by Rachel Lee
For the first time, she seriously missed the badge she had once carried.
She was wound as tight as a top, eager to leave for Atlanta, afraid to go, and afraid of what traveling with Seamus might mean after last night.
But Otis loomed larger and more important than getting mixed up again with Seamus. A man's life was certainly more important than her minor emotional crises.
And she was surprised to discover that she was having mixed feelings about talking to James Otis's family. Now that she had something more than a mere wisp of intuition to go on, now that she might actually find something factual, she was terrified.
God, why couldn't she have just left this alone? Seamus was right. The jury had made the determination, and it wasn't her responsibility.
But what if she got up there and found out something she really didn't want to know? What if she got up there and found something that proved that John Otis really had killed the Klines?
It was an odd thought to be having at this point, after so many days of beating her head on a brick wall over the man's innocence. Why was she all of a sudden worried that he might turn out to be guilty?
After all, if it turned out that he really had killed the Klines, she had nothing more to worry about. Did she?
When the phone rang, she practically jumped at it.
“I can go,” Seamus said. “When do you want to leave?”
“I need to talk to the station. I'd be surprised if they can let me out of tonight's show, but I'm sure I can arrange to get away in the morning.”
“Then let's go in the morning. I have some interviews to do this afternoon anyway. Make the reservations for us both, will you? And find out if the family is in town. I'd hate to get up there and find out they've moved to Timbuktu.”
“They're still there. I called this morning.”
“You didn't tell them we were coming?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to make sure they were there.”
“Good. I think it'd be better to surprise them. I'll get back to you later to finalize the details.”
She hung up the phone and wished to God she could shake the feeling that this was a major mistake.
When she got to the station, the first thing she did was tell Bill she was going out of town.
“You want to what?” Bill asked disbelievingly.
“I need to go to Atlanta,” Carey said firmly. “Two days is all I need, okay? Maybe not even that much if I can get everything done in one day, but make it two to be safe.”
“And I'm supposed to yank somebody in to cover for you on twenty-four hours’ notice?”
He could do it, she knew. People got sick sometimes, and he had to juggle things. This was no major deal. But trust Bill to act like it was. “Ted would love to do my show, and you know it. Then there's the weekend hosts.”
“And you've got a syndicated program. Did you consider that?”
“Use some of my old tapes then.” That was one of the benefits of syndication. The tapes of the best of her old shows were still available. Some of them were even for sale.
“Do you think Rush Limbaugh just takes two days off at the last minute?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “I'm no Rush, and you know it. My absence won't even cause a ripple in the cosmos. Do you want me to call in sick?”
Almost in spite of himself, he laughed. “Jesus, you're something else. I'll make you a deal. Tape me two shows without call-ins and you can go.”
“One show,” she argued. “I'll do one show. That'll give you time to cover the next.”
“Okay, okay. One show. Just tell me this trip you're taking will give us something good to use when you get back.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe.” He sighed and threw up a hand. “Okay. Get me that show. And it better not be another one like last night, because I'm already singed from covering your butt. You went way out there, Carey.”
“I was angry.”
“Most everybody who tuned in last night figured that out. I understand that you're passionate on this subject, but you need to remember this is a business. We need to make money. And we don't make money if people are turning us off. Got it?”
She nodded. “Actually, if the calls are any indication, getting angry is making people listen.”
“I wouldn't count on that. Give me something else, Carey. Something I can use to reassure people you aren't just going off the deep end.”
She did better than that. By two o'clock she had lined up five people to tape a show at four on the subject of sexual harassment. There was a man who'd been accused of harassment and the woman who had sued him, both of their attorneys, and the retired judge who had presided over the trial. The U.S. Supreme Court had agreed to review the case, and both sides apparently had a lot they wanted to say.
She didn't have any trouble filling up the three hours without any calls, and it turned into a damn good show, with the two attorneys shouting across the conference table at one point, the woman crying, the man accusing her of being a lying bitch, and the judge remarking that he wouldn't have tolerated these histrionics in his courtroom. The show ended with the judge giving the listeners his ruling in plain English that anyone could understand.
And from that, she went to her regular broadcast. Once again she opened with her countdown, reminding her listeners that John William Otis had exactly seven days to live.
Saying it out loud was almost like a punch to the stomach. Seven days. Only seven days. Panic fluttered in her stomach, and it was only with difficulty that she forced herself to concentrate on the subject she had chosen for tonight, the Americans with Disabilities Act.
As she had expected, everybody had an opinion about that, most of them negative, and most of them based on misconceptions about the law. The show moved quickly through the first two hours, but by the time she took her last newsbreak, she was feeling exhausted. The home stretch had rarely looked so good.
She slipped out back for a cigarette, hating herself for the weakness, and sat on the bench, petting Peg. She was getting more and more uptight about Atlanta, she realized, as the cat's soft fur tickled her palm. The closer the trip came, the less she wanted to do it.
