Nowhere to Run

by Mary Jane Clark

  After a night of restless half-sleep, he took a quick shower in the tiny bathroom, dressed in the fresh shirt and underwear he kept in his office for emergencies, and stopped in the cafeteria for a hot cup of coffee to carry back with him to the security command post.

  Station Break was quiet at this early hour, but Edgar was already at work, stocking the coffee trolley.

  “Mornin’.” The food service worker smiled.

  “Good morning, Edgar. How’s it going?”

  “Fine, sir. Just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  He watched the security boss stop to leave money at the register, as the cashier wasn’t in yet.

  An honest person.

  But they weren’t all like that. Some people thought it was fine to take tea bags, cereal, soda, juice—even cheese, right off the salad bar—without bothering to pay. Last week, someone he couldn’t believe had actually gone right into the kitchen and poured out a cup of powdered sugar. Edgar had pretended, as he always did, not to notice.

  And he didn’t want any trouble.

  Chapter 28

  Annabelle preferred to take the subway to work but, at this early hour, a taxi seemed safer and a lot more convenient, even if it was more expensive.

  It was still dark when her cab pulled up in front of the Broadcast Center. She paid the driver and got out just as a blue Lincoln Town Car slid to the curb. Annabelle knew that one of the KTA hosts would be in the backseat. The hired cars that brought them to work at this ungodly hour came with the jobs. She was delighted to see it was Constance Young rather than Harry Granger stepping from the rear door of the car.

  “Am I glad to see you,” Annabelle said, bussing her friend on the cheek.

  Constance gave Annabelle a hug, her hand petting the plush brown fur that covered Annabelle’s arm.

  “New jacket, huh?” she observed, squinting in the dim light that streamed from the lobby windows onto the sidewalk.

  “Don’t even go there—I’m waiting for the animal rights activists to spray me with red paint any minute,” said Annabelle. “And it’s not new. It’s fifteen years old. Let’s call it ‘vintage,’ shall we?”

  The two pushed through the revolving door and swiped their ID cards across the electronic scanner. In the lobby light, Annabelle marveled at how beautiful Constance was even without her makeup. Her alabaster skin was flawless.

  “I missed you yesterday. How was your trip?”

  “Good,” Constance affirmed. “The shoot went well, and I was even able to squeeze in a late lunch with my old boss at the Boston affiliate. But I’ve got to tell you, I hated leaving right after the show to fly up there. What did I miss?”

  Annabelle filled her in on the interview with the FBI and the meeting with Yelena. “Our president is not a happy camper, Constance. I sure wouldn’t want to be in John Lee’s shoes right now.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want to be in Yelena Gregory’s either.”

  Chapter 29

  Her muscles aching with tension, Yelena stood beneath the shower spray and let the needles of hot water pound against her ample body. It would be nice if she could closet herself in the shower stall all day, she thought, but there was too much to do, starting with watching KTA from the very beginning this morning.

  She turned off the water and forced herself from the shower. Standing on the soft white bath mat, she dried herself off, still careful when she came to the old hysterectomy scar, the symbol of the children she was never meant to have. Yelena had always thought there was going to be time to have children, once she got her career on track, once she met the right man. But the career had become all-consuming, the hours long, her time dictated by the unpredictable turns of breaking news. The men she had met found it difficult to play second fiddle to her work. They didn’t like having plans canceled because news happened, forcing her into the office. And as she rose in the news hierarchy, the only men Yelena seemed to come in contact with were the ones she worked with. Her one foray with an office romance had been disastrous. Pete Carlson had only used her to help his own career goals. She still hadn’t recovered emotionally from that fiasco.

  As she looked in the mirror and applied moisturizer to her face, Yelena was all too aware that the years had slipped by, good years, productive years, sometimes exciting years, but years filled with memories of KEY News—not of a fulfilling personal life. At fifty-three, she knew with certainty there would be no children or grandchildren, and she seriously doubted that she would ever get married. But that was all right, she told herself, because she had KEY News. KEY News was her baby. KEY News was the child she cared for with all of her intellect and passion.

  And now, her baby was threatened. With its reputation on the line, Yelena was determined to do anything she could to ensure that KEY News kept its place of honor in the broadcasting world. Absolutely nothing mattered to her more.

  The organization was only as good as the people who staffed it, and KEY had many intelligent and creative minds working in its offices around the world. Yelena paid careful attention to the people she hired, searching out the most talented individuals and luring them into the ranks of her news force. The KEY Evening Headlines with Eliza Blake was progressing nicely in the ratings—no small feat against the likes of Rather, Jennings, and Brokaw. Hourglass, with Cassie Sheridan, after major contract negotiations, finally in the news-magazine anchor chair, led its prime-time hour slot. And KEY to America was blowing away the morning competition with its winning two-hour combination of news, consumer reports, business updates, softer entertainment stories, and book and movie reviews.

