"What didn't?" I asked, scrambling to catch up with his thoughts.
"The audio. I thought I could mix the sound with the movie like Uncle Ronnie does, but you need more than one tape recorder. So I'm gonna just play music for the whole thing. It's pretty cool, but not as cool as it would have been." The ultimate frisbee game he filmed. Oh, to be an eleven-year-old.
"Sorry, Gar," I sympathized. "Is Dad home?"
"Picking up Chelsea. You wanna talk to the grannies?"
No, I did not; Garry took better messages.
"Listen," I said, "I've got to catch a plane, but..." I told him about Michelle's baby, "way cool," and that I'd probably be home tomorrow. Tonight I was staying in New Jersey either with my cousin or Aunt Harriet. "Got that?"
"Yup. You'll be home tomorrow night, so you can see my movie then."
"Uh, right." Maybe I should have insisted that he write everything down.
Chapter 22
BACK IN BROAD BAY POINT Greens I stowed Michelle's Jeep in the garage. I was already packed, so I dumped everything by the front door. Then, pacing back and forth in the hallway, I ate a sandwich while I watched for the airport shuttle.
Beginning with both elation and concern over the baby, quite an assortment of emotions jazzed my nerves. I was worried about Doug's precarious status with the police. This morning's meeting with Pamela Wilkinson had been inconclusive and, therefore, frustrating. It seemed I knew far too much about the problem and scarcely anything that pointed toward a solution.
Traveling always unnerved me, too, no matter what the reason for the trip. At home familiar doorjambs and tables and chairs guided me when it got dark. I knew where to buy Chelsea's favorite jeans and the back way from King of Prussia to Ludwig. Gretsky’s soft muzzle awakened me every morning. Rip was near. In other words, I knew where I was. Maybe if I plugged into my home outlet for a day or two I could shake off my growing sense of foreboding.
The limousine arrived, and I rode in strained companionship with an elderly couple just finished a visit with their serviceman son. With them they carried their own gamut of emotions, world tensions being what they always were.
At the airport I watched twilight become night outside the walls of glass. Boarding was the usual crush of impatient people stowing far too many carry-on bags.
Once we were underway I slept, but soon whistling, roaring jets and the thump and squeak of tires on tarmac announced our arrival in Philadelphia. Like everyone else, I couldn’t wait to be out of the confining cabin. At the very first food vendor, a cart on tall wheels, I purchased an exorbitant candy bar then didn't have a hand free to eat it until I got to Baggage Claim.
A lone woman at night in an airport full of strangers, I watched my surroundings as if every move exposed me to another risk. Then a gentle older man wearing a tan uniform finally persuaded me to use his taxi. We set off through a cold drizzle along highways lined with closed industry.
Sunday night. Some football games were ongoing, others were over. Probably crews of NFL camera and sound men needing to drop off equipment and film at their office had been in the airport. I might have paged one of them and thrown myself on his mercy, yet my initial instinct probably had been best. Arriving at the Mt. Laurel facility unannounced would be awkward, but the miserable weather upped my chances of being invited inside to wait for Ronnie. At least I hoped so.
When we got there, I paid the cabbie and prepared to step out into a steady rain.
The old gentleman touched my sleeve. “You sure this is the right place?” We were stopped right next to the NFL Films sign, but there was no activity in sight.
"Yes," I assured him. "I'm meeting my cousin here."
Water sizzled off the tires of the departing vehicle. When its headlights were gone, only a half dozen balloons of misty lamplight remained.
I slung my carry-on over my shoulder and hunched down inside my coat collar. Getting more and more drenched as I rolled my large bag across the macadam, I began to fear that I would indeed be turned away.
Not bothering with tact, the man who answered my knock demanded to know what I was doing there.
"I'm Ronnie Covington's cousin, Gin Barnes." My teeth chattered from the cold, and I added a shiver for good measure. "His sister just had a baby–premature–in Norfolk. I just came from there, and I'd like to wait for Ronnie–if I may."
