by Lisa Jackson
The bitch.
He stopped working for a minute, listened to the first caller's complaints, men reached into his toolbox. He had two spools. Twenty-pound test fishing line… strong, clear, easy to string through the beads, or piano wire… even stronger, but not as flexible. The beads wouldn't slide like liquid through his fingers, the sensation wouldn't be so fluid. Which way to go? He'd used them both before. Neither had failed him.
Dr. Sam's voice answered the listener's question. She sounded so calm. Rational. Seductive. He reached down to touch himself, but stopped. He had work to do. He dropped the spool of piano wire back into the box, then tore open the packet of fishing line with his teeth. Removing the line, he pulled hard, watching as it stretched and held.
The muscles in his arms bunched. The line cut into his palm but didn't break.
He grinned. Yes, it would do nicely.
As Dr. Sam continued her program, talking to the idiots who called her, he began stringing his sharpened beads, careful to put them in the correct order, ensuring that his rosary was perfect.
Nothing less would do.
Chapter Eleven
Melanie clicked off her cell phone and fumed as she pulled into a parking space in the lot of the strip mall. It had been a bad week. Bad. And it wasn't getting any better she thought, slapping the dash and wishing that the damned air-conditioning in her hatchback would find a way to turn on. It didn't and the temperature in the car was hovering somewhere near two thousand degrees by her estimation.
Her T shirt was wrinkled and clinging to her, and she was sweating between her legs. She climbed out of the car and tried not to dwell on the fact that Trish LaBelle seemed to be dodging her calls. Great. Already there was talk at WSLJ that Midnight Confessions was being expanded, but not one word about Melanie getting any kind of promotion and she deserved it.
Samantha's job was a piece of cake. Melanie could handle it with her eyes closed. Hadn't she proved that while Sam was in Mexico? So the ratings had dropped an iota. That was to be expected. Given enough time, Melanie was certain she could create a new, hipper audience. She was young and with it. But she needed the chance to prove herself.
She walked into the oven of a dry cleaners and gave her name to a petite blond girl with inch-long black roots, bad teeth and a permanent sneer.
So if WSLJ wouldn't give her a job behind the mike, she'd decided to call the rival station, WNAB, where Trish LaBelle worked. Trish hated Dr. Sam. Melanie figured Trish would jump at the chance of meeting with Sam's assistant and even offer her a job.
So far Trish hadn't returned her calls.
Yet.
Melanie wasn't one to give up. She'd always been a scrapper; never gotten any breaks that she hadn't made for herself, so, if she had to, she'd damned sure make her own.
"Here ya go." The girl hung her plastic-encased clothes on a hook near the till and Melanie handed over her bank debit-card. "Sorry. The machine's broken. Ya got cash or a check?"
"I left my checkbook at home…" Melanie said, flipping through her wallet and seeing only two crumpled one-dollar bills. Not enough. The day was on a fast downhill slide. She felt bloated and achy; her period was due to start any time, her job was going nowhere, what little family she had didn't give a shit about her and her boyfriend, again, couldn't be reached.
Yep, things were rapidly going from bad to worst.
"There's an ATM on the next block." The twit in need of a bottle of Clairol snapped a wad of gum and waited with bored patience.
Melanie seethed. "It's not my fault your stupid machine is messed up."
The girl shrugged her skinny shoulders and gave Melanie a bored look that said, "tell it to someone who cares." She held Melanie's stare and for a second Melanie considered grabbing her clothes and taking off. After all the skirt, blouse and short jacket were hers.
As if she'd read Melanie's mind, the clerk swept the hangers from the hook and hung them on another rail behind the counter.
"Fine." Melanie snapped her wallet shut. "I'll be back." But she wasn't going to bother today. She was too frazzled. She stomped into the blinding sun, flipped her sunglasses over her nose and slid into the sunbaked interior of her hatchback. The steering wheel was nearly too hot to handle. Twisting on the ignition, she threw the car into reverse and as the radio blared, stepped on the gas. In the rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of a huge white Cadillac pulling out at the same time. She stood on the brakes as the boat slowly slid from its spot and an elderly man who never so much as glanced in her direction rolled slowly out of the lot.
