Dead Line

by JJ Gould

  She tapped a long, sharp fingernail on the table, tik, tik, tik. Her smile returned, a little thin, her voice somewhat absent. “Oh, I trust you all right.”

  Chapter 71 - Harrison Hall

  Harrison Benjamin Hall IV was trying not to unravel. In the past few days, he’d gotten rid of two bodies, one a nurse he’d murdered, the other his own son. The emotions he thought should be there were not. No grief or remorse or even guilt, only a fear-driven manic energy, the kind that soldiers in combat must feel, waiting any second to be killed yet for the moment still alive, still fighting.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Harrison jumped and almost screamed, wheeling around. Deidre was walking in from the bedroom, wrapping a thin silk robe around her and tying it. Never modest, Deidre could be easily seen through the bank of windows that let in the warm sun. At other times, this would have aroused him, but now it only made him angry.

  “Get some clothes on! People can see you!”

  She walked by him with a tumbler of vodka, ignoring him. She sat on one of the pieces of patio furniture she’d moved inside, a teak deck chair modeled after the ones they had on the Titanic. She lay back in its arms, one naked knee jutting up out of the slit in the front of the robe, tilting her face to the sun.

  Jiggling the tumbler to stir the ice, she turned her face and observed him coolly. “You look like shit, Harrison. Something bothering you?”

  The drink she was holding appealed to him more than she did. Gathering himself, he ignored her, walked to the bar, and made himself a Scotch, four fingers. He drank off the top half, added three cubes, and topped it to the rim.

  Then he drank a third of that and walked over to his wife, looking down at her. “You’ve heard the news, I imagine?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “What does Benjy say?”

  Harrison kept his face immobile and took another sip. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “I don’t have to tell you that the boy is weak. He should never have gone into medicine.”

  Hall raised his chin. “He’s a Hall. Medicine is our calling.”

  She laughed derisively. “Medicine is your business. You don’t care about him. You only care about your business, your precious reputation.”

  “And yours, my dear. All of this”—he gestured to the house and surrounding estate outside—“is because of what you call my precious business.”

  She looked at him and threw out a sentence, like she was testing him. “It’s just a story. It’ll blow over.”

  Hall took another sip and looked into his drink. Deidre had been livid when she’d heard the news. Why is she so unconcerned all of a sudden? He was tempted to ask about Devon LaCroix, the missing sales rep, but the way she seemed so relaxed made him realize that she most certainly had a hand in his disappearance. She could not know about the missing nurse or about Benjy.

  Three of the eight people who had been witnesses to the surgery were dead, and the remaining five could be handled by Meyer and his lawyers. He sipped again, the liquid calming his nerves, helping him realize that he was very close to the end. Deidre did not know about LaFave, another ace up his sleeve—a psychopathic killer and liar but also alone and unattached. LaFave didn’t know that Hall, too, could be violent if needed, and at the right time, he would have his vengeance for his son’s murder.

  My son’s murder. He rolled the thought in his mind. Curious—it still did not cause any anguish. Perhaps Deidre was right, and the boy was too weak to carry the Hall name. Maybe it was better that he was gone. There was just one problem.

  “Do you really think that Neanderthal Charlie Hofer will stop dragging our name through the mud?”

  Deidre took a sip, touching the rim of glass with a fingertip. “Charlie Hofer is a Neanderthal and only has money. The answer is stopping the brains behind it.” Her eyes did not meet his—they stayed focused on the rim of her glass—but the point was taken.

  “The death of Stan Martin would cause suspicion.”

  “Yet accidents happen every day,” she said.

  “He’s a radio announcer, not a coal miner. What’s he supposed to do—fall off a radio tower?”

  Chapter 72 - Wes

  “Yoo-hoo!” The call came from outside the transmitter shack.

  Wes looked at Cal, who shrugged. The tower site was three miles out of town down a gravel road and not on the way to anywhere. Wes stepped to the doorway of the shack. Brilliant sunshine on white snow made him squint against the glare. Off on the road a ways, he could see where a small SUV had slid into a ditch. Footprints led through some small drifts to the woman shivering outside the fence.