"Jeez, you took a chance coming here," the man said as he reached for my heavy bag and ushered me inside. "What if Ronnie'd come and gone already?"
"He's been in Green Bay,” I said. “I thought I'd catch him."
"Yeah, but..."
"I'm sorry. It's crazy, I know. But it's been that kind of day."
"Come on, come on. Get out of that wet coat. Ya want some coffee?"
"That would be heavenly."
"Mark," he called to another somewhat younger fellow dressed in olive drab. "Do you know how to make coffee in that thing?"
My benefactor finished delegating the kindness. Then he showed me into a central sort of room and guided me into a tweed armchair. I can only imagine how I looked to be treated with such deference.
Muscular and weather-worn, with short, thinning black hair and plenty of stubble, my rescuer called himself Bob. "Is Ronnie's sister all right?" he asked.
"Yes."
"The baby?" he asked with a wince. Apparently he knew enough about premature babies to fear the worst.
"She's fine," I said, "so far. But you'll let me tell Ronnie myself, won't you?"
"Sure. Sure. Trouble is, you can't wait here without somebody around, you know?" From his expression, I realized that he had already finished his chores and was ready to leave.
A little panic fluttered in my chest. If a succession of returning film crews didn't show up to pass me along like a relay baton, I would be back out in the cold.
"Would you like to see some I.D.?" I asked, hastily pulling out my wallet and flipping it open to my driver's license. Coming in we had passed through an area loaded with valuable electronic equipment and stacks of videotape in blue cases. Another room housed another library, also filled with video tapes.
"That ain't it," Bob replied, waving off my wallet after only a glance. I assumed that meant he wasn’t allowed to leave me alone no matter who I was.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I pictured guys all over the place working all night. I didn’t realize...”
Bob waited until his buddy delivered my mug of steaming black coffee. “Oh, hell,” he said. “I might as well stick around a little while." He didn’t have to add, but not too long.
A simple "Thank you” was grossly inadequate, but it was all I had to offer.
So it was with strain in the air that Bob puttered around while I finished one mug of coffee and started on another.
At one point I wandered over to a doorway where the most Sunday night activity seemed to be taking place. Weary men who never removed their casual outdoor garb rolled in hand trucks loaded with cases of equipment, stored everything in metal cages marked with their names, then headed for home. My watchdog looked after them longingly.
"Could I wait in Ronnie's van?" I asked at one point.
"It'll be at the airport," Bob lamented.
More crews came and went, a straggling of rain-soaked, confederates speaking to each other in the familiar way men do when women aren't around–inside-jokes, a little profanity, remarks about the games they'd done that day. To me they sounded closer than most co-workers, more like the members of a privileged club.
"Ronnie's cousin," Bob introduced me to each curious new arrival, but that didn’t begin to explain my presence. I was an uninvited female, and this was their locker room. I would have welcomed a blanket to protect me from the chill.
About eleven forty-five Bob looked at me and shrugged.
"You've got to go home," I said for him, rising from my chair.
"Yeah, sorry. Drop you somewhere?"
"Hey! Gin, baby," Ronnie's welcoming voice called from acro
ss the broad main room.
Bob and I sighed in unison. Then I kissed the kind cameraman on the cheek and told him, "Thanks, you're a prince." He was gone within the minute.
Ronnie's face blanched as he absorbed the meaning of my presence. "Michelle?" he asked.
"Fine. She had a little girl–Jody probably–and she's doing well too. Pretend you didn’t hear it from me when she calls you tomorrow morning."
"Wow!" Muddy down jacket and all, my cousin sank into a chair across from the one I'd used so long. His dark-edged eyes sparkled as he absorbed the rest of the details–weight, what the baby looked like, what the nurse said. When I finished he was still grinning, and his hands flexed as if they needed to slap a shoulder or grab someone to tell.
But just as I anticipated, his expression soon altered. Delight became concern combined with confusion. He raked through his brown wavy hair and stated, "You didn't come up here just to tell me about the baby."
"Not really," I had to admit. "I need your help."
