by Gail Bowen
Janet may be a researcher, but she’s also a cop. She was trained to know that the one place a shooter can be certain of achieving the desired result is the heart. There’s a noise—surprisingly loud in our hermetically sealed world—a pungent odor that I learned from watching CSI is the smell of nitroglycerin, and then the hot sweet smell of human blood.
I look at my computer screen. One word: Hallelujah. It takes me a moment to realize that before she left, Nova keyed in the title of the last song for the night. I take a breath, lean into my microphone and announce the music that will take us out. “Here’s K.D. Lang singing Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah.’ For those of you who are still with me, thanks for hanging in.” I look at Janet. “Not everybody made it,” I say. “Godspeed to those of you who had to leave. And Rani, Queen of the Air, keep flying.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It takes time to clear a murder scene, but the cops are merciful. They lead Nova and me down the hall to the CVOX offices—well away from the stench and the sadness of Janet Davidson’s death. They interview us separately. As I answer, I stare up at the photographs of the CVOX hosts that line the office walls. We are talk radio’s heavy hitters. My photograph is a murky profile shot that shows only my good side. I decide that the next day, I’ll get Nova to take a picture of me as I am. We’ll get it blown up and hang it up for the world to see.
The police don’t keep us long. They have most of what they need on the tapes of tonight’s broadcast. The police officers are grave as they go about their business. I overhear two of them talking. Both officers had worked with Janet Davidson. They liked and respected her. Dr. Steven Apple, a gnome of a man with a carefully trimmed beard and hard-shined shoes, arrives and announces that he is there to counsel the officers through their grief. One of the cops who knew Janet Davidson tells Steve to take a long hike off a short pier. I give him two thumbs up.
When Nova and I walk outside, the air is sweet with the lilac scent of a soft spring evening. The breeze is gentle. Mick Jagger’s tongue in the red-lipped mouth that forms the O in CVOX is blazing neon. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a junkyard dog bays at the moon. We are back in the known world.
Nova puts her hand in mine. Like children in a fairy tale, still haunted by the memory of a forest where every step led us deeper into darkness, we move quickly down the street. Past the shop that sells bargain wedding gowns. Past the pawnshops with the barred windows. Past the businesses that promise Instant Ca$H for your Paycheck. We reach the corner where Nova can catch the bus that will take her home.
At the bus stop, Nova tightens her grip on my hand. The sky is starting to grow light. We haven’t spoken a word since we left the station. But we aren’t ready to say goodbye. “I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I could use a cup of coffee. Fat Boy’s is open.”
Nova laughs and moves closer. “Fat Boy’s is always open,” she says. “Which is lucky because I have a hankering for a cherry coke and an order of onion rings.”
“Breakfast of champions,” I say. Then, still holding hands, Nova and I cross the street. We’re walking east, into the sunrise, and toward the diner that prides itself on being the only place in town where, 24/7, the fun never stops.
For everyone who reads this book
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Tonight as I was riding my bike to the radio station where I do the late-night call-in show, a hearse ran a light and plowed into me. I swerved. The vehicle clipped my back wheel, and I flew through the air to safety. My Schwinn was not so lucky. The hearse skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, sprinted over and knelt beside me on the wet pavement. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I checked my essentials.
“As all right as I’ll ever be,” I said.
The man bent closer. The streetlight illuminated both our faces. He looked like the actor who played Hawkeye on the old TV show M*A*S*H. His brow furrowed with concern when he saw my cheek.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“It’s a birthmark,” I said.
As birthmarks go, mine is a standout. It covers half my face, like a blood mask. Nine out of ten strangers turn away when they see it. This man moved in closer.
“The doctors weren’t able to do anything?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“But you’ve learned to live with it.”
“Most of the time,” I said.
“That’s all any of us can do,” the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeye’s—open and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he said.
He picked up my twisted Schwinn and stowed it in the back of the hearse. I slid into the passenger seat. The air inside was cool, flower-scented and oddly soothing. After we’d buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.
“Where to?” he asked.
“CVOX Radio,” I said. “728 Shuter.”
“It’s in a strip mall,” he said. “Between a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “This is a big city.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But my business involves pick up and delivery. I need to know where people are.”
Perhaps because the night was foggy and he’d already had one accident, the driver didn’t talk as he threaded his way through the busy downtown streets. When we turned on to Shuter, I saw the neon call letters on the roof of our building. The O in CVOX (“ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME”) is an open mouth with red lips and a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Mick’s tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.
“I’ll pick you up when your show’s over,” the man said.
