“Ms. McNally?” Cipriani asks. “We’re waiting.”
T
I’ve been sitting in bed for an hour now, sipping a mug of chamomile, staring at the walls. Wide-awake. I’m unsettled from the funeral, distressed by my head-on discussion with Josh, paranoid about the boxes of files missing from our office, and worried as hell about Franklin. And frightened by whoever beat him up.
How am I supposed to sleep? I didn’t tell Franklin about the missing files, and he is going to be beyond upset. I didn’t tell the police about Brad Foreman and Mack Briggs’s accidents or Melanie’s break-in because I decided those things weren’t necessarily connected and the cops would just interfere. What if that was the wrong decision? Have I sacrificed Franklin’s safety—and possibly put others in danger—for a story?
My gaze travels wearily around the room, as if somewhere, answers are hiding. And then I see another glowing number, a flashing “three” on my answering machine.
I turn over on my side and push the button.
“Message number one,” the mechanical voice says. “Received today at 8:37 p.m.”
The machine beeps as I take another sip of tea. I almost choke as I recognize the voice.
“Hello, Charlie, it’s Josh.”
I put down my tea and hug my knees. What is he going to say?
“You know I’m up in Vermont for the week,” his voice continues. “I drove out to where there’s phone service, because I can’t stop thinking about our conversation at Carno’s yesterday. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to prove to you that I have nothing to do with whatever is going on.”
I stare at the answering machine as if it were human, and Josh’s solemn voice fills the room.
“If you don’t care, you don’t care,” the message goes on. “If it doesn’t matter to you, then I’ll accept that. But do me one favor. Ask Melanie who gave the dinner party where Brad and I met. Ask her if it was Wes Rasmussen.”
Josh pauses, then goes on. “Charlie, trust me, okay?”
And then he’s gone.
Time is suspended as I sit, wrapped in my comforter. Could I trust him? The Bexter kids certainly adore him. He’s obviously a devoted teacher. And he seemed so open about his life, his divorce. But that could be just to soften me up, get me to tell him what I know. Still, in the car, he was so tender. And interested. And romantic. And…
So much for the calming tea—my now-racing brain feels as if it’s been hit with megadose caffeine. How long has it been since I kissed someone—since someone kissed me? How often have I imagined that shooting star, embrac
ing the memory, yearning for his arms? That time of “together” only magnifies how often I’m just like this: alone. Even Stephen knew it. I’m alone.
But maybe things can change. Maybe I haven’t demolished yet another potential relationship. Because there’s no reason for Josh to call me unless he really cares about me. And the dinner-party thing must be true, because it would be so easy for me to check with Melanie and confirm it with her.
Unless Melanie’s in on it, too. I feel my eyes widen as I consider this. I’m wrong. I knew I shouldn’t have let my guard down. I let myself be seduced by a moment and a memory. What if she and Josh were having an affair? And maybe they conspired to get rid of Brad. Now they’re trying to throw me off the trail.
Josh and Melanie. She’s young. And beautiful. Could it be?
And then I remember—I have two more messages. Pushing Josh and Melanie out of my head, I hit Play.
Another beep, another time announcement, another whirr, and then, another voice.
Melanie’s.
My entire body deflates. Can this be a coincidence? Yes. Damn it. It can. It’s late, and my imagination is out of control. She’s only calling to tell me what the police said about her break-in.
I bargain with myself. If she mentions Josh, I’ll know there’s something going on, and I’ll have to handle that.
The message continues.
“…hope I’m not bothering you. But I did talk to the police.”
So far, so good. Nothing about Josh.
Melanie’s voice continues. “They told me there have been a string of break-ins in our neighborhood, and they’re thinking it may be a bunch of teenagers getting high and carousing through empty houses. They never take anything, the officers told me, and since nothing was missing from my house, they’re thinking it’s another of their suburban—‘sprees,’ I think they said.”
I hear her sigh on the tape, and then she goes on.
“I suppose they’re right,” she says. “So, thanks so much for everything, but let’s not worry about it anymore. It’s late. I’m going to sleep. Talk to you tomorrow, perhaps.”
