Hostage (14 page)

“Yo,” said Elliot, pushing a couple of pills, a baked treat, and a bottle of Gatorade at Matthew.

Matthew turned, saw the offering, and started shaking his head. “Where in the hell did you get a Twinkie?”

“I brought a whole case of ’em. A psychic friend of mine says it kills HIV.”

“But that’ll be impossible for her to digest. Are you crazy?”

Elliot shrugged. “Queer, everyone knows
that.
” He pushed the stuff closer. “Come on, give it to her, it’ll be good for her blood sugar.”

Matthew took it all, then said, “Tina? Tina, open up. Here’s some stuff for you.”

The door cracked open and a deathly thin wrist, as skimpy as a twig, poked out. Matthew handed it all to her, wondering how in the hell she was even strong enough to hold it.

“Thanks,” she said, her hand withdrawing and the door shutting.

Again she moaned as another burst of fluid shot out of her.

After a few moments of quiet Matthew said, “Tina, what do you think if I make the first video?”

“No,” came her immediate response.

“But—”

“We’ve been over and over this, Matthew. It has to be me. I’m the straight one.”

They had discussed this at length, the order in which they were going to make the videos of each of them with Johnny Clariton. And the order was important, very much so. The country, even the world, would be watching, and Tina, Elliot, and Matthew wanted to make it perfectly clear why they had done this, abducted a U.S. congressman. They had all agreed with Tina that the first image of them would be the most important, the one that would hit the hardest. And what could be a better, more shocking first glimpse at this band of AIDS terrorists than a straight woman, who some viewers might still recognize as a one-time top model, dying from this dreadful disease?

“I’m kind of dizzy. Just give me a few more minutes,” said Tina, her voice weak. “But I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to do it for Chris.”

“Sure. Sure, babe, whatever you say,” replied Matthew. “You just rest a bit and we’ll start getting everything ready.” His head pounding, Matthew turned to Elliot and ordered, “Get me the syringe!”

Channel 10 was thrilled.
Todd Mills, well, he was a god.

He’d already told his story on the 5:00 PM local news. And now he was on the national news, live with Dan Rather. Perched atop a WLAK TV van, which stood only feet away, was a mini-satellite connecting Todd via the stars to the preeminent television anchor.

“… and, to repeat, Dan, in the almost six hours since three self-described AIDS activists abducted Congressman Johnny Clariton, there has been virtually no news as to his fate. His kidnappers have yet to make any demands whatsoever, and as far as I know, the FBI and the police have virtually no leads,” reported Todd, holding a stick mike and looking straight into the camera as he stood in front of the large brick building where it had all taken place. “Otherwise, the only other person known to be injured thus far, WTCN TV reporter Cindy Wilson, remains unconscious but in stable condition at Hennepin County Medical Center.”

It was the lead story not just in the Twin Cities, not just in the United States, but perhaps in the western world. And Todd was right in the eye of it, being sucked up and picked apart by not only the police and the FBI, but the horde of journalists who were descending upon Minneapolis. As not only one of the top journalists in the region, but as both a victim and a witness to the abduction, Todd was being all but consumed. What was it like? How many of them were there? Did you get any sense of what they wanted? Did you fear for your life? Was there really a fire? What do you think they’ll do to Congressman Clariton? All afternoon he’d gone over and over and over it, first with the authorities, then with his colleagues, the piranhalike media.

“Todd,” said Rather, his voice coming in clearly through the earpiece lodged discreetly in Todd’s right ear, “as I understand it, you had just started an exclusive interview with Congressman Clariton moments before the assailants set off the smoke bomb and burst into the room.”

“That’s absolutely correct, Dan,” replied Todd, looking squarely into Bradley’s camera. “The congressman concluded his roundtable luncheon, left the main dining room of Jerome’s, and came into the side dining room where we had set up our camera and lights.”

