The Thirteenth Rose

by Gail Bowen

  Nova and I watch till the end. The man in the mask appears on screen. There’s a clock on the wall behind him. He glances at it. “Time of the whore’s death, 11:00 pm Atlantic Standard Time. The next whore will die at 11:00 Eastern Standard Time. Tune in early, Charlie D. You don’t want to miss the execution. To find us on YouTube, just type in the search words live murder whore.”

  The cop sent to guard Misty de Vol has arrived. Wordlessly, Nova calls up Google on her computer and types in YouTube and the search words. The video begins again. Nova buries her face in her hands.

  “I can’t,” she says. The young cop watches for a few minutes and then vomits in Nova’s wastebasket. Pale and shaking, he carries the wastebasket out into the hall. When he comes back into the control room, he announces that he’s called for backup.

  I focus on Misty. She’s using Eric’s story about Charity as a jumping-off point to discuss the importance of human touch in our lives. Her voice carries the quiet authority of a person who knows what she’s talking about. She’s doing fine. I shoot her a grateful glance and turn back to my producer.

  Nova’s blue-gray eyes are wide with terror. “Charlie, they’re going to kill another woman. All we know is that she’ll be dead by eleven o’clock Eastern Standard Time.” Nova glances up at the clock on the control-room wall. “That’s twenty-five minutes from now. They must have waited before they sent the email with the link to us. The woman could be anywhere in that time zone. There’s no way we can stop this.”

  My head feels as if it’s caught in a vise. I’ve read the aspirin bottle. I’m familiar with the recommended daily dosage. I shake three more tablets into my palm and dry-swallow them.

  “There’s one possibility,” I say. “O’Hanlon’s Warriors addressed me by name in the email. That means they’re listening to the show. If we can get Kevin to come to the studio and go on air, he’ll be able to call off his goons.”

  “Do you think that will work?”

  I shrug. “It’s all we’ve got,” I say.

  Nova is fighting for control, but her voice is firm. “Misty should be the one to call Kevin O’Hanlon. She owns the station. He’ll have to listen to her. We’ll go to music—Marvin Gaye and ‘Sexual Healing.’”

  I stand to go back into the studio. My legs are leaden, but as I slide into the chair next to Misty’s, my pulse slows. She’s talking about how a skilled masseuse can give a sense of connection to someone who’s alone. I try to remember the last time I had an intimate physical connection with anyone. I can’t. Maybe I should ask Misty for the name of a good masseuse.

  I give Misty the thumbs-up, reach for my Charlie D voice and open my mic. “Here’s Marvin Gaye begging his beloved to wake up and lay a little canoodling on him. Marvin doesn’t hold back. Don’t you hold back either. Valentine’s Day is almost over. Draw your lover near. Let Marvin’s heat light your fire. It’s time for a little ‘Sexual Healing.’ ”

  I turn off my mic and move closer to Misty.

  “We’ve got trouble,” I begin.

  There is no way I can sugarcoat the facts. One woman has already been killed. Another woman has been marked for death. No one can know where it will end. Misty listens without comment, then picks up our landline and calls her husband.

  The subject of Misty’s call to Henry is grim. But when she speaks to her husband, her voice is a caress. A man could get lost in that voice. Billionaires are used to making decisions quickly. Misty’s phone call to Henry Burgh lasts less than a minute. After she breaks the connection, she flips the switch that brings Nova into the conversation. She gives Nova the thumbs-up sign.

  “Henry volunteered to call Kevin O’Hanlon, but this is my station. I’ll deliver the message.” She lowers her eyes. “Henry’s on his way down to CVOX. He’s very protective of me.”

  Misty picks up the landline, hits speed dial and puts the call on speakerphone. When she talks to Kevin, Misty doesn’t sound like a woman who needs protecting.

  Kevin is livid. He rants about violating what he calls “the contract of trust” between him and his audience. He shouts about a violation of his Charter rights. He hints darkly at a lawsuit against CVOX. He threatens to bring in his lawyer. Misty hears him out, then says, “You’re wasting my time. If your ass isn’t here in the studio within fifteen minutes, you’re fired.”