  “C-Can you help me?” Her jacket was too light for the weather, and she was not wearing boots. Snow would have gotten into her shoes, no doubt.

  Wes threw on his lined denim coat and cowboy hat and walked the narrow shoveled path to the gate. “You stuck?”

  Already, her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. “I s-sure am.” She shivered.

  “Well, come on inside and warm up a bit.” Wes opened the gate and led her inside.

  “Whew! Th-Thanks! It is nice and toasty in here.” She was wearing one of those fur-lined blanket jackets that cinched in at the waist and stopped just above the butt. They were no good for keeping warm, especially in a wind, but they were good to look at. Cal had stopped his work and was enjoying the view.

  Wes had a good view too. Her eyes were bright green, and her blond hair framed a perfect jaw and cheekbones. She looked like a model for a ski resort.

  “It’s the transmitter. It throws off a lot of heat.” Fans around the army-green box made it seem like a furnace.

  “Gosh, are those light bulbs?”

  “Nope. This whole transmitter’s a relic from World War II. Those are tubes that make the transmitter work. Not very efficient anymore but real cheap.” Cal pointed to shelves along the wall. “We probably got enough tubes to last fifty years right there. No need for an upgrade.”

  “Can I sit down and get the snow out of my shoes?” She looked doubtfully at the signs that said DANGER and HIGH VOLTAGE and WARNING.

  “Don’t worry about that out here. That’s only for behind there.”

  Wes pulled a metal stool around. She perched on the edge of it, took off a pair of jogging shoes, and knocked the snow off, rubbing her wet stocking feet.

  “Here, turn around this way.” Wes pointed to the grating at the bottom of the transmitter.

  “The heat gets vented out here. Your feet will warm in no time,” Cal added. Both had decided that helping this gal out and making her feel at home was their duty.

  “Oh, it is warm!” She shed her jacket and sat on it. She was wearing a thin V-neck cashmere sweater that looked very nice. Very nice indeed. “Thanks for saving my life. It’d have been a long walk.”

  Both Cal and Wes nodded. That was a bit of an exaggeration. They had not saved her life, but they had saved her a long cold walk.

  Cal reached for his coat. “We’ll get you unstuck.”

  “Thanks, but I’m in no hurry. I’d just as soon warm up a bit.”

  They both smiled. Fine with them.

  “So what is this place?” She looked around, curious.

  “Radio tower site.”

  The shack was small, but her curiosity was large. In the course of half an hour, they told her that the tower was four hundred feet tall, almost no one except them came out to there, the fence was to protect people from touching the tower and getting electrocuted, and the heavy steel grating over the building was a bridge to catch ice falling off the tower. They answered a surprising number of other questions too.

  “So that whole big tower is electrified?” she asked.

  Wes nodded. “That’s the way AM towers work.”

  “Gosh! And you climb on it?”

  Cal chuckled. “Not when it’s on.” He pointed to the heavy throw switch that said ON-OFF. “We service it at night and shut ’er down before we climb.”

  “B
ut that’s four hundred feet!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But what if you fell?”

  Wes nodded. “It can happen. That’s why we wear a safety harness.”

  “But can’t the tower fall over? It looks awfully skinny.”

  Cal took her to the door and pointed. “It’s guyed up all the way around with those wires, see? They’re pulled tight on three sides and keep it from falling over.”

  “Gee!” She put her hand on Cal’s chest to steady herself. “That makes me weak in the knees just thinking about it.”

  Cal was happy to help.

  While her socks dried, Wes and Cal shoveled out the walkway a bit, drove their pickup out, and pulled her SUV, leaving her alone in the shack. That was technically a no-no, but it didn’t make much sense to leave her out in the weather to freeze.

  Chapter 73 - Charlie Hofer

  Charlie Hofer sat back in his leather office chair, reading the KCAH email of the day's news, chuckling. The latest report showed that more than twenty-five hundred people were paying to have email delivered daily, and the revenues of the station were projected to break even by February. Hofer could expect to have a profitable radio station and revenue generator within sixty days.

