by Gail Bowen
The red line leaves the bedroom and goes down a hallway into a wing on the west side of the house. The blueprint identifies this as the master bedroom. A double bed is drawn against the far wall. At the head of the bed, there are two sets of initials: MEK and JAK. Both are X’d out. Finally the red line doubles back to the stairs that lead to the third floor. The bed in this loft bedroom is marked with the initials JJK. It, too, bears an X. Each of the sets of initials is numbered. LMK is number 1; VCK is number 2; MEK is 3; JAK is 4; and JJK is numbered 5. The thick red line stops at JJK’s bed. His will be the last blood shed.
CHAPTER SIX
The Winstons’ graceful tribute to the stepfather who raised them to be proud and loving men ends. It’s my turn now, but I can’t move. Through my earphones, I hear dead air—fatal for talk radio. Nova takes over. Her voice is shaky, but she’s in charge. “The cops are on their way,” she says. “Henry Burgh’s on line one. Can you handle him?”
I nod, take a deep breath, dig deep for my cool voice and flip on my microphone. My hands are trembling, but my imitation of the unflappable Charlie D is convincing.
“Hey, Henry, this is a big night for us. You’re a first-time caller and our show’s first billionaire. Thanks for joining the party.”
Henry’s bass rumbles with authority, but he’s in high spirits.
“I wanted to thank Britney for her good wishes. Misty’s right here with me, and she appreciates Britney’s kindness too. People of my generation are often too quick to dismiss young people. They have a great deal to offer.”
“Agreed,” I say. “You’ve obviously discovered that Misty has a great deal to offer.”
Provoking a billionaire is never a sharp move, but Henry takes my comments in stride.
“Misty is a woman of infinite variety. But enumerating my bride-to-be’s many charms would just get me into a pissing match with my son. I’ve always been able to out-piss Evan.” He chuckles. “Besides, Misty is attempting to teach me to turn the other cheek.”
I find myself liking Henry.
“So how’s that working out for you?”
His laugh rumbles.
“Let’s just say it’s not easy to teach an old dog new tricks.”
I turn to share the moment with Nova. What I see makes me reach for the aspirin. The control room is filling with cops. This baffles me. The danger is out there, not in here.
Through the talkback, Nova’s voice is tense, but she’s in control.
“We’re going to another tune. Ask Henry Burgh to stay on the line. If we’re going to lure loser1121, we’re going to have to bait the hook.”
“And Henry will keep the focus where we need it to be—on fathers and sons.”
“We can’t afford to blow this, Charlie. Do whatever’s necessary to keep Henry onside.”
I flip my mike back on.
“Henry, I apologize, we’re having some technical difficulties.”
“I assumed as much,” he says. “Over the years, I’ve hung up on many people, but no one ever hangs up on me.”
“Being a billionaire has its advantages,” I say. “Unfortunately, money can’t straighten out whatever’s playing havoc with our phone lines. We’re going to stay with music till we fix the problem. Will you stick around?”
“Of course,” he says. “At eighty-three, adventures don’t come every day. And Misty’s always up for adventures, aren’t you, my love?” In the background a woman laughs softly.
I smile to myself. Henry’s marriage to Misty de Vol may not be a love match, but Misty knows how to give a man his money’s worth. I lean into my microphone.
“Hey, it appears that gremlins are scrambling our phone lines tonight, so please hold your calls. As our tech works at unscrambling, let’s have a listen to Lenny Kravitz singing Elton John’s rocking ‘Like Father Like Son.’”
I stretch to get the kinks out, but it’s not my night to un-kink. Nova’s on the talkback.
“You’re fired, Charlie. Check your inbox. Evan Burgh sent a blistering email. He didn’t take kindly to you cozying up to his dad.”
I shrug. “You know what they say. ‘Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.’”
Nova’s laugh is thin.