  Kevin slams down the receiver and Misty smiles sweetly.

  “He’ll be here,” she says.

  Nova seems to have gotten her second wind.

  “Okay,” she says. “Let’s do what we can to salvage this show. Holiday’s over, Charlie D. You’re back on—Katy Perry with ‘Teenage Dream.’”

  I flip on my mic and lean in. “Time to regroup,” I say. “Time to remember how it felt the first time you were in love and ready to make the big move and go all the way. Here’s Katy Perry with ‘Teenage Dream.’ ”

  As soon as Katy hits the first line, Misty picks up her cell phone. “I’m going to make some calls,” she says. “Some of the other girls in town might be able to name men who hate sex workers enough to be part of this scheme.”

  The control room is now a sea of blue. The colleagues of the young cop with the weak stomach have arrived. I listen to Katy and try to keep my eyes from watching the second hand on the clock. We are now ten minutes away from the Eastern Standard Time killing.

  Katy Perry is singing about getting into her skintight jeans. I know she’s just about to make her teenage dream come true. I also know that we’re close to the end of the tune.

  I tell myself I have to carry on as if it’s business as usual. I take the next call. A retired nurse named Patsy is on the line. Her husband is in hospital, dying. Patsy remembers how important touch was to the babies she cared for during her career. Every night, she squeezes into the hospital bed with her husband. Patsy says that although her husband doesn’t recognize her anymore, she believes her presence comforts him. When Patsy finishes her story, Misty’s eyes well up. She blames her tears on hormones. I have no excuse for mine.

  Our next caller is a young woman named Destiny who buys lingerie on the sale table and cuts away at the seams to weaken the garments. She and her beloved are into rough sex. They both get turned on when he rips her undies off.

  Nova puts Madonna’s “Erotica” on the playlist. It’s a celebration of lovers who enjoy the twinning of pleasure and pain. As Madonna sings the first line, I can almost hear Destiny’s dainties ripping. My fantasies are cut short when Nova’s voice comes over the talkback.

  “Kevin O’Hanlon just called in. He’s stuck in traffic. He’ll be delayed.”

  I look at the clock—eight minutes till the next killing. There’s not a doubt in my mind that Kevin is stalling, showing us he won’t be pushed around. If another woman dies because Kevin is flexing his muscles, I hope he rots in hell.

  Chapter Five

  I can’t remember ever being this angry or feeling this helpless. I remind myself that our radio audience has no idea what’s going on here in Studio D. All they want is someone to help them through the last hours of a day that can be painful for the loveless. It’s time for business as usual. I tighten my skates and soldier on.

  My computer screen shows Britney on line two. Britney is a regular. She’s young and, if the photo she sent me from her high-school yearbook is any indication, very pretty. She’s as self-involved as most sixteen-year-olds, but she has a sweetly crazy sense of humor. She also has a surprisingly solid understanding of why people do what they do. At this moment, Britney is exactly what our show needs.

  I turn on my mic. “Hey, it’s Britney—our rainbow girl. I’m glad you called in, Brit. It’s a dark night here at CVOX. We’re in serious need of some color and light. So what’s on your mind as the clock ticks toward the end of Valentine’s Day?”

  Britney’s voice is uncharacteristically solemn. �
��Charlie, you and I have always had a bond. At first, it was just puppy love. But it’s more than that isn’t it?”

  Her confessional moment is over. Britney is ready to move along.

  “Misty’s right about how important it is to listen to a person you truly care about. Charlie, since your show came on the air tonight, I’ve been listening hard to your voice. I know something’s very wrong. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I just want you to know I’m praying for you. My prayers always seem to get answered. Do you think that’s weird?”

  Britney’s innocence is disarming. “No, Brit. I don’t think it’s weird. I just hope whoever you pray to comes through for us tonight.”

  “So do I,” she says quietly. Then, for the first time since she began calling in, it appears Britney doesn’t have anything more to say.

