by J. S. Carol
The weight on her arm eased as Tony settled back into his own space. She quickly tallied up the pros and cons in her head, but all she could see were a whole load of negatives and very few positives. The fact that the authorities hadn’t been able to get King out was the biggest negative on her list. It was right there at the top, filling the number one slot. Up until now she hadn’t realised how much she’d been clinging onto the slim hope that he’d somehow escaped. If even one person could escape, then there was a chance for the rest of them.
The other big negative was that King was an unknown quantity. JJ hated unknown quantities. She liked certainties. She liked to know the answers to questions before she asked them. Knowing how a film or a book ended did nothing to reduce the enjoyment for her. Tony said the actor was holding up, but that was based on spending a couple of minutes with him, and a couple of minutes was nowhere near long enough to make that sort of assessment. JJ had lost count of the number of times she’d sat down with a client who’d tried to convince her everything was A-okay, when it obviously wasn’t.
There was no telling how King was holding up. He was isolated and alone and probably bouncing from one emotional extreme to another. The only positive she could come up with was that if he’d lasted this long without getting caught, then maybe he’d manage to keep his head down until the cops made their big play.
But what were the cops up to out there? JJ tried to put herself in their shoes. Maybe there wasn’t going to be any big play. Maybe that was just wishful thinking. What if they were playing the long game? That would be consistent with what had happened so far. Thirteen hostages had been released, thirteen people who’d live to see another day. It was easy to see how that could be spun into a PR win.
Perhaps the strategy was to get them out one at a time. But what happened when they got down to the last person? Would the bomber just open the doors and let that person go, then come out with his hands up? Or would he go out with a bang, taking that hostage with him?
The restaurant phone rang, fracturing the silence. The bomber glanced over but didn’t answer it. He finished his pizza, then tugged his balaclava back into place. The phone was still ringing.
‘Jody, stand up and come on over here.’
JJ felt as though her heart was being crushed in a vice. The bomber had heard Tony whispering and assumed it was her. This was her second strike. Her final strike. She stood up slowly on legs made from rubber. The ringing telephone was burrowing into her brain like a migraine. The bomber was grinning again, his expression partially hidden behind the balaclava. The bastard was toying with her. Any second now the rug was about to be pulled from under her feet. The telephone stopped ringing and an awful silence claimed the room. JJ started walking. It was the longest walk of her life.
2
‘I’ve got the bomber’s name.’
Mission Control went very still. Every single pair of eyes turned towards the Asian kid. He was on his feet, hardly able to contain himself. Seth was staring along with everyone else. One of the MOTS was playing on the main screen. Rob Taylor was talking to a low-IQ specimen who had a buzz cut and no doubt knew a great recipe for roadkill stew.
‘Ted Marley,’ the Asian kid said.
‘And you’re sure about that?’
‘Absolutely certain. I got the name from LA Abuse. They didn’t want to give it up, but I can be very persuasive.’
‘How much did you offer?’
‘Ten thousand,’ the Asian kid said quietly.
‘Which is coming out of your salary, I suppose.’
The kid’s face turned white.
‘Relax,’ Seth said. ‘What else have you got?’
‘The payment came from the Allied Bank of Idaho.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘I’m not surprised. It’s tiny. It’s based in Twin Falls. The city only has a population of 44,000.’
Seth considered this for a second.
‘Okay people, listen up and listen good. This guy’s way too smart to make a dumb mistake like using some piddly little bank nobody’s heard of when he could have used the Bank of America. The only reason he’d make a move like this is because he wants us to find out who he is, and to do that we start by looking in Twin Falls. Okay, everyone who isn’t crucial to keeping the pictures flowing to the homes of our esteemed viewers hit the phones and the Internet. I want to know everything there is to know about Ted Marley. Has everyone got that?’
A wave of nods and murmured yeses went around the room.
‘Then why in the name of all that’s holy are you just sat there gawping?’
Seth rocked back in his big leather chair as Mission Control exploded into a frantic whirlwind of motion and sound. He grinned to himself. It was almost like being in a real newsroom again.
3
After Tony had disappeared through the flapping kitchen door, King had snuck back along the corridor to the restroom. He was sitting on the tiled floor now, the tiny spy camera in his hand. Freedom was blowing through the hole in the wall, and the choking heat-seared stink of an LA summer had never smelled so good. The tiles were cold and hard against his back and butt.
He stared into the camera’s tiny lens and made two distinct gestures. First, he held his hand up to the side of his head in the universally acknowledged mime for a telephone. Thumb and little finger sticking out, the other fingers curled into his palm. Then he held his hand up and moved his fingers slowly toward his thumb to indicate small. All those hours of acting lessons, all that time, money and effort, and it boiled down to this, a mime that any kid could do. He needed to get in touch with Brad Carter. Right now, he would do anything to hear the FBI guy’s voice again.
He pointed the camera at his face and whispered, ‘Miniature radio.’ He wasn’t sure if the camera had a microphone. It probably did, but even if it didn’t, there had to be someone out there who could read lips. He peered through the hole in the wall, hoping to see one of those metallic tubes being pushed through, but all he saw was daylight.