"Idiot," Melanie grumbled. "Old fart."
She backed out, rammed her hatchback into first and sped out of the lot. Before the first light, she passed the old guy and resisted the urge to flip him off. It wasn't really his fault he was old.
She hit the freeway and flooring it, opened the sunroof and all the power windows. Wind blew her hair around and she felt better. She couldn't let one minimum-wage clerk with a bad attitude bug her. She'd pick up her clothes later. In the meantime she'd concentrate on plan B.
One way or another, she'd land a promotion and end up behind the mike. She let herself daydream a little, considered just how far she'd go. Maybe eventually television. She had the looks. A slow smile spread across her lips and she reached for the cell phone while cruising along at seventy. She'd try to call her boyfriend and plan to meet him. If she could get hold of him.
She just needed to unwind.
And he knew just how to help her.
Sam's palms were sweaty and her heart raced, but she told herself, as she entered the booth, that she was being apprehensive and silly.
Nothing had happened.
For nearly a week.
Though each night she'd experienced the same case of nerves as she'd started her program, "John" had remained silent. Had he given up? Was he bored with his joke, if that's what it was? Was he out of town?
Or was he waiting?
For just the right moment.
Stop this, Sam, it's getting you nowhere. Be grateful he's gone.
Still, she was tense as was everyone at the station in varying degrees. Gator and Rob kidded about her "boyfriend," Eleanor stewed, Melanie thought it exciting, and George Hannah hoped that the ratings would continue to climb.
They hadn't. Without John's calls, the listenership's numbers were falling back to where they'd once been, which, Sam thought angrily, had been good. George, his silent partners and even Eleanor had been satisfied.
But no longer.
Eleanor told her "Not to worry, honey. At least the pervert's gone. That's good enough for me. As for George, he can think up some legitimate way to attract a bigger audience. Let's just hope John never calls back."
Right, Sam thought, but a part of her wanted to talk to him again, if only to find out what it was that made him tick. Why he'd decided to call her. Who he was. From a psychologist's viewpoint, he was interesting. From a woman's viewpoint, he was terrifying.
She closed the door to the booth behind her. Slipping on the headset, she settled into her chair, then adjusted the controls, checked the computer screen and glanced through the glass window to the adjoining booth. Melanie was seated at her desk, fiddling with knobs, then gave her a thumbs-up gesture, indicating that she was ready to screen the calls for the night. Tiny was with her, taking his seat, saying something to Melanie that Sam couldn't hear. They laughed, seemed relaxed and Tiny cracked open a can of Diet Coke.
Over the past few nights, Sam had steered the subjects of her nightly discussion away from sin, punishment and redemption and back to relationships, which, of course, was the basis for the show. Things were getting back to normal. The way they were before John had first called. So why had the electricity she'd felt every time she sat in this chair not abated, but in fact, heightened?
Melanie signaled through the glass and the intro music filled the booth. John Lennon's voice, singing "It's Been A Hard Day's Night," boomed from the speakers, then faded.<
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Sam leaned into the microphone. "Good evening, New Orleans, and welcome. This is Dr. Sam with Midnight Confessions here at WSLJ and I'm ready to hear what you think…" She started talking, relaxing, cozying up to the microphone as she invited her listeners to call in. "I just spoke to my dad a couple of days ago, and even though I'm over thirty, he thinks he can still tell me what to do," she said as a way of connecting with her audience, hoping that someone would identify with her and phone in. "He lives on the West Coast, and I'm starting to feel that I should be closer to him, that he might need me now that he's getting up in years." She went on for a while talking about the relationship between parents and children when the phone lines started to flash.
The first was a hangup, the second a woman whose mother was suffering the aftereffects of a stroke; she was torn between her job, her kids, her husband and her feeling that her mother needed her. The third was from a hostile teenager who resented her parents trying to tell her anything. They just didn't "understand" her.
Then there was a backlash, from parents and kids who thought the teenage caller should listen to her folks.
