Chase knew full well Rupert White’s track record with new acquisitions. The ink on the agreement would hardly be dry before the pink slips would start going out.
White would gut the paper and replace most of the existing staff with others from his vast media empire. He would put in place a skeleton staff drawing on the resources of his other papers. The newspaper would be filled with canned stories, lots of wire copy, printing at a centralized plant, and reductions in local reporter coverage.
White was internationally renowned for running a lean, mean moneymaking media machine.
“Like I said, Rupert. I need more time to consider this,” said Chase. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“You have 24 hours, Andrew,” replied White. “My offer will expire at midnight tomorrow your time. Come to your senses, boy and do the right thing.”
The line suddenly disconnected.
“What an Asshole! I’d like to tell him right now where he could shove his offer, Andrew thought. But $450 million was nothing to take lightly. Andrew knew he had to consider White’s offer to purchase.
It was time for him to make a decision.
Chapter 5
Toronto Daily Express Thursday 12:25 AM
“IT’S A WRAP. The presses are rolling,” said managing editor Braden Young. “Who wants a nightcap at Paddy’s? Drinks are on me!”
The Irish bar was located only a few steps away from the Daily Express building. It was a favorite watering hole for its reporters and editors. Paddy’s was a second home to many of them. They frequented its premises far more than was good for them. But it was a place to ease stress and let off steam.
“Sounds good. I’ll take you up on that offer,” replied Paul O’Connor. “I never say no to a Guinness – the mother’s milk of us Irish.”
“Thanks, boss, but I’ll take a rain check if you don’t mind,” said Cannon. “I’m beat. I want nothing more than a good hot shower and to hit the sheets.”
I’d like nothing better than to join you, thought Young. Then he pushed his lusty thoughts aside. Shame on me. She’s almost the same age as my daughter.
Young rarely saw his daughter Megan who now lived in New Jersey with her boyfriend, a television anchorman at a local station in New York.
Young didn’t have much love of television journalists – pretty boys and girls with their blown dry hair and makeup. Few of them were serious news people who earned their chops covering a beat, getting their hands dirty and clambering their way to the top as he had done.
But he’d paid a terrible price for that lifestyle.
Long hours and late nights had wreaked havoc on his marriage to his high school sweetheart Nancy. He was rarely home and spent little time with his family. While she was growing up, he missed many of Megan’s dance recitals, school plays and concerts because of his work.
Time passed so fast. Before he knew it, Megan had grown up into a teenager. Then of course, she wanted little to do with either of her parents, except for their money.
Finally, Nancy had enough of her marriage sham. They separated seven years ago and divorced a few months later.
His ex-wife was now married to a university professor at a small state college in Ohio. Nancy much preferred the stable life as the spouse of an academic who was home most evenings
Megan lived with her mother until she met a young man in the journalism school at the university. Romance blossomed despite Nancy’s misgivings about her daughter getting involved with a journalist, even the broadcast kind.
Young picked up his jacket. “Well, we’ll escort you down to the garage, Katie. It’s late at night and I don’t want to take any chances with that Wolfman character prowling around the city. He seems to have a personal interest in you reporting on his exploits. I don’t want him to get any ideas about getting too personal.”
Young was referring to the fact that Cannon had started receiving e-mails from the Wolfman following some of her stories about the last few victims.
The killer seemed enamored with the publicity and notoriety Katie gave him. She even coined the term ‘Wolfman’, which was picked up by the other media, based on one of the serial killer’s predilections.
The news trio waited for the elevator. The elevator doors opened and standing inside was the publisher, Andrew Chase.
“Good evening, Mr. Chase. You’re burning the midnight oil tonight,” said Young.
“Yes, paper business kept me late tonight, Braden. I take it tomorrow’s edition has been put to bed. Good evening, Paul and Katherine.” Chase nodded formally in their direction. “What are the good citizens of this city going to wake up to tomorrow?”
“Our top line story is more on this Wolfman serial killer. The police don’t seem close to capturing him.” Braden Young spoke enthusiastically about the paper’s line-up. “Our second line story from our correspondent Trevor Trevanian is about more suicide bombings in Afghanistan.”
“So much death and destruction,” sighed Chase. “Is it any wonder people say newspapers are so depressing to read these days? Isn’t there any good news we can report for a change?”
“Plenty,” replied Young. “But it’s inside stuff. Despite what some people claim, it is the juicy bad news that readers really lap up. That’s what sells papers. And that is our business after all.”
“Yes, it is,” replied Chase. “I suppose you’re right, Braden. But I sometimes wonder if putting more good news on the front page wouldn’t ultimately sell more papers and build us a stronger readership.”
The elevator reached the basement parking garage and the doors opened.
“Well goodnight to you all. Thanks for all your efforts and dedication to the paper.” Chase headed off to his Lexus in the executive parking area.
Braden turned to Katie Cannon. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind and come with us for that drink?”
“No thanks, Braden. I’m ready to call it a night. Tomorrow could be another long day. Good night, fellas. See you in the morning – or rather I should say later this morning.” She looked at her watch, noting that it was now 12:40 a.m. It had been another long day. There had been so many lately.
