Hostage (29 page)

“But surely you don’t think these so-called AIDS activists are justified in their actions? Not only have they kidnapped a government official, but they’re threatening to infect him with a deadly virus.”

Like a desperate god whispering in his ear, Craig pleaded, “Couch it, Todd! Couch it! Please, you’re sounding like one of them!”

It drove him nuts, the way producers yakked in their ears while they were on air, bossing them this way and that and expecting them to make any sense, yet he forced the squealing Craig out of his mind and said, “Let me say this clearly and unequivocally: I don’t by any means condone this type of terrorist activity. For that matter, I’m sure that every AIDS organization across the country will condemn the use of HIV as a weapon. However, two things are important to note here. First of all, as the abductors themselves have pointed out, on a global basis AIDS has infected and killed over ten times more straight people than gay. Second, Congressman Clariton has irritated a huge number of people, straight and gay, by misquoting facts and using people’s fear of AIDS for his own political gain. These two things, in my opinion, were almost destined to collide. They’re both so highly charged emotionally that I think a conflict like this was unavoidable.”

Rivers shifted in his anchor seat, clearly not sure what to say or where to lead the conversation, and he cocked an eyebrow and threw a curveball. “Todd, you’ve publicly acknowledged your own homosexuality, is that correct?”

At first Todd tensed, then he hit it straight on, saying, “Absolutely. And as a gay man I have to say that the way AIDS is viewed in this country horrifies me. We’re talking about a communicable disease—that’s all. Congressman Clariton continually tries to turn it into some sort of test, of just what I’m not sure. As a case in point I should add that yesterday I personally found the congressman quite offensive.”

Tom’s eyebrow shot back up, and he asked, “Can you be more specific?”

“Actually, I have a videotape of my interview with him that will prove my point,” he ventured, hoping that the tape was still nestled safely in his mailbox.

“Shit, Todd!” screeched Craig via the earpiece. “What tape? The FBI guys in here are going nuts!”

“However, I don’t think it’s appropriate to get into this until the congressman has been safely recovered.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Craig ordered, “That’s it, you’re off, Todd!”

Todd looked into the dark studio, saw the floor director pointing at him and then drawing a finger across his throat. Todd nodded. Christ, thought Todd, what Pandora’s box had he opened now?

Rivers explained that the heads of several AIDS organizations would be interviewed later in the morning, then, obviously given the word to close out Todd, turned and said, “Todd, I want to thank you very much for your help and your insights. I’m sure we’ll be hearing more from you as this shocking case develops.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

The voice in his ear said, “Okay, you’re clear, Todd. Get your butt in here!”

Todd looked at the camera focused on him, saw the red light go off, then pulled the earpiece from his ear and quietly slipped away from the newsdesk. With Rivers and the broadcast continuing behind him, Todd scurried through the studio and out the door. As soon as he was in the hall Craig came hurrying toward him.

“Todd, just tell me, are you nuts?” demanded the producer. “Those FBI guys are freaking! You have to talk to them—now!”

“My stomach’s upset,” he said, holding a hand to his waist. “I think I drank too much coffee.”

“Nothing like a little stress, huh?”

“Just cover for me, will you? Tell them—”

“Yes, I see it now, you’re certifiably crazy. What do you want me to do, tell them you’ve gone home to do your laundry?”

“Five minutes, that’s all I need.”

Turning away from him, Todd hurried down the bright hallway toward the men’s room. As he reached the rest room he placed a hand on the door as if to push it open. Instead, however, he looked behind. Good, Craig had disappeared, the hall was empty. Before he was spotted, Todd turned and started jogging down the corridor, turning to the left, then right, and rushing all the way down to the other studio in search of a tape he’d filmed almost two months ago.

Not as large or as technically sophisticated, Studio B was used for special events, shows that required an audience, and a place to film promos. No one was in here, and Todd quickly passed through it and out a double door at the far end, where he entered the warehouse. Proceeding past standing lights, reels of electrical cords, and a variety of other equipment, Todd reached a small repair room built on one side of the large area. Inside, a single technician sat working on a camera that was lying in pieces on a table like an autopsied body.

