by Lisa Jackson
All in all, the marriage seemed to work, though sometimes, if Kaylie’s name or picture appeared in the tabloids, Zane would explode about “invasion of privacy, libel, and yellow journalism,” and threaten to “sue the living hell out of those bastards,” but once he was assured that Lee Johnston was locked up for a long time, Zane took everything in stride.
A model husband, she thought as she pulled into her parking space at the station one morning. Fog had blanketed the city, lingering in a chill mist that seeped into Kaylie’s bones.
Unconsciously, she glanced over her shoulder, to see if the car that often stopped at the curb when she arrived at the station was in tow. But no silver Taurus emerged from the fog and she told herself to stop worrying; Johnston had been apprehended—no one else would follow her. Besides, she’d only spotted a car a couple of times. Once in a while a blue station wagon would occupy the same spot. Obviously the drivers were just another couple of early-morning commuters. Maybe they even carpooled together.
She locked her car and walked briskly into the studio where Tracy met her in the reception area. “Here are the updates for today’s show and you’re supposed to join an emergency meeting with Jim and Alan in Jim’s office.”
“Emergency?” Kaylie repeated. “What happened?”
“There’s a problem with scheduling, I think. One of Friday’s guests is backing out.”
“And that calls for an ‘emergency meeting’?”
“Go figure,” Tracy said, rolling her eyes. “Alan is into high drama these days.”
Well, that much was true, Kaylie thought as she tapped on the glass door of Jim’s office and entered when he waved her in. Alan, already seated near Jim’s desk, flashed her a smile.
“Problems?” Kaylie asked as Jim motioned her into the vacant chair next to Alan.
“Two cancellations on Friday’s show,” Jim explained, reaching into his drawer for a pack of cigarettes. “First the author who wrote the self-analysis book calls and explains that he can’t make it for, quote, ‘personal reasons’ and would we be so kind as to reschedule him? Then we get a call from Jennifer Abbott’s agent and Jennifer won’t do the show.”
“Why not?” Kaylie asked. Jennifer was one of the most controversial actresses on daytime television. Though always in the running for an Emmy, she was notorious for her contract disputes.
“Seems as if Jennifer is keeping mum until after the final round of her contract negotiations, whenever that may be. So for now we’re out of luck.”
“I thought Tracy had a list of local people who were willing to pinch-hit.”
“We’ve been through it,” Alan interjected. “And we’ve got a couple of ‘maybes’…” He cast a quick glance in Jim Crowley’s direction, and Kaylie had the distinct impression that they were holding back on her.
“So?” she prodded, uneasy.
Alan leaned forward, as if to confide in her. “So, I called Dr. Henshaw—you know, Johnston’s psychiatrist—”
“I know who he is,” she said tightly.
“And I asked him to appear.”
“You did what?” She couldn’t believe her ears. No way. No damned way!
“Well, face it, Kaylie. The public would like to know more about the man who attacked you. And since you’re the cohostess, what better medium than our program to give the viewers a little insight into the complexity of the man?”
“And the police will allow this?” she asked, turning stricken eyes on Jim. “Won’t it interfere with Johnston’s trial? And what about patient confidentiality?”
Jim reached for a cigarette, then tossed the pack in the drawer and wadded up a stick of gum. “You don’t understand. You wouldn’t be asking him questions about Johnston…at least not directly. Actually, he’d be on the hot seat. We’d ask him to talk about an ordinary day at Whispering Hills, the makeup of the patients, that sort of thing, and then question him on Johnston’s escape.”
“I don’t believe this,” she replied, shocked. “I don’t know why he’d agree.”
Again the two men exchanged glances. Jim said, “Well, Henshaw does have something to gain from it all.”
“What?”
“A little glory for himself,” Alan explained. “He’s been writing a book for years.”
“What kind of a book?” Kaylie asked, dreading the answer.
Jim stepped in. “Apparently he’s been working on psychological profiles of star stalkers for a few years. Must’ve started it before he got the job at Whispering Hills.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Lee Johnston is one of the cases in the book.”