Cannon walked outside to the employee parking area. It was sparsely populated with vehicles. Only those from the night shift staff. She always was a bit apprehensive walking in the garage late at night, but extra lighting had been put in because of concerns of women staff using the lot late at night.
She located her 2004 Gulf Blue Grand Am and headed off to her apartment a 20-minute drive away.
* * *
Katie heard the sweet, silky sounds of Michael Bublé emanating from the stereo as she entered her small condo apartment.
“Hi honey, what took you so long?” said a male voice from the nearby kitchen. “I’ve had a bitch of a day and I’m ready for a drink and some lovin’. How about you?”
Andrew Chase emerged from the kitchen with two martinis in hand and wearing nothing but a broad Cheshire cat grin.
Chapter 6
A Village in Afghanistan 8:45 AM (Afghanistan DST)
THE SOLDIERS moved on to the nearby local hospital to deliver the medical supplies.
The convoy parked outside a small white stucco building with a large Red Cross sign outside the front entrance.
Dr. Khalid Kamal, a small wiry man who ran the hospital with the aid of a single nurse, greeted the Canadian troops with enthusiasm.
“Captain Mark, so glad to see you. We’re just about out of supplies. You are indeed an angel of mercy!”
Trained at The University of Western Ontario medical school in London, Ontario, Khalid Kamal spoke fluent English. He had returned to Afghanistan to help rebuild his shattered country.
“Hi doc, I’m afraid I’m no angel of mercy – that’s your job,” responded Van Den Boven. “But I’ve got more supplies for you. There is Morphine, surgical instruments, bandages, Penicillin and other antibio
tics. We’ll try to get more to you as soon as possible.”
Trevor Trevanian introduced himself to Kamal and shook hands with the Afghan. He interviewed him about the work at the hospital.
Trevanian learned the 20-bed ramshackle facility was three-quarters full of patients. Most suffered from disease and some from Taliban vengeance and retribution for collaborating with the allied forces.
Kamal stressed the importance of the medical supplies provided by the Canadians.
“Kabul seems to have forgotten about us. There’s been no help from the capital city in ages. I think they fear to venture from their safe zone into southern Afghanistan.”
“Have the Taliban bothered you?” inquired Trevanian.
“No, they pretty much leave us alone. They also come to us for treatment of wounds. We are of use to both sides. I really don’t think our own people are the real problem. If terrorist zealot insurgents would stop coming here from neighboring countries and blowing themselves up, things would get better in our country.”
After the visit to the hospital, the trucks moved into the centre of the village and people gradually began to emerge from their huts, thinking things were safe.
The people thronged around the army trucks as supplies of food, clothing and personal sundries were unloaded for distribution. Black clouds of flies hovered over the area. Animal remains lay nearby with the sickening stench of decaying flesh pervading the air. The air is strong with the smell of raw sewage.
Trevanian observed as the men and women soldiers unloaded the goods and distributed them to the clamoring horde of hungry, emaciated villagers. Many of them make hand signals to ask for water or food.
He took out his camera and began shooting the scene. They are the poorest of Afghanistan’s poor, he thought. Many of the mud huts are roofless. No water. No electricity. Fuel is scarce.
“Captain, my heart just bleeds for these people,” said Trevanian. “They have nothing. The children look wasted and aged well beyond their years.”
Van Den Boven turned toward Trevanian. “I know, Trevor. We’re the only hope they’ve got right now, but it’s still just a drop in the bucket. We can only do what we can to help. It will never be enough.”
Trevanian eyed a small, emaciated Afghan child approaching a female soldier. The child was about six years old but looked twice her age. Sunken eyes without a spark of life, hollowed out face, her hands outstretched. Trevor snapped a photo of the soldier handing over a candy bar with a warm smile.
Soon the soldiers returned to base in Kandahar. Trevanian had his story and photos to file.
Although it was early Thursday morning here in Afghanistan, Trevor knew that with the eight-and-a half hour time difference, it was well after midnight back in eastern North America. The papers already had been put to bed for the day and there was no hurry to file. There was plenty of time to meet Thursday’s deadline for Friday’s paper.
Trevanian couldn’t know that the story he already had would in hours be surpassed by a much bigger story.
It would be the biggest scoop of his life.
Chapter 7
Paddy’s Bar 1:05 A.M.
NOTHING LIKE a few glasses of Glenfiddich to put things right with the world, thought Braden Young.
He’d downed the Scotch like water. His drinking had gotten much heavier lately. It dulled the pain and loneliness in his life.
Sometimes he picked up a woman in a bar and after a few drinks it was back to his place or hers for brief sexual gratification, a pale substitute for a real relationship.
These were usually one-night stands and they never saw each other again. Occasionally they might meet again in another bar, but they were like passing ships in the night with brief acknowledgement of each other.
Lately these assignations were becoming fewer as age and booze took its toll on Young’s libido.
Paul O’Connor had a couple of pints of Guinness ale and they chatted for 20 minutes or so. Then O’Connor headed off to his family in the suburbs.
