Harry’s eyes were reflecting the screen. Wet. He was smiling. He reached for the next disc: Season One, Episode Two.
‘See you tomorrow, Jack,’ he said, as he swapped discs. ‘Waldren’ll keep. There may be other clues. My brother and I have got some catching up to do.’
My brother and I have got some catching up to do. The words resonated in Jack’s head as he finally drove towards home. He was exhausted after barely any sleep the night before, staring at the motel ceiling wondering if Harry would strangle him in the dark. While he was curious about the contents of Sam’s messages, he knew they were for Harry first, on his own. Harry would be up all night transcribing. Jack would read them in the morning.
SHE GAVE ME A GUN. Those five words were especially chilling. Jack had asked himself many times what words could talk someone into killing themselves. He’d asked other people. Maurice had called him batshit. ‘A grown man got cyberbullied to death?’ he’d asked doubtfully. People seemed to insert the phrase ‘grown man’ into insults to imply someone is not worthy, that their fallibility, their flaws, would be better attributed to a woman or a child. Jack was familiar with it – hated it. He’d heard it a lot, from uncles or cousins talking about his vomiting, to the new guard in the prison. Maybe that’s why he approached the fact that a grown man had succumbed with less incredulity than most. Yes, online harassment was dangerous to teenagers; it was clear they were more susceptible to influence based on the articles he was reading. But pretending that any problem could be isolated to one group of people was to put your head in the sand. A grown man can have anything.
‘This grown man has bulimia,’ Jack said aloud in the car, finishing his thought. He realised he’d used the word in full. First time in years.
What words could you use? SHE GAVE ME A GUN. Would the ghost of a dead girl do the trick, if someone got close enough to manipulate him like that? Waldren was around a lot of deaths down in Wheeler’s, but of course he was. He was the only cop for half an hour’s drive. Who was also able to get into the television studio? Operate the autocue? Who?
Jack almost forgot he was driving. Two glints in the road ahead gave him slight warning of an animal, but not enough. He felt the suspension hop before he’d even feathered the brakes.
He pulled over and got out of the car. The moon was bright overhead. He was next to a well-maintained park with a small playground. It was late enough that the steel on the equipment glistened wet. The jolt hadn’t felt overly dramatic, and for a second he thought he may have missed it, but the black smudge in the middle of the road was undeniable.
He walked over to it. A fox. Just enough of the moon to see it as this section of the street was between streetlights. His car seemed to steam behind him. Hissed and settled. Jack didn’t expect the fox to have survived. The tyre had crushed it through the middle. The fox’s lips were curled back over its top fangs, and a trickle of blood leaked from its tongue onto the blacktop. Its ribs shuddered with gargling breath. Up and down. Wheezing, like a machine. It let out a long slow moan.
Jack wanted to cry, but couldn’t summon any tears. He was tired, no emotions left. The fox growled again. It was low and strangled, blood gurgling in the animal’s throat.
Jack walked back to the car and opened the boot. His skin, pallid in the day, looked mouldy in the dull tail-lights. He dug around for a blanket or an old towel to wrap the animal in. He dislodged a toolbox and scattered it. Banged his thumb with a large, cast iron wrench. Couldn’t find a towel.
Behind him, the growls had gotten quieter. Rasping.
It’s not killing.
Who are we to be merciful?
He walked back over to the animal, the wrench heavy in his hand.
Peter was sitting on the stairs when Jack opened the front door.
‘Jack . . .’ Peter said, not looking up.
‘I killed a fox,’ Jack said. He didn’t mean to, it just blurted out.
‘How?’
‘I hit it—
with a wrench
—with my car.’
‘Is it damaged?’
‘It’s dead.’
‘The car.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ Jack said, and sat down on the step below. He put a hand on his father’s knee.
‘I don’t blame you, you know,’ Peter tried again.