“Listen…” began Todd, racking his mind for the guy’s name.

“I’m Mark,” volunteered the thin red-haired man.

“Right, Mark.” Todd nodded toward a piece of equipment. “I need to find something in the archives. Can I use your computer for a second?”

Mark, a wire in one hand, a lens in the other, couldn’t have cared less. “Sure.”

Todd grabbed a stool and sat down at the computer, which was at one end of a long table littered with tools. Okay, what was the keyword? Right, he thought, recalling it and typing it in. And the date? He wasn’t sure, not exactly, so he came up with a date parameter, a window of about three months. After typing all this in he hit ENTER, and a moment later the keyword popped up with six entries. Todd scrolled through and found the entry he was looking for. He punched that in, then had to enter the slug, the title of the story. So how had they filed it? What had they called the sequence? Sure. He took a stab, hitting the name the first time, and the script of the entire story came up on the screen. Yes, this was exactly it, just as he’d thought and hoped. But he didn’t need this, not the words that were spoken. No, he needed the sounds that had cropped up in the background, and he grabbed a pen and wrote the number of the master tape in his left palm.

With the number of the tape literally in hand, Todd logged off, jumped to his feet, and said, “Thanks.”

“No prob,” replied Mark without even looking up from his dissection.

Todd dashed out of the repair room and cut across the warehouse to a metal staircase, where he grabbed the railing and started up the grid steps. The archives were all kept up here, boxes and boxes of the actual written scripts on the wall to the right and the tapes on rolling files to the left. Todd glanced at his hand, rolled two tall files aside, then moved down the narrow aisle. He had this fear that the tape wouldn’t be there, that it would be like going into a library and finding every single issue of
Consumer Reports
except the one you were looking for, but there it was, sitting right in its place. Taking down the master tape, he next pulled the written menu out of the plastic case. Yes, this was it exactly. This was the story, running time and all.

Videotape in hand, Todd charged off, rushing down the metal steps, out of the warehouse and Studio B, and through the maze of halls, eager to return to his office to see if he could confirm his suspicions. As he passed through the newsroom, he heard Frank, the assignment editor, call out from the raised platform.

“Congratulations, Todd, we need to schedule you with Dan Rather!” the guy said with a smile. “His producer just called again!”

“Not now,” snapped Todd, breezing past.

“What?” replied Frank with an incredulous and nervous laugh. “What do you mean, not now?”

“I’m busy.”

“Are you crazy? God’s messenger just called and—” When Todd failed to stop, the assignment editor yelled, “Todd! Todd, you fool, come back here! Craig’s looking for you too!”

Todd ignored him and headed directly into his office, where he shut and locked the door. He jammed the videotape into the VCR, grabbed a chair, then pulled on the earphones. Okay, he thought as he fast-forwarded through a large part of the tape. He checked the numbers on the menu, watched the numbers on the tape fly by, then slowed it a bit. There. This shouldn’t be too hard, not if his luck held out. Okay, he thought, his eye on his own figure as it quickly moved along. There he was in one part of the building, the photographer following him as he explored the structure. There he was going down into the heart of the building, down one flight, another, yet another. The camera then cut to Todd in a large underground space. He remembered it well, the Sheetrock walls, the metal studs. A blank space waiting for a miraculous transformation. Todd slowed the tape to normal speed and listened to himself gab about the structure, about how big it was, how many square feet it occupied, how much it had cost. Yes, hundreds of millions had been spent on the place, and millions had visited it and millions more would.

