Charade (35 page)

"Not until I'm certain that Patricia and Michael are in a safe place. I called Sherry--she's working on it." She arrived half an hour later. "I've found a house I think you'll both like," she told Patricia and Michael. "There are three other women and their children living there, along with a full-time counselor. Two of the children are near Michael's age, so he'll have playmates. You'll have your own bedroom and bath and all the privacy you want. But you'll eat with the other families and be expected to do chores." Patricia couldn't believe her good fortune. She was overwhelmingly grateful and cried unabashedly. "I'll be glad to do anything. I'll do my chores and everybody else's, so long as Cyc can't find us." Shortly, they gathered at the front door to say their goodbyes. "You'll be safe," Cat stressed to Patricia. "If you need anything, or just want to talk, call me. You've got the number I gave you?" "In my pocket." Cat, who'd been holding Michael during the exchange, hugged him tightly, then passed him to his mother. "I'll want to visit you soon, if it's all right." "Yes," Patricia said eagerly. "We'd like that, wouldn't we, Michael?" He nodded shyly. Cat was getting choked up. "Goodbye for now. Sherry will take good care of you." "I'll walk you to the car," Alex offered when he noticed that Patricia look fearful of going outside. "Might not be a bad idea to double back and take a circuitous route to make certain you aren't being followed," he suggested to Sherry. "In situations like this, that's standard operating procedure," she said with a smile. He stepped onto the porch and, after scoping out the immediate area, gave them the all clear. Patricia held back and clasped Cat's hand. She spoke earnestly and swiftly, as though if she didn't rush the words, she might never have the nerve to speak them. "You're such a good person. So kind to people. Sparky was the only other person I've known who was like you. I think you must have his heart."

Chapter fourty six

Work was Cat's panacea. Even while suffering a serious heart condition, she'd worked grueling hours on Passages. When depressed, she worked. When happy, she worked. In her present predicament, she sought respite in work. She had called Jeff Doyle earlier, explaining why she wouldn't be in until after lunch. "I'll fill you in on the details when I get there." He held her to that promise. In the privacy of her office, he listened to her story with mounting disbelief. "My God, Cat. This George Murphy sounds like a barbarian. He could have killed you." "Well, he didn't."

"Why don't you stick to your plan to go to Los Angeles? Maybe you should leave town for a few days." "I've already called Dean and canceled the trip." To go to California now would be the coward's way. It wouldn't be very confidence-inspiring to Michael and Patricia if she assured them of their safety from Cyclops, then hightailed it to the West Coast. She'd decided that instead of running away to escape, she would bury herself in work.

"At least take the rest of the afternoon off," Jeff urged. "We'll catch up." "No. This is where I need to be. Did I miss anything important this morning? Bring me up to date, and let's get busy." She returned calls, dictated a score of letters, and scheduled two location shoots with the production crew for the upcoming week. "For the Wednesday shoot, I've made arrangements with the same old cowboy who brought the pony ride to Nancy Webster's picnic," Jeff told her. "He loved the kids and said he'd be glad to help us anytime, free of charge." "That's great. The kids'll love it. Michael certainly did." "Cat, what you did for him and his mother ..." Jeff let it hang until she looked up at him inquisitively. "It really was terrific of you to take such a personal interest." He hesitated. "Do you think you got Michael's father's heart?" "I don't know, and I don't want to. I would have helped any woman and child trapped in similar circumstances. It's enough for me to know that they're safe and have been given a fresh start." After delivering them to the shelter, Sherry had called to report that Patricia and Michael had been cordially welcomed by the other battered families living there. "Patricia's already volunteered to earn extra money for the shelter by stringing beads," Cat told Jeff. "She sells them to a vendor in the Marketplace. Over time and with some training, I think she could become quite an artist." "Without you, she'd never have had the chance." Cat gnawed her lower lip thoughtfully. "If Sparky had survived the accident, their lives might have taken a different turn. They might have separated from the bikers' gang when they learned she was pregnant with Michael. "They'd have reared him together, with love and caring. She might have developed her artistic skills. I've been told that Sparky was extremely intelligent, interested in literature and philosophy. He might have become a teacher or a writer." "That's a rosy fantasy, Cat. It probably wouldn't have happened that way at all." "But we'll never know, will we? Because Sparky died."

"And someone else lived," Jeff said softly. She glanced up quickly, yanking herself away from her disturbing thoughts and clearing the emotional knot from her throat. "Yes, someone else lived."

