Hello, Darkness

by Sandra Brown

  “Nothing.”

  “Just bummed, huh?” Craig gave him an opportunity to explain his mood, but then gave up with a shrug and joined Gavin’s perusal of the crowd. Suddenly, in an excited whisper, he said, “Hey, see that guy over there?”

  Gavin looked in the direction Craig indicated and saw a man climbing from the backseat of a car, rearranging his clothes and pulling on a baseball cap. Two girls got out behind him. They were lookers. Barbie-doll types, blond and chesty, although their bony sternums suggested implants.

  “Their tits are fake,” Gavin remarked.

  “Who cares?”

  Obviously not Craig, who continued to ogle. “Wonder if the girls know he’s a badge?”

  Gavin reacted with a start. “A cop? No way.”

  “I’ve heard it rumored.”

  As they watched, the trio engaged in a group hug. Then the man shooed away each girl, but not before giving her an affectionate smack on the butt and a promise to see her again soon.

  The girls ambled away, unfortunately in the opposite direction from Craig and Gavin. The man got back into his car, this time in the driver’s seat, and as he maneuvered it around Craig’s Ram, he and Gavin made eye contact.

  “Smug SOB,” Craig muttered.

  “You’re sure he’s a cop?”

  “Ninety-nine point nine percent.”

  “Then what’s he doing here?”

  “Same thing we are, and tonight he scored big.”

  “Yeah, times two.”

  “Lucky prick.” They watched until the taillights disappeared, then Craig said, “I saw you talking to Melissa.”

  “That’s what she’s good at. Talking.” He told Craig about his dad’s chance meeting with her at the Kemp house. “He knows about the Sex Club.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Craig said with a disdainful sniff. “What are they gonna do, seize all the computers?”

  “Exactly what I asked my old man. They’re pissing in the wind.”

  Gavin was talking tougher than he felt. Worry gnawed at him like a hunger pain. That’s why he had defied his dad once again by leaving the house tonight. He was going to be in trouble anyway, so what the hell? It was a matter of degree.

  Weeks ago, planning for an emergency like this, he’d had a spare car key made. As soon as his dad had dropped him off at home and left for the radio station, he was outta there, too. But he didn’t feel as cavalier as his defiance implied. He was sick with apprehension over what the next few days might yield.

  “Where do you think she is?”

  Craig’s question broke into his thoughts as though he’d been reading them. “Who, Janey? How the hell should I know?”

  “Well, I thought you might.”

  “Why?”

  Craig looked at him with annoyance. “Seeing as how you were with her last night.”

  • • •

  As the last few bars of “I’ll Never Love This Way Again” faded into silence, Paris spoke into her microphone. “That was Dionne Warwick. I hope you have someone in your life who can look inside your fantasies and make each one come true.”

  The studio felt claustrophobic tonight and Dean was the reason why. He’d sat for the last three hours and sixteen minutes on a tall, swivel stool identical to hers, far enough away to give her freedom of movement and access to all the controls, but close enough for her to be constantly aware of him. He sat motionlessly and for the most part silently, but his eyes followed her every move.

  She felt them especially now when she mentioned fulfilling fantasies. “It’s a toasty eighty-two degrees at one-sixteen, but I’ll be playing cool classics until two o’clock here on 101.3. Let me know what’s on your mind tonight. Call me.

  “I’ve had a request from Marge and Jim, who are celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary. This was their wedding song. It’s from the Carpenters. Happy anniversary, Marge and Jim.”

  As “Close to You” began to play, she punched the button to turn off her mike, then glanced across at Dean as she depressed one of the blinking telephone lines. “This is Paris.”

  “Hi, Paris. My name’s Roger.”

  Throughout the program, each time she had answered one of the phone lines, she and Dean had feared, and yet hoped, that Valentino would be the caller. He’d brought a portable cassette recorder with him. It was loaded and ready to record.

  His shoulders relaxed along with hers as she said, “Hello, Roger.”

  “Can you please play a song for me?”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Nothing. I just like the song.”

  “That’s occasion enough. What song would you like to hear?”

  Facilely she inserted the requested number into the log, substituting it for one already on deck. Then digging her fists into her lower back, she stood up and stretched.

  “Tired?” Dean asked.

  “I got virtually no sleep last night and never caught a nap today. You must be tired, too. You’re not accustomed to these hours.”

  “More accustomed than you think. I rarely sleep through a whole night anymore. I doze while listening for Gavin to come in.”

  “Is he with you for the summer?”

  “No, more or less permanently.”

  She registered her surprise. “Nothing’s happened to Pat?”

  “No, no, she’s good,” he said in quick response to her concern. “Doing great, in fact. She finally remarried. He’s a nice guy in everyone’s opinion except Gavin’s.”

  Paris had met Dean’s ex-wife at one of Gavin’s Little League games, and she and Jack had once been invited to her house for Gavin’s birthday dinner. She remembered her as a petite and pretty woman, but rather serious and structured.

  Without her having to ask, Jack had confided to her that Dean had married straight out of college. The union had lasted less than a year. “Really only long enough for them to get Gavin home from the hospital. They were unsuited and knew it and agreed it would be best, even for the kid, if they cut their losses and made a clean break when they did.”