And then he heard it for the first time. He stopped the tape, reversed it, listened to the odd sound again, that dull roaring sound. No, not the roar of an engine, but the deep hum of rubber wheels. It wouldn’t be on here a second time, he knew, because the tape wouldn’t roll that long. But when he had been standing in that huge space where they were supposed to build the exhibit about the earth’s core, Todd distinctly remembered the tour guide pointing that out. Yes, exactly every three minutes and thirteen seconds. Like clockwork. That was the sound of the roller coaster rattling the posts and beams some three floors above, so regular in its passage because the damn thing was completely computerized. Wasn’t this place just a marvel? Everything, the transplanted Yugoslav guide had said with a big beaming Midwestern smile, was computerized in this wondrous place. The trash-hauling system, the ventilation, the security cameras, the lights. And even the roller coaster.

Oh, shit, thought Todd, he’d been right: They were holding Congressman Johnny Clariton in the subbasement of the Megamall.

Okay, even though it sounds horribly pedestrian, I want to confess. Before I die, before I do myself in, I want someone to know the truth. I can’t help it, but before I leave this wretched life I have this urge to blurt it out: I killed Curt.

Why do you think that is?

Unfortunately that makes me seem not very special, for it throws me in the generic sinners’ pot: Forgive me, Father, for I have fucked up. Maybe I’m afraid of what lies beyond and I just want a little extra insurance before I kick the bucket. You know, like maybe the Big Guy will let little old horrible me into heaven if I beg forgiveness.

On the other hand, maybe it’s the only polite thing to do. There aren’t many mysteries in the world one can actually solve, and just think how much I could simplify, how much confusion I could clarify by telling someone what I’ve done. I mean, just imagine how much time and energy and money have been wasted trying to figure out who really killed JFK. It’s an entire fucking industry—a stupid one at that, if you ask me—and it could all come to a dramatic end if the real killer would only stand up and say: I done it.

Wait, no. I think I got it, I think I know why I feel such an overwhelming need to tell someone I poisoned Curt. I ache and I’m tired, and all I want is to get out of this life, this body, this world. Right, that’s it: A sin is like ballast. And unless I tell someone, I’m afraid I’ll be stuck here forever, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to float away.

Okay, so as soon as I tell someone I’m outta here.

To Elliot the Megamall
looked like Eden. Almost all his friends hated it out here—a number of them had taken the Anti-Megamall Pledge: If you buy something out there, then you gotta steal something of equal value—but as Elliot stepped through the service door and into the endless hall, he was quite sure he’d never seen anything quite so wonderful. All the color. The glittery lights. The smells. The stuff, piles and piles of it, everything so pretty, everything so picture-perfect.

Jeez-Louise, thought Elliot, all agog, this place was kind of great!

He’d never realized it before. Of course, he’d never spent twenty-four hours underground in a plain white room before. With a dead friend, no less. But here it was, all the fruit of the capitalistic tree. Anything you wanted, from an Armani suit to a chain saw, a bird whistle to a handgun, a deep-fried cheese curd to Argentinean sea bass grilled in a banana leaf. Wow. And all of it under one gargantuan roof. His mouth gaping as if he’d spent the last ten years in Siberia, Elliot shuffled along, oblivious to the time as he admired the sensual arch of the four-story hallway. Unbelievable. Three gorgeous floors, covered with teal carpet, mauve carpet, and gorgeous tiles. Three floors of store after store after store, nearly five hundred of them, and all with such cute displays. Stopping at Cuddle Up, he admired a display of down comforters—wouldn’t one of those have been nice this past winter to keep his twiggy little body toasty warm? Then he came to the next shop, Marco Polo, and admired a stack of Peruvian sweaters, so thick, so beautiful. No, thought Elliot, spying the next shop, Stick to Me; he had to have everything in there, every single refrigerator magnet.

He wanted to cry.

And that was what he did, tears flooding his eyes and gushing down his cheeks as one and only one thought barreled right into him: If only Tina could’ve been here. Long ago she’d brought her kid, Chris, out here, and Chris had loved it, being rolled down the long halls in her stroller, going into the amusement park in the center with its sparkly lights and tropical plants and kiddie rides that went ’round and ’round.