Later that afternoon, Jeff poked his head into her office. "Mr. Webster just called from upstairs. He wants to see us." "Right now? I'm up to my armpits in paper." "He said it can't wait. Any reason why he should be upset?" "Did he sound upset?" "Very." She hadn't seen Bill for several days. When his unsmiling secretary escorted her and Jeff into his office, he showed a marked lack of cordiality. "Sit down, please." Once they were seated on the leather sofa, he gestured toward his other guest. "This is Ronald Truitt. As you know, he's the entertainment columnist for the Light." So, this plump, fortyish nerd with the receding hairline was Ron Truitt, her journalistic nemesis, the critic from hell. He was having a nicotine fit. A pack of Camels was in his shirt pocket. He patted it periodically, as though to reassure himself that the cigarettes were still there, even though he couldn't smoke them. He was trying to appear at ease and nonchalant, but he wasn't doing a very good job of it. His legs were bouncy, he fidgeted nervously, and he blinked too frequently. Cat didn't acknowledge Truitt but turned to Bill. "What's going on?" "As a professional courtesy, Mr. Truitt came to warn me about the contents of his column appearing in tomorrow's newspaper. I thought you deserved to be warned of it, too." "Warned? That has an ominous ring to it." "Unfortunately, the column has ominous overtones." "Regarding Cat's Kids?" Jeff asked. "That's right." Bill turned to the journalist and signaled that he had the floor. "I'll let you speak for yourself, Mr. Truitt. But it should be stated beforehand that everything said in this room is off the record."

"Sure." Truitt sat up straighter and, unnecessarily, flipped open a spiral pad to consult his notes. Cat recognized playacting when she saw it. "I got a call late this morning," he said, "from a man who called himself Cyclops." "Cyclops called you?" Cat exclaimed. "Then you know him?" Bill asked. "Yes. His real name is George Murphy, and he's wanted by the police. Did he tell you where he was calling from?" "No." Truitt's grin was brittle. "And he said you'd probably turn the tables and try to make him out the bad guy." "He is the bad guy. He's guilty of a list of crimes as long as my arm, starting with child abuse and ending with extortion." "Maybe," Truitt said. "But he's alleged that you're no saint." "I never claimed to be," Cat snapped. "But that's beside the point. Don't you have anything better to write about than a name-calling contest between me and a coke-snorting biker who's being sought by the police?" "This is somewhat more serious than a name-calling contest," Bill said. "You see, Cat." He paused, then dropped the bomb. "Mr. Murphy has accused you of child molestation." She was too astonished to speak. She gaped at Bill, then looked at Truitt. "That's right," he said. "Cyclops told me that you had sexually molested his stepson during a picnic at Mr. Webster's house." "He doesn't have a stepson," she rasped. "A kid named Michael?" "Michael's mother is not married to Mr. Murphy. Legally, he's not the boy's stepfather." "Well, anyway, he raised the question of whether his kid was the only one you've molested. You certainly have an opportunity to take advantage of many." "I can't believe this." She gave an incredulous laugh. But no one else was smiling, especially not Webster. "Bill, say something. Surely you don't think--" "What I think is irrelevant." She turned to the journalist. "Surely you're not going to print

this. First of all, it's ludicrous. Second, without corroboration you'd be leaving yourself open to a libel suit of astronomical proportions." "I've got corroboration," he said confidently. Again she was flabbergasted. "From whom?" "I'm not at liberty to say. My second source chooses to remain anonymous, but I assure you that he or she is in a position to know what they're talking about." "He or she doesn't know anything!" she cried. "How'd you come across this second source?" "I started nosing around, talking to people." "You're making a serious mistake, Mr. Truitt," Cat said evenly. "If you print that column, it could cost you and your newspaper dearly. Anyone who knows me, knows that I do everything within my limited power to rescue children from all forms of abuse--physical and sexual as well as psychological and emotional. If George Murphy wants to accuse me of something, he should make it something more credible." "But you're in an excellent position to win the trust of many children, aren't you, Ms. Delaney?" Truitt asked. "That's a despicable implication and I refuse to honor it with a response." He scooted to the edge of his seat, a shark who smelled blood and was moving in for the kill. "Why'd you give up a successful career as a soap opera star to do a local program like Cat's Kids." "Because I wanted to." "Why?" the reporter persisted. "Well, not so I'd have a source of children to molest!" she shouted. "Cat." "Well, that's what he's getting at, isn't he?" She shouldn't be yelling at Jeff. He was only trying to calm her down. After taking a moment to compose herself, she spoke to Truitt in a softer, more reasonable voice. "I gave up my former career because I wanted to do something meaningful with the rest of my life." He made a comical grimace of skepticism. "Let me get this straight. You gave up an enormous income, stardom, and fame for far less money and four measly minutes of airtime each week?" He shook his head. "It just doesn't wash. Nobody's that noble."

Cat wasn't about to discuss her motives. They were intensely personal. Furthermore, she didn't owe this mean-spirited, chain-smoking hack any explanations. She wanted to throw that into his smug face, but for WWSA's sake, she responded more diplomatically. "You have nothing whatsoever to substantiate this ridiculous accusation. Cyclops is hardly a credible source. He's not even articulate." "I have two sources, remember