Someone was headed our way carrying a boom mike, so I lowered my voice and quickly added, "I'd like to watch last week's Tomcats game again."
Astonishment wiped away Ronnie's fatigue. He popped up and nodded to the approaching crew member, whom he introduced as his soundman, Dave. Then he hustled me around the corner out of earshot.
"Have you got something?"
I sighed. "Why don't you finish up here, and then we'll talk." By then the place would be even emptier, and maybe Ronnie could set me up with the film.
"Right, right," he agreed.
"Dave," he called to his co-worker. "Look after my cousin here a minute. I'm gonna deliver my film to the lab."
Dave cracked his gum and said, "Sure,” but neither of us realized what Ronnie had just asked.
Chapter 23
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER the video services department's coffee pot lay washed and overturned on a paper towel. My grace period of tolerant hospitality had expired. Dave, the soundman from Ronnie's crew, shrugged back into a cracked brown leather jacket that had seen much service. Then he donned a blue knit watch cap, all without taking his eyes off me. Suggestive. Hopeful. Moderately concerned.
More than enough time had elapsed for my cousin to deliver his film to the main building for processing. The drop-off slots were right inside the door.
Rest stop? I wondered. Putting something in his van? Ronnie's routine after returning from a game was unfamiliar to me, but Dave's expression told me he had been gone way too long.
"I guess you want to lock up."
"Yeah."
"Maybe I should run over and find Ronnie myself so you can get out of here."
Dave's already young face lost a couple of years. "I'll have to let you in," he thought aloud.
I put on my coat and grabbed my purse. My luggage could wait until later.
Together Ronnie's soundman and I trotted through the rain toward the door my cousin would have used to enter the main building. Barring my view, Dave poked a password into a security pad then opened the door for me. Worry and fatigue covered his face.
"Ronnie's probably in the men's room or something," I told my young escort. "I'll just holler."
"Yeah," Dave agreed with a laugh. He wiped a drop of rain from his eye. But he lingered just the same.
"Really," I said. "Ronnie's got to be here. You go ahead." The kid was falling asleep on his feet.
"Yeah," he agreed again. "Tell Ronnie he's a pain in the ass."
"Tell him yourself tomorrow." With a dismissive wave the soundman loped across the dimly lighted lot toward a cheap bachelor car, the sort that would smell like hamburgers, sweat, and maybe even mold from a leaky window or two.
A blast of rain forced me completely inside, and the metal door closed with a thunk that sent chills dancing up my spine.
Illuminated only by dim safety lights, the short hallway ended in a T. To my right were the gray wooden cubbyholes Ronnie had pointed out on our Thanksgiving-day tour, each marked with this week's matchups boldly handwritten on masking tape. Some slots were empty, some full, probably depending on when and where the games occurred. The one marked Green Bay/Miami contained film cans, so Ronnie had already been here.
Where was he now?
"Ronnie!" I shouted into the half-darkness as I eased further into the building.
Nobody answered my shout.
I turned left at the T. "Ronnie?"
Nothing.
I felt my way along first one hall and then another. Damp air pervaded the chilly building, swallowing my shouts and muffling my footsteps. I had the sensation of free floating in a vacuum. Shadows on the floor looked deep enough to swallow me.
The building’s night noises played tricks on me, too. Some sounded like hot breath or impatient tapping, others mechanical squeaks and whistles, always with the underlying thrum of distant rain.
Soon I found myself at the Emmy wall and the lobby flanked by executive offices. “Ronnie?" I called again through a throat rigid with fear.
I passed the anteroom to the film vault. Maybe because this area felt warmer, I imagined that Ronnie had passed by.
However he was not here now. Nobody was.
Call out again?
A sixth sense said no. I slung my purse across my chest to keep it from bumping anything–my legs, furniture, the wall. I rolled from toe to heel on my sneakers, grateful they didn’t squeak on the smooth hallway tiles.
Where to go next? Up? Down? Circle around? How to decide? Stymied, I just quivered. Whatever information I received by the usual means–eyes, ears, touch–came under the category of "suspect," and still I had to do something.