“I’ll take a cab,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”
He shrugged and handed me a business card. “Call me if you change your mind. Otherwise, I’ll courier a cheque to you tomorrow to pay for your bike.”
“You don’t know my name.”
The man flashed me his Hawkeye smile. “Sure I do. Your name is Charlie Dowhanuik and you’re the host of ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ I’m a fan. I even phoned in once. It was the night you walked off the show and disappeared for a year. You were in rough shape.”
“That’s why I left.”
“I was relieved that you did,” he said. “I sensed that if you didn’t turn things around, you and I were destined to meet professionally. My profession, not yours. You were too young to need my services, so I called in to remind you of what Woody Allen said.”
“I remember. ‘Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering and it’s over much too soon.’” I met the man’s eyes. “Wise words,” I said. “I still ponder them.”
“So you haven’t stopped grieving for the woman you lost?”
“Nope.”
“But you decided to keep on living,” he said.
“For the time being,” I said. We shook hands, and I opened the car door and climbed out. As I watched the hearse disappear into the fog, the opening lines of an old schoolyard rhyme floated to the top of my consciousness.
Do you ever think when a hearse goes by
That one fine day you’re gonna die?
They’ll wrap you up in a cotton sheet
And throw you down about forty feet.
The worms crawl in,
The worms crawl out…
There was more, but I had to cut short my reverie. It was October 31. Halloween. The Day
of the Dead. And I had a show to do.
CHAPTER TWO
Late at night, Studio D is a fine and private place. The CVOX offices are empty, and except for the security guy and a technician down the hall, our show’s producer, Nova Langenegger, and I are on our own. After ten years of working together, Nova and I know each other’s moods, and we anticipate one another’s needs.
Tonight Nova anticipates that I need a guest expert on death and grieving to keep me from going into freefall during the show. Halloween is tough for me. I met Ariel, the woman I loved and lost, at a Halloween birthday party. We were seven years old. She was dressed as the sun, and the memory of her shining face surrounded by rays of golden foil still stops my heart.
Nova is not often wrong, but as soon as I walk into the control room of Studio D, I know that we’re in for a rocky ride. The guest expert and my producer are standing toe to toe, and they both look grim. A stranger who didn’t know the combatants would put his money on the guest expert.
Dr. Robin Harris is a goddess. In her stilettos, she’s taller than me, and I’m an even six feet. Her skin is creamy; her eyes are green; her auburn hair falls in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Her black leather coat is close-fitted to showcase her many assets.
At my request, Nova is wearing the caterpillar costume that she’d worn to a party earlier in the evening. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, had been dressed as a butterfly. On a good day, Nova ticks in at a little over five foot two. In my opinion she’s a beauty, but these days she’s haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.
The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.
“Dr. Harris, I presume.” I offer our guest my hand. “I’m Charlie Dowhanuik.”
Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. “I’ve asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses.” Dr. Harris’s voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.
“We don’t block callers unless there’s a reason,” I say.
“There’s a reason,” Robin Harris says. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. It’s over, and he’s not dealing with it well. He makes threats.”
“Against you?” I say.
Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. “Against himself,” she says. “He threatens to commit suicide.”
“In that case, he shouldn’t be ignored,” I say. “Maybe I can help.”
Robin Harris’s thrilling voice drips contempt. “I doubt it,” she says.
Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.
“You’d better get in there,” she says. “We’re on air in one minute, five.”
I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. It’s sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.
“Those are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.”
Dr. Harris flicks the button on the base of her microphone and the tiny light indicating that she’s on the air comes to life.
“If you don’t block Dr. Gabriel Ireland’s calls, you’ll regret it,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“On-air tension is the lifeblood of talk radio,” I say.
As she hears Dr. Harris’s words, Nova’s smile is sweet. When we’re on the air, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. Unless Nova chooses to open the talkback for the guest, I’m the only one who can hear her. Tonight she’s decided not to share with Dr. Harris. Nova’s voice on the talkback is amused.
“FYI, Charlie, Dr. Harris tells me that people from an unnamed network are listening to our show tonight. Dr. Harris is on the short list for a call-in show of her own. My guess is she doesn’t want Gabriel Ireland getting through because he might put her off her game.”
“O-kay,” I say.
“There’s an introduction on your computer screen,” Nova says. She holds up five fingers and counts down. “And you’re on the air.”
Our theme music, “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band, comes up. When the music fades, it’s my turn. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is soothing, deep and intimate, but tonight I take it down a few notches and open with the sepulchral tones of the villain in a horror movie.
