Dead Air

by Michael Bradley

  “It’s over,” she’d said. “I keep telling myself that, but . . .”

  He’d tried to be comforting, but his words seemed clichéd and shallow. “It’ll take time. You’re strong. You’ll survive.”

  Before parting, she embraced him. The action came as a surprise. But when he thought about it later, he realized they shared a common bond that bound them together for life. It wasn’t something that either of them was proud of. They’d both killed someone at the Shallows.

  One other thing had nagged at him over the past two weeks. The yearbooks in Kevin O’Neill’s desk. Little news about the aftermath of the GBT Strangler investigation had been made public. The Philly Police kept avoiding questions from the media, simply saying that it was an ongoing investigation. But yesterday, Rodney finally heard from a friend close to the investigation. During a follow-up interview, Scott MacKay admitted that Kevin had tried to blackmail him over something from his past. His friend wouldn’t tell Rodney any further details. Apparently, blackmail could be added to Kevin O’Neill’s growing list of sins.

  Rodney entered the prison and approached the front desk. It appeared as cold and uninviting as the prison’s exterior. The woman behind the thick plexiglass spoke through a small embedded speaker. “Can I help you?”

  Rodney cleared his throat. “I’m Rodney Shapiro. I’m here to see Carol Shapiro . . . my daughter.”

  50

  Kaitlyn stared down on the kaleidoscopic Philadelphia cityscape from the broadcast studio window. The cloudless night gave her a clear view straight across the river to the Camden waterfront. The myriad colored lights from the city streets below mesmerized her, their twinkling mimicking the stars in the sky. It was a beautiful night, perfect for her midnight ride home. Her Harley had been dropped off at her house earlier in the day. They’d finally been able to repair it. She couldn’t resist riding it into work. Now it sat in the parking garage, waiting for her to finish her shift. Maybe she’d go home. Maybe she’d just ride through the night and see where it took her.

  She thought about home. About the pain that still lingered within the walls of her house in Bala Cynwyd. Perhaps it was time to move. A new house. A new life. Somewhere that didn’t remind her of Brad, Jesse, or the Shallows. She could head west. She’d never been out to the West Coast. There was bound to be a radio station out there that she could call her new home. Perhaps it was time . . . to run.

  Kaitlyn turned from the window and crossed the room to the control console. She slid onto the stool and glanced at the computer. Three more minutes until the song ended. It’d be a quick weather forecast into a commercial break, then she’d guide things into the ten o’clock hour. The dedications had been rolling in throughout the evening. She wasn’t sure she could get them all in.

  She’d have to update her resume and air check, then start sending them out to stations looking for talent. The house would have to be put on the market. That would have to wait until the repairs to the kitchen were finished. The ceiling above her table was still blackened from the fire, and the patio door was still boarded up with plywood. A contractor was coming later in the week to give an estimate.

  In the two weeks since that night at the Shallows, Kaitlyn had thought a lot about Julie Lewis. There had been a sense of recognition, but she’d never put the pieces together. It felt like nothing more than a case of déjà vu. Now, though, it all seemed obvious and she wondered how she could have missed it. Her last recollection of Julianna had been a dinner at the Riley’s farmhouse a few months after Jesse’s death. In the middle of dinner, the twelve-year-old had pointed across the table and accused Kaitlyn of murdering Jesse. The Rileys sent Julianna to her room and apologized. It was all so surreal now.

  As the song ended, Kaitlyn grabbed her headphones and flipped on the microphone. She spoke briefly about the upcoming weekend forecast and how great it would be to see the sun again. The rainy spring would finally give way to the first pleasant Saturday in a month. When the commercial started to play, she pushed the microphone from her mouth, allowed the headphones to rest around her neck. Yes, she thought, it was time for a change.

  One of the request lines started to blink. She considered not answering it, but, then leaned over and pressed the blinking button. “WPLX. Do you have a dedication?”

  “Hey. It’s Rodney.”

  Kaitlyn smiled. It’d been almost two weeks since they spoke. The last time had been in the Lower Merion Township Police Station when she’d given her statement about the night Julie Lewis died at the Shallows. Several times since, she’d tossed around the idea of calling him, just to see how he was doing. “This is a surprise.”

  “Just wanted to call to see how you’re getting along.”

  “Surviving. It’s pretty much day by day right now,” she said.

  “You sound good. I’ve been listening all week.”

  She smiled at his compliment. Despite all that had happened, it felt good to be back on the air. It brought a sense of normalcy. “It’s been a good week. Being back here is what I needed. How’re you doing?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before he responded. “I’m okay.” The words carried a touch of unease. Was he really okay? Two weeks prior, he’d shot his partner and let her die. She knew what he must be going through.

  “Is the investigation closed? Did you get into any trouble?”

  “No. Julie’s journal was essentially a written confession. It was an open-and-shut case.”

  His statement surprised her. No one had ever mentioned a journal. “Julie had a journal?”

  He hesitated again. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

  “Have you read it?”

  Another hesitation. “Yeah.”

  Kaitlyn smiled, sensing that she was making him uncomfortable with her line of questioning. “I suppose you won’t tell me what she said.”

  “Probably for the best if I don’t.”