He held the camera at arm’s length and repeated his mime. Then he moved the camera towards his face and whispered, ‘Miniature radio.’ He peeked through the hole and saw nothing but daylight.
He did it all again.
Mime, whisper, look.
Still nothing.
Mime, whisper, look.
4
The bomber swung a chair around and JJ lowered herself carefully into it. She felt sick. Mostly because of what was happening, but the smell wasn’t helping. When she’d arrived here two and a half hours ago the restaurant had smelled like heaven. Now it smelled like hell. Old pizza, older food, the burnt acrid tang of spent ammunition, the smell of death. This is the moment my life ends, she thought. This is the time and this is the place.
The restaurant telephone rang again, and again the bomber ignored it. Half the hostages were staring at her, the rest were staring at the telephone. The sound drilled into JJ’s head, shrill and annoying. The bomber positioned a second chair opposite hers, a distance of four feet separating them.
‘Dan, get over here.’
Dan Stone glanced around warily. He looked like hell. He’d been running his nervous fingers through his usually immaculate hair, leaving it a spiky porcupine mess. Stray strands stuck out in all directions. The red letters on his forehead were smudged. The bomber levelled his gun and took aim. The silence in the room was punctuated by the ringing telephone.
‘Come on, Dan. Surely you must have worked out how the game’s played by now. Do you really want to become another example of the futility of passive resistance?’
The telephone rang one final time, then went quiet. The sudden silence was somehow worse. JJ willed Stone to stand up. She didn’t care much for the agent, but she didn’t want to see him die. Not here. Not like this. There had been too much death today. She kept her mouth shut, though, her eyes fixed on one of the paint-splashed canvases. The bomber raised his gun and aimed it at Stone. He didn’t say anything
because he didn’t need to. Stone stood slowly and padded across the room. He sat down in the empty chair and stared at the floor.
‘I picked up on some tension earlier. Now, you two need to get things talked out.’ The bomber was looking at JJ as he said this. She held his gaze even though it was uncomfortable. The way he was staring made her want to squirm. ‘Jody, is there anything you want to say to Dan?’
She broke eye contact and stared at the floor.
‘What about you, Dan? Anything you want to share?’
Stone glanced up at the bomber, then went back to staring at the floor.
‘Let me put it another way. You’ve got ten seconds. If you’re still not talking after those ten seconds are up then I’m going to shoot both of you in the head. It’s all about choices, remember? Choose to live, choose to die.’ The bomber looked at his watch. The heartbeat was pulsing quicker than it had been earlier. ‘Your ten seconds start now,’ he said, and started counting down.
JJ wanted to say something, but the connection between her brain and mouth was broken. The countdown wasn’t helping. Every time she got even half a thought in her head, she’d get distracted by the numbers and her mind would go blank. The bomber reached three and she braced herself for the gunshot. She was about to shout, ‘No!’, figuring that it had to be better than saying nothing, but Stone beat her to it.
‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her,’ he said quietly. ‘She made the reservation. She told me she could get us in here no problem because she was best friends with the owner. She wanted to show off, wanted me to know what a big shot she was.’
‘And you agreed to come, Dan. So enough with all that “poor me” crap. You might remember differently, but the way I remember it, you bit my hand off when I offered to bring you here.’
JJ glared at Stone, and Stone glared back.
‘Okay, Dan,’ the bomber said. ‘Jody’s just called you a freeloading son of a bitch. How are you going to respond?’
Before Stone could reply, the telephone rang again. The sound made JJ jump. Each ring was jangling her nerves closer to breaking point. The bomber marched over and snatched it up.
‘Louise, honey, you obviously don’t know how to take a hint, so let me spell it out. If I’m not calling you, it means I don’t want to talk. Phone me again and I’ll shoot a hostage. You can even choose which one.’
The bomber killed the call and slammed the phone down on the table. The jolt banged the laptop back to life and he looked over. For a moment he stared at the screen, then he turned the computer around to face the hostages. It took JJ a second to realise she was looking at a photograph of herself. This picture had been taken at a charity event she’d attended back in March. The reason she was able to place it was because it had been one of those rare occasions when she’d worn a dress.
‘Shall we see what they’re saying about you, Jody?’
The bomber hit a key on the laptop. A beat of silence, then the news reporter on the screen said, ‘Jody Johnson has single-handedly built up a highly successful PR company, but her life has not been without its share of tragedy.’
The ball of ice that had settled in JJ’s gut was slowly pushing outwards to fill her chest, her stomach, her limbs. Please, God, don’t go there, she thought. Except the woman on the screen was going there. It didn’t matter how much she wished or prayed, she couldn’t stop that happening. She knew how this game was played. If you wanted public sympathy, if you wanted empathy, you had to show them some humanity, a glimpse of the real. The background picture changed to a picture of a man, and JJ’s heart broke all over again. She felt the love, felt the loss. Most of all, though, she felt the guilt.
‘Two years ago, her husband, movie executive Tom Sanderson, committed suicide. He was only thirty-six when he died.’
