by Candice Fox
‘My Psycho Father Doesn’t Know I’m Gay?’ Kradle said.
‘Right.’ The man nodded. ‘We had guests bring a loved one on the show and come out to them. I was in charge of a lot of the arrangements for the family members. Booking flights, organising hotel rooms, catering, that kind of thing.’
The man fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, glancing now and then at Kradle.
‘The episode that aired on TV had four sets of guests,’ the man said. ‘But there were actually five.’
‘I knew it,’ Celine gasped.
‘We were well ahead on filming the program,’ the man said. ‘Three or four months. So when what happened happened, we deleted the footage of the extra guests and your wife’s comment. A shortened version of the episode went to air. And after that—’
‘You’re getting ahead of yourself,’ Kradle said. ‘What happened on the show? Who was the guest?’
The man rubbed his hands together as if they were cold.
‘The guy’s name was Mullins,’ he said. ‘Gary Mullins. Military guy. His son Brady wrote to the show after we put a call-out online. He said he was gay, and his dad didn’t know, and the guy was going to blow his stack big time when he found out. It was exactly the type of letter we were looking for. Most of the time we wanted to set up the show with one guest who was probably going to react well to the secret – whatever it was – and one guest who we could guarantee was going to react badly, and a couple who could go either way. We had a pregnancy-reveal show once where all the reactions were cute and the ratings tanked. We needed at least one explosion.’
‘So how did Gary react to the son’s news?’ Celine asked.
‘On camera, he was bad,’ the man said. ‘I don’t mean, like, he blew his stack, as his son predicted he would. As we hoped he would. I mean he was bad for TV. He . . . he just went icy. Kind of weird. He froze, I think. I’ve seen it before. People get this fake, hard kind of smile. We call it the lizard smile.’
‘The lizard smile?’
‘Yeah. They smile and they don’t say much.’
‘You do that.’ Kradle turned to Celine. ‘When you’re cornered.’
‘It’s like a defence mechanism,’ she agreed.
‘It was a disappointing segment,’ the man continued. ‘But that’s reality TV for you. The director told Frances to cut it short and move on.’
‘So Christine asked the guy a question at the end of the show?’ Kradle said. ‘When people from the audience stand up and take the mic?’
‘She made a comment about Mullins.’
‘What did she say?’ Celine asked.
‘I can’t even remember. I . . . I have a USB with the full episode on it with me. She just said something about fathers and sons, or sons needing love or something.’
‘So what the hell makes you think this Gary Mullins guy murdered my family? Because this all seems pretty thin to me,’ Kradle said. Celine looked over. Kradle’s neck was taut, his jaw muscles flexing. ‘If there’s nothing else—’
‘Just hold on,’ the man said. ‘I’m getting there. A week after we finished taping the show, Gary Mullins called the front desk. He said he wanted to know the name of the woman with the long brown and grey hair and tattoos, who made the comment at the end of the show. He sounded mad. Not screaming mad, but, like, cold. I said I couldn’t tell him. And I got this . . . this feeling.’
Celine watched Kradle. His eyes were locked on the man sitting on the bed before him.
‘What kind of feeling?’ Kradle asked.
‘As if it wasn’t over.’
Kradle nodded.
‘Then a couple of days later, he calls again,’ the man said. ‘Only this time he’s pretending it isn’t him. He’s pretending to be someone from ticketing. He wants the address of one of the guests, because he says she’s requested a refund and he doesn’t know where to send it to. He knew her name by then. Christine Kradle.’
‘And you knew the caller was Gary Mullins?’ Celine asked.
‘I knew.’ The man nodded. ‘And I knew all that stuff about the ticket refund was bullshit. I managed refunds and bookings at the front desk.’
‘So what did you do?’ Celine asked.
‘Well, I was so creeped out that I called and checked on the son, Brady. I had all his details from having organised his appearance on the show. He said he hadn’t seen his father since the taping. His boyfriend had picked him up and they’d flown back to San Francisco. They hadn’t spoken at all. I kind of got the feeling Brady was really just in it for the ten thousand bucks we paid him to appear.’