“That’s the spirit. Okay, here’s the situation. One of the officers in here with me is a psychologist. She thinks loser1121’s hatred for his father has been building for a long time. In her opinion, creating the plan was a safety valve for 1121.”
“But now the plan doesn’t bring the same old thrill,” I say.
“No, the police shrink is convinced that 1121 is ready to act. Her colleagues on the force agree that there’s no way the authorities can find this kid. He could be anywhere. The initials he’s written on the blueprint are useless. So is his email address. Anonymous.org is one of those temporary web-based addresses that don’t require registration. You’re going to have to get him to call in.”
“I’ll bet Henry Burgh has a few ideas on the relationship between fathers and sons. I’ll see if I can get him to provoke a response from loser1121.”
I flip on my mike.
“And we’re back. Our first-time caller, Henry Burgh, has been kind enough to stick around. So, Henry, earlier on the show I referenced an ancient sage who said that most sons are worse than their fathers. Any thoughts?”
Henry doesn’t hesitate.
“I agree,” he says flatly. “It doesn’t start out that way. Most of us start out like Aldo. We have big dreams for our sons. They’re the center of our existence. Then expectations on both sides aren’t met. One day a father wakes up and realizes that his son is never going to be the man he dreamed he would be. One day the son wakes up and sees the disappointment in his father’s eyes when he looks at him. They both cut their losses. They start avoiding one another. Why put yourself through that pain—on either side? Then the son grows up and does everything he can to spite his father.”
I think of my father waiting in a coffee shop for me to finish tonight’s show so we can get together and slap a Hallmark ending on thirty-three years of indifference and neglect.
“Is it always the son who’s at fault?” I ask, and my mind is no longer on 1121.
“Does it matter?” Henry says. “The day a father realizes that his son will never be the man he is, the damage is done. It’s a Humpty Dumpty thing—once a hope is shattered, it can never be put back together again.”
“What about the son’s hopes?”
“That would be the son’s problem, wouldn’t it?” Henry says. The warmth has gone from his voice. For the first time that night, he sounds a lot like Evan. Maybe Lenny Kravitz had it right. Genes will tell. No matter what a boy does, he’s destined to end up like his father.
It’s a depressing thought, but I don’t have much time to ponder. Nova calls on the talkback. Loser1121 is on line two. I thank Henry, cut him off and open line two.
CHAPTER SEVEN
His voice is a surprise. It’s small, high-pitched, edged with doom.
“This is loser1121—I’ve sent you some emails. Did you get them?”
“I did. Can you tell me your real name?”
“Loser1121 is my real name.” His tone is flat, the voice of someone to whom nothing matters. “I tried to be just ‘loser’ on my email address, but the name was taken. Loser1121 was the first name that was still available. That means there are 1,120 losers ahead of me. I’m not even the first.”
His pain at being denied even this small distinction makes me wince.
“I’ve felt like a loser for much of my life,” I say.
Even his laugh is a sob.
“You’re just saying that. I listen to your show every night. You’re a winner, Charlie D. People worship you. The kids at my school try to talk like you—edgy, funny, smart. I’ve tried myself—just at home in my room. I try to make my voice low like yours, but it comes out wrong. Everything I do comes out wrong. But tonight it’s going to be different.”
“So
what are you doing tonight?”
“Killing my family,” he says. His voice is without emotion. He could be announcing that he’ll be sitting with a bowl of popcorn watching a DVD. “Charlie, you know what I’m going to do.” He raises his voice. He’s angry now. “I sent you the plans. You’ve been waiting for me to call. That’s why you made up all that stuff about problems with the phone lines. There were no problems with the phone lines. When I called, I got right in.”
I try a laugh.
“You’re too smart for me.”
“Smart enough not to let you stop me.”
He tries for a tough-guy growl, but in one humiliating adolescent moment, his voice breaks. He’s younger than I thought— perhaps as young as thirteen or fourteen.
“I know I can’t stop you,” I say. “I was hoping you’d stop yourself.”