  Silence is the enemy of talk radio, so I forge ahead.

  “Brit, a lot has changed since I was in high school. What are your thoughts about what boys today want from girls and what girls today want from boys?”

  Her laugh is a waterfall.

  “Charlie, since the beginning of time, boys have always wanted the same thing. Girls have always had to keep them from getting what they want without hurting their feelings.”

  Nova opens her talkback. For a beat, she sounds like her old self.

  “Give Britney a chance to bring it home, Charlie. If she’s figured out a way to keep a boy’s hands from wandering without hurting his feelings, the Big Gulps are on me.”

  I growl into my mic.

  “My producer says that if you’ve figured out how not to give boys what they want without hurting their feelings, the Big Gulps are on her.”

  Brit moves in smoothly.

  “It’s not brain surgery. The first time a boy tried to touch something I didn’t want touched, I was surprised. Then I took his hand, kissed it and moved it well away from where it shouldn’t have been. The boy was the quarterback on our high-school football team—big shocker, huh?

  “Anyway, he’d taken me out for a burger and a movie, and when he wasn’t groping, all he could talk about was this quarterback sneak that hadn’t worked out for him. So after I put a little distance between us, I asked my date what a quarterback sneak was. Then I asked why it hadn’t worked out for him.”

  Britney inhales enough breath to get her through part two of her story.

  “What happened next was totally awesome. My date suddenly looked at me as if I was a real person. When he was groping me, he was saying all this stuff about how much he cared for me and how much he’d suffer if we didn’t do it. Or at least do something close to it—you know, just blue-balls talk.

  Misty raises both eyebrows. I gasp. “Brit, I don’t think you meant to say that…”

  Britney’s genuinely surprised. “Blue balls is just a term kids use—it means…”

  “I know what it means, Brit,” I say quickly. “Anyway, you were saying that when you asked him about football, your date starting talking to you differently.”

  “As if I was a person, instead of just a body. Football isn’t exactly a passion of mine. What he said was pretty interesting though. I told him so, and just like that, his hands stopped wandering.

  “Anyway, now I make it a point to find out what a boy is really interested in before we get into a wrestling match, and it always works.” She pauses. “Misty, did you ever find that talking was important to your…um…clients?”

  “All the time,” Misty says. “Of course, my clients had paid for the sex, so that was part of the deal. But after they became regulars, I knew they looked forward to the talk afterward.

  “And you’re right, Britney. When my clients started to open up to me about their lives, I stopped being just a body to them and became a person. They changed too. They stopped being just bodies with physical needs and became people who were just as hopeful and as scared as we all are.”

  Beyond the fact that she was once an escort, I know nothing about Misty’s personal history. My guess is that her path wasn’t nearly as smooth and loving as Britney’s. As I listen to Misty and Britney talk about how good it can be when men and women recognize one another as fellow travelers on the bumpy road to love, I realize again why I love radio. There are no false faces on radio. We’re voices alone in the dark. Pretty much the way it is in real life.

  It’s been a hell of a night, and it’s far from over, but I’m grateful for the reminder that our show can make a difference. When Nova gives me the signal that it’s time to cut Misty and Britney’s conversation short, I feel a pang. I open my mic.

  “Time to move along,” I say. “Britney and Misty, thanks for letting us discover what girls talk about at slumber parties.”

  Britney’s laugh cascades.

  “Oh, Charlie, if you could hear some of the things we really talk about at slumber parties, you’d be shocked. Wouldn’t he, Misty?”

  Misty winks at me.

  “Maybe some night Brit and I should host an all-girls show,” she says.

  “I would absolutely loooooooove that,” Britney says.

  When she breaks the connection, I feel bereft.

  “Let’s go to music again,” Nova says. “It’s six minutes to twelve. We need to figure out where we go from here if that asshole Kevin doesn’t show up.”

  My head snaps back. Nova’s use of profanity is rare. But she’s right. Kevin O’Hanlon may decide that the death of another human being is a small price to pay for hanging on to his role of guru to the Warriors.