Good again. And it’s simple enough for me to check with the Lexington cops and see if that’s true, so it would be silly of Melanie to give me that much detail, knowing it was a one-phone-call confirmation.
I open my nightstand drawer and rummage in the dark for ChapStick. Unclicking the plastic top, I try to reconcile the two calls. There’s no connection, I decide, adding another waxy layer of white stuff. They just happened to call.
One right after the other. What if they were calling from the same place?
Maybe, if I listened to the messages again, I could get a clue from the background noises. Like if there was a dog barking, or the sound of (God forbid) soft music in each of them, that would prove they were together. And that could mean they were together in Josh’s house on Jordan Beach Road.
The house where I should have been this weekend.
How am I supposed to sleep? I’ve just heard two calls from people who could be deeply involved—and maybe together—in corporate intrigue, high finance and, I admit to myself, maybe even murder.
The blinking of my answering machine distracts me. There’s one more message to retrieve. For the first time in my life, I hope it’s a telemarketer. I push Play.
I look at the clock on the night table again, and now it’s 4:35. I guess I must have slept a little. I mentally count on my fingers—if I get up at my usual seven-thirty, that’ll be about three hours of sleep. No way I can manage on that. If I get up at eight-thirty, that’ll be four hours of sleep. Four hours of sleep but I’ll be late for work.
I’ll take four hours. I burrow down into my pillow and pull the comforter up to my ears. But my stubborn brain keeps thinking back over that last phone message. Because actually, there was no message. When I pushed Play the final time, I heard the machine spin into place, and then heard absolutely nothing.
“To hear this message again,” the mechanical voice said, “push Repeat.”
I pushed, straining to hear any little sound that would give me some idea of who might be calling. Silence again.
Who was calling me at home and hanging up?
I fear I know the answer. Whoever beat up Franklin. Whoever ransacked Melanie’s house. Whoever killed Brad and Mack Briggs. Whoever stole the files right out of my office. And whoever it is, now they’re calling me. On my unlisted phone. At home.
They know where I live.
I burst out laughing, the sound shattering the darkness.
Come on, drama queen, I taunt myself.
You’ve lost it.
Melanie’s house was burgled by drugged-out teenagers. Franklin was assaulted by a gang of car thieves, and Brad Foreman and Mack Briggs were in similar but separate car
accidents. And you, Reporter Girl, are a founding and lifetime member of the paranoia club. I hear the first car of the morning drive by under my window, and I even hear the early birds twittering in the trees.
I fall back into my pillows, exhausted and defeated, blinking into the diminishing darkness. Everything is going to be fine, I reassure myself. It always is.
Skirts. I can’t find any skirts. I know I have skirts. I yank through hanger after hanger, but there are only blouses and sweaters. I have a test this morning! Why didn’t I study? And now I’m going to fail and be humiliated and there’s the bell for class and I’m already late and—
The teacher is going to be so disappointed in me. Why won’t that bell stop ringing?
It’s the phone. I bolt upright in bed, still vaguely upset about missing my test, but relieved that once again, it was just a dream. But that phone ringing—that’s real. I glance at the clock, but with no glasses and the sun streaming in my windows it’s difficult to see the numbers—6:46? No, 8:46.
Not a good omen. I’m late and the phone is ringing.
“Hello?” I answer. Going for the very-alert-been-up-for-hours-reading-the-newspaper tone.
“Charlie? It’s Kevin O’Bannon.”
Isn’t that sweet. The news director’s calling to find out about Franklin. That’s so considerate.
“Hi, Kevin,” I say. “Thanks so much for calling, so kind of you. Franklin is—”
“Charlie,” he interrupts. I can’t decipher the unfamiliar tone in his voice. “I have you on speakerphone, and Angela is with me.”
Apprehension slithers into my sleep-deprived brain.
Speakerphone? Angela? I shoo the fear away. They both want the latest on Franklin, and a speakerphone is efficient.
The news director’s voice continues, crackling through the receiver. “I assume you’ve seen the paper.”