The bomber closed the laptop lid with a snap that sounded like the end of everything. JJ shut her eyes but she couldn’t stop time sliding backwards. She was back in the house she’d shared with Tom for all those years. She’d been working late and it was dark. Tom’s Mercedes was parked in the drive and every light in the house was blazing.
The second she’d walked through the door she’d known something was wrong. A cold wind had blown through her, freezing her momentarily to the spot. She’d told herself to get it together, then forced herself to walk through the house. To start with she’d called out his name in a voice that sounded just like her own. By the end, she was screaming it.
She’d found him face down in the pool, swirls of beige vomit contrasting against the bright blue.
‘Looks like you’ve got lots to share,’ the bomber said.
The bastard was grinning again.
5
Tara leant against a wall, eyes glued to her cell phone. The screen was too small for Rob to work out what she was up to, but he could see that she was logged on to a gambling site.
‘Who’s favourite to get the next bullet?’ he asked.
‘It’s still Ed Richards. But you can only get odds of two to five, so it’s really not worth the effort. The odds of him being last man standing is evens, which is almost as bad.’
‘So who’s your money on?’
‘I’ve got fifty bucks at five to one on DeAndre Alexander being the last man standing. I’ve got a good feeling about him. And I could do with the money. I’m behind with my rent.’
Rob laughed. ‘Like that’s something new. So, what are the odds on Kevin Donahue?’
Tara tapped the screen of her phone. ‘Best I can get you there is four dollars on a buck.’
‘Put me down for a hundred.’
The theme from The Exorcist drifted up from Rob’s pocket. He connected the call and put it on speaker so Tara could hear.
‘Hey Seth, what’s new?’
‘We’ve got the bomber’s name.’
‘How?’
‘One of my minions got it from LA Abuse.’
Rob felt his heart kick up a gear. It didn’t matter that the name hadn’t come from Baker. Whatever got the job done. The important thing was that TRN were first with the story. Anything that kept the spotlight angled in his direction was fine by him. ‘I hope you said thank you.’
Seth barked out a laugh then turned serious again. ‘Look, don’t get too excited. When I say we’ve got his name, what I mean is that I’m ninety-nine point nine per cent certain that we’ve got his name. Which is why I’m calling. We need to get Aaron Walters to confirm it.’
‘Not going to happen, Seth. There’s no way Walters is going to play ball with us on this one.’
‘Jesus H Christ, am I surrounded by idiots?’ Seth was roaring so loud the sound was distorting. Tara grimaced then made a sympathetic face at Rob. ‘You don’t need verbal confirmation, you just need to arrange a meeting with the guy, drop the name and watch his reaction. It’s not exactly rocket science.’
The phone went dead. For a second Rob just stood there staring at it and shaking his head.
‘So what are you waiting for?’ Tara said. ‘Best jump to it before Jonah tears you a new asshole.’
‘There’s one slight problem. Before I can get confirmation of the name, I need to know what the name is.’
Tara made another face. This one translated as “ouch”. ‘And to do that you need to phone Jonah back,’ she finished for him.
‘And that’s one conversation I’m really looking forward to.’ Rob sighed. ‘To think I used to believe being a reporter was all glitz and glamour and good times.’
‘And now you’re procrastinating. There’s no point postponing the inevitable, Rob. You’ll have to talk to him eventually.’
Rob sighed again, then made the call.
6
Mime, whisper, look.
Alex King peered into the hole, but all he saw was daylight. He went through the routine again. Mime, whisper, look. He’d lost count of how many times he’d done this. It could have been a hundred, or a thousand, or even a million. His plan was to keep going until those FBI dum
basses worked it out. He could feel his frustration growing. Any idiot could work out what he was getting at, so what was the hold-up?
Mime, whisper, look.
He peered into the hole again and was about to repeat the routine when a noise stopped him dead. It was a kind of scratching sound, like someone out there was doing their best to move around stealthily. The daylight was suddenly eclipsed as a new tube was pushed through the hole. Metal scratched against cinderblock, the noise getting closer and louder.
King caught the tube and unscrewed the lid. It took longer than it should have because he was in too much of a rush. He wanted what was inside, wanted it now. He tipped the tube upside down but nothing came out. He peered into it and saw something jammed in there. A tangle of wires and bits of plastic. He gave the tube a hard shake and a loop of wire dropped out, just enough so he could pull the rest of the device free. At one end of the curly wire was an earpiece, at the other was a throat mike.
For a second all he could do was stare. Somehow his plan had worked. Hand shaking, he fitted the earpiece, stuck the mike to his throat, then arranged the wires. This was so cool. Give him a pair of shades and a dark suit and he could have passed for a secret service agent. He touched the throat mike.
‘Are you there, Brad?’ he whispered. He paused a second, then added, ‘Over.’
7
In the end Rob didn’t need to call Aaron Walters because the LAPD spokesman came looking for him. The first he knew about it was when Tara elbowed him in the side and nodded towards the Mobile Command Unit. Rob looked up from his cell phone and saw Walters striding towards them. The PR guy was a man on a mission, and clearly not happy.
