on, challenged me to prove different.”
    Ben made a face. “Leave it for the tabloids.”
    “The line