Sam relaxed even more. Felt at ease behind the mike. Sipped from a half-drunk cup of coffee. The debate waged on and finally a woman called in on line three. She was identified as Annie. Sam pressed the button for the call. "Hi," she said, "This is Dr. Sam, who am I talking to?"
"Annie," a frail, high voice whispered. A voice that was vaguely familiar. But Sam couldn't place the name with a face. She was probably a regular caller.
"Hello, Annie, what is it you want to discuss tonight?"
"Don't you remember me?" the girl asked.
Sam felt the warning hairs on the back of her neck rise. Annie?
"I'm sorry. If you could remind—"
"I called you before."
"Did you? When?" she asked, but the raspy voice hadn't stopped, just paused to draw a breath and kept right on whispering through the studio, on the airwaves.
"Thursday's my birthday. I would be twenty-five—"
"Would be?" Samantha repeated and a chill swept through her blood.
"—you remember. I called you nine years ago, and you told me to get lost. You didn't listen, and—"
"Oh, God," Sam said, her eyes widening. Her heart stopped for a second in a horrid nightmare of déjà vu. Annie?
Annie Seger? It couldn't be. Her mind spun wildly, backward to a time she'd tried to forget.
"You've got to help me. You're a doctor, aren't you? Please, you're my only hope," Annie had confided all those years ago. "Please help me. Please." Guilt took a stranglehold on Sam's throat. Dear God, why was this happening again? "Who is this?" Sam forced into the microphone. From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the adjacent booth, where Melanie was listening, shaking her head, her palms turned toward the ceiling, as if the caller had, once again, gotten past her. Tiny was staring hard through the glass, his eyes trained on Sam, the can of soda in his big hand forgotten.
"—and you didn't help me," the breathy voice accused, hardly missing a beat. "What happened then, Dr. Sam, you remember, don't you?"
Sam's head was pounding, her hands slick with sweat "I asked for your name, Annie—your full name."
Click. The line went dead. Sam sat frozen.
Annie Seger.
No! Her stomach clenched.
It had been so long ago and yet, now, sitting in the booth as she had been then, it all came rushing back, like a tidal wave, crashing through her brain, leaving her numb and cold. The girl had died. Because of her. Because she couldn't help. Oh, God, please not again.
"Samantha! Samantha! Snap out of it!" Melanie's voice permeated her brain, but still she could barely move. "Jesus Christ, pull yourself together!" As if from a distance, Sam felt Melanie's hands on her arms, yanking her out of her chair, thrusting her across the small space, toward Tiny, pushing her away from the desk and the microphone. Still in shock, Sam stumbled, her ankle twisting. She snapped out of it. Realized she was here, in New Orleans and on the air. "Don't you know there's all this dead airtime going on? For God's sake, pull yourself together." Melanie was saying as she slipped on the headphones and reached for the mike. "Get her out of here," she ordered Tiny.
"Wait a minute. I'm okay." Sam wasn't about to budge.
"Prove it." Melanie glared at her and waved her into the hallway. Tiny pulled Sam out of the room as Melanie leaned into the microphone and, as she flipped it on, her voice became smooth as warm silk on a hot Louisiana night. "Please excuse the interruption, we've experienced some technical difficulties down here at WSLJ. Thank you for your patience. Midnight Confessions with Dr. Samantha Leeds will be back in a few minutes, after our local weather update." Expertly Melanie pressed the buttons for the automated recording that would play the weather forecast and a couple of pretaped advertising spots.
"What went on in there?" Tiny asked, then realizing his fingers surrounded Sam's upper arms, he let go and put a little distance between them. The hallway seemed eerie and darker than usual, the glass case holding old records giving off an odd, ethereal glow. But of course that was crazy. It was just Sam's nerves. The corridor and record case hadn't changed.
Drawing in several deep breaths, Sam pulled herself together. She couldn't allow another prank to rattle her so.
"Who was that girl on the line?"