  Still, theirs was an ego-driven business, and some were not team players. Linus Nazareth certainly fell into that category. He ran KTA as his own personal candy store, confident that, as long as he brought in the ratings, his place at KEY was secure. Yelena thought him obnoxious and disrespectful. She disliked his bravado and disapproved of the way he treated his subordinates. Mostly, she kept him on because she didn’t want him to go over to the competition. But with a damaged reputation and a loss of credibility, ABC, CBS, and NBC wouldn’t want him either.

  Yelena pulled her bathrobe from the hook and slid her thick arms into the sleeves.

  If she gave Linus enough rope, he would hang himself.

  Time wounds all heels.

  Chapter 30

  With the final word still not in regarding the possible contamination of the KEY to America studio, the decision had been made to do the Friday morning broadcast from the Evening Headlines set. Unit Manager Beth Terry saw to the arrangements.

  It had been a slow news cycle, so Linus could go through with his plan to milk the anthrax story, leading with Dr. Lee. Annabelle watched from the control room.

  “Yes, Constance, there was a lot of excitement around here yesterday. But all’s well that ends well. My aim was to let the public know of the danger that surrounds us, and I think we have done just that.”

  The host looked at the notes in her lap. “Authorities want to know where you obtained the anthrax. What are you telling them?”

  Lee kept the serious expression on his face, though he felt like smiling in smug satisfaction. “I am not going to reveal where I got it. A reporter must protect his sources. If he doesn’t, he loses all credibility. Sources have to know they can trust journalists.”

  Annabelle was nauseated as she listened to the doctor-turned-journalist pontificate, but a glance at the other side of the control room showed that Linus was loving it.

  Had Linus felt her eyes upon him? Was that why he looked her way?

  “Coming to the party Sunday, Annabelle?” he called over the din of the control room.

  It was as if he was trying to put her on the spot, trying to embarrass her. Linus didn’t particularly like her, Annabelle knew, and he couldn’t care much one way or another if she was a guest in his home. But every staffer was well aware that the annual party at the executive producer’s apartment was a command performance. Staf
fers were afraid not to attend and socialize while watching the football game on the wide-screen TV. Annabelle had heard of the snubs and more-than-coincidental lousy story assignments that followed a missed football party.

  “Yes, Linus. I’ll be there,” she called back and turned her eyes to her clipboard, pretending to be engrossed in her notes.

  This was her first party at Linus Nazareth’s home. It didn’t matter that she’d rather spend a precious Sunday afternoon and evening at home with Mike and the twins. Linus’s party was part of the job.

  Chapter 31

  The makeup woman was an annoyance but a necessity, thought Gavin Winston as he peered at his reflection on the mirrored wall. He looked terrible this morning. The bags under his eyes were getting worse, and his skin was blotchy and pasty looking. What did he expect? He hadn’t been sleeping well lately.

  He’d been hearing the rumblings on the street. And now, this morning, the Wall Street Journal article made the rumors a reality. The Securities and Exchange Commission was investigating charges of insider trading at Wellstone, Inc. The investment darling’s stock had come tumbling down, causing thousands of small investors to lose millions of dollars. Yet Wellstone executives and their in-the-know friends had sold in the days preceding the fall, not only preserving their initial investments but garnering mammoth profits as well. Once again, the rich got richer, while the little guys were the goats.

  As the beige concealer was dabbed beneath his eyes, Gavin dreaded presenting the Wellstone story in a few minutes. He didn’t relish violating a journalistic principle, reporting on a story of which he himself might be considered a part.

  The makeup artist removed the nylon cape that protected Gavin’s tailored English suit. He bent close to the mirror to adjust the knot on his Ferragamo tie and checked his facial reflection one last time.

  He had made a nice piece of change on that Wellstone stock, but it sure wouldn’t look good if anyone knew about that.

  Chapter 32

  After the first news block, Constance tossed to Caridad Vega at the weather map.

  “Carrie? What will the weekend be like?”

  “Well, Constance, winter may actually be a full month away, but those of us in the Northeast are going to be seeing an unusual pre-Thanksgiving snowstorm coming our way.” She pointed to the arrows flowing north to south on the map. “There’s a cold front coming in from Canada that will be arriving on Saturday night, going into Sunday morning, bringing with it lower-than-normal temperatures for this time of year. So get out your scarves and mittens, folks, and your snow shovels too.”

  Annabelle wondered, as she listened, if the kids would still fit into last year’s boots. She doubted it.

  “The rest of the country can expect seasonable temperatures and mostly sunny skies,” Carrie finished her report.

  Lucky them.

  Chapter 33

  “A dazzling new film.”

  “Deeply touching.”

  “Amazing performances.”

  “People will be talking about Icicle for a long time to come.”

  Coming back to her office to watch the end of the broadcast, Annabelle listened to Russ Parrish toss around the superlatives in his movie review.

  Something wasn’t right. The movie was supposed to be a dog. The New York Times movie critic had panned Icicle in this morning’s edition. So had the Post and the Daily News.

  Annabelle clicked the remote, switching her office monitor to another network. At the same time Russ was claiming Icicle to be a “must-see,” the reviewer at the CBS Early Show was calling it “one of the worst films ever.”

