“Okay, go ahead.” Annabelle tried to be patient.
“It may be nothing, but I remembered that the person sneezed a few times after coming near the dog. Does that help?”
Chapter 148
Yelena waited as Annabelle took her phone call and considered the situation.
The bag with the chemistry set and gloves had gone the way of the knife that had killed Edgar Rivers, tossed deep into a garbage container several blocks away. The chances were next to nil that it would be found amid the tons of garbage discarded and hauled away in New York City each day. Both copies of Jerome’s manuscript had been deposited in the apartment incinerator.
With no other evidence to speak of, this case could turn into a dead end for the police and FBI. Just as the post– September 11 anthrax cases had at the other networks.
All that remained was making sure Jerome Henning’s vile portrayal of KEY News never saw the light of day, in any form. The manuscript was the reason this whole nightmare had been necessary.
Thank God she had been in the practice of monitoring e-mails or she might not have known about the manuscript until it was too late. Jerome would have published his book, and KEY News would have become a byword for scandal, a laughingstock.
That couldn’t happen. She had worked too hard, had too much invested. Her legacy would not be destroyed. Yelena would do anything to protect her “baby.” KEY News was all she had.
Annabelle presented the final worry. Though the FBI had Annabelle’s notes on the manuscript, Yelena wasn’t that concerned, especially since she wasn’t listed in them and thus wasn’t implicated as a suspect. Those agents weren’t going to be writing any books. But Annabelle could get the bright idea to re-create Jerome’s book herself. That was a chance that just couldn’t be taken.
Annabelle had to be taken care of—before they reached the closet with its security camera. She could take Annabelle on with all the strength of a lioness protecting her cub. She didn’t need a weapon other than her bare hands and the uncanny strength that came with desperation.
Chapter 149
Annabelle’s mind fired rapidly as she made the terrifying connections.
Yelena was allergic to dogs. Yelena had taken sugar from the cafeteria, where poor Edgar might have seen her. Yelena was monitoring e-mails, and Jerome had e-mailed Annabelle many times about his manuscript.
Was Yelena the one who had killed Jerome and Edgar and that other poor woman in New Jersey? Was Yelena responsible for the fact that Annabelle’s precious little boy was lying in a bed downtown at St. Vincent’s with cutaneous anthrax?
Her fear turning into anger, Annabelle spun to face her enemy just as she felt Yelena’s strong hands wrap around her neck.
Chapter 150
With only half an hour left in the show, Linus was pacing in the control room.
“Are we going to have something on the lockdown or not?” the executive producer demanded. “Why the hell hasn’t Annabelle let us know where we stand?”
“I’ll try to find her, Linus,” offered Beth, picking up the phone.
Chapter 151
The cell phone flew through the air as she felt Yelena propel her against the industrial-size sink in the maintenance alcove at the top of the basement ramp. As Yelena’s grasp tightened around her neck, Annabelle flailed, struggling amid the brooms and mops. Yelena outweighed her by a good forty pounds. Annabelle wasn’t going to be able to beat her with the sheer force of her strength.
She had nothing to fight with except the pen she grasped in her fist. As she choked, Annabelle thought of Thomas and found the strength to jam the pen upward, hitting Yelena in the side of the neck.
In the studio, the restaurant chef was demonstrating how to carve a turkey for the viewers at home.
Harry popped a slice into his mouth. “It’s delicious,” he proclaimed, “but my knife never cuts so thin.”
“God damn it,” exclaimed Linus as he watched the monitor in the control room. “To hell with the turkey, I want the sniffing dog. Where the hell is Annabelle?”
As the pen hit her neck, Yelena’s grip loosened and she fell backward. Annabelle pulled away, trying to scramble out of the alcove. When she reached the ramp, she looked out. The area was empty, but she called for help anyway.
“Nobody’s going to hear you, Annabelle,” Yelena hissed as she struggled to regain her footing and lunged forward.
“I don’t know where she is, Beth,” said B.J. into the phone. “The last I saw her was in the lobby about half an hour ago. But I have the video of the canine unit if you want it.”
As she felt Yelena pulling her back into the alcove, Annabelle remembered the security camera. If she could just get the dozen yards or so to the closet, the security camera would see her. She could signal for help.
“You aren’t going to get away with this,” she whispered hoarsely, trying to distract Yelena.
“I think I will. They’ll find you dead later, just like they did Edgar Rivers. And this sink here will work out just fine. I can wash the fingerprints from your neck after I kill you with my bare hands.”
