The Anything Goes Girl (A Brenda Contay Novel Of Suspense Book 1)

by Barry Knister

  She let him in. “Just leave them on the counter.” He took the bags into the kitchen. Brenda looked to the answering machine. Three messages.

  The guard came back. “What happened to your car?”

  “Vandals.”

  “Isn’t that a damned shame? Anyway, like I said about this morning, it won’t happen again. FBI or Santa Claus, nobody’s getting in here.”

  “Good. Someone I want to see may show up later today.”

  “I’ll buzz you.”

  She let him out, then put away the groceries. Opening a second can of Ensure, Brenda stepped back into the living room, and pushed the Play button on the answering machine.

  “That’s it, young lady. Running off from the hospital. This is my welcome home. What kind of doctor lets a sick girl go running off? I can’t believe it. A whole day and nothing from you. First thing you get home, I want answers, Brenda. Your own brother, fired. What did I do wrong, honey? Why do you hurt those who care most? Something’s very wrong when a girl makes a brother with a broken neck lose a major summer job with excellent contacts on Wall Street. You call the minute you get home, sweetheart, with your side. I don’t judge before I know everything. Goodbye.”

  “Brenda, I’m waiting. It’s nine a.m. Friday. I called the station, they said you were home. Why lie you’re not there? I know you’re listening, Brenda, pick up the phone. If I don’t hear from you, I’m on a plane this afternoon. Goodbye.”

  No, please no, Brenda thought.

  “Hi, Bren, it’s Renee. My flight was delayed. I’m calling from the Ann Arbor Marriott. I decided to see you before going back to Marquette. Fill me in when you get a chance, ‘bye.”

  Brenda went to the bedroom and found the Marriott number, unable to shake her dread. There was an odd, perverse logic to it, her mother working for GENE 2, having her certified, and then showing up at the worst possible moment.

  Renee answered. “Hi, Bren, I’m fine. So Haffner let you leave.”

  “Listen, you have to call my mother.”

  “What? No,” Renee said. “I’m sorry, but that’s just too much.”

  “You have to talk to her.”

  “This is beyond friendship. This is abuse.”

  “Ren, if she doesn’t hear from me, she’ll come here. You can’t know how bad that would be. Please call and say I’m on my way to meet you. Anywhere. At Lake Havasu, in Arizona. Say I left this morning. Say I tried to call, but her line was busy, which it had to be. Tell her you’re at a pay phone.”

  “How do I break it off?” Renee asked. “I know your mother. She has this seamless delivery.”

  “Tell her there’s a man exposing himself in front of the phone booth and hang up. That happened to her once, she’ll believe you.”

  She slept all afternoon.

  When the hall buzzer sounded, Brenda woke feeling alert. It was five-thirty. She pulled on jeans, went to the front and pushed the intercom button.

  “There’s a Jim Cason here,” the guard said. “Is he someone you want to see?”

  “What do his eyebrows look like?”

  “Eyebrows? I don’t know…bleached. Blond.”

  “Send him up.”

  She opened the door and waited. Seconds later, the elevator rumbled to a stop and Cason hurried down the hall. “One of ten,” he said, raising a cassette tape as he stepped in.

  “You found Gordon Poole.” She closed the door.

  “Edging his grass,” Cason said. “He told me what you said. He showed me the list. We got the copies made.”

  “Grow it back,” she said, pointing to his face. “I liked it.”

  “Taking off the beard was my big spy contribution,” he said. “GENE 2 people are all over Pohnpei. They might have seen me in the Catholic mission, so I shaved on the plane. We couldn’t trust the regular mail. Peace Corps sent Calvin’s tape via diplomatic pouch. That’s why I didn’t know when it would get here.”

  “Did you get copies of my contract from Joyce Delarossa?”

  “Already delivered. Every place on your list has it.”

  “But not the tape.”

  “Poole said not to. He said there’s another one.”

  “Correct. One I made.”

  “He said you didn’t want either one delivered until tonight. How come?”