Alan grinned. “You got it. Anyway, the book is about done, and suddenly a few publishers are interested. His agent is pushing for big bucks.”
“And the publishers are interested because of Johnston’s escape and all the press recently,” Kaylie suggested.
“Bingo.” Alan practically beamed. “Of course, after Johnston’s trial, Henshaw can add a final chapter.”
“Of course,” Kaylie said dryly.
“How’d you find out about it?” she asked.
“I called.” Alan’s face turned crafty. “I figured there was a lot of public interest right now. I would have liked to have that orderly who was hurt in the escape, but the hospital won’t allow it—nor will the police.”
“But it’s all right for Henshaw.”
“As long as we zero in on the book and the escape. But we can’t talk about the attack on you.”
Kaylie, who had tried to keep as calm as possible during the whole discussion, shook her head. “I can’t do this,” she said, her stomach churning at the thought of reliving the horrible ordeal again. She looked over at Jim. “You can understand, can’t you, why I can’t do this? I was attacked—by a madman. And Zane could’ve been killed.”
“Oh, Kaylie—” Alan interjected. “This isn’t personal. It’s just business.”
She took a deep breath. Facing Johnston’s psychiatrist, talking about the attack of seven years ago, reliving all the hellish details again. For what? To satisfy America’s curiosity? To gain viewers? To sell Henshaw’s book? To further Alan’s career? To further hers?
It all seemed so petty. A headache erupted behind her eyes. She closed her lids and rubbed her temples. In her mind’s eye she saw Johnston’s knife thrust into Zane’s back. She opened her eyes and shook her head. “I—I don’t think I can separate personal from professional on this one.”
“You got a better idea?” Jim asked, popping the gum into his mouth.
“A dozen of them,” she said, her mind spinning to any other possibility. “There’s the leader of the senior citizens’ rights group, Molly McGintry. She’s in town. Or Consuela Martinez, the woman who came into the country illegally, had her baby so that he could be an American citizen, then went public with the fact to fight our immigration laws. Or how about Charles Brickworth, the guy who’s tearing down one of the most historic buildings in the bay area?” she asked, but she could have been talking to walls for all the good it did her.
By the time the meeting was over, Dr. Anthony Henshaw had agreed to be Friday’s guest, and Kaylie, along with Alan, would get the grand privilege of interviewing him.
The thought turned her insides to jelly.
And she couldn’t complain to Zane. What could he say except, “I told you so”?
No, all she could do was find a way to get through the interview.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alan said, clapping her on the back as she reached for her purse. “If we work things right, we could generate enough interest not only for a sequel to Obsession, but there might be enough of a story in Henshaw’s book for a made-for-television movie or documentary.”
“Oh, Alan, forget it,” she snapped, angry at the situation.
“Loosen up, Kaylie,” he replied. “You may not know it yet, but this is the best publicity we’ve ever had. And, face it, sure you were scared—hell, you went through a lot of pain and agony—but no
one was really hurt, were they?”
“No one but Zane and an orderly at the hospital,” she replied dryly, “but maybe they can cut movie deals of their own.”
“There’s no talking to you!” Alan muttered, grabbing his briefcase and athletic bag and storming out of the building.
Kaylie hiked the strap of her purse over her shoulder. How was she going to break the news to Zane?
Chapter Fourteen
Zane kicked at his wastebasket, sending it rolling to the other side of his office. He’d wrestled with his conscience for weeks.
He strode down the hall. Wincing as his wound stretched, he rapped sharply on the door of Brad Hastings’s office.
Brad was behind his desk. Tie askew, thin hair standing straight up from being repeatedly run through with his fingers, Hastings stared into the glowing screen of a computer terminal. He glimpsed Zane from the corner of his eye, typed a few quick commands and swiveled in his chair. “What can I do for you?”
“I think it’s time to take Rafferty off the case.”