"I don't know," Sam admitted, leaning against the wall. She wiped a hand over her forehead and forced some starch into her spine. Think, Sam, think. Don't let some crank caller get the better of you. "I—I don't know who it was. Can't imagine who would do anything so sick, but whoever it was she wanted me to think she was Annie Seger." Oh, God, not Annie. What was happening? The girl had been dead nine years. Dead. Because Sam hadn't read the situation correctly, hadn't heeded the girl's cries for help. Sam's head pounded, and the coffee she'd drunk earlier curdled in her stomach.
Don't let it get to you, Sam. Don't!
"She said she was Annie and then you freaked out," Tiny accused. "You acted like you knew her."
"I know… but I don't… er, didn't… it's all so unbelievable."
"What is?" He seemed about to touch her again, but, thinking better of it, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his oversize jeans.
"Annie Seger was a girl who called into my program a long time ago when I was working in Houston." It seemed like it was just yesterday. Sam remembered pushing the button, answering the call and listening as a teenager hesitantly explained that she was pregnant and scared to death. "Annie phoned in several nights in a row, asking for advice." Inside Sam cringed when she remembered the girl's calls. At first Annie had seemed scared, but no matter what Sam offered as advice, she rejected it, claimed she had no one to talk to, no one to confide in, not her parents, not her pastor and not even the father of her baby. "I tried to help her, but she ended up committing suicide." Sam pushed the hair off her face and saw the pale shimmer of her reflection in the window of the booth. Beyond the glass Melanie sat at her desk, talking into the microphone, controlling the show. It all seemed surreal, being here late at night in the dim hallway, remembering a time she'd tried so hard to forget.
"You think it was your fault she killed herself?" Tiny asked.
"Annie's family blamed me."
"Heavy."
"Very." Sam rubbed her arms and tried to grab hold of her composure. She had a show to do; a job to finish. She saw Melanie tear off the headset and roll back the chair.
Within seconds she flew out of the room. "You've got sixty seconds before you're back on the air," she said to Sam. "Are you okay?"
"No," Sam admitted. Dear God, I'll never be okay again. She started for the booth. "But I'll wing it."
"Eleanor's on line two. She wants to talk to you."
"I don't have time."
"She's furious," Melanie said.
"I imagine. Tell her I'll talk to her after the show." Sam couldn't deal with the program manager now; not until she was off the air.
"What was the deal with that girl who called in?" Melanie asked, as Sam slid into her chair and automatically checked the controls.
"You tell me," Sam snapped. "You're supposed to be screening the calls."
"I have been! And I recorded her request. She didn't talk in that stupid falsetto voice, either, she just said that she had a problem with her ex-mother-in-law and wanted your advice." Melanie glowered at her boss. "So are you going to pull yourself together and take charge or what? Otherwise, I'll take over." Her voice softened slightly and her defensive attitude slipped away. "I can do it, you know. Easy as pie. Tiny can run the call-in booth. Just like when you were in Mexico."
"I can handle it, really. But thanks."
Melanie flashed a smile that seemed to hide some other emotion. "I'm a shirttail relation to Jefferson Davis, you know."
"I've heard."
"I can step up to the plate if I have to. It's in my genes."
"Well, thank God for your genes, but I'm okay." Sam wasn't going to let another crank call spook her out of her job. "I'll handle it. You two"—she motioned to Tiny and Melanie—"just screen the calls and tape 'em. We've only got another fifteen minutes. Tell Eleanor to sit tight." She adjusted her headphones and pulled the microphone close to her mouth, adjusting the angle as the advertisement for a local dot com company faded.
"Okay, this is Dr. Sam, I'm back in the saddle. Sorry for the interruption. As you probably already heard, the station's experiencing some technical difficulties tonight." It was a bald-faced lie, and she probably lost a few credibility points with her listeners, but she couldn't deal with the issue of Annie Seger right now. "Okay, so let's pick up where we left off a few minutes ago. We were talking about our parents interfering in our lives, or needing us, or telling us what to do. My dad is the greatest, but he can't seem to accept it that I'm a grown woman. I'm sure you've had similar experiences."
The phones lines were already blinking like mad. If nothing else the crank calls were drawing interest. The first caller, on line one, was identified as Ty.