“Good evening. I’m Charlie Dowhanuik and you are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ It’s October thirty-first, the Day of the Dead, and our topic is—DEATH! How do you see it? A bony guy carrying a scythe rasping out your name, or a heavenly choir robed in white calling you home? Do you fear it? Do you welcome it? What do you think about the way we, as a society, handle death? Where do you stand on funerals— do you want to be torched and scattered to the four winds, or do you want the full meal deal with incense, prayers and all the bells and whistles. Our lines are open. Give me a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email me at charlie d at nation TV dot com.
“I’m joined tonight by Dr. Robin Harris, medical doctor, sociologist and expert in the arts of dying and grieving. Welcome, Dr. Harris.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Charlie D.” The warmth and fullness of her voice are extraordinary. The network guys for whom she’s auditioning must be creaming their jeans. She adjusts her notes. “The questions you raise are complex, and as a thanatologist, I believe I can contribute specialized knowledge that will be helpful to your listeners.”
“We’re in your debt,” I say. “Now tell me, in words that make sense to us all, what exactly does a thanatologist do?”
“In words that make sense to your audience, I study how people in varying cultures at varying times have dealt with death. I believe there are lessons there that can help people on the most vulnerable days of their lives.”
“And those days would be…?”
“The day when they themselves are about to die or when they learn that someone significant in their life has died.”
I remember the exact moment when I heard that my golden, glowing Ariel had died. She was twenty-eight years old. When she was thirteen, she made a tablecloth out of midnight blue velvet and appliquéd it with gold and silver satin cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish and animals. Ariel’s world encompassed everything, and then she was gone. We used the cloth she sewed to cover the box that held her ashes. Suddenly I can’t speak. Through the glass that separates us, I see Nova’s worried eyes and the quarter smile that she offers when I need encouragement.
CHAPTER THREE
On talk radio, dead air is the enemy. Spotting her chance, Doctor Harris leans in to her microphone. People from the unnamed network are listening, assessing how Dr. Harris can handle situations on air. But people for whom I am a lifeline are also listening. I failed them once before. I’m not going to let it happen again. I dig deep for my cool and commanding voice, and it’s there.
“So you deal with people who are about to die or people who’ve just lost someone they love,” I say. “Heavy stuff.”
Dr. Harris’s laugh is warm and self-deprecating.
“Heavy stuff indeed, but I teach people how to do the heavy lifting.”
“You make it sound so easy—like doing push-ups.”
“Handling death is like doing push-ups,” she says smoothly. “At first you think you can’t get past your weakness, but if you persist, every day you get stronger. You simply have to show your grief that you’re its master.”
Everything about Robin Harris is without flaw. Her profile is classic; the lines of her neck are graceful; the deep plum polish on the perfect ovals of her fingernails matches the gloss on her lips. As she utters her insights, her voice is certain. I think of my listeners, broken and vulnerable, and of me, broken and vulnerable too.
“Where
were you when I needed you?” I say.
Her green eyes meet mine.
“You lost someone?”
“Yup.”
“And…?”
“And…I’ll never touch her body again, or smell the fragrance of her skin or hear her voice. I’m like Eurydice in the underworld when she stretches out her arms to Orpheus, struggling to be grasped and to grasp him…” My voice breaks.
Nova’s voice comes through the talkback.
“Want me to go to music?”
I shake my head.
“And catches fleeting air,” Dr. Harris says. “I’m familiar with the story. Incidentally, Orpheus didn’t have to lose Eurydice. He could have carried her back from the underworld if he’d honored his promise not to look at her.”
“His fault,” I say.
“Most of our suffering is self-induced,” Dr. Harris says coolly. “We have to be strong enough to face that. And move on.”
“That would be a trick,” I say. “I’m sure Orpheus would have benefited from your counsel, Dr. Harris—I’m sure you would have saved the day.”
Nova runs a finger across her throat, indicating that I should stick a sock in it.
“I’m going to music,” she says through the talkback. “Info’s on your computer screen. Then we’ll take a caller.” She pauses. “Don’t let her draw you in, Charlie. We’ll get through this. Lunch tomorrow is on me.”
I read Nova’s notes announcing “Manhã de Carnaval” from Black Orpheus. The music comes up and I meet Dr. Harris’s eyes. “This is certainly going well,” I say.
“I don’t like your tone,” she says.
“Neither do I,” I say. “Unfortunately, it’s the only tone I have.”
I open the talkback, so I’m certain Nova hears the conversation. “Dr. Harris, why don’t you and I park our egos and get on with this? When you have your own show—and I’m sure you will—the spotlight will be on you. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ focuses on our callers. You and I got off to a bad start tonight. Let’s just chill and listen to the music. When it’s over, we’ll start taking calls. Any questions?”