“You sure?” Hastings had never before questioned Zane’s judgment. But this was a difficult situation. “I thought you were still concerned for Kaylie’s welfare.”
“I am. But if she found out I was having her tailed, she’d hit the roof.”
Hastings chanced a grin. “So who wears the pants in your family, eh?” He ribbed his boss, hazarding Zane’s considerable wrath for a chance to needle him.
“Kaylie’s big on independence.”
“Whatever you say.” Hastings shrugged and bit on his lower lip. “I could use Rafferty over on the McKay building.”
“Trouble?”
“Looks that way. There’s a glitch in the security system, probably a short or something and McKay wants to post a few extra guards. He’s got some big client coming in with a truckload of jewels.” Hastings consulted his screen again, and Zane looked over his shoulder, trying to show some interest in Frank McKay’s import/export business. But all the while he talked with Hastings, he had the gnawing feeling that he was making a mistake—that Kaylie wasn’t safe, that she needed his protection.
Paranoid, that’s what he was, he decided.
Later, as he walked back to his office, he still wasn’t convinced he’d made the right decision. But he had no choice. This was the way she wanted it, and he’d be damned if he was going to blow this marriage.
“Here are your messages, Mr. Flannery,” Peggy said, waving the pink slips of paper as he started for his office.
“Oh, thanks.”
“And your wife called.”
His wife. It sounded so lasting. Grinning, Zane leaned across Peggy’s desk. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for getting through to the police so quickly. They were at the house in Carmel practically as soon as I was.” Reading the messages, he started back to his office.
Peggy adjusted her headset. “I don’t think you should thank me. By the time I got through, they’d already been called.”
Zane stopped dead in his tracks, then turned on his heel. “They’d already been called?” he repeated slowly, his mind spinning ahead. “By whom? Someone at Whispering Falls?”
“I—I don’t know,” Peggy stammered. “I didn’t think to ask. It took quite a while to connect with the right number in Carmel because I called the San Francisco Police Department first—you know, to check out her apartment here in the city. When I finally got through to the police in Carmel, I’m sure the dispatcher said something about already sending a unit over to her house. I—I guess I should have told you sooner, but everything turned out okay, and as soon as you were out of the hospital you took off to get married in Lake Tahoe…and…” She lifted her palms and blushed to the roots of her hair. Peggy prided herself on her work. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
From Peggy’s reaction, Zane assumed the look on his face must be murderous. A hundred questions raced through his mind, but not one single answer filled the worrisome gaps. Who had called? How would that person know that Kaylie was in Carmel?
“Mr. Flannery…?” Peggy asked, apparently still shivering in her boots.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, trying to keep his expression calm while inside he was tormented. He’d thought that having Lee Johnston readmitted to the hospital would solve the problem, but there were still some loose ends. It took all of his willpower not to march back to Hastings’s office and order not only Rafferty, but six extra men to watch Kaylie every waking hour that Zane wasn’t with her. “Call the police, get all the information you can…. Never mind, I think I’d better do it myself.”
Back in his office, he shoved aside the desire to pour himself a stiff shot. He knew several detectives on the force, men he’d worked with at Gemini Security ages ago, before he’d started his own company. Now, because of his position as owner of a private detective/security firm, he shouldn’t have to wade through a lot of red tape to get the information he wanted. He picked up the phone and rested his hips against the desk. “Come on, come on,” he muttered as the call was finally routed to Detective Mike Saragossa.
“Hey, ol’ buddy!” Mike drawled lazily from somewhere deep in the bowels of the SFPD. “’Bout time I heard from you. What can I do for ya?”
* * *
Kaylie’s day had gone from bad to worse. After the meeting with Jim and Alan, she’d muffed the introduction of a newspaper reporter who was investigating crime within the city government, and Alan had rescued her. Then during an interview with a woman running for mayor, there was trouble with her microphone and, once again, Alan had to take over until the station break. The defective microphone was whisked away and a new one clipped quickly onto her lapel. Meanwhile, the candidate, Kathleen McKenney, was more than a little miffed at the inconvenience, and pointedly ignored Kaylie from that point on.