“Over an unpublished manuscript? What’s the matter with you? It’s just a job, Yelena.”
“Wrong, Annabelle. It’s my whole life.”
Joe went back to his office, feeling defeated. He had missed his chance. The “hammer team” would be coming in a little while to check out the storage closet, but Joe was sure that the evidence was gone now.
With resignation, he ordered the exits reopened, sent out a companywide e-mail announcing that Broadcast Center employees could once again come and go as they pleased, and then sat, staring morosely at the monitor that displayed the closet door.
Thomas. Thomas. She had to get to Thomas. She had to get to her little boy.
“You twisted psychopath. My son is in the hospital because of you.” Annabelle spat in her face. Yelena squeezed her eyes shut against the saliva, giving her just the moments she needed.
The mop was nearby. Annabelle managed to wrap her hand around the handle and pull it toward her. Again, she thrust a projectile into Yelena and, this time, Annabelle was able to run.
Down the ramp, down to the closet, with Yelena following.
As the broadcast ended, Linus ordered with disgust, “When Annabelle does show up, send her in to see me. She better have a damn good explanation.”
Annabelle heard the heavy footsteps pounding down the ramp behind her. In Yelena’s blind rage she must have forgotten about the security camera, thought Annabelle as she ran toward the closet. Running for her life, for Mike, for the children.
Tara and Thomas, so young and innocent, so needing their mother. At the thought of Thomas and the anthrax that was infecting his small body, Annabelle felt her injured knee give way beneath her. She stumbled forward, crashing to the hard floor. Wincing, she tried to right herself again, as Yelena was given the precious moments needed to catch up.
Annabelle felt the crazed woman bearing down on her from behind, grabbing at her waist. As Yelena fought to pull her back, Annabelle scrambled on her stomach, using all her strength to inch forward.
Closer. A little closer to the closet.
Please, let me get there. Please, please, please, let someone be watching.
The camera’s narrow view caught a limited picture, a raised fist, the back of a head. But it was enough to send Joe Connelly and his guards rushing downstairs.
Epilogue
Thanksgiving Day, November 27
“We’re missing the parade, Mommy,” whined the tiny figure in the hospital bed.
“No, we’re not. We’re watching it on TV.”
“That’s not the same,” said Thomas, pouting.
“Next year, honey. Next year. I promise.” Annabelle closed her eyes and kissed the child’s forehead, thanking God that there would be a next year. The doctors were confident Thomas was going to make a full recovery.
“Look, Thomas, there’s Clifford the Big Red Dog.” Annabelle pointed to the telev
ision set mounted on the wall of the hospital room.
The child was diverted from his disappointment as he counted the giant balloons that floated down the parade route. Yesterday’s storm had left a crystal clear morning sky in its wake, a perfect bright blue background for the vibrant balloons. Clowns ran in circles, stars waved from floats, cheerleaders cavorted, and marching bands played—it all seemed to Annabelle to be a celebration of the fact that her little boy was going to be all right.
The turtleneck she wore covered the bruises on her neck. Yelena was in police custody, and the incredulity that she had snapped so completely and inexorably was already giving way to intense speculation on who would succeed her as president of KEY News. Mental illness, a menopausal breakdown, an empty personal life, and blind ambition were all being discussed as possible reasons for Yelena’s bizarre and vicious behavior. Annabelle could imagine the frenzy at the Broadcast Center, but she couldn’t have cared less. Just as long as the police and FBI could build an airtight case against Yelena, a woman so driven and sick that murder seemed a reasonable solution to her.
Annabelle answered her cell phone, expecting her husband’s call. Tara, fretting about her brother, had awakened crying from a bad dream last night, and Annabelle and Mike had agreed that it would be best if he stayed with their daughter at home while Annabelle went to the hospital to be with Thomas.
“Mike?”
“No, Annabelle. It’s Wayne Nazareth. I just wanted to see how your son is.”
Annabelle was touched by the gesture of the young man, a twin himself. Wayne knew too well what tragedy was, how life could change in an instant, that a single event could send out ripples that affected the many lives that had to continue onward.
“Thomas is doing very well, Wayne. Thanks so much for calling.”
“Can I do anything, Annabelle? Bring you anything?” he offered.
“That’s so sweet of you, Wayne. But I think we’re all set here.”
“Okay, Annabelle. Take care of yourself…and your son.”