  I check my computer screen for the music selection and open my mic.

  “Okay. On this day of men and women trying to please one another, let’s check out another perspective on that age-old question.What do women want? The R&B slash reggae singer Rihanna certainly seems to have some answers. At twenty-three, she’s already sold twenty million albums and sixty million singles. Here she is with ‘Rude Boy.’ ”

  Nova has the outside phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder. She’s positioned herself in front of the talkback so she can relay information as it comes in. I tell Misty to put on her headphones.

  Emotion always goes straight to Nova’s face. A glance tells me exactly what she’s feeling. Now, before Nova says a word, I know the worst has happened. Another woman is being murdered. Nova calls up the website, then turns away from her screen. “It’s happening again,” she says. She seems to crumple.

  Then she takes a deep breath and plunges on. “The video has gone viral,” she says. “A client of the woman who’s being…assaulted called the police. The woman’s name is Luanne Bauer. The Warrior who’s doing Kevin O’Hanlon’s dirty work must be a few bricks short of a load. He went to the hotel Luanne customarily works out of. Her client recognized the room and called the cops. The Toronto cops are on their way.” Nova looks at the screen and closes her eyes against the horror. “I hope to God they’re in time.

  “The cops here have picked up the baton. They’re going to find Kevin and bring him to the studio.”

  I call up the website in time to see a naked man in a head mask repeatedly plunge a knife into Luanne Bauer. “Too late,” I say.

  I am filled with sickening rage.

  The images on the screen seem to crush Misty. She folds her arms on the desk and, like a child during a grade-school rest period, places her forehead on them. I click off the website. I want to keep an eye on Misty.

  “We’re staying with music,” Nova says. “Bruce Cockburn singing ‘Lovers in a Dangerous Time.’ Don’t bother with an intro. But Charlie, when we come out of this song, you’re going to have go on air and tell our audience what’s happening.”

  Misty sits up, takes the pad of paper on the desk between us and begins to write. “This is Kevin O’Hanlon’s resignation speech,” she says. “I want to make certain he say
s everything he needs to say.”

  “Good,” I say. Misty goes back to her writing. I try to collect my thoughts. My mind is blank. I have no idea what I’m going to do when “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” fades, and I have to flip on my mic and explain the unexplainable.

  Chapter Six

  The song ends. It’s my turn now.

  “We’re back,” I say. “And it’s time for a little honesty. Britney was right when she sensed there was something wrong in The World According to Charlie D. We’ve been dealing with a nightmare here. Two very sick men in different parts of our country have killed two defenseless women. The murderers chose a method of death that robbed their victims of dignity. These men believe they’re part of a mission to ‘clean up’ our country. For them, that means destroying everyone who isn’t like them.

  “At this point, there’s a great deal we don’t know. Because of possible legal problems, we can’t make public what we do know.”

  Images of the women being cut open like animals flood my mind. Suddenly, I can’t speak. “Hang on, Charlie D,” Nova says. “All you have to say is that this is a time for reflection, and introduce the music. It’s one of the pieces that was played at Princess Diana’s funeral. Sir John Tavener’s ‘Song for Athene.’ ”

  I clear my throat and lean into my mic.

  “I’ve been pondering a line from ‘Lovers in a Dangerous Time’—‘Never a breath you can afford to waste.’ Think about that as we listen to Sir John Tavener’s ‘Song for Athene.’ The piece was written for a woman who died too young. It was also played at the funeral of a princess. Like the women who died tonight, the princess died before her time.”

  From the moment the Westminster Abbey Choir starts to sing the first lines—Alleluia. / May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest—there is silence in the control room and in the studio. We are hungry for comfort. And, for four minutes, we find solace in the beauty of Tavener’s music. When the choir sings the final lines—Alleluia. / Weeping at the grave creates the song: Alleluia. / Come, enjoy rewards and crowns I have prepared for you—the young cop with the queasy stomach is crying openly. He is not alone.