‘Did you tell the show’s producers?’ Kradle asked. ‘About the phone calls?’
‘Sure did,’ the man said. ‘They blew it off. It wasn’t even the weirdest thing a guest had ever done after the show. We had this one woman who came on to reveal to her husband that she was dating his brother, and—’
‘Stay focused. What happened after the murders?’ Kradle snapped.
The man shifted uncomfortably. ‘I went right back to the producers. I told them we needed to go to the police about this. That it might be a . . . a lead. Someone calls trying to hunt the lady down, and then she’s killed? I mean, come on!’
‘Yeah,’ Kradle said. The malice in his voice was thickening. ‘Come on.’
‘They told me to shut my mouth about it,’ the man said. ‘They cut the segment and your wife’s comment. I was the only person in the studio who seemed to think it was a big deal. People were telling me I was trying to cook the Kradle Family murders up as a Jenny Jones thing.’
‘A Jenny Jones thing?’ Celine asked.
‘The Jenny Jones Show was a Frances Faulkner Show predecessor back in the nineties,’ the man said. ‘A couple of weeks after a taping, one of the guests blew his friend’s brains out with a shotgun in the doorway of his home for embarrassing him on the show. They cancelled the show and the guy’s family sued for twenty-nine million dollars.’
‘And your producers didn’t want The Frances Faulkner Show ending up the same way,’ Kradle said.
‘They said I was being crazy. But, yeah’—the man shrugged—‘I knew that was why they were doing it. A lawsuit like that would shut down the show and tie everyone up in court for years.’
‘So that was it? You just dropped it?’ Celine asked.
‘No,’ the man said. ‘I went ahead and called the detective on the case on my lunch hour when the place was quiet. When he finally called back, he told me they already had a suspect locked in for the murders and it wasn’t our guy.’
Kradle’s lip was twitching hard. He stood so fast the man in the striped shirt cowered away from him.
‘Give me the USB.’ Kradle put a palm out. The man grabbed a backpack that was sitting at the head of the bed and extracted a thumb drive from it. Kradle took the drive, walked stiffly to the door of the motel room and was out of it and halfway across the parking lot before Celine could catch up to him.
‘Hey.’ She grabbed his shoulder. They stopped beside a row of bike racks under a bright street lamp. ‘Let’s stay calm. We’re making progress. We have a lead now. Let’s go back to my place. We’ll call the police and tell them what we know, go from there.’
‘Good plan.’ Kradle nodded. His fury was slowly dying, his face softening. ‘Give me the car keys. I need to drive. I can’t sit around doing nothing any longer. I’m too itchy.’
Celine handed him the car keys. He took them, grabbed her wrist and snapped a handcuff to it, yanked the other cuff to the bike rack and clicked it closed.
‘What? No!’ Celine grabbed at Kradle as he pulled away. ‘You motherfucker!’
‘Little trick someone taught me recently,’ Kradle said. ‘I’m sorry, Celine. I’m really, really sorry.’ He turned and threw the handcuff key with all his might towards the hotel, then jogged away, across the highway to the car parked at the Best Western. Celine roared after him, but he didn’t look back.
CHAPTER 39
Both the cat and
the dog were behind the door when Kradle entered the house. He ignored them, heading for the laptop on the dining room table. He opened it, flipped the machine and looked for the USB port. There was none. Helplessly, he swiped a finger over the mousepad and the screen came to life, an empty box requesting a password.
Kradle groaned, then spied the television and went there. While he fiddled around at the back of the machine, the dog and cat assembled on the rug, watchful, curious. Kradle found a place for the drive and stood between the animals, the remote in his hand. All three of them watched as the video file opened and began to play.
Frances Faulkner in her turquoise pants suit. The gawdy set with the plush pink armchairs and low-hanging spot lamps, the rock music. Kradle scrolled through the video, watched people hug, cry, writhe in the chairs. He stopped the video when a man he didn’t recognise walked onto the screen: a tall, stubbled young man with an immaculate jet-black quiff. He sat in the pink chair and grinned at the crowd, tugging at the chest of a thick black knitted sweater.