  Although Gavin had lived with Pat, Dean saw him several times a week and had been actively involved in all phases of his life. He joined Pat at teacher conferences, coached T-ball and soccer teams, participated in and contributed to every aspect of Gavin’s development. Following a divorce, a child’s upbringing was most often abdicated to the custodial parent. Paris had admired Dean for taking his responsibilities as a father so seriously.

  “He and his stepfather weren’t getting along?” she asked.

  “Gavin’s fault. He had moved beyond misbehaving to being downright impossible. Pat and I agreed that he should live with me for a while.” He described their tenuous coexistence. “The hell of it is, Paris, I was looking forward to having him with me. I want this arrangement to work.”

  “I’m sure it will, given time. Gavin is a sweet kid.”

  He laughed. “Lately, I would beg to differ. But I hope that sweet kid you remember is still in there somewhere behind all that hostility and surliness.”

  At half past the hour she read a few headlines of news off the information monitor. Following that came several minutes of commercials, during which she took calls. One caller asked her for a date. She graciously declined.

  “Maybe you should have accepted,” Dean teased. “He sounded desperate.”

  “Desperately drunk,” she said, returning his smile as she deleted the call from the Vox Pro.

  The next call came from a giddy couple who’d just become engaged. “He asked me to open a bottle of wine and then handed me a glass with the ring in it.” Even her squeal couldn’t disguise a charming British accent. “My friends in London won’t believe it! We faithfully watched Dallas when we were girls and dreamed of someday meeting a handsome Texan.”

  Laughing because of the young woman’s obvious delight, Paris asked what song they wanted her to play.

  “ ‘She’s Got a Way.’ He says Billy Joel could’ve written it about me.”
>
  “And I’m sure he’s right. Is it okay if I share our conversation with the listening audience?”

  “Fantastic!”

  She jotted down their names and answered a few more calls. After the sequence of commercials, she replayed the conversation with the engaged couple and followed it with their requested song, then “Precious & Few,” which segued into “The Rose.”

  Operating the board was second nature to her, so she was able to do all this while continuing her conversation with Dean about Gavin. “What did he say when you told him about meeting Melissa Hatcher?”

  “He pretended not to know her.”

  Paris looked at him inquisitively and he read her thought.

  “Yeah, that bothers me, too. Why didn’t he want to admit that he knew her? He didn’t admit to knowing Janey Kemp either, until I pressed him on it.”

  “How well does he know her?”

  “Not very. At least that’s what he told me, but these days I don’t always get the truth.”

  “Not like the time he bent the wheel on his bicycle.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Jack and I had come over to your house for a cookout. Gavin was staying with you that weekend. He’d been riding bikes with neighborhood kids, but came home pushing his. The spokes of his front wheel were bent almost in half. You asked if he’d been popping wheelies and when he confessed, you sent him to his room for the rest of the evening.”

  “Which might have been punishment enough because he loved being around you and Jack. But I also made him do chores to earn enough money to replace the wheel.”

  “Tough but good parenting, Dean.”

  “You think?”

  “I do. You made your point about the value of property, but it wasn’t the damage to the bike that upset you.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I’d told him a thousand times not to pop wheelies or jump curbs because it was dangerous. I didn’t want him to become an organ donor.”

  “Right. He could just as easily have busted his head or broken his neck. You were upset over what could have happened, and that’s why you were angry.”

  “I guess I should have explained that to him.”

  “He knew,” she said softly.

  He looked across at her and the connection was more than just visual. It lasted through the remainder of the Bette Midler song. As it wound down, Paris turned back to the control board and engaged her mike.

  “Don’t forget to join Charlie and Chad tomorrow morning. They’ll keep you company as you drive to work. In the meantime, this is Paris Gibson with a romantic lineup of classic love songs. The phone lines will be open right up till two o’clock. Call me.”

  When the next series of songs began, she glanced up at the log monitor. “Only nine minutes left in the program.”

  “Isn’t this about the time he called last night? Right before sign-off?” When she nodded, he said, “Will you be able to talk to him uninterrupted if he does call?”

  She pointed to the countdown clock on the screen. “That’s the amount of time remaining for everything that’s logged to play. Two more selections follow this one.”

  He calibrated. “So after the last song ends, you’ll have barely enough time to say good night and sign off.”

  “Right.”

  He glanced at the phone lines on the control board. Three were blinking. “If it’s not Valentino, don’t engage the caller in a lengthy conversation. Keep the lines open. And if it is him, remember to ask to speak to Janey.”

  She took a deep breath, checked to see that Dean’s finger was on the Record button of the portable machine, then answered one of the phone lines. Rachel wanted to request a song for her husband, Pete, “It Might Be You.”

  “Ah, Stephen Bishop.”

  “It was the first song we danced to at our wedding reception.”

  “It’s such a good choice, it deserves a prime spot.” Paris promised to play it the following night in the first half hour of her program.

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  Paris glanced again at Dean before depressing another of the blinking buttons. “This is Paris.”

  “Hello, Paris.”

