In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  I was advised not to discuss his controversial prison escape, but Extreme Copy cannot compete against the major networks without using a bit of ingenuity to break a few rules. Marketing informed me that the advertisement slots before and after tonight’s upcoming segment sold at a premium rate. Agnew McAllister may be a butcher, but he’s rather good for business. When I get my Pulitzer, I’ll give the twisted bastard a nod during my acceptance speech.

  Shelly just finished applying my makeup and has moved onto touching up my hair. With her bright-blue highlights and sleeves of contrasting tattoos, it amazes me that she knows the first thing about making anyone—other than a goth—look presentable. As long as she emphasizes my prominent cheekbones and helps my blue eyes to ‘pop’ on screen, I can ignore her physical shortcomings. It takes a lot of self-control to keep from pointing out her obvious flaws, so I solely focus on my own sumptuousness.

  “You’ve done an outstanding job again,” I acknowledge. The station doesn’t pay Shelly what she could demand at a place with some ethics. Therefore, a little ego stroking goes a long way to keep her from realizing she’s getting the shaft. “As you know, you are merely primping me for my meeting with Richard and the board.”

  “Oh, I figured you might be doing one of those mid-afternoon teaser spots,” she says, clearly misinformed. “I used the powder that looks the best under the lights.”

  “I might be doing a spot after the meeting, so it’s good to be prepared.” I have no idea how they intend to roll out the day.

  “I’m using a lighter shade of lipstick today. If you do a teaser spot this afternoon, your lips will look even fuller on camera.”

  “Did they look thin last night?” Whenever she claims to be making an improvement, I worry about how crappy I must have looked during the previous broadcast. It’s like when a Tide commercial announces a “new and improved” version of their detergent while I’m still using the out-of-date box on my delicates.

  “Not at all; they looked amazing,” she verifies. “Since we will be reaching a larger demographic, I wanted your lips to make the models in Playboy envious.”

  “I doubt our show will be seen by any models of that stature.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” she says, smiling. Good God, she is a physical train-wreck. If I’m awarded a hefty raise, I plan to kick over a few bucks to get her a few outfits that aren’t second-rate and repulsive. “I heard some rumbling in the hallway that the highlights of tonight’s show might be getting picked up by one of the national news channels.” Shelly always has an ear to the gossip.

  The door opens behind us and Richard Danbury, the station manager, walks into my dressing room. He’s showing up ten minutes before a board meeting. He must want to be assured that I’ll concur with whatever crap he’ll be spewing in front of the board.

  “Shelly, are you almost finished?” he asks.

  “In just a few seconds.” She dusts a little powder on my earlobes and backs up. She looks closely at the finished product. “She looks amazing. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Danbury?”

  “That she does,” he validates. “Shelly, I need several minutes alone with Melinda.”

  “I’ll be upstairs. Text me when you need touch-ups.”

  After she exits the room, Richard sits in the chair to the left of my vanity. “Spill it, Richard. What are you not allowing me to say to the board?” I ask. “You wouldn’t be down here just minutes before the meeting otherwise.”

  “The board called the meeting because it may be necessary to postpone the second part of your exposé—just for a day or two. I can assure you that this is not a cancellation.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Before your blood pressure rises, let me explain the situation,” he says, placing a hand on my wrist. “Less than an hour ago, we received a call from someone claiming to be Agnew McAllister. We were warned that if we go on air with more half-truths about his past, he vowed to kill everyone involved with the transmission.”

  “That proves that it wasn’t Agnew,” I say. “He always lets one victim or hostage live. Weren’t you watching my segment last night?”

  “I was, but it was quite apparent that you elaborated in a handful of places.”

  “Nothing more than we usually do,” I say, pushing a bit of guilt on the station’s less-than-ethical broadcasting practices. “How can you justify postponing what will clearly be the highest-rated show in this station’s history? You should be bringing me a bottle of top-shelf champagne rather than delivering a gag order.”

  “We need to authenticate whether the caller was Agnew or simply some clod pulling a convincing prank,” he explains. “We’ve compared the recording to several of his sound bites. We unanimously agreed that the voice on the other line sounded uncannily like Agnew.”

  I laugh and shake my head in disgust. “Give me a break already, Richard. Thousands of people can imitate Christopher Walken. If someone called the station claiming to be Walken, would you assume he was actually on the other line?”

  “Not necessarily, but legal says we need to delay your portion of the program until we get confirmation. As long as we run the segment within 72 hours, we run no risk of losing the advertisement revenue. The reschedule may actually build anticipation.”

  “There is no fucking way, Richard.” I am so pissed that I could spit fire. “We’re going to look like scared little cunts if we don’t run the full show as scheduled.”

  “How can you sound so eloquent on the air, yet talk like a wayward biker whenever you disagree with me?”

  “If I remember correctly, you sure enjoyed the dirty talk when I was blowing you in your office every afternoon.” Although he wants to forget our torrid affair, I was his mistress for nearly a year. I took care of the sensual needs that his prim wife was unwilling to fulfill. I took the appropriate steps to rapidly move up the ladder to the feature desk—even though I had to climb to that position on my knees. I wasn’t about to work in the control room until awarded an opportunity procured through hard work. Screw that shit. Every year adds a wrinkle. After you collect too many lines, they’ll find a fresher face to place in front of the camera. It’s a cruel business.