The last half of the show ran more smoothly, but by the end of the program, Kaylie couldn’t wait to climb off her chair, wipe off her smile and relax. She headed straight to the cafeteria, drowned herself in a diet soda, then, after going over the problems with Jim, grabbed her notes for the next day and left the station. All she wanted to do was go straight home and curl up with a good book and spend the rest of the evening with her new husband.
But first, she thought as she climbed into her car and flicked on the ignition, she’d surprise Zane. Rather than wait for him at home, she’d catch him at work. She guided her car out of the lot and merged into traffic. Adjusting her rearview mirror, she spotted a car, not a silver Taurus, but a blue wagon, roll into traffic behind her. No big deal, she decided, but she’d spied that wagon before—on days when the Taurus hadn’t been around the parking lot.
So what? Lots of people go to the same place every day. The driver was probably someone who works around here. She drove a couple of blocks, turned right twice, doubling back, and couldn’t help but check the rearview mirror. Sure enough, about four cars behind, the wagon tailed her.
Fear jarred her. Oh, Lord, not again! She nearly rear-ended the car in front of her. Stay cool, Kaylie. Get a grip on yourself! But her heart slammed against her rib cage, and a cold sweat broke out over her skin. Her fingers clamped the wheel in a death grip.
At the next stoplight she slowed, checking the mirror every five seconds.
The light turned green, and she tromped on the gas, her concentration split between the road ahead and the mirror. The blue wagon followed three cars behind. Kaylie shifted down. Timing the next light, she sailed through a yellow and the wagon got hung up on a red.
Her hands were sweating, the steering wheel felt slick as she drove ten blocks out of her way before turning again and heading for Zane’s office. She felt numb inside. No one would be following her. Johnston was locked up.
But Zane’s words, spoken in an angry blurt at the last mention of Johnston in The Insider, came back to haunt her. “The more the press makes of this, the more likely some other wacko is going to try to duplicate the same sick crime. If not wit
h you then with someone else—no one who’s famous is safe!” He’d slapped the paper onto the table in front of her to make his point, and she’d pointedly picked it up with two fingers, rotated in her chair and dropped the entire paper into the trash.
“I didn’t know you subscribed,” she’d mocked, though part of his anger had been conveyed to her.
He’d scowled at her and motioned impatiently toward the trash. “Articles like that only cause trouble. Believe me, I know.” And he did. One part of his business, especially in his office near Hollywood, had grown by leaps and bounds, patronized by stars who needed protection from overly zealous or crazed fans. Any one of those “fans” could potentially endanger the star’s life or the lives of members of his or her family.
Kaylie shivered. Her heart knocking crazily, she drove into the parking lot, slid into an open space, then turned off the engine and, with a shuddering sigh, leaned her head against the steering wheel. “You’re okay,” she told herself, and slowly her pulse decelerated. Should she tell Zane about the cars—the Taurus and the wagon? Would he think she was imagining things, or worse yet, would it send him into the same paranoid need to protect her that had destroyed their marriage once before?
She wanted to be honest with him. Good marriages were based on honesty and yet, just this once, she might let the truth slip.
And what if you’re followed again?
Oh, Lord, what a mess! She grabbed a handful of hair and tossed it over her shoulder. Climbing out of her Audi, she stood on slightly unsteady legs just as another car eased into the garage. Glancing over her shoulder, she gasped. Fear petrified her. The car cruising into the lot of Flannery Security was the same wagon that had followed her. The tail she’d thought she’d lost. Oh, God! How could he have known?
The blond man behind the wheel stared straight at her and she saw his face—young and hard, flat nose, cold eyes and straight hair—stare back at her. He opened the car door, and Kaylie didn’t wait. Closer to the elevator, she sprinted across the cement and pounded on the button. The doors opened as the taste of fear settled in the back of her throat.