Maybe it was because she was terrified that she wouldn't find anything there to help John Otis. She took a deep drag on her cigarette and thought about the small man sitting in a prison cell in Starke, about the man who had written the sometimes wise, sometimes naive, and always surprisingly gentle poems she had read. The man who dreamed of New England winters he would never see and who had worn out his Bible. The man who had never been allowed to be a child, the child who would never become a man because his life had followed such a tortured, twisted path.
If he died, how would she live with his death on her conscience? If she came back from Atlanta with nothing, there would be nothing left she could do, and that possibility did terrify her. In the back of her mind, the clock never stopped ticking.
She wondered what he was feeling tonight, with just seven days left in his life. Was he scared? Did he rail against fate? Did he feel hate for his tormenters? Had he found the peace he had been trying to project when she had visited him?
The back door of the station opened, and she looked up, startled. Seamus stepped into the buttery light of the security lamp.
“Lou told me where to find you.”
She nodded and kept stroking the cat. “An open-door policy to the police department.”
“Something like that. It's the badge.” He came to sit near her on the bench. “So we're leaving in the morning?”
“We have an eleven-thirty flight. There was nothing available earlier.”
“That's okay. Maybe I'll actually manage to catch up on some sleep tonight.”
“I sure hope I do.”
They sat in silence for a minute, but when Carey realized he hadn't come out here to tell her anything specific, she glanced at her watch. “I need to get back in. I'm on the air in two minutes.”
&n
bsp; He nodded and followed her. To her surprise, he didn't leave when she returned to the studio, but instead waited outside, watching her as she put on the headphones, scooted up to the mike, and looked at Marge for the countdown. And with the ease of long experience, she slipped right into her on-air persona, hardly even thinking about the words that passed her lips.
“This is Carey Justice, and you're listening to 990 WCST…”
“You know, Carey,” said the first caller, “you're just another one of those liberal jerks who think all the rest of us should pay for people who can't take care of themselves.”
“How's that?” she enquired.
“This ADA thing is just another example of the crap you're putting out. You could put a positive spin on just about anything. Look, it isn't a business's fault if some guy is in a wheelchair. It's not like they put him there. So why should they have to spend their hard-earned money to put in a ramp so he can get in the front door? And look at all this special handicapped parking. Parking space costs money.”
She fielded his comments with only half her attention and moved on to the next caller, hoping for something she could really sink her teeth into. But Seamus's presence disturbed her concentration, and she found herself wishing she could just get out of here and let all these idiots go hang. Where ordinarily she enjoyed the interplay with her callers, tonight she just felt impatient, as if she were wasting her time.
Which, of course, she was. Nobody's mind got changed by anything she said. That thought, which plagued her from time to time, suddenly came over her with a vengeance. It was all she could do not to pull off the headphones and just walk away.
At least in court her speeches and arguments had had a chance of making a difference.
The errant thought was unwelcome, and it annoyed her. She cut off a caller earlier than she might otherwise have, trying to drive the traitorous thought away, and jabbed the button for the next caller without even looking to see who it was.
“Caller, you're on the air.”
“Carey. Did you get the message?”
She recognized the voice instantly. Bob from Gulfport was back. Quickly she signaled to Marge to get the phone number, then waved to Seamus. Moving quietly, he came into the booth.
“Hi, Bob,” she said into the microphone. “I figured you would call last night.”
“You did?” He sounded almost pleased.
“Well, after the Barnstable killing, I figured you'd want to talk about it.”
“So you knew it was me?”
“Of course I did.” She looked at Seamus, saw him look back with the same sense of urgency. “What are you trying to do, Bob?”
“I told you, John Otis didn't do it. I did.”
“You've said that before. The problem is this, Bob. It's not enough to say John Otis didn't do it. Anybody could say that.”
“I'm proving he didn't do it.”
“How's that?”
“I'm proving that I really did it.”
“You could just be a copycat. So you see, killing people isn't going to get John out of prison.”
Marge came into the booth with the phone number, and Carey motioned her to give it to Seamus. He took it and headed out. Marge went back to the control booth.
“They'd better listen,” Bob said. “They'd better listen, because I'll just keep on killing people.”
“How is that going to fix anything? Do you think they're going to stay Otis's execution because some guy threatens to kill more people? I need more than that, Bob. A lot more if I'm going to stop the execution.”
“They have to listen!” His voice was rising, and he was beginning to sound hysterical. “They'd better listen, or the killing is never going to stop! If they kill Johnny, I'm going to kill so many people that they'll be sorry! I will!”
“Bob… take it easy there, guy. Getting mad isn't going to fix anything. Just take it easy and talk to me.” She hadn't a doubt Seamus was trying to get the number traced so that he could send out a car to pick up this guy. She had to keep him on the air. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Save Johnny! You have to save him!”