“Why? Just to prove one more time that I can’t do anything right?”
“Killing your family isn’t right,” I say.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Suddenly he sounds confident. I’m losing ground.
“You’ve only known me a couple of minutes,” he says. “I’ve known me fourteen years. So have the people in my family. They know I’m a loser. Every time they look at me, I see it in their eyes. But after tonight, they’ll never have to look at me again.”
“Where are you now?”
“Still up on the third floor in my room. You know what comes next. I sent you the blueprint. I’m going downstairs to close my sisters’ eyes. Then I’ll close my mother’s eyes, and then I’ll close his eyes.”
“Your father’s?” I ask.
“Don’t do that! You knew who I meant!” His voice cracks. He takes a breath. “Then I’ll come back to my room, and that will be the end.”
“Please, don’t do this,” I say. My voice is as weak as my words.
“Too late, Charlie D. It’s time to get started. I have my father’s knife. But guess what?” His laugh is childlike but haunting. “It’s not his knife anymore. It’s mine.”
My pulse is racing.
“Stay on the line—please.” I rack my brain for something—anything—that will keep him from breaking our connection. As long as he’s talking to me, he’s not killing the members of his family. “Why did you send me the blueprint?” I say. “If you didn’t want to be stopped, why did you call in tonight?”
He doesn’t answer. In the silence, I can hear my heart pounding. It’s too late. I reach for the bottle of aspirin, shake two into my palm and dry-chew them. It’s over.
I start to take off my earphones; then I hear him. His voice is small, and it seems as if it’s painful for him to talk.
“I wanted a record,” he says. “I didn’t want people to think I was just screwed-up like the two kids who did the Columbine shooting. They were weirdos who were into guns and homemade explosives. I want people to hear my real voice. So they’d know…”
“So they’d know what?”
Loser1121 is fighting tears, and he isn’t winning. He’s breaking apart.
“So they’d know that I love my mother and I love my sisters.”
“Then why are you going to end their lives?” I ask.
He raises his voice in frustration.
“Because I love them. I just told you that. They’ve always tried to protect me against him.”
“Does your father hurt you physically?”
“Not physically. He has other ways. And my mother and my sisters always tell me my father is wrong about me. They say I’m a good person, a worthwhile person—they believe in me.”
“Then why do you want to…to ‘close their eyes’?”
“I don’t want them to spend the rest of their lives having people look away from them because they’re the family with the boy who killed his father.”
“So you’re killing your mother and your sisters to protect them.”
“It’s the only way,” he says miserably. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m going to hang up now.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my computer screen. Nova has written the intro for the next song. I make no attempt to hide the anger in my voice when I read her words. “This is for all you dads who believe it’s your way or the doorway: Waylon Jennings with ‘Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line.’”
As Waylon delivers his warning to the woman who’s been stepping on his toes, I bury my face in my hands. Nova’s on the talkback immediately. “We’ve caught a break. The police were able to trace 1121’s call.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The tension drains from my body, but the relief doesn’t last. I try to imagine how the cops will handle the situation. There are no good options. The time for the police psychologist is long past. Loser1121 is walking a razor-thin wire. If the police storm the house where he lives, the shock will knock him off the wire. Once he hits the ground, he’ll move quickly. He’ll kill until the cops bring him down.
Sometimes when we have a truly desperate caller, I can find a way to connect by putting myself in his place. I close my eyes and imagine myself in 1121’s head. I can feel the walls closing in. Panic rises in my throat. I can’t get air into my lungs. It’s too much. I open my eyes, pick up the picture of Lily, focus on the moment when she held the dandelion and force myself to breathe deeply.
I’m in control again, but I can’t forget 1121. Lily holds the dandelion as if were a magician’s wand. Loser1121 was once a boy who knew the enchantment of dandelions. He shouldn’t have to face the end of his life alone. Through my earphones, I hear Waylon Jennings delivering the final warning to his wayward wife. In seconds I’ll be back on the air. I call Nova on the talkback. “What’s 1121’s phone number?”