  Fuck that. Already, he’d gotten what he wanted. Almost all of the pricks at the Oaks had been dragged through the mud, not with name-calling or innuendo but with real legitimate hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar news. He laughed again.

  The best and last example was Harrison Fucking Benjamin Fucking Hall Fucking the Fifth. The snotty little prick with the snooty attitude was nowhere to be found, according to the morning’s radio report. The town was abuzz, and his pompous stuffed-shirt daddy was avoiding the press.

  Now he had everything he wanted. Almost everything. Doris had left him high and dry to go work for that sanctimonious prick, Stan Martin, walking out the door and never looking back. Now he only saw her when she dropped off the balance sheets once a month, plopping them on his desk and walking out. Never a word, just a look that was a mix of anger and pity. The anger he could handle. The pity he could not.

  Ungrateful slut. What she really needed was to be back on the street, out of work, to see what kind of jobs were waiting for over-the-hill strippers. No, KCAH was toast. They would all be fired, the doors closed, the signal left to rot. His revenge was almost complete. All he needed was the perfect time to drop the hammer.

  He shifted his weight and smiled. Merry Christmas.

  Chapter 74 - Wes

  Wes was standing behind the control board of KCAH, waiting for the station to hit the network feed at the top of the hour. One of the pots on the board was scratchy. It was no big deal to pop it off and blow out the dust before the local evening news.

  Matt Bradley was at the board. He potted up the mic and hit the button, and the monitor went silent. “It’s coming up on six. Twenty-three degrees and light snow. More on the ongoing investigation at Hall-Hauptmann clinic after the network news.”

  Wes watched the sweeping second hand on the clock. At exactly one second to six, he saw the needle on the VU meter jump. Bip. Then came the network sounder.

  “It’s all yours, Wes.” Matt sounded depressed, like a poker player losing all his chips.

  Gretchen Wallace had come through the door with some actualities for Matt to play. “Hey, Captain Sunshine.” The staff teased Matt for his forlorn delivery. “First one’s a fifteen, outcue… ‘no idea this could happen here,’ then roll the piece for the cop shop, and finally, we do the latest on the Hall boys. Anything new?”

  “Nah…” Matt sighed. “I got a lot of no comments, and there’ve been no return calls from Dr. Hall's wife. I guess she used to work there as a nurse.”

  Gretchen raised an eyebrow. “The ice queen? Stay away from her, junior.”

  Matt looked interested. “Yeah?”

  “I’m serious. I had a college roommate that knew her back in the day. They called her the green-eyed witch—blond hair, all the curves, and collected frat boys like scalps.”

  Wes was done cleaning the pot and was putting it back on the board. He dropped the monitor in cue and tested it. Clean.

  “A looker, huh?” Matt did not seem dissuaded.

  “Kiddo, she’ll walk up to you, flash a smile, rip out your heart, take a bite, and hand it back to you before you hit the floor.”

  Wes did not hear the rest of the conversation as the studio door closed behind him. He did think about the description of the girl. Green eyes.

  Chapter 75 - Harrison Hall

  Harrison Hall hung up the phone with Brenda, the company travel agent, satisfied. Yes, the condo in the Keys was available through the first week of the new year. No, the company jet was not available until after Christmas, but yes, she could arrange a direct charter flight from Sioux Falls to Miami for the twenty-third.

  In two days, it would all be over. He had a strong hunch that Deidre would take care of Stan Martin—he trusted her devious ways. It was better that he knew nothing of any details. Better yet, LaFave would take care of her while he was safely out of the state. When that job was done, he’d invite him down to the Keys, where it would be simple enough to drug him and toss him overboard into the wide-open Atlantic. Deep-sea fishing was common and chartering a boat simple enough. It was a case of self-defense. Like the nurse who had tried to bribe him, LaFave was threatening more than just one person—he was affecting the livelihoods of thousands of people who depended on him, and Hall could not—would not—let down all those employees, medical staff, and people in need of medical help.