  “If they get them during regular business hours, the stations and newspapers will call GENE 2. That could cause problems,” Brenda explained. “The company’s got my own station in their pocket, but I’m hoping someone else will look at what we give them. One or more might decide it’s valid. They already have my expired contract. That will make the other affiliates curious. If they decide I’m leaving W-DIG, they just might like the idea of setting the hook by scooping my station.”

  “I see,” Cason said. “That fits. I told them they’d get related material later. Your friend in the Lincoln is down in the lot.” He handed her the cassette. “They had a camera at the Peace Corps office, for taping public works projects. We made this at the Catholic mission.”

  Brenda smiled. America’s Favorite Home Videos. Frame out of line, ceiling shots, Moser out of focus. There’d be no time to edit, but at least there was something. She turned on the TV and VCR, inserted the tape, and pushed PLAY. There he was, standing in a well-lit room beside a wall map.

  “My name is Calvin Moser,” he said. “I’m an entomologist with GENE 2, a pharmaceuticals firm owned by Neff Industries. For the past year and a half, I’ve been working on the island of Pirim, a coral atoll in the Eastern Carolines. That’s here.”

  He raised a pointer. The camera followed it to the map, zooming in very professionally. “Here’s Los Angeles, here’s Hawaii, here’s Guam. And here’s Pohnpei, where I am now. This is Pirim—”

  “You did this?” she asked.

  “One of the priests,” Cason said. “Father Curran. He does all the fund-raising for the mission. He says nobody ever knows where it is.”

  She backed to a chair as Moser lowered the pointer and turned to the camera.

  “The purpose of my research—I thought—was to conduct studies related to pest management. My company had become interested—I thought—in work I was doing on my own. It’s what’s called a Blue Sky project. That’s an idea a researcher comes up with and is given permission to pursue.”

  “He’s good,” she said. “Does he go on long—”

  “Of course I was surprised and pleased when GENE 2 decided my Blue Sky project had enough merit to justify a full field study. In other words—I thought—I was going to be allowed to do what every scientist dreams of. To work full-time on an idea of my own, free to design the study any way I wanted, with an open-ended budget.”

  “I love the ‘I thoughts,’” Cason said.

  She waved him silent. Calvin didn’t look as he had on the island. He was dressed in what might be one of Vince Soublik’s long-sleeved white shirts, and wearing glasses.

  “My own study isn’t important to what I have to say. All you need to know is that it involves wasps. The idea is to introduce a type of bug that’s the natural predator of another insect that kills food crops. The point is to match up prey and predator. If you can, you improve crop yields and help reduce the need for pesticides.”

  “He knows how to condense,” Brenda said.

  “Thank Father Curran.”

  “I went out to Pirim with high hopes. There were problems at first. The wrong wasps were sent out initially, a very aggressive strain. Everyone living on the island was stung. But since the Pirimese people had signed a contract with GENE 2 to conduct experiments with insects, they accepted this without complaint. What I only recently learned is that the aggressive first shipment of wasps released on Pirim was not sent by mistake. What I also didn’t know was that the island’s leadership had agreed—with or without understanding it—to other research besides mine. This is what you need to learn about—”

  For the next seven minutes, Calvin gave a coherent summary of what had happened.
He had lots of visuals—jars of wasps he held up, photos of Pirim, people’s wasp bites, the taro garden, his lab. He talked about the two women who had never gotten the pre-treatment and developed tumors. About his friend Vincent Soublik, and the great hit he had made with flavored syrup drinks. He described symptoms people started having, seizures and terrible headaches. Calvin built everything up to Vince Soublik’s death, and showed the stark photo of his remains.

  “One month ago, the GENE 2 representative responsible for keeping me supplied on Pirim made a mistake. He brought a visitor to the island. Her name is Brenda Contay. She’s a TV reporter in Michigan. By then, I knew something wrong was taking place. But to be honest, I did my best to rationalize what was happening. I wanted to believe Vince Soublik’s death had been an accident. That the islanders’ symptoms were caused by some sort of tropical disease.”

  Calvin paused a moment and adjusted his glasses.