“It’s on your screen,” she says. “I sent it as soon as the police traced the call, but Charlie, the number was a dead end. It belongs to a woman named Mavis Durant here in the city.”
I look at the blueprint 1121 sent in. “The surname of his family starts with a K. The initials don’t fit,” I say.
“Neither does anything else,” Nova says. Her voice is bleak. She knows we’ve reached the end of the road. “Charlie, Mavis is eighty-three years old. She lives in a retirement home here in the city. The police are on their way to talk to her, but they believe the story she told them when they called her.”
“What did she tell them?”
“That one day last month, she left her purse on a bench in the park by the legislature. The purse was turned in. There was nothing missing but her cellular phone. She didn’t report it because the phone had been a gift from her grandson and she didn’t want him to think she’d been careless.”
“And she didn’t cut off the service?”
“No. She said she never used the phone anyway. The phone company’s records bear out her story. The phone wasn’t used until tonight.”
“Loser1121 was saving it,” I say. “I’m going to call him.”
“I’d better check with my friends in blue about that,” Nova says. Her exchange with them is brief. She’s back on the phone almost immediately. “They say go ahead and place the call. We haven’t got anything else.”
Since they arrived, the cops in the control room haven’t had much to do but look stern and alert. Finally, there’s at least the possibility of action. As I tap in the number, they spring to life, but apparently 1121 has turned off his cell. I give Nova and the officers the thumbs-down sign. My bag of tricks is empty. I flip on my microphone. I don’t have to cast around for an effective tone. The urgency in my voice is the real thing.
“My name is Charlie Dowhanuik. And you are listening to ‘The World of Charlie D’ on what, even for us, is a weird and scary night. In the last few minutes, I’ve been talking with a troubled friend. We don’t know his name or where he lives—he could be anywhere. The point is we have to find him, and we have to help him. He calls himself loser1121. If you have any idea who 1121 might be, email us at [email protected] or text us. We want to leave the ph
one lines open in case he decides to call in.
“1121, I hope you’re still with us. You have no idea how much I hope that you’re still up in your room and that you stay there. I know right at this moment you feel your whole life sucks. But take my word for it, life has a way of getting better.”
I check the control room to see how I’m doing. The faces of the cops are stony, but Nova gives me a small and encouraging smile, so I plow on.
“Your experience isn’t unique. I didn’t have a lousy relationship with my father—I didn’t have any relationship with him.
“He was a big shot in politics, and he was never around. I tried everything to get him to pay attention to me. I wasn’t an easy kid. I was born with a birthmark that covers half my face. In a weird way, being a freak was liberating. I had nothing to lose—so I took a lot of chances. My mother used to say that I didn’t have friends, I had fans. Other kids hung around me just to see how far I was going to push it.
“What I’m trying to say is that I grew up fine without a father. You can too. There are people who can help you, 1121. I can help you. Just call. You have our number, 1-800-555-2333. Please just call.”
CHAPTER NINE
I stare at the two rows of lights in front of me. Each row has eight lights— one for each phone line. The bottom light goes solid when Nova answers it. When she puts up the line for me to take the call on air, the top light goes solid. When we’re going full tilt that means sixteen greenish-yellow lights are blinking at me. Tonight there’s nothing. The lines are dead. The lights are dark.
Nova sends the intro for the next tune. I open my mike and announce the title on air.
“Here’s Madonna with ‘Papa Don’t Preach.’ If any of you out there can weave a connection between what our troubled friend is going through and ‘Papa Don’t Preach,’ you can have my job.”
Through my earphones, Madonna sings of an unmarried girl pleading with her father to accept her decision to keep her baby. I stare at the phone lines. The first three lines are for local callers. If 1121’s call comes in on one of those lines, we might be able to get to him in time.