‘Audience, meet our next guest.’ The video cut back to Frances, who was wandering the aisles of the audience casually. ‘Brady says his dad, Gary, is an ex-Marine who doesn’t approve of his career in graphic design or his ownership of a cavoodle, Sparkles. But Gary’s really going to lose it when he learns his son has been keeping a deep dark secret from him since he was thirteen years old. Welcome to the show, Brady!’
The audience cheered. Brady waved and grinned.
‘Thanks, Frances! I’ve always wanted to be on your show! I’m a huge fan!’
‘Oh, stop it, you.’ Frances flapped a hand at the stage. ‘First off, tell me what the heck a cavoodle is. Sounds like a type of pasta.’
The audience giggled. A picture of the cavalier King Charles spaniel cross miniature poodle flashed on the screen above the stage, and the audience cooed as one. Brady explained the curly brown puppy’s heritage.
‘She’s my little baby.’ Brady smiled.
‘And your dad doesn’t like her?’ Frances gave a quizzical frown. ‘How could you not like her? Look at her! She’s a peach! That ain’t right!’
‘That ain’t right!’ the audience cheered.
‘I know, I know. He says she’s a glorified cat.’
‘But there’s a lot more about you that doesn’t rub with your father’s way of life, isn’t there, Brady?’ Frances said.
‘He doesn’t know . . .’ Brady paused for effect, looking at the audience with a coy grin. ‘I’ve been dating guys since I was about thirteen years old.’
The audience erupted. Kradle fast-forwarded. Brady and Frances jittered and jostled as they presumably discussed Brady’s childhood, his father’s prejudices. Kradle hit play as Frances swept an arm towards the side of the stage.
‘. . . bring him out!’
A taller, thicker version of Brady walked stiffly onto the stage. Gary Mullins was suntanned and heavy-jawed, with the kind of ropy forearms and wide knuckles reserved for men who had never hired another man to fix or clean or kill or carry anything for them in their entire lives. He took a seat next to Brady and gave the boy a kind of smile that was laden with hidden meaning. With dark, uncertain meaning.
Kradle had to remind himself to breathe.
‘Welcome to the show, Gary.’ Frances beamed.
‘Thank you.’
‘Or, should I say, Sergeant Major Mullins?’
‘Gary is fine.’
‘Your son Brady invited you to the show a couple of weeks ago, didn’t he? He told you the studio put a call out for veterans and their children to come on the show to celebrate Memorial Day.’
‘Right.’ Gary nodded. Kradle watched the older, bigger Mullins gripping his knees, his eyes locked on his son, the younger man twitching and shifting in his seat, leaning as far away from his father as the seat would allow. Frances left space for Gary to elaborate on his journey towards coming on the show, on the delicious misapprehension he had about the show’s purpose and subject. He did not. A couple of awkward beats passed in which Kradle could hear individual voices in the crowd calling out taunts or encouragements, he couldn’t tell.
‘So, uh’—Frances shuffled her question cards—‘so, why don’t you tell us about your son, Gary?’
‘He’s a good kid.’ Gary have an exaggerated nod. His head was turned towards his son, eyes locked on his face, which was turned towards the audience. ‘Yep. Never had a problem with him.’
The audience tittered, gave a rumble of anticipation.
‘Why don’t you look up here, Gary?’ Frances said.
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘Over here.’
‘Right. I got you.’
‘Is there anything your son could ever do that would make you—’
Kradle hit the fast-forward button. His stomach was roiling with vicarious terror and humiliation. Brady did his big reveal and his father’s smile stiffened even further, so that Kradle could see the molars at the corners of his mouth and the veins in his temples. Then the big man hunched forwards in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his face turned towards his son, and the grimace was hidden from the camera, which Kradle knew was exactly what the show’s directors didn’t want. They wanted to see and smell and taste the humiliation. Before he knew it, the segment was over. Kradle kept rolling through the tape until he got to the audience questions at the end and, his skin tingling with excitement, he watched his murdered wife rise from her chair as Frances approached her with the microphone.