Todd’s voice was perfect. He looked fabulous, just right for the situation. Dressed in jeans, a crisp shirt, a Ralph Lauren cotton jacket—all clothes that someone at Channel 10 had darted out and purchased that afternoon at Dayton’s, the behemoth department store, because Todd hadn’t been able to return home to change—the image was not of a prepped and preened reporter but of a correspondent caught right in the middle of a maelstrom. Standing there, the lights of Bradley’s cameras glaring in his eyes, a sidewalk crowd—not to mention the entire country—watching, Todd only hoped no one sensed how utterly exhausted he was. He’d been cranked on high all afternoon, telling, recounting, trying to recall every detail, and he now struggled to appear calm, insightful, sincere.

Rather continued, saying, “Can you tell us what Mr. Clariton was like in those moments before he was kidnapped? Did he have any intimation whatsoever of any danger?”

“I’m quite sure that the congressman didn’t suspect a thing. He’d had a very successful book-signing this morning, a stellar luncheon—which was, at five thousand dollars a plate, attended by the region’s top executives and completely sold out—and he appeared quite animated and pleased. However, after the incident in San Francisco when some AIDS activists hurled a bucket of blood on him, he did have a bodyguard assigned to him. Mind you, had Mr. Clariton already announced his bid for the presidency of the United States—which so many expect him to do within the next month—he would have had Secret Service protection. That, however, wasn’t the case.”

“Of course not. He was ostensibly on a private tour promoting his book.”

“That’s correct.”

“In your opinion, just how dangerous is this situation?”

“I would say extremely,” ventured Todd. “Keep in mind that the kidnappers stated that they are in the last stages of a terminal illness and that they know they are dying. Consequently, that means they have almost nothing to lose.”

“A frightening thought.” Rather shook his head. “So far all the top national AIDS organizations have issued statements deploring today’s event. What has been the reaction there in Minneapolis?”

“Complete and total outrage. In fact, the Minnesota AIDS Coalition, the largest local AIDS group, has condemned the abduction and will be holding a meeting tonight to help its staff and volunteers deal with the trauma of the situation.”

Todd’s mind started whizzing: Do I leave it at this? In a matter of a mere second or two his mind ran like a supercomputer and quickly came to one quick, firm conclusion: No. This is too important for me and others like me. Go on, just jump.

“Dan,” began Todd, “I’d also like to add that in the moments before the chaos broke loose I personally found Mr. Clariton quite aggressive and, to be perfectly frank, rather hostile to the cause that his abductors claim to represent.”

“Really?” came the surprised reply. “In what way?”

“Before we got started, he lambasted in a most derogatory manner all homosexuals and everyone with AIDS.” Go on, just say it, he thought, staring into the lens. Out yourself to the universe. “He came striding into the room where I was to interview him and demanded to know who was gay. When I identified myself as a gay person but assured him that that had nothing to do with our interview and that, in fact, my sexuality was none of his business, he launched into a tirade of bigotry and vitriol.”

“I see,” said Rather, unable to hide his own amazement. “Can you be specific, Todd?”

Okay, thought Todd. Now it’s time for a little poker, and if you play it right this is going to draw a mountain of attention. So hint it, but hold it. Just tell ’em there’s some great dirt coming. Soon. But keep ’em waiting. Channel 10 will wet its pants with glee.

“I don’t think, Dan, it would be particularly appropriate for me to go into it at this time.”

“Absolutely. And I’m sure we’ll be hearing more from you in the near future. Thank you,” concluded Rather. “That was Todd Mills, reporting from our Minneapolis/Saint Paul affiliate WLAK TV on the fate of Congressman Johnny Clariton, who was kidnapped early this afternoon by a radical group of AIDS activists.”

Todd stood quite still, staring into the camera until there was a fuzzy snapping sound. An instant later the connection was severed and there was nothing, and Todd lowered his stick mike, then pulled the clear earpiece from his ear. He took a deep breath, glanced over at the crowd gathered behind the barrier. He suddenly felt as if he’d walked face first into this wall, an invisible but completely solid one.

Exhausted, he made his way over to Bradley and asked, “Was that okay? Did I make sense?”

“Great. Perfect,” Bradley replied, adjusting a few things on his camera.

“How about you? Aren’t you a little worn out?”

“If I weren’t so wired I’d collapse right here on the sidewalk.” He wiped one of his eyes. “But I don’t think I’ll make it until the ten o’clock news.”

