Hostage (28 page)

He unzipped his sleeping bag, pulled his long, slinky frame to his feet, and stretched. Glancing at the box of food, he thought about grabbing something, a Twinkie perhaps. No. He’d go up top, get some juice, a muffin maybe. Something healthy for breakfast. Yeah, he really needed to get out. Matthew, after all, got to escape for a while yesterday, leaving Elliot to deal with poor Tina. It really was too much, doing all this, playing the bad guys. It just took far too much energy, energy that none of them could spare. His own T-cell count, after all, had slipped to almost zilch months ago—and was probably now on empty.

Elliot slipped on his shoes, ran his hands over his short, bristly hair, then made his way to the door. He turned around one last time, noted that Matthew’s mouth had opened a bit. Poor guy. He could probably sleep for another six hours, but that wouldn’t do. No, Elliot would come back and then wake him up in plenty of time to watch the broadcast of Tina and Clariton on Channel 10.

“Ta-ta,” Elliot called softly.

Elliot closed the door behind him and took a big gulp of air. Yes, much, much better, he thought, peering around the large empty space. But he didn’t want to just pace around out here, staring at metal studs and drywall. No, he wanted windows. He wanted daylight. He wanted to step outside and breathe real air, not something that had been circulated down here.

Plus he wanted a muffin, a lemon poppyseed one. Yep. That was what he was craving, and he really couldn’t deny himself anything because, God knew, the big clock was ticking away. He’d get some juice too. Fresh-squeezed orange juice made from real Florida oranges. He knew a place that promised just such a thing. And you know what, he mused as he headed for the staircase, he should get some flowers for Tina. She’d like that. Some sweet petals sprinkled over the Hefty two-plies in which she was presently encased. Lots of flowers, actually. Forsythia. No, something big. Something like sunflowers. And giant daisies. Anything big and bright. That would be cool, he thought with a bit of a smile. Yeah, sure it was a real bummer Tina checked out, but she was with her daughter now. She and little Chris were together. So Elliot should be happy. Maybe he and Matthew should have a little celebration and rejoice now that Tina’s suffering was over.

With a grin he started bounding up the steps, then quickly caught himself. No, he chided himself. Not so fast. You have to take it slow. You run up these three flights, you Bozo, and you’re going to exhaust yourself right at the beginning of the day. Take it easy. Take it slow. Take it literally one step at a time. You don’t want to have to go back to bed for a couple of hours, do you? Well? No way.

Muffin. Juice. Flowers. This little shopping spree would be fun. But then he touched his rear pocket and froze on the steps. Uh-oh, no wallet. He nervously jammed a hand into his front pocket, found two crinkled and wadded-up dollar bills and some small change. Hmm. Now what? Go back and wake up Matthew? Nope. Elliot wasn’t a fool. He knew Matthew wouldn’t approve of this.

Oh, well, he thought, pressing on. A couple of bucks wouldn’t get him very far, but it was a start. He’d just have to scan—
I am the Scanman!
—and keep his eyes open for opportunities. After all, when he was a stupid little kid he used to shoplift all the time, and he was ever so much wiser now, wasn’t he?

It wasn’t clear to
Todd who won in the end—the station manager, the FBI, or maybe even him. At first Cochran, the FBI guy, proposed that they skip the beginning of the videotape, including Clariton’s cold remarks, and just air part of Tina’s story, then cut off before the struggle broke out. Todd flatly refused.

“That’s bullshit,” Todd insisted to the eight people gathered in the conference room. “This morning I was worrying about sanitizing this goddamn story, but that’s taking it and dipping it in a hundred percent bleach. In fact, I don’t think you should edit this thing at all. I think we have to let the tape speak for itself. But if that’s what you want to do, if you want to cut it way down, then I’m out of here. You’re going to have to use the tape I gave to the FBI, because I’m going to take my copy and sell it to some other station.”

“Come on, Todd, calm down,” pleaded Craig, who looked stressed for the first time Todd could remember. “You’re just tired.”