  She understood. She was certain Julie hadn’t been very complimentary of her. But Kaitlyn had questions that were left unanswered. She wanted to understand what drove Julie to such extremes. How long had she been harboring such an intense hatred for Kaitlyn? Did it go back to their childhood? Back to the night Jesse died? Had this been festering for that long? The answers might hurt, but true closure would never become reality without them. “How about just a summary?”

  “Maybe someday,” he said. “But not right now.”

  “Promise me.”

  He laughed. “I promise.”

  Kaitlyn glanced at the computer, shrieked, and scrambled for her headphones. “Damn! Dead air!”

  “Dead what? Kaitlyn—”

  She cut him off with the mute button and switched on the microphone. “It’s ten o’clock at WPLX.” She reached for her dedication list. “Let’s kick off the hour with Journey, going out to Steve from Jenni, Brenda from Natalie, and Mark from Kim. Here’s ‘Open Arms.’”

  When she unmuted the phone, Rodney was still calling her name. “Sorry about that. Had some dead air.”

  “I was seconds from racing up there.”

  There was a mix of concern and irritation in his voice. She giggled. “How sweet.”

  The phone fell silent again. What was there for them to say? Together they’d been through hell and back, coming as close to death as she’d ever been. They’d bonded in that fire. But, with everything now over, there was nothing more for them to say.

  He was the first to break the silence. “I visited Carol today.”

  “Really? How’d it go?”

  “Could’ve been worse,” he said, the exasperation evident in his voice. “But at least she was willing to talk to me. She’s changed a lot in two years. She’s got a buzz cut now. I hardly recognized her. She’s involved with this program in the prison, training service dogs.”

  Kaitlyn said, “Good. Is she still angry at you?”

  “A bit. But she asked me to come see her again. She never did that before.”

 
She smiled. “Good news then.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We still haven’t had that talk. You know, about that night.” He paused. When she didn’t respond, he added, “I’ll let you go. You’ve got a show to do.”

  After making a promise to stay in touch, Rodney ended the call. Kaitlyn sat with her eyes fixed on the window across the studio. Rodney was making a new start with his daughter. Why couldn’t she do that, too? And, why not here in Philly? Maybe she just needed time. Time to heal. Time to forget. She decided to postpone her plans to move, at least for now. Give things some time to settle and then reevaluate. Perhaps she’d stay . . . perhaps.

  The song was coming to an end. Kaitlyn slipped on the headphones and turned on the microphone. “It’s five past ten at WPLX. I’m Kaitlyn Ashe with another dedication. This next song goes out to Brad and Jesse. You’ll both be missed.” She ignored the tear that ran down her cheek as she hit the button to play the next song. Then she turned around to watch the Philadelphia skyline as the sound of REO Speedwagon filled the air.

  Author’s Note

  When writing this book, I was faced with a dilemma that is inherent in any story set in the world of radio broadcasting. What call letters should I use to identify my fictional radio station? Every broadcast radio station has a unique set of call letters assigned by the Federal Communications Commission (FCC). Sometimes station management will request a specific set of letters that reflects the city in which they broadcast or the station’s format. With a Philadelphia setting, I felt that the call letters WPLX were appropriate while not being too close to any real radio station in the area. At the time of writing this story, those call letters were assigned to a low-power FM radio station in Pelham, Alabama.

  This note is the longwinded way of saying that this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and radio station call letters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, radio stations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wife, Diane, for all of her love and patience. She has been so gracious in allowing me to indulge my “hobby” of writing, which takes up so much of my time. I don’t know where I’d be without her support.

  Thanks to my editor, Helga Schier, for putting the polish on this book. She wields a red pen like King Arthur wields Excalibur. Her efforts have helped turn what started as a disjointed little tale into a solid piece of storytelling.

  I’d like to extend my deepest gratitude to the members of my critique group: Sara Badaracco, Joan Hill, Ellie Searl, Christine Schulden, and Paul Popiel. Their criticism—good and bad—has been outstanding throughout the writing process.

  Thanks also to Matty Dalrymple, Laura Fiorentino, Frannie Edwards, Jo Adams, and Craig Beible for being early readers, and for providing feedback that was critical to the further development of this book.

  Thanks to the folks at Dalton Farms for inadvertently providing the inspiration for this book in the form of a small pond off I-295 in New Jersey. I hope I haven’t forever tainted the farm’s reputation with this little tale.

  Finally, thanks to Sue Arroyo, Dayna Anderson, and the rest of the crew at CamCat Publishing for investing in me and my book. It has been a tremendous joy working with them.

  About the Author

  Michael Bradley was born and raised in southern New Jersey, a fact that he hopes no one will hold against him. He started life as a radio disc jockey, working at stations in New Jersey and West Virginia. He has been up and down the dial, working as an on-air personality, promotions director, and even program director. His time in radio has provided him with a wealth of fond, enduring, and sometimes scandalous memories that he hopes to one day commit to paper.

  After spending eight years “on-the-air,” he realized that he needed to get a real job. He spent the next twenty or so years working in Information Technology as a consultant. And yes, he has said “try turning it off and on again” more times than he wants to admit.

  When he isn’t camping, working, or writing, Michael hits the waterways in his kayak, paddling creeks, streams, and rivers throughout Delaware, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and New Jersey. He lives in Delaware with his wife and their two furry four-legged “kids,” Preaya and Willie.