‘I know,’ Jack said. ‘Sometimes that makes me mad too. I feel like it happened and I got to live on and he didn’t, and I feel someone – anyone, you – should hate me for it.’ He knew exactly how to sum up that self-punishment now. The same way Harry had let the rift between him and Sam simmer without forgiveness – Harry liked it; he felt it was deserved. Maurice’s words had been so accurate, Jack reused them. ‘I felt like it was cheating not to suffer for him.’
‘I don’t hate you.’
‘What did I just say?’ Jack laughed, though the chuckle came out in bursts between the words, an old car starting.
His father glanced upstairs. ‘You talk to him more than you talk to me, you know that?’
Jack went to retaliate, then realised it was an invitation. Not an accusation. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘Tell me about your case.’ Peter squeezed Jack’s shoulder. Didn’t linger. No surveillance. ‘There’s blood on your hands.’
Another calm observation. Jack looked down. Flecks of blood had flown up onto his hands, and he rubbed them together, but the blood was stained onto his palms like freckles. Cancerous little spots.
The blood had dried hard. Jack went to lick his thumb to rub them away, recalled dragging the fox off the road without gloves, and refrained. Peter stood and went to the kitchen. He came back with a tea towel damp with warm water. He knelt at the base of the stairs and gently wiped Jack’s hands with it.
‘You read about Mr Midnight?’ Jack asked. Peter nodded. ‘He didn’t kill himself. Well, he did. But someone made him do it. He was sick, and someone used that against him. Made him think he had to. I think it’s also related to a murder thirteen years ago. I don’t know, I haven’t figured that out yet.’
‘You will.’
That was the difference between Peter and Liam: Peter talked back.
‘His brother – twin brother actually – hired me.’ The towel was soft and warm on Jack’s scars. ‘He’s paying me.’
‘I figured. It’s a good thing you’re doing for your brother. It really is. Selfless. Must be good to have your old job back too, though, I reckon. Give you something to do.’
‘It’s just for the money.’ What little there would be of it now, anyway.
‘Sure. But don’t tell me Liam did this.’ Peter reached behind him and picked something up. It was the cake box, empty but not clean. A dark chocolate smear across it.
Jack remembered taking a single bite while running through the case with Liam. He didn’t remember eating the whole slice. Normally, he’d feel that inside himself, a physical lump in his gut that would stay until he got it back out the only way he knew how. He was angry, hurt and upset, but he hadn’t reverted to purging. Instead his soldiers were sleeping, fed. Jack remembered his mouth tasting sweet, sticky, in the car. The grains of sand, crumbs on his tongue. The KFC light had gotten closer in one of his sleeping time blinks, but he knew that while he’d moved the car, he hadn’t gone in. His teeth hadn’t tasted sour enough. When was the last time he vomited?
Peter continued. ‘It’s okay to like doing something you’re good at.’
Jack cracked a smile. ‘You’ve been sitting on the stairs for two days and that was the best psychobabble you could come up with?’
‘Oh, come on. I thought it was all right. I brought a prop.’ Peter waved the cake box.
‘It was pretty good.’ Jack’s laugh sputtered and misfired again. It’s hard to laugh and cry at the same time. You flood the engine. ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not.’ He paused, hung his head and spoke softly. ‘It’s selfish. I just don�
��t want to lose him.’
Peter lifted Jack’s chin with his index finger. ‘Neither did I,’ he said.
They were speaking in different tenses. But there was understanding there now. Peter thought Liam was already gone. Sometimes we have to mourn the living. It’s not about letting them go, it’s about getting them back. Jack would catch up, they both knew that.
‘So,’ Peter said. ‘Mr Midnight?’ The tone of his voice was trying to be casual, but Jack could tell he was really trying. And suddenly it was just as easy as talking to Liam.