  “Why is it necessary to bring up our tryst anytime you want to get your way?” he asks.

  I hesitate, looking for the right response to annihilate him. “Admitting it helps to keep a handful of sleeping pills out of my mouth each time I replay it in my head.” Yep, I just have a gift to say the right words when I’m out to hurt someone. From the sadness that washes over Richard’s blue eyes, I struck him where it hurts. Maybe he’ll revise his bullshit verdict now.

  “This decision isn’t personal,” he says instead. I hate when a harsh comment doesn’t quite land. “We’re looking out for the safety of everyone involved with the show. You’re not the only one at risk.”

  “I’m the one keeping the viewers glued in front of their television and computers.”

  “We don’t have much choice here.”

  “Did he say exactly when he planned to kill everyone?” That sounded bad, but if it’s not an imminent threat, why sweat it?

  “Does it matter? It’s a warning shot. We need to respond.”

  “The solution is simple: have a few police officers guard the building and have a camera crew standing by at each entrance. If Agnew tries getting inside, the suspense will provide a huge fucking spike in the ratings. Our viewers will tune into something else if we’re not offering a scenario more compelling than an episode of Shameless.”

  “We can’t exactly call in the police over an unconfirmed threat.”

  “You’re willing to postpone my exposé over an unconfirmed threat,” I point out. “Why must we walk through that fucking body scanner in the lobby each morning if it isn’t there to protect the people in this building?”

  “It does protect us, but Agnew is a different animal. He has managed to escape capture each time he has been surrounded by the police. You reported t
his fact last night. I’m unwilling to gamble with the lives of our employees. You should have more dignity than to put your needs above the safety of your support staff.”

  “You’re pissing me off with this guilt trip,” I bark. “Good luck keeping your cushy job if we lose the advertisement revenue I generate through my hard-hitting journalism. I should be the dominant voice here.”

  He gets a text and glances down at his phone. “Legal made their recommendation for a temporary 48-hour postponement of the segment. I’m telling you what is what because I don’t want you to feel unsupported in the boardroom.”

  “Come on, Richard. You have the power to back me on this; you still have the final word.”

  “Wrong,” he states. “The final word is at the discretion of the board of directors. They are all congregating upstairs.”

  “Do you realize that I’ve gained nearly four-thousand Instagram followers over the past 18 hours. I will lose a slew of these new fans if I don’t have the integrity to proceed in the face of adversity.”

  “We’ll just announce that you are too ill to do the show. This type of thing happens regularly.”

  “Not at this station,” I argue. “I’ve done my show with the flu—I kept throwing up in a plastic bucket during commercial breaks. No one pulled the plug when I was blowing chunks. Besides, I’ve posted four tweets this morning regarding tonight’s show. No one will believe that I’m suddenly under the weather.”

  “Melinda, I realize the timely airing of this segment is important, but we can’t operate with a threat looming over us. We are all aware of what that maniac is capable of doing.”

  “You are so spineless. 60 Minutes would never get bulldozed like this. Even if Agnew called in the threat, there is no concrete proof that he would do anything. Everyone is so afraid of him, but he isn’t even as tall as I am.”

  “His height isn’t a factor; we’re up against his unrelenting bloodlust and irreverence. You are welcome to take this up with the board. I’ll wait to vote until after you’ve made your argument. I give you my word. Oh, and be eloquent if you expect to be taken seriously up there. They don’t like being bullied or threatened.”

  “I’m certainly willing to push the board a little over what is likely nothing more than an empty threat or someone pulling a prank,” I say. “Even if the call came from Agnew, I doubt he’d waste his time showing up at this place. He would have to know we’d have security measures in place.”

  “I can’t believe that you’re so incredibly vain that you’d be willing to put everyone at risk for another 15 minutes of fame.” He’s probably worried that this episode could lead to a national offer where I’ll be ushered to some greener pasture.

  “Absolutely.” I stand up and walk past him. I’m not about to let my overcautious weasel of a boss turn off my spotlight. I usually get what I want—even if I have to stomp my feet like a spoiled infant. “Richard, if you happen to fuck up the station’s upward trajectory, you will be at risk of termination yourself. Don’t forget, my ratings keep the revenue steadily flowing in here. In other words, don’t tie my hands.”

  “I’m well aware of all that you do,” he says, a bit emasculated. “If a massacre happens on my watch, I’ll get canned much quicker than anyone else. Research is making this investigation a top priority. If all checks out, we might be able to get the segment on the air as scheduled. We simply need an alternative plan in place.”

  “The board can vote however they want,” I declare. “I plan to be parked in my chair when the show goes live at 7:00.”

  They won’t dare pull the exposé if the public sees me in the studio. I’ll drop some images on Instagram to garner public support. I have no problem breaking station protocol; I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to keep this segment breathing. My face needs to be on millions of televisions, computers, and smartphones. This is my moment. Not even Agnew McAllister is standing in my way!