‘Frances, oh.’ Christine clasped her hands around the mic as soon as the host was within reach, her hands around Frances’s hands, the two of them gripping the device like it was a torch. ‘I’m just so in love with you and this show. I’ve been a diehard Frances Faulkner fan forever.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Frances winced. ‘Do you have a question for our guests?’
‘Look.’ Christine turned to the stage. ‘I just want to say, you guys all need to get back to the love. It’s all about love, people. These are your kids. I’m a parent to a beautiful, beautiful boy, and I’ve always tried to raise him to believe in—’
Kradle felt his mouth twist. He gripped the remote in his fist.
‘—people being who they are. I’m just so proud of him.’
The audience cheered. The camera panned across the guests, resting on Brady and Gary Mullins at the very edge of the stage. Brady was staring at his fingernails. Gary was expressionless, rigid. Kradle thought Christine’s time with the mic must be over, and felt a chill rush through him as the camera turned back to her.
‘I happen to be a medium,’ Christine continued.
‘A medium?’ Frances was trying to extract her hands from Christine’s. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, and I’m feeling an incredible pull towards you, on the end of the row. Mr Mullins.’
The camera cut to Mullins and his son. The father’s mouth was a toothy grimace.
‘There are dark energies clustered around you.’ The camera cut to Christine as she waved an illustrative hand. ‘Spirits that have passed and have been disturbed from their slumber, brought back to wakefulness, by your refusal to accept your son.’
‘Jesus, Christine,’ Kradle breathed.
‘Is your mother still with us, Mr Mullins?’ Christine asked.
‘I think we better move on,’ Frances said. The crowd was beginning to jeer again, sensing Christine’s intent to hog the mic for as long as Frances would allow it. As the camera panned away, following Frances as she left Christine’s side, Kradle saw his murdered wife yell out towards the stage.
‘She wants you to love him!’ Christine called.
Kradle ran through the rest of the tape but saw nothing he wanted to examine further. He stepped around the television and extracted the USB, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and searched for Brady Mullins, San Francisco.
With his heart pumping, throbbing in his fingers, he tapped open a stylish website advertising “corporate asset design”, whate
ver the hell that was. He scrolled until he found a phone number, then dialled.
‘He— hello?’
‘Brady Mullins?’
‘Jesus, who is this? Wha— what time is it?’
‘Is this Brady Mullins?’ Kradle insisted.
‘Yes, yes, yes, wha—’
‘My name is . . . Terry Sellers. I’m a paramedic.’
Kradle heard blankets rustling. A muffled voice in the background of the line.
‘What’s going on?’ Brady asked.
‘Your father has just been in a car accident.’
‘Oh . . . whoa. Whoa. Where? Is . . . Is he okay?’
‘He’s okay,’ Kradle said. ‘He’s going to be fine. But he’s in and out of consciousness. Took a bit of a knock to the head. He’s saying he has some . . . some medication at home that he needs. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Um.’ Brady heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, god. We, uh. To be honest with you, we don’t really talk.’
‘Okay.’ Kradle squeezed his eyes shut.
‘I mean, he had high blood pressure. Back when . . . He’s always had high blood pressure.’
‘We need to know exactly what medications he’s on,’ Kradle said. ‘Could you give us his address? We’ll send someone out to his home to see what’s there.’
‘Isn’t his address in his wallet?’ Brady asked.
Kradle’s stomach sank. He took the phone away from his ear, hovered his thumb over the red button to end the call.
‘The wallet is . . . uh, it’s not here. I’m not seeing it. It’s probably back at the crash site.’
‘Seventeen Cloudrock Court, MacDonald Ranch,’ Brady said.
Kradle’s heart swelled in his chest.
‘Just outside Vegas . . .’ Kradle said.
‘Yeah,’ Brady said. ‘Let me get a pen. Which hosp—’
Kradle hung up. He went to the front door and opened it. The dog and cat watched him go.
Kradle paused before he swung the door closed. He looked at the dog, at its huge, earnest eyes, and when he spoke he heard that his voice had lost all warmth and humanity, all soul. It was almost robotic.