  “The truth is, I was afraid for my own research. But Brenda Contay came to Pirim, to learn the details of Vince Soublik’s death. She had gone to school with him, and met his family. She convinced me I had to act. You may have seen the stories about her. She was set adrift on a commercial fishing boat. The same boat that brought her to the island. She was rescued, and can confirm what I’ve said here.”

  There it was. The tie-in, the confirmation.

  “I hope it makes sense,” he said finally. “Everything I’ve described is legal. Made so by a contract the Pirimese signed. A contract that promises good schooling for their children, satellite TV, outboard motors and a lot of needed equipment.”

  Calvin was perspiring, but without being self-conscious he took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his face. Brenda remembered him pouring rainwater over his head, how it streamed down. She loved what he’d done, she admired him. But as he put his glasses back on, wiped his hands and again looked into the camera, she saw him as he was now, not as she had briefly known him. He looked like a stranger. Handsome, serious. De-personalized.

  “Lots of current issues relate to what’s happened out here,” he said. “Genetic engineering, fetal tissue research, in-vitro conception. What to do when people can’t tell you whether they want to keep living. Or can tell you, and say they don’t. I’m an entomologist, not a philosopher. And I know it’s foolish to expect people to risk venture capital for research without giving them a chance to make money. But if you think what I’ve told you is justified. If you think companies are right to pursue any research, anywhere, just so it’s legal—well, you’re wrong.”

  Calvin nodded to his left, and the screen went blank.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  They rewound the tape and watched again. Listening from the kitchen, Brenda fixed Cason and herself bacon-cheese omelets. As they ate, she told him about the sale of GENE 2, and the Draft Minot rally scheduled for Labor Day.

  “Now I see why the island was crawling with GENE 2 people,” he said. “If this gets used before Monday, Minot won’t be bowling in the White House basement any time soon.”

  After they finished eating, Brenda went into her study and got Cal Moser’s file. She came back and handed it to Cason. “Before you deliver the tapes, go to Kinko’s. Make copies of everything here,” she said. “Make sure everyone getting the tape also gets Moser’s file. Without it, they may not trust what they see.”

  He took it and opened the door. “You could be all over the place tonight,” he said. “I’ll be watching with the Soubliks. I met them at Gordon Poole’s. We’ll have three sets. We’ll watch Fox at ten, then the local affiliates at eleven.”

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  It was seven-thirty when he left. In less than two hours, Brenda was supposed to be downstairs at the pool for a run-through of the bogus special. But there was one thing left to do.

  She changed into the black slacks and blouse she would wear tonight under the hooker robe. Jerry had promised her everything—a live remote that would pre-empt Ray Kramer at eleven-thirty, “News Flash!” promos at station breaks during the afternoon. He might air what had been taped the day before, but that would be all.

  She set her VCR to record Channel 4’s news at eleven, then put the tape of Moser in her shoulder bag before taking the elevator down to the lobby.

  The evening guard looked up as she passed. “I see you have a special tonight,” he said.

  “True.”

  “Break a leg. That’s what you say, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what you say,” she said, and walked outside. It was dusk, a soft, clear evening. McIntosh was alone in the Lincoln.

  Brenda got in her Camaro and drove west to the overpass bridge at the Lodge Expressway. She slowed for the traffic signal. As McIntosh came to a stop behind her, Brenda floored the accelerator, watching the rearview to confirm McIntosh remained at the light. She wouldn’t risk getting pulled over, and there was no need. McIntosh knew where she was going.

  At W-DIG’s gatehouse, Brenda stopped and waved the guard over.

  “Someone’s right behind me,” she said. “In a gray Lincoln. If she doesn’t stop, don’t worry, she’s expected.”

  The lot was almost empty. Brenda parked in her reserved spot next to the Harley’s shed and waited. Seconds later, the Lincoln appeared at the east corner of the building, and turned sharply. Nearing the entrance, it slowed. As the car reached her space, Brenda got out and moved behind her Camaro. Tires barked.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  She ran, dodging behind the row of cars facing the studio. In reverse, McIntosh moved parallel on the service drive. Brenda let her get ahead, then slipped between cars and ran for the entrance. Come on, she thought as brakes squealed. Get off your ass and run, let’s see what you can do—

  Ten feet from the double doors, something hard struck her from behind, very precisely on the left kidney.