“Yeah, I’m kind of wondering if I will.”

Todd walked over to the Channel 10 van, which was parked halfway up on the sidewalk, and climbed into the passenger seat. He sat there for a moment, rubbing his face with both hands, then reached for a Thermos on the dashboard and poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking a swig, he frowned, for it tasted like lukewarm, acidic brown… brown… something. But he was tired, in need of a jolt, and so he took a large gulp. Next he reached for the mobile phone, called the station, and dialed up his voice mail. There were two messages. Please, he prayed, let one of them be from him.

“Hi, doll!” came the voice of his West Coast agent, Stella, on the first message. “You’re amazing, totally amazing! How do you get yourself into these things anyway? I’m so glad you’re all right, and I’m so glad you were there. I mean, doll, do you have any idea what this is going to do for your career? Do you? If they don’t already, then everyone in the country is going to know who you are by bedtime tonight. You were absolutely fabulous on the CNN spot this afternoon—and it’s been repeating every half hour on
Headline News.
Oh, my God, it’s just too great. This is going to make you rich. And don’t worry, I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth. We won’t screw up like Wolf Blitzer did after all that Middle East stuff. He could be a real biggie on the networks by now, but instead, doll, it’s going to be you. Congrats! Call me when you get a few.”

Todd shook his head, rolled his eyes. Had Stella-doll just seen him on Dan Rather? Would his outing himself on one of the major networks cause his worth to go up or in fact drop a few hundred grand? He hit a button on the phone and deleted the message. Who cared?

What he really wanted was news from Rawlins. Where the hell had he been all afternoon? Todd had left numerous messages at Rawlins’s home number, on his voice mail at work, and even on Todd’s own answering machine just in case he returned to the condo. But so far Todd hadn’t heard word one from him, nor had he found anyone who’d seen him or spoken to him all day. Could something have happened at the doctor’s? Could he have been in an accident?

So when would it be time to panic?

Todd listened to the next message, left only moments ago.

“Holy shit, Todd!” came Janice’s voice from Santa Fe. “I’m still down here in Santa Fe, and we just saw you on CNN. Thank God you’re all right. I mean, you looked fine, but I’m sure you’re a wreck.”

He grinned slightly. Perhaps no one knew him better than his old college girlfriend, Janice Gray, the self-described lipstick-lesbian lawyer.

“Take care, sweetheart,” continued her recorded voice. “We’re all thinking of you. And please, please be careful. Just don’t go pulling any of your usual stunts, all right? Call when you get a chance. Love to you and Rawlins.”

Todd smiled, hung up. Then frowned. Where the hell was Rawlins anyway?

Grabbing his briefcase from the back, he jumped out of the van, went over to Bradley, and said, “Listen, I have to take off for a while.”

“What?” replied Bradley as he finished packing up his camera.

“There’s something I gotta check on.”

“But you don’t have a car. How are—”

“Taxi,” said Todd, half-turning and starting quickly down the sidewalk. “If anyone asks, tell them I’ll be out at the station in an hour, hour and a half, okay?”

“Ah, sure.”

If he was going to hunt down Rawlins, the first place Todd would have to start was the last place he’d seen him: the condo.

With all good intents, I thought I’d feel nothing but relief once Curt died. I thought I’d feel nothing but a kind of happiness for helping him out of here.

Instead, he’s beginning to haunt me.

I’m in a store and I hear someone coughing away, and then Curt’s hacking starts echoing in my ears. I close my eyes to try and block it out, and I see the blood dribbling from his ears. I start crying, and then I hear him moaning with pain. Worst of all, and this is really the pits, I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy sex again because Curt has crept in there, right into my secret fantasies. To be perfectly frank, I’m having trouble getting a hard-on, because, instead of visualizing gorgeous men, all I can see is Curt’s emaciated body. It was so gross, looking at him. So awful to put on a happy face, be all smiley and up when all I wanted was to run the hell away. What did he lose in the end—fifty, sixty pounds? How many times did the shit and the blood come oozing out his ass and all over the bed? About a gazillion, actually.