“No shit I’m tired, but you can’t cut out what Clariton says.” Knowing how to play their game, he added, “I’ll tell you one thing: Nothing is going to make a bunch of AIDS activists more pissed off than if you cut out what the most homophobic politician in the country has to say, especially because it shows him to be a real ass. And if you piss them off who knows what they’ll do, either kill Clariton outright or possibly attack someone else, which is a very real possibility. After all, they’re dying, all three of them. They have nothing to lose.”

A lot of heads went up and down with that, including that of Dr. Ogden, the chief negotiator, who said, “He has a very valid point.”

“Of course I do,” replied Todd.

So in the end nothing was cut from the beginning and the end was only slightly trimmed.

“We have to stop it there,” insisted Harlan Benson, the station manager, a trim man with a shock of silver hair. “We simply can’t show anything that graphic, particularly not at nine o’clock in the morning. If those terrorists have a problem with that, then we’ll deal with it later on.”

Todd was then informed that Channel 10’s morning anchor, Tom Rivers, would introduce Todd, who in turn would intro the tape. It was quite possible, the station manager also said, that CNN or Dan Rather would want to do a live interview with Todd as well, so Todd should be prepared for that. After all, as far as the media—both local and national—were concerned, this was the only story.

“Absolutely,” replied Todd, dreading the idea of having to play the talking head on this one.

The meeting was soon adjourned, and a few minutes before nine Todd found himself in Studio A, seated at one end of the large newsdesk. The coverage of the abduction of Congressman Clariton had been almost nonstop, and all morning promos had been running, claiming that WLAK was about to air a major development. Todd’s interview last night with Dan Rather, so widely watched across the country, would pale in comparison to the viewership he would have this morning; without a doubt it would be repeated on
CNN Headline News
throughout the day. Glancing across the studio—a huge two-story space also filled with both a weather and a casual talk-show set, as well as a Milky Way of spotlights hanging from the rafters—Todd saw one of the robotic cameras gliding across the floor toward him. The camera slowed to a gentle stop and the lens automatically extended, then retreated like the eye of a
Star Wars
creature taking careful aim. Controlled by a distant technician’s touch on a computer screen, the short tower of metal and plastic then inched to the right.

“Okay, looks good,” came the producer’s voice via the IFB transmission and the earpiece discreetly lodged in Todd’s right ear.

Craig, the producer, was unseen, hidden in the glass-walled control booth, and Todd stared into the camera with a pressing question: “Is my tie straight?”

“Perfect,” cooed the voice through the earpiece.

Nevertheless, Todd straightened his blue tie one last time, smoothed his dark sport coat. His stomach was locked in a hard knot, and he realized that he should have eaten something more substantial this morning and drunk half as much coffee. Sweat dampened his armpits, and he reached up and touched his forehead. No, at least he wasn’t visibly blistering with perspiration. Not yet anyway.

Craig had written the first draft of the script Todd would read, and all the big guns had gone over it. Todd, all three FBI men, the station manager, and of course Channel 10’s corporate lawyer had all made comments. And while the resulting story wasn’t exactly Todd’s angle, he knew that he’d be able to make his opinions more clearly and forcefully known in the Q&A that would follow the tape.

“Todd, we’re thirty seconds from Tom Rivers,” came Craig’s godly voice in the earpiece.

Todd looked over at Tom, a tall, dapper man with thick, dark hair who was quite possibly the most arrogant man on the face of this earth. As Rivers took his position on the other end of the newsdesk, Todd offered a small, friendly wave, then glanced down at the legal pad and his notes of what he might later say. Be objective, Todd thought to himself. Be clear. And keep it simple. Yes, that was the key. If nothing else the kidnappers’ desperation would speak for itself, just as Clariton’s words would paint him the obvious, even logical target of such desperation.

The floor director took his place behind the robotic camera aimed at Rivers.

And then came the IFB transmission of the distant news director. “Okay, guys, here we go. And the countdown is: three, two, one, live.”