“Seen the…?” is all I can manage. My mental public-address system starts up a Klaxon wail, an all-hands danger signal. “Newspaper?”
Angela’s voice now. “Yes, Charlie, the
Herald.
The front page. Surely you’ve seen it by now.” She pauses. “It’s almost nine, after all.”
Like I don’t know what time it is. Tension and adrenaline are overcoming my fatigue. We’re in direct competition with the newspapers. If they beat us on a story, our story is dead.
“Uh, no, I stayed up very late with Franklin at the hospital, and—”
“So, Charlie,” Kevin interrupts my excuses. “When you do get to the paper, you’ll see the lead story headline—Feds Say No Go to Go-Go Pharma Co.”
I don’t understand that, but I do understand your boss is not supposed to call you in the morning to read newspaper headlines out loud.
“What again? Feds say…”
Angela’s voice again. “Just read it, Charlie. It’s a block-buster story, all about pharmaceutical pricing fraud. Apparently some whistle-blower has ratted out this company Aztratech—it’s local, it’s in Boxford—and is telling the U.S. Attorney’s office Aztratech has been submitting false claims to the government for medical reimbursements. Millions of dollars.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I have a headache and a stomachache and the walls are closing in.
“And wasn’t that the story on the list you submitted for November?” Kevin asks. “Your big take-out on the fraud and corruption in the pharmaceutical industry?”
“How would the paper have gotten wind of this?” Angela asks.
“How did the
Herald
reporters get the whistle-blower to talk?” Kevin puts in.
Angela’s voice. “Did you know who it was? Why didn’t you get the interview?”
“I’m really disappointed,” Kevin adds.
I fall back against the pillows, trying to regroup. Nothing I can do, not until I read the story. But even though I truly don’t want to hear about this ever again, there’s one thing I’ve got to know right now.
“Let me ask you,” I say, heart pounding. “Does it say anything in the story about a Bradley Foreman?”
Time stops as I figure Kevin and Angela are scanning the paper. If the feds are talking about the lawsuit now, they might name the whistle-blower, and then the article would be all about Brad and his accident and I’d have to kill myself.
“Nope, nothing about anyone with a name like that,” Kevin says. “Why?”
“One more question,” I say, not answering him directly. “Does it say who the whistle-blower actually is?”
Another pause. I wait, still contemplating various suicide methods.
“The name is Caroline Jill Crofts,” Kevin says slowly. “Says she’s a former Aztratech employee, lives in Boston. Ever heard of her?”
I can’t decide whether this is the good news or the bad news. Good news because we’ve never heard of her, so at least the paper doesn’t have exactly the same story we do.
Bad news because we’ve never heard of her. And that means our story—Brad Foreman as whistle-blower who gets mysteriously killed after he spills the beans to the government—is completely and utterly wrong.
“Tell you what,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Let me check the
Herald.
See what their story is. Maybe it’s different from ours.” This is beyond wishful thinking. I know we’re scooped bad, but I need to stall. “I’ll grab the paper and call you back, okay?”
There’s another pause from the Chamber of the Inquisition.
“Fine,” Kevin says. “Let me know.”
“And tick tick,” Angela adds. I can just picture her sneery expression. “Five weeks until the rating book.”
The phone goes dead. Just like I wish I was. The dial tone buzzes dismally in my ear, and I finally put down the receiver.
If I just stay in bed and never get up, I’ll never have to face it. I briefly contemplate how long I could just lie here until someone notices or comes to try to find me. Or what if I just quit now, just called Kevin back and said you know, forget it. I just don’t think I’m coming back to Channel 3 anymore. Then they’d be on their own for November and I could just, um…
I realize I’m crying. I stink at my job. My producer’s in the hospital. My cat’s still at the vet. My best friend’s out of town. And the one man who I thought might be my Prince Charming turns out to be a toad.
I can’t bring myself to get up to get the newspaper. The reality of that front page is going to be proof in black and white that I’ve lost it. And I can’t figure out how it happened.
When “Charlie McNally, Action News” becomes just “Charlie McNally”—who will she be?