  Her blood ran cold at the sound of his voice. Frantically she cut her eyes to Dean, who started the portable recorder. The Vox Pro screen registered a phone number, which he scribbled down. He stared into the screen as though willing it to give up not just the telephone number but also the image and identity of the caller.

  “Hello, Valentino.”

  “How was your day? Busy?”

  “I managed.”

  “Come now, Paris. Share. What did you do today to keep yourself occupied? Did you think of me at all? Or did you write me off as a crank? Did you talk to the police?”

  “Why would I? Unless you let me speak to the girl, I have no reason to believe that she exists and that what you told me last night is true.”

  “Stop playing silly games, Paris. Of course she exists. Why would I make such a claim if it weren’t true?”

  “To get my attention.”

  He laughed. “Well, did it? Will you pay attention this time?”

  “This time?”

  “You ignored me when I warned you before, and look what happened.”

  She looked at Dean and shook her head with misapprehension. “What are you talking about, Valentino?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he taunted. “Ask me nicely and I may give you a few hints. But you have to ask me very nicely. Now, that’s an exciting thought.” He inhaled deeply, loudly, so she could hear it. “Your voice alone is enough to arouse me. I think about us together, you know. Someday soon, Paris.”

  She shuddered with repugnance but continued in a bland tone. “I don’t believe you have a girl with you. You’re all talk and this is a hoax.”

  Dean nodded approval.

  “More games, Paris? I advise against them. You’ve already squandered twenty-four of your seventy-two hours. The next forty-eight are going to be much more fun for me than for you. As for my captive, she’s a little tired, and all her whining and pleading is beginning to grate on my nerves. But she’s still a hot fuck, and I’m due.”

  The line went dead.

  “It’s not the same number he called from last night,” Dean said as he reached for his cell. “Did you notice anything different tonight, Paris? Any change in his inflection or tone from last night?”

  Dean was a policeman, she wasn’t. Revolted by the call, she was finding it harder to launch into the mode of crime solver. “No,” she replied hoarsely. “He sounded the same.”

  “To me, too, but I thought you might’ve picked up—Hey, Curtis, he just called,” he said into his cell phone. “Different number. Ready?”

  As he reeled it off to the detective, Stan pushed open the soundproof door. “Uh, Paris, we’ve got dead air.”

  She hadn’t realized the music had stopped. Quickly she signaled for quiet and engaged her mike. “Be safe, be happy, love someone. This is Paris Gibson wishing you a good night.” She punched a few buttons, then announced, “We’re off.”

  “The creep called again?” Stan asked.

  Dean had turned his back to them while he continued his telephone conversation with Curtis.

  To Stan she said, “Leave a note for the morning engineers. Ask them to dump the last call on the Vox Pro onto a cassette and make several copies. They’ll be better than the one Dean’s portable made.”

  He looked affronted. “I know how to transfer it to cassette, Paris. I could do it right now.”

  She hesitated, uncertain of his skill. But he looked so crestfallen, she added, “Thanks, Stan, that would be a help.”

  Dean ended his call, then turned around and grabbed his jacket off the back of the stool and picked up the portable recorder, all in one fluid motion. “The number belongs to another pay phone. Units are already rolling.”

  “I’m going, too,” Paris said.

  “Damn straight you are. No way would I le
ave you alone now.”

  He pulled open the door. As they rushed out, she called back to Stan. “Could you drop those cassettes off at my house?”

  Dean pushed her through the door before Stan had time to answer.

  chapter 15

  Melissa Hatcher was jealous of Janey Kemp for all the reasons that customarily inspire jealousy. Janey was wealthier, prettier, smarter, more popular, and more desired. However, there was one attribute Melissa had that Janey did not: shrewdness.

  Had Melissa made Janey her rival, she automatically would have fallen into a distant second place in a two-woman contest. Instead, she had been cunning enough to make Janey her best friend.

  But on her first night back from France, when she should have been the center of attention, all anyone wanted to talk about was Janey and her mysterious disappearance. Melissa was miffed. She had tales of the nude beaches on the Côte d’Azur, of the wine she’d drunk and the drugs she’d done. How she’d come to obtain a nipple ring in St. Tropez was a story that would hold an audience captive for half an hour.

  But no one was interested in her recent adventures abroad. Janey was the name on everyone’s lips, the topic of every conversation.

  Melissa didn’t believe any of the wild speculations being circulated about her friend’s whereabouts. They ranged from her eloping with the Dallas Cowboys rookie quarterback whom she’d met in a club on Sixth Street, to having been kidnapped for ransom that her old man refused to pay, to being snatched by a pervert and made his sex slave.

  My ass, Melissa thought resentfully.

  If Janey was honeymooning with one of the Dallas Cowboys, she would’ve made sure that everybody knew about it. Melissa wouldn’t put it past the judge to refuse to pay a ransom to kidnappers, but he would do so in front of lights and cameras and use it to campaign for his reelection. And if anybody was being made a sex slave, it was probably the guy who was shacked up with Janey.

  Janey was getting stoned. She was getting balled. End of story. When she felt good and ready, she would reappear and gloat over the stir she’d created. She would milk it for all it was worth. That was Janey. She thrived on shocking and agitating people.