  She went down. For several seconds she couldn’t breathe or see, heaving for air. Pain worse than anything she could think of spread from her back. McIntosh had known right where to hit. Just where, and just how. Something learned in Glasgow.

  Tears blurred her vision, she felt warm asphalt under her. It was crazy. In agony, she was feeling a surface warmth identical to the sand on Pirim, pink sand made of coral and shells ground down to finest sugar as she’d walked the beach with Moser, going to see his lab, his garden in Eden….

  At last she was able to roll on her back, then onto her side. Finally she shoved up into a sitting position, and braced with one hand.

  McIntosh yanked her shoulder bag, tearing it off her free arm. That’s right, Brenda thought, gasping. That’s what you’re supposed to do. McIntosh came around in front, wearing Nikes and gripping a tire iron.

  “Don’t get up.” She pulled out the cassette and dropped the bag. “Probably, there’s a loose cannon in the control room,” she said. “Some Anything Goes friend like your cameraman Chambers. Someone you talked into running this tonight instead of your show.”

  McIntosh knelt down and pulled Brenda’s face up by the chin. “Still don’t believe me? We knew there was something taped in the mission,” she said. “Jerry knows it, too. He took precautions. This was a futile gesture, but I must say I enjoyed it.”

  She let go and stood, tape in hand. She tucked the tire iron under her arm and pushed back her hair. “Jerry gave me something else. A technician turned it over to him this afternoon. Some tape you made last night. I’m very curious, Brenda. I’ll take them to the Radisson and order room service. I need to know what we’ll be dealing with down the road.”

  McIntosh turned away and walked to her car. She got in, backed slowly into an empty parking space, and pulled out.

  Side throbbing, after a minute Brenda managed to stand. You do just that, she thought. Order room service, Betsy, and take a look.

  ◆◆◆◆◆

  “Glad you could make it, Brenda. It’s ten-fifteen.”

  Still dizzy, she crossed her apartment building’s marble lobby. Jerry was outside the entrance t
o the pool, frowning down from the mezzanine railing.

  “I had an errand,” she called.

  “Is that a fact?”

  She reached the elevator and pushed the button. Jerry’s idea was that she should appear to viewers as a survivor, but still convalescing. Yesterday, he had set an I.V. pole next to the wheelchair, and run plastic tubing up the robe’s sleeve. She looked and felt the part now. The small of her back throbbed as the doors opened. Brenda rode the half floor to the mezzanine. He was waiting when she stepped out.

  “Is this or is this not the special you wanted?” he asked.

  “You mean the special you want.” She moved toward the doors leading to the swimming pool. Jerry stepped ahead and blocked the way. He crossed his arms.

  “Sending out your contract.” He shook his head. “I’m just very disappointed.”

  “Is that right? I had some great stuff for tonight, but a friend of yours took it.”

  “Betsy McIntosh. She called from her car. What were you planning? You think we can just air something sight unseen? Unedited? Live? I’m sorry, that’s not being reasonable. It’s not professional.”

  “You two must be great buddies.”

  “Her proposal for coming clean on what happened is going to be fabulous,” he said. “Lou agrees we have to keep her happy. Absotively posilutely you’re crucial to the project.”

  “You’re making me angry,” Brenda said. “Get out of the way. We both know this is going to be Lou Stock’s Big Adventure.”

  “Well, come on, Brenda. He’s the anchor, for Christ’s sake. What am I supposed to do, show some bug scientist dumping on Neff? Have a Fortune 500 company cancel everything with us? If that happened, you and I would be selling TVs at Best Buy.” He laughed, came forward and hugged her. “Actually, sending out your contract’s a nice move. You are a pistol, Brenda Contay.” He let go and held open the door.

  Inside, it was hot and humid, too bright. Brenda got out her sunglasses and walked to the wheelchair positioned next to the pool. The robe waited on the back. She put it on and saw Gretchen practicing a shot of the room. It would never be aired.