  He smiled at himself in the mirror, examining the reflection carefully. Perhaps a lift under the chin? Why not? He deserved it. Merry Christmas.

  Chapter 76 - Cal

  Not used to being in a big city, Cal had been rubbernecking in downtown Sioux Falls, looking at knickknacks, clothing, shoes, and furniture, all on display in shop windows lit up for Christmas.

  One of the bars had some pool tables in the back. It was kind of fun to play a few games, drink a beer, and observe people while he waited for Wes.

  The bar was dimly lit, sparsely populated, and quiet, Wes’s preferred environment. He was lining up a bank shot when he heard a familiar voice. “Hey, cowboy.”

  He glanced over. It was Jim Fletcher the ag reporter. Normally, Cal took offense to being called cowboy around town, since in the East River part of the state, there were layers of disrespect that required correction. Not so with Jim. He simply could not keep Cal and Wes straight, so he called them both cowboy to avoid mistakes.

  “Hey.” Cal nodded back.

  “Up for a game?”

  Cal shrugged. He knew Wes’s game inside and out. It might be nice to see how the ag reporter played. Jim put in the quarters and grabbed a cue that seemed reasonably straight. Both lagged for break, Jim missing the bumper by an inch and a half. Not bad. Cal eyed him, wondering if there was some kind of hustle in the making. There was not. Jim’s dad had run a PX in the war, and their basement had a top-of-the-line slate table in it.

  “I’ve been shooting pool since I could barely see over the table,” Jim said.

  They circled the table in companionable silence, making good shots, leaving tough lays, pretty evenly matched, a good way to pass the time.

  The game over, Cal looked up. “Another one?”

  But Jim was distracted, watching the TV screen over the bar. It was a station out of the Cities that carried a Gophers game, and during a break, the local news team was teasing the ten o’clock news. Jim stopped and eyed the blonde on the screen. “Nope, different one.” He turned to Cal. “I was over at the Holiday Inn when I talked to a gal who’s a reporter there.” He nodded at the screen. “Holy smoke. Made that girl look like a dishrag.”

  Cal gave Jim his full attention.

  “Blond hair to about here. A smile like a five-hundred-watt bulb and green eyes, not to mention the dairy character… good suspensory ligaments.” He winked. Jim had spent many years c
oaching FFA people on livestock judging and was known to apply those judging terms to women. Cal had spent some time in FFA himself and knew what Jim meant by the term.

  “Green eyes?”

  “Green as grass. I think she had a little thing for me,” Jim confided.

  Cal nodded, thinking about the woman whose SUV was stuck by the radio tower. Small world.

  Chapter 77 - Claire

  Christmas was two days away, the house was finished, and Claire was ready to give Stan the tour. She, Stan, and John stood on the sidewalk. She’d thought about inviting everybody, but she decided they could do that later. It was about eight o’clock at night and dark outside, with a gentle snow and for once no wind. The streetlights were muted. Christmas lights were visible on some neighboring houses.

  Their breaths puffing like miniature clouds, they walked up the shoveled stepped sidewalk to a deep front porch and a solid oak door with leaded glass. Sconces on either side of the door lit the entrance—original brass, it looked like, tarnished but solid.

  “I probably should have skimped on the materials. It would've helped the margins. But I’m a sucker for a good house.”

  Stan looked at her and shook his head slightly. “Open the door.”

  Claire fumbled with the key and let them inside. The entry was formal, hexagonal ceramic tiles with a closet to each side, with french doors into the living room. Heavy Craftsman-style oak, stained dark, framed the room, which had a built-in leaded glass cupboard and a dark-green ceramic fireplace. “The fireplace works, but I have it shut off. Whoever buys it can decide if they want an insert.”

  Claire led him through the bedroom, bath, kitchen, and formal dining room. “It’s forty by forty on this level, sixteen hundred square feet. I figure with two staircases, it’d be a cinch to set it up as three separate units—one upstairs, one here, and the other in the basement using the walkout as the entrance.”