  Chapter 12

  Derek

  After retrieving Mandi’s car from Leighton’s parking lot, I drive around in a state of bewilderment. I feel a bit foolish believing such an outrageous story. Unexpectedly, this new and improved version of Mandi has me spellbound. Until the moment she drove away in her shoddy Cavalier, her strange body language, lack of stammering, and overall conviction corroborated that her series of unlikely events are likely to be true. Her story about being unconscious and bleeding on the highway tipped the scale. I’d be remiss to ignore the coincidences. Her hair is the same length, and her body is thin enough to mirror the girl appearing in that dream each night.

  The wishing well in Wilkinson Creek has had me rattled since my senior year in high school. I overheard a few rumors here and there that seemed embroidered. Often, the wishing well was blamed for the quarterback throwing too many interceptions during the homecoming game or something just as ludicrous. I never thought there was much validity to any claim until Tony Morretti had quite the scrape with the wishing well. After that, I became distrustful of the local landmark.

  Tony was an underachiever with mud-colored hair, brown eyes, and no distinct features—that faceless kid that blended into the hallway of the school. He gained minimal visibility due to an ongoing struggle deciphering fantasy from reality. The boy lied so frequently and unapologetically that I nicknamed him “Taradiddle Tony”—never to his face, of course. As far back as junior high, he made a habit out of spinning fallacious tales. Not one of his stories could ever be substantiated because each event took place outside of town. After a while, the guys in our group felt betrayed because they detected that almost every word that shot from his mouth was a steaming pile of horseshit. I finally told them, “Don’t get mad at Tony . . . laugh at him. He lies as a way to contribute something interesting. Enjoy his mendacity as a form of free entertainment.”

  That’s how it went. We would deliberately bring up a topic to see what Tony might invent to upstage us. He could yank some crap out of the air in a matter of seconds. We liked Tony and greatly pitied him. Often, one friend in a group has a difficult time impersonating a real person and is transformed into a character.

  Shortly after graduation, we all met at the movies for the $1.50 second-run feature. Tony had lost some zest without a captive audience every afternoon during commons. He’d still spin lies, but he detected disinterest from a few guys that were tired of his ineptitude. He wasn’t willing to accept losing his “following.” After the movie, he strolled to the wishing well, tossed in his prized railroad wheat penny, and begged for “good fortune to smile upon him.”

  The following morning, armed assailants made off with $175,000 from the First National Bank in Wilkinson Creek. It had been the most critical crime in the town since the seven-person killing spree five years earlier. Although roadblocks were set up, not a trace of the money was recovered. The police knew the robbery had been orchestrated by a well-organized pack of out-of-town thugs but were clueless about their method of fleeing. Only six roads lead away from the town. The highway patrol had all exits covered. Not one person that was stopped even had a misdemeanor on their record.

  Later that afternoon, Tony snuck to the woods behind the bakery to smoke his daily herb. While ruminating about the future, he stumbled upon a carelessly camouflaged red duffle tucked under some broken tree limbs. It was full of $10s, $20s, and $50s. At the time of the discovery, he failed to make the connection that the bag most likely contained the loot from the robbery. Due to his bidding the night before, he inferred that his wish had been granted. The other scenario he briefly considered was that a careless idiot wanted to travel light and left the bag behind. The fact that the wads of cash were all “nicely wrapped” failed to send up any flares—he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. He elected to keep the newfound dough a secret—even to us.

  Two different outcomes often occur when someone is suddenly enriched: they either become frugal because they’ve never been blessed with such a level of financial security—or they go crazy with the money.
Tony fit into the second variety. Once this much cheddar was at his fingertips, no moss could grow on a rolling rock.

  His wardrobe had improved with a pair of “Nike” high-tops, “Guess” shirts, and designer jeans he couldn’t afford. Naturally, we asked where he got the duds.

  “When I was in Palatine last weekend, some clown stumbled into this second-hand clothing store and unloaded all of this stuff,” he revealed. “I talked the clerk into tagging it and then snagged it all before they realized what they had.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said, positive that not a word of it was the truth. “It’s funny how the guy that surrendered his wardrobe just happened to have your same waist size, shoe size, and owned shirts that fit you perfectly.”

  “Yeah, that was a lucky break. I love when everything comes together like that.”

  We collectively agreed that his explanation stood less than a one-percent chance of being factual, but we weren’t about to push for additional details. Above all else, he wasn’t making that kind of dough flipping burgers at the Golden Griddle on Elm Street.

  Despite our skepticism, a few days later he was tooling around town in a red Ford Mustang with shiny whitewalls and not a spec of rust on the exterior. Without any noticeable body damage, we immediately concluded that the sporty car was far beyond his means. Naturally, we asked how he came up with enough bread to buy such a cherry car considering he couldn’t scrape together $3 for a tub of popcorn a week earlier.

  “Oh, dude, my cousin from Crystal Lake invited me to this high-stakes poker game a few nights ago,” he said. “I was on a hot streak. I found myself holding a straight flush, and this cowboy across the table tossed the title of his car into the pot. Naturally, I called the bastard. As luck would have it, I’m now the proud owner of this fine automobile.”