  Sure, reviews were subjective, reactions influenced by the critic’s own personal perspective, but how could Russ’s view be so dramatically different from all the others?

  Chapter 34

  With thirty more seconds of commercials left to air, Constance read over the copy she would deliver when the camera came back to her, sitting still as the makeup artist repowdered her face. The red light above the camera flashed on, and the stage manager flagged her to begin.

  “It’s been four decades this weekend since President John F. Kennedy was assassinated as his motorcade drove through Dallas. Many have said that it was the day that our country lost its innocence.”

  The video package began to roll with a narration Constance had recorded earlier playing over the archive material. The young, handsome president and his stylish young wife getting off the plane, the roses presented to Jackie, the beaming couple sitting in the back of the open limousine. Then the grainy black-and-white film of the school book depository, the speeding police cars, the Texans crying on the grassy knoll, the flowers lying forgotten on the bloodied backseat of the presidential car.

  I wasn’t even born yet, thought Annabelle as she watched the monitor and waited for Constance to come back on camera.

  “But for a younger generation of Americans, September eleventh is the day that they will remember as the beginning of their loss of innocence. And many still suffer from depression, anxiety, and, for some, post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of the horror of that day.”

  Mike is in that number, as if I needed any reminder, Annabelle noted dully. She had read that almost half a million New Yorkers had suffered from depression directly attributable to September 11. Nearly three thousand people had been killed in one fell swoop. All of those people had mothers and fathers, many had wives and husbands and sons and daughters and aunts and uncles and cousins who were now called on to live with the loss and the savage memories and somehow keep going.

  Three hundred forty-three New York firefighters, one out of every thirty-three, all dead. Three hundred forty-three brothers and sisters who had made the supreme sacrifice. The ones who had survived said it was with them constantly, they never forgot about it, missing their buddies. Survivors’ guilt plagued the lucky ones. Why them, why not me?

  Once happy to go to work, secure in the camaraderie of the firehouse, these well-trained men had taken satisfaction from performing an important job. Now, they were haunted by the thoughts of their departed friends and lost sleep at night wondering what could have been done differently. If the command structure had been more unified, if the radios had worked, if the buildings hadn’t collapsed. If, if, if.

  Twenty percent of Americans knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks, and the ripples were still being felt in the society at large. Many had lost their jobs owing to the attacks, never to reclaim them. Applications to the CIA and the Peace Corps were up dramatically. So were the hate crimes reported to the Council on American-Islamic Relations.

  Annabelle knew all this because she couldn’t stop reading about it. If Mike had shut down, she kept thinking, it was important for her to immerse herself. The more she understood, the more she might be able to help him. But each time she brought up anything related to September 11, urging him to talk about it and let it out, Mike would either yell or, worse as far as she was concerned, clam up tight.

  Watching the sanitized file tape roll, edited to omit the most gruesome scenes of people actually jumping out the windows to avoid burning to death, Annabelle could only imagine what her husband had witnessed that day. Only imagine it, because Mike refused to share the unspeakable horrors that tormented him.

  Chapter 35

  When the show ended, Annabelle went down to the cafeteria and filled two take-out cups with Starbucks coffee. The milk dispenser was already empty.

  “Edgar, I hate to trouble you, but I need some milk.”

  “No trouble at all, miss.”

  He offered her a fresh container of milk and waited while she poured the white liquid into the coffees.

  “Thank you very much,” she said, handing the carton back. “I appreciate it.”

  He smiled at her as he began to empty the rest of the milk into the dispenser. That was one nice lady. Not like the others, who didn’t even give him the time of day.

  At the salad bar, Annabelle was filling a plastic bow
l with sliced fruit when a woman and two young boys dressed in ski jackets pushed through the cafeteria turnstile.

  “Uncle Edgar!” exclaimed the slightly smaller one, running to the food-service worker and throwing his arms around the grown man’s waist.

  “How’s my Willie?” asked Edgar, grinning and hugging the child. “Happy birthday, my boy.”

  The older boy held back but smiled as he stood next to his mother. Annabelle estimated the brothers to be three and four years old. It was rare to see little ones inside the Broadcast Center. When children did venture in, they were treated as curiosities, mesmerizing to watch.

  “Take a look over there, boys, and see what you’d like to eat,” instructed Edgar, nodding toward the salad bar. “I’ll go toast some bagels for you.”

  As Edgar went to the grill, the mother and her children began to fill their tray.

  “I want the pineapple,” said the older boy.

  “I want the bananas,” declared Willie. “And grape jelly for my bagel.”

  The mother, feeling Annabelle watching, looked up and smiled tentatively. Annabelle returned the smile. “It’s a big treat to come in to visit their uncle, isn’t it?” she asked. “I know my kids are so excited if I bring them into the office.”

  The last time Annabelle had brought Thomas and Tara in, Constance had arranged for them to sit on the set with her after the broadcast while the cameras recorded them. The twins still got a big charge out of playing back the videotape of themselves on television. Annabelle wished she could have offered to do the same for Edgar’s nephews, but with the upset at KTA right now, that wasn’t a possibility.