O’Connor was that rare member of the journalistic breed -- one who had juggled a successful career and marriage. He was still married to his first wife, Beth. They had two teenaged children at home.
“Another round, Braden?” inquired Jeff Ingot, the bartender eyeing Young’s nearly empty glass.
“No, thanks, Jeff. I better call it a night. I’ve got to get some shut-eye before getting back to the paper.” He downed the last drops of his glass, picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
“No rest for the wicked, eh,” said the bartender.
“You got that one right, Jeff.”
Young caught the subway and got off at his stop on Bloor Street, just steps from his apartment building.
He took the elevator to the 12th floor. He felt slightly giddy. The world whirled about him as he walked. He felt like he was on a merry-go-round. It must be the effects of the Glenfiddich.
As he approached his apartment 1207, Young spotted a woman’s body curled up in his doorway. She appeared to be asleep. He drew closer and tapped her slightly with his foot. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes and dimpled cheeks.
“Daddy, I wondered if you were ever coming home.”
“Megan,” said a stunned Young. “Whatever are you doing here at this time of night? When did you get to Toronto?”
“Oh, Daddy I didn’t know where else to go. I flew into Pearson Airport tonight and went to the paper, but they said you had left. I came here, but you weren’t home so I just crashed here. I must have fallen asleep.”
“But sweetie, what’s wrong? Where is Dennis?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He’s probably with that bimbo whore of a co-anchor.” Megan started to cry.
“Now princess, don’t get yourself all worked up. What’s the slime ball been up to now?”
“Daddy, he has been sleeping around on me. I found the evidence and confronted him with it. We had this terrific fight. I just packed some things and left. Mom and her new husband are in London, England at some academic conference. You’re the only person I could think of to come to. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, sweetie. You know you can come to me anytime for help. Come on, let’s get inside. It’s nearly 2 a.m. You must be beat. “
Amid sobs, Braden heard Megan’s story and tried to be reassuring. He then let her have his bedroom while he crashed on the couch with a blanket and pillow.
Young felt confused and helpless. What now? What was he going to be able to do?
As his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep, Braden Young’s last thought was: I haven’t been much of a father to you when you were growing up, Megan but I will be here for you now. I promise you that much
Chapter 8
Katie Cannon’s Apartment 2:05 AM
KATIE CANNON nestled in Andrew Chase’s arms. She was contented.
She watched as his chest rose up and down slightly as he breathed, gently snoring. She felt a warm bodily glow from their passionate lovemaking.
Katie ran the palms of her hands along his chest, her fingertips tracing the small hillocks and hollows of his body she now knew so well. It was comforting to have him by her side.
The stresses and strains from her long day had dissipated. Katie now felt totally relaxed and at peace with the world.
Despite the 20-year age gap between them, Katie held an intense passion for Andrew. He was a virile man with a sensitive touch in the bedroom. Andrew was a man who knew how to treat a woman well. He was a man undoubtedly who had extensive experience with women over the years because of his youthful, handsome looks and the allure of his power and money.
Andrew Chase could probably lure any woman he wanted into his bed. Katie often wondered what her attraction to him was.
At first she thought she would probably only be a one-night stand, but they had been seeing each other for six months now. The relationship was still a secret to her colleagues. They worked hard to keep it secret
because Katie wanted it that way. At least for now.
She earned her reputation as a journalist at the paper on the basis of her work. She didn’t want scuttlebutt at the office that she was sleeping with the publisher.
Katie knew women in the business who slept their way to the top and to good assignments by bedding some of the editors. She did not want the reputation as another newsroom slut.
Chase stirred slightly. She moved his arm to pull herself tighter against his body. Katie didn’t know where this relationship was going or if it had any future, but for now it was all she needed.
She drifted off to sleep, content with the world.
Chapter 9
High Park Toronto 2:15 AM
THE MAROON Ford Explorer moved slowly through the park. It was deserted and dark, illuminated only by the silvery light of a three-quarters moon.
He found the right spot. He parked the vehicle near a clump of bushes and trees. Within minutes he laid the near nude body of Antoinette Bower gently on the ground.
He arranged her neatly so she looked like she was simply asleep. The only telltale evidence to the contrary was the bright yellow silk scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.
He closed his eyes a moment to experience again the thrill of the climax. After she had satisfied him sexually at his lair, he caressed her gently with the scarf, moving up and down her body.
“Please don’t hurt me, please,” Bower had pleaded. She hoped that by not struggling he would release her now that he had got what he wanted.
He eased the scarf around her neck and embraced the fear in her eyes. He was in total control. Total power.
“But you must pay the price my dear, you must pay the price!”
He pulled the silk scarf tightly, watching as she struggled to breathe. Her bright blue eyes slowly turned blank and lifeless.
Placing Antoinette Bower at rest in the park, he gave her one final kiss on the cheek.
Now for the final step.
He kneeled beside the body, clad only in pink panties. He caressed her breasts and moved in closer, placing his mouth over each of them.
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