‘I think he figured out this girl – her name’s Lily, did I mention that? – was murdered. Like five years ago, but I don’t think he knew whodunnit until recently. Problem is, she was in a locked room. One window, one door. The window had a latch on the inside and the door had a slide bolt, also on the inside. No one in or out, or at least that’s how they wanted it to look. But there’s an answer, because Sam Midford figured it out. And I think that’s what got him killed. Someone’s covering their tracks. But I’ve got a problem with his death too, because it’s also a locked room. Not literally – there were hundreds of people around, and Sam pulled the trigger himself – but it’s the same problem. Someone got a gun past a metal detector. Someone was in the room, pretending to be the autocue operator. Same thing as the girl. Like they were never there at all.’
‘You know there was someone there? For certain?’
Jack nodded. ‘They’re on camera in the crowd shots. But they’re well covered, big coat and cap, and they would have known it’s only shot from specific angles.’
‘So get them walking in and out of the building.’
‘Security cameras were all turned off – some bloody soap opera was filming something secret. A character dying, some school shooting or something. Trying to be edgy.’
‘Shopping centre,’ Peter said.
‘What?’
‘In the soap. It’s called Many Summers. They’ve been building it up. It’s not a school shooting, it’s at a shopping centre. They like to draw from things in the news. So this girl, Holly – her ex is this lone wolf kind of guy. And her new boyfriend’s an actor, and he’s got a film premiere. Bryan works at the cinema, but he’s always been in love with Hol . . . What?’ Peter must have seen the look on Jack’s face. ‘I work nights, I had one son in a coma and the other in prison. I’ve become quite the expert.’
‘No, Dad. You watch what you want.’ Then, jovially: ‘Is it that big a deal?’
‘Would be. If Moon River hadn’t got there first. They had a school shooting last week, pulled the steam out of Summers a little bit, I guess.’ Jack remembered hearing something similar at the studio.
‘Moon River?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one on Channel 12.’
A door slammed shut in Jack’s mind. One of his soldiers drew their sword. But, for once, it wasn’t pointed at Jack’s throat. Who do you want me to kill, boss? the soldier seemed to say. And Jack thought, for the first time, he might know. Jack stood, walked to the lounge. Turned on the TV. Watched a minute of the television program he knew would be on. Came back to the hall in almost a stupor.
‘Shit.’
‘What?’
‘You’re better at this than Liam is.’
‘Did I solve it?’
‘Maybe. Look.’ Jack’s mind was whirring. He was struggling to find the words. Peter filled the gap by taking Jack’s hand back to continue towelling. Jack was still processing what he’d seen on the television. ‘I have to go again. But it’s not because I’m running away. I understand what you’ve been trying to tell me, I do. It’s just that I’m not ready.’ Jack swallowed, then added, ‘Yet.’
‘You do what you have to. When you are, I’ll be here.’
Peter wiped the last of the blood from Jack’s hand. Drew the towel slowly over his scars.
‘It was just a fox,’ Jack said.
‘Yeah.’ Peter slung the towel on his shoulder, then leaned forward and kissed Jack on the forehead. ‘Just a fox. Turn the light off when you go.’
CHAPTER 31
Channel 14 at midnight was becoming a familiar sight. Except this time Jack wasn’t drawn here through vagrant magnetism with nowhere else to go. This time he knew exactly what he was looking for.
He parked on the road, end of the hedge rows – fuck the traffic – and rushed to the main doors, swiped his pass and blew past the security guard. Through the metal detector with his keys and phone held up in his hand – the light went red and there was a brrrrr. The guard stood. Jack did his best I know, but I’m doing it anyway grimace. A unique facial contortion – crushed brow, half-smile – the type made when cutting someone off in traffic: a perfect mix of sorry and fuck you, buddy.
Jack ran through the news floor. Televisions were hanging from the roof, still flashing the ratings package. That’s what had clicked for Jack, talking to his father. He recalled those ads, spruiking the mass shooting. People running from a cinema. A zoomed-in gun firing. Sound effects and thumping bass dialled to eleven. A major character death, so secretive it required the security cameras to be turned off for filming. And what had Jack seen backstage at Midnight Tonight? A row of plush red cinema seats, lining the walkway. Props.