Instinct moved me along a dark patch of wall, past a doorknob locked tight, past an unusual Elvis bas relief collage I remembered from the tour.
Then I heard a crash and clatter followed by a heavier thud.
"Ronnie!"
The sound had come from overhead. I bounded up the nearby stairs two at a time.
"Ronnie, where the hell are you? Answer me, dammit. This isn't funny." My shouts seemed to fill the building.
I paused under the light at the top of the staircase, the only one on the second floor. I tried, but I couldn’t concentrate well enough to remember which rooms were around me–the music department? The main library? Garry would know, I thought, and suddenly every inch of me longed to be home.
My skin alerted me to the man before my eyes picked out his form. He stood twenty yards away, a tall, darkly dressed figure facing my way. His arms were partially raised, his knees flexed. Not Ronnie. Definitely not Ronnie.
I flattened against the wall and screamed, shutting my eyes the better to stretch my mouth.
When I looked again, the man was yanking at a far door. The next thing I heard was feet hammering down distant stairs.
My heart needed a jump start. My lungs needed prompting. My skin felt slimy, my muscles limp, but my imagination was going crazy. I worried that Ronnie had heard a noise and come upstairs to investigate. If he cornered the intruder, he could be hurt or worse.
Steadying myself with the wall, I tested a step toward the closed door, then another and another until soon enough I was there. The building still breathed and squeaked, but I heard nothing else. The unlocked door opened with a satisfying kachunk.
I felt for a light switch and found one, flipped it on, and recoiled from the brightness. This was the master vault filled with various sized containers of D-3 digital tape, the masters used to make all of the shows. A narrow work area lay before the perpendicular rows of moveable, white metal shelving, something I did remember from the tour.
Surrounded by litter, Ronnie lay on his side sandwiched between the rolling shelves, the soles of his boots facing toward me several inches in from the edge. I moved close enough to watch the folds of his jacket sleeve shift with each slow breath.
"Ronnie?"
No response, just shallow breathing, a relief, but also a concern. I was dying to pull him out from there
, but fear of making his injuries worse made me keep my distance. For now I had to be content that Ronnie was alive and not in any visible distress.
That and it was also a crime scene. I would call the police in a minute, but first I wanted to memorize what I saw. I still had hopes of preventing a career-killing family scandal, and whatever I could learn about Ronnie’s attack might help.
It seemed obvious that the intruder had hit him on the head from behind. When he woke up, I doubted that the poor guy would remember a thing.
I checked to see if maybe the debris from the shelves had gotten in the way and saved my cousin's life, but most of the video tapes had fallen into the aisle to his left. Ronnie must have pushed them there when he tried to dive onto a shelf–a very heads up idea, considering. If he could have kept his whole body off the floor, his attacker would have been unable to crush him. Unfortunately, Ronnie must have blacked out and fallen back into the gap.
"Nine hundred pounds moved by one pound of pressure," he had boasted to Doug, Garry, and me, showing off another NFL Films flirtation with the latest technology. I shuddered to think how easily my eleven-year-old had turned one of those handles.
If the intruder was Tim Duffy’s killer, and I had no doubt that he was, my reasoning was pretty straightforward. NFL Films was in the business of supplying game videos to anyone who needed them. In other words copies were abundantly available, so nobody really needed to break into the archives.
Since the film crew had been at the Tomcats’ game observing and recording everything from the kickoff to the locker room celebration preceding the murder, maybe the killer needed to find something specific, something he desperately needed to destroy. Infiltrating NFL Films on a Sunday night was chancy, but this guy didn’t lack guts. The building was intermittently in use but remained mostly empty. I’d have gone in then myself. For my own reasons, I had done just that.
Ronnie moaned as if he might be coming around.
Mindful of fingerprints, I pulled a cuff over my hand and, without touching the knob on the crank handle, widened the space where he lay. He groaned again when his head rolled onto the floor, and to my amazement his eyes opened.
A Score to Settle Page 14