“I want to. Believe me I want to.”
“He doesn't deserve to die. He never did anything wrong.”
“I know that But I need some kind of proof. You've got to give me something that proves he didn't kill Linda and Harvey Kline.”
There was a brief silence, then Bob said too calmly, “Look at the body.” There was a click followed by a dial tone.
She wanted to swear, but her mike was open. She looked at Marge, who had hastily loaded a cart and now cut away to a commercial.
A breather. Not that it would do her much good. This guy was a lunatic, and she was scared to death that he was going to kill someone else before they could find him.
Seamus stepped back into the studio. “A car is on the way.”
“He's gone.”
“I know. But maybe they'll see him running away from the phone.”
“It was a pay phone again?”
“This one was in Gulfport.”
She looked at Marge and saw they were just about to come out of the commercial. She motioned Seamus to silence, then spoke into her mike.
“This is Carey Justice, and you're listening to 990 WCST. Well, folks, that last caller—it's getting to be too much, don't you think? If this guy is telling the truth, if he really did kill Harvey and Linda Kline, then he needs to step forward and take the rap before John William Otis goes to the electric chair. Because if Bob from Gulfport really did kill the Klines, and he doesn't step forward, then he's going to be personally responsible for the death of John Otis. Not that this guy seems to care much about human life.
“It's creepy. Do me a favor, people. Lock your doors and windows tonight, and don't let anybody in that you don't know. In fact, don't even answer the door unless you know the person on the other side. The body count is already high enough.”
She looked at Seamus and motioned him to sit at the table in front of the guest microphone.
“With me in the studio tonight is Detective Seamus Rourke of the St. Petersburg Police Department. Detective, do you have any suggestions to make to our listeners about ways they can protect themselves?”
He shot her a sour look, then leaned toward the microphone. “Thank you for asking, Carey. People need to be especially aware of sliding glass patio doors. Use something—a broomstick, a piece of wood—and fit it so the door can't slide open. The locks on most of these doors are easy to bypass, so don't count on them to do the job.”
He sat back, giving her a satisfied look, and throwing the ball back into her lap.
She questioned him for a few minutes about security, avoiding the subject of the murders, even though she knew her listeners wanted to hear something about them, because she was aware that he could get in trouble for discussing an ongoing investigation without permission from higher-ups.
Then she made a point of thanking him and bidding him good night. He took his cue and left the studio immediately.
Now he couldn't be put on the spot.
And now she had to deal with an increasing number of callers who, for a change, were on her side in the matter of Otis. Most of them said the same thing: If Bob really wanted to save John Otis, then he needed to be a man and step forward.
She hoped Bob got the message.
Seamus was waiting for her when she left the station.
“You're getting predictable,” she told him.
“It's age. It's turning me into a creature of habit”
“Did you guys get him?”
He shook his head. “He was long gone by the time they started looking for him. He either lives in the area, or he has friends where he can go to ground. We're going to watch the phones when you're on the air, though.”
“If he's got half a brain, he'll use a different phone next time.”
“Probably.” Lightning flickered somewhere up north in Pasco County, a silent light
show just above the horizon. Cicadas shrilled noisily, making the night seem alive. “Have you had any more death threats?”
“Nary a one. No more graffiti, either.”
“Chickenshits.”
An errant laugh escaped her. “Maybe they don't want to get caught and arrested.”
“That assumes they have more brains than they probably do.”
“Well, it couldn't have made them happy when the station stood up to them. It wasn't the outcome they wanted.”
“Nope.” A gust of cool air blew over them, heralding the storms building to the north. “I'm going home with you.”
Her heart stopped. Memories of their kiss had been plaguing her in unguarded moments ever since, and her body felt like a violin tuned too tight. If he plucked her strings, she was going to snap. “Why?” she managed to ask.
“I don't like the idea of this Bob running around killing people who were involved in the Otis case. You were involved.”
“I'm also involved in trying to get Otis out. We've been over this, Seamus. There's no reason to think this guy will come after me. At least I'm giving him the attention he wants, if nothing else.”
“And maybe this guy hasn't connected the prosecutor Carissa Stover with the air personality Carey Justice. You can't know for sure. Since I want to get some sleep tonight, I decided it would be easier to do it on your couch than at home worrying.”
She was tired to the point of exhaustion, and maybe that's why she suddenly felt like throwing a temper tantrum, stomping her foot and telling him to quit wedging himself into every corner of her life. It was bad enough to find him creeping into her dreams, but she sure as hell didn't want to find him there every time she turned around when she was awake.
He'd insinuated himself so far that she couldn't go into her kitchen without seeing him sitting at the table, she couldn't walk into her foyer without remembering the stolen kiss that had left her almost too weak to stand, and every night when she crawled into her bed she remembered him stretching out beside her.