“I will, Wayne. I will.”
Santa Claus and his reindeer brought up the rear of the parade as the phone rang again.
“How’s it going over there?” Mike asked.
“We’re fine. Just fine.” Annabelle’s hand brushed the top of Thomas’s head. “How are you and Tara?”
“We’ve been watching the parade, thinking of you. Mrs. Nuzzo called, and she’s bringing over some turkey and stuffing later.”
“This was one way to get out of cooking a Thanksgiving dinner,” Annabelle joked feebly. “We have so much to be thankful for, don’t we, Mike?” she whispered, feeling her throat constrict. Thomas was going to pull through, and Annabelle was sure that Mike too was going to be all right.
She listened as her husband answered with the old steady confidence in his voice. “Yes, baby. We do.”
Also by Mary Jane Clark
Do You Want to Know a Secret?
Do You Promise Not to Tell?
Let Me Whisper in Your Ear
Close to You
Nobody Knows
Acknowledgments
It was her idea and I thought it was an exciting one. When Laura Dail, my agent, suggested that I write something that featured a lockdown at KEY News, a situation where neither victim nor killer could escape, I pounced on the idea. Laura’s fertile idea was full of possibilities for suspense.
By the time the ten-page synopsis was delivered to my editor, Jennifer Enderlin, a little anthrax had been sprinkled into the story mix. Jen gave her palpable enthusiasm to the proposal along with excellent suggestions about the potential characters and the things that might happen to them along the way. Once Jen gave the green light, there was really nowhere to run. I had to write the book.
Enter Elizabeth Kaledin. How many people are lucky enough to have a friend who sticks with them through thick and thin and who also has a reporter’s notebook full of information on a weapon of mass destruction? Elizabeth does, as medical correspondent for The CBS Evening News with Dan Rather, and she willingly shared both her research and recollections with me. When I worried that I may have bitten off more than I could chew, Elizabeth reassured me and supported me, as she has so many times over the years.
Time frames, symptoms, and treatments for anthrax exposure had to be accurate. Dr. Angelo Acquista, Medical Director of the New York City Office of Emergency Management and author of The Survival Guide: What to Do in a Biological, Chemical, or Nuclear Emergency, helped me as well, gracious and generous with his time and expertise.
As he has done before, Stan Romaine, Director of CBS Corporate Security, came to my rescue. Stan listened to my fictional scenario and, over lunch and perhaps more phone conversations than he had counted on, offered myriad possibilities for tension and intrigue in my besieged TV news world. Thank you so much, Stan. You were very patient with me and your input added so much to the story.
I am constantly amazed at and grateful for the people who step up to the plate when asked. CBS News friends freely contributed. Terri Belli, B.J. D’Elia (another B.J., not the one in the book), Jerry Mazza, and Jim Murphy each supplied facts and color I hungered for and devoured.
Roberta Golubock, childhood friend and real estate maven, dropped everything at my call one Sunday morning and took me on a tour of Greenwich Village, pointing out some of the places that ended up in this book. Doing research with Roberta makes work fun. This wasn’t the first time Roberta has been there to guide me, and I am confident and glad it won’t be the last.
Walter Timpone, former Assistant U.S. Attorney, filled me in on the legal ramifications for the actions of one of my misguided characters. Walter immediately grasped the situation, quickly assessing the consequences and explaining them well to this unlawful mind.
At St. Martin’s Press, along with my dynamo editor, Jen Enderlin, there is a wonderful team willing and eager to help. Allow me to thank Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Ed Gabrielli, John Karle, and John Murphy for all they have done and continue to do. A special thanks to Anne Twomey for keeping at it until this cover was just right.
Colleen Kenny, gracias, amiga, for your creation of and conscientious work on our website: www.maryjaneclark.com. You continue to surprise and delight me, Col.
Father Paul Holmes, what can I say? You have a mind that does not quit and I am the beneficiary of it. You are a stickler for detail and help make sure that I leave no thread dangling. Until the very end, your tireless support is crucial. Thank you, thank you, Paul.
And now, the work is done. To the family and friends I have neglected, I am free to run now, anywhere we choose.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
NOWHERE TO RUN. Copyright © 2003 by Mary Jane Clark. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Clark, Mary Jane Behrends.
Nowhere to run / Mary Jane Clark.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-0294-6
1. Women television producers and directors—Fiction. 2. Medicine on television—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.L2873N68 2003
813'.54—dc21
2003046544
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