They’d filmed the death in the Midnight Tonight studio.
That was how the killer had got the gun in. How do you sneak a loaded gun through a metal detector? You don’t. The problem was the question he’d been asking. No one had had to sneak anything in. They could have carried it in, high and proud. Even though it was just a few gunshots, perhaps a routine day on high-octane crime shows, for a network soap opera it would have been a significant stunt. Multiple takes. They would have had trained weapon handlers on site, guns and ammunition. Sure, they’d all be blanks, but they’d look real. A lot of unfamiliar people had access to Sam’s studio that day. How hard would it have been to walk straight through and say ‘I’m with them,’ holding up the gun as a prop? The ball already in the bucket.
That all seemed clever enough for the killer. If they could talk people into suicide, surely they could talk their way through a security guard nose-deep in a Tom Clancy novel. But the whole plan would have hinged on one thing: confidential knowledge of Channel 14’s most deep-cover script. Without that information, they wouldn’t have known when or where to be. They wouldn’t have been able to plan the whole thing.
And that information would have been extra hard to come by, seeing as Channel 14 was on lockdown for all things sensitive – reality TV show endings, confidential midnight filming – because Channel 12 kept pipping them to the post, and it was pissing Gareth Bowman off.
Jack had confirmed his suspicion at home, turning on the TV. He’d seen the exact program that, in his mind, proved it. Now, the sliver of light behind Stage Three’s hydraulic door beckoned him. He thought he knew what was inside. But he needed to see it for himself.
Someone was leaking scripts to Channel 12.
The reason why was simple: Harry had said so, right back at the start. Half the people here would kill to sit in that chair.
Someone sick of the carousel of men hosting the same programs in the same suits and the same ties.
I’ve been EP on a lot of these shows . . . New talent same as the old talent.
Someone who sought to curry favour by jumping ship, only to be burned the same way by Channel 12, finding that their potential new career was nothing more than a scare campaign in a newspaper. That they were just a pawn, used to put pressure on lowering the value of a host’s new contract.
Watch out . . . we might replace you with a woman.
Someone who snapped, perhaps, and finally realised that if they ever wanted to get a seat at the table – or the host’s desk – they had to play it just as cutthroat as everyone else.
Because that’s what you do here if you ever want one of those.
Jack walked into the studio. The heat of the stage lights hit him, studio active, everything up and running. Just like
it had been the last time he was here. There was a clatter of movement. More than one person inside. One voice, much clearer over the top of it. A voice, late night in a motel in Arlington, that Jack had thought had the generic radio co-host familiarity needed for this kind of gig. But his senses hadn’t been at their best. Late night, low-volume television, Harry breathing, blurred light in his eyes as he flicked it off. He hadn’t realised the voice actually was familiar.
He walked around the bay of audience seats and it was almost like Mr Midnight was alive again, though the desk had been moved to one side out of shot. There was only one cameraman, centre position. One sound technician. Skeleton crew. The two remaining plasma screens flashed a game of Hangman with several letters missing. The words ‘car brand’ flashed.
Beth was in the middle of explaining the game’s rules when she saw him. She faltered. Looked just like Sam Midford had when he realised he was going to have to die.
CHAPTER 32
To her credit, Beth smiled her way through another hour and a half of inane gameshow material – ‘Call now . . . I have to give this money away tonight . . . my boss upstairs is telling me that my job’s on the line if I don’t give it away . . . you know what, I’ve got another five hundred dollars . . . trust me, you’d be doing me a favour if you won this money’ – before finally wrapping the show at two in the morning.
Jack had taken a seat and watched. So much made sense. Call and Win aired live from midnight to 2 a.m. That was why she’d been in such a hurry to get rid of him the last time. Why she was wearing lipstick and nice clothes. There hadn’t been some jungle reality finale. She’d just had to be on stage. Afterwards, she’d stepped out for a post-show cigarette before going back in to pack up.
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