The red light atop the camera that was focused on Tom started burning, the floor director pointed at Tom, and Tom said, “Good morning, this is Tom Rivers, and we continue our coverage with a special bulletin on the fate of Congressman Johnny Clariton, who was abducted at gunpoint yesterday just after one PM in downtown Minneapolis. Here to tell us more is WLAK’s investigative reporter, Todd Mills, who has been at the forefront of this shocking case.”

The floor director stepped over to the other camera and pointed to Todd just as the red light started glowing.

“Good morning, Tom.” Staring at the TelePrompTer, Todd read, “The last twenty hours have been filled with a series of dramatic events, not the least of which we are about to broadcast.”

Following the script, Todd recapped the entire story, describing the scene at the restaurant, how the President had ordered the attorney general to handle the matter with the utmost urgency, and that he had discovered a videotape of Clariton.

Todd then said, “According to the demands of the kidnappers and under the advice and approval of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, WLAK TV will now air this tape.”

The director cued the videotape, and Todd watched it in the monitor for the umpteenth time. He didn’t really see it, though. Instead, his mind wandered to Rawlins and his involvement in all this. Yes, that had been his handwriting on the—

Oh, shit, he thought, panicking as the tape rolled, where was the envelope? He hadn’t seen it this morning, so it must be up in his apartment, still hidden in the pocket of his other jacket. And unless he could figure this out within the next few hours, he was going to have to turn the envelope over to the FBI. Or was he already in trouble for withholding it—as well as the photograph of Matthew?

Todd suddenly realized that the tape was seconds away from the cut-off point. He looked back up at the TelePrompTer and waited for the floor director’s cue.

“The remainder of the tape shows a struggle between Congressman Clariton and the woman and then abruptly concludes.” He took a breath. “Beyond that, the authorities have learned nothing and have heard nothing further from Clariton’s abductors. By airing this tape WLAK TV has met the demands of the abductors. And WLAK TV management would like our viewers to know that we will keep you up to the minute on this still-breaking story.” Todd looked over to Rivers and said, “Tom, the authorities are still baffled, and all I can say is that this has been a most disturbing series of events.”

Tom thanked Todd for his expert coverage, briefly recapped the events once again, and reminded the audience that Channel 10 would remain at the forefront of this unfolding tragedy, with updates given hourly throughout the day.

Starting the Q&A, Rivers turned to Todd, saying, “So do you have any sense, Todd, of what the outcome of this incident may be?”

Here it was, Todd’s chance to put his own spin on this whole thing. No, he couldn’t clutch and he wouldn’t. There was no script for this, everything was ad-lib. And he thought: Screw the FBI, screw the station manager, screw the producer; I can say whatever I want. Yet how could he put the right angle, the right view, on this? If they weren’t watching now, sooner or later every queer person in Minnesota would hear and weigh Todd’s words, and—Lyle Cunningham was right—gays were about as judgmental as they came, so Todd was really being set up. Hell, what Todd said now about Clariton’s abduction by AIDS terrorists could very well set the tone across the entire country. Todd had already done so much wrong in his gay life, from the pain of his marriage and divorce from Karen, to his stunted relationship with Michael, to his going before the television camera so many thousands of times and pretending to be someone he was not. But just as he couldn’t rectify that, neither could he now say the politically correct thing that would appease all gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and sexually questioning people.

Instead, his honest, unfiltered opinion popped out, and Todd, knowing this would blow Rivers away, replied, “Tom, I have no idea where this is going, but frankly I don’t understand why something like this hadn’t happened sooner.”

Tom Rivers couldn’t hide his surprise, and he cocked his head. “Really?”

“Don’t forget it was only last month that a group of AIDS activists in San Francisco doused Clariton with a bucket of blood.”

In Todd’s earpiece the voice of Craig, the producer, shrieked, “Jesus Christ, Todd, watch what you’re saying!”

“Yes, but—”

“Tom,” continued Todd, knowing he was being much too blunt for TV, “we’re over fifteen years into this epidemic. Nearly a million Americans—men and women of every race and every sexual orientation—have been infected with HIV, and while the media are suggesting that it’s over, there are only enough new drugs for one hundred thousand people. Everyone’s frustrated. Clariton’s abduction is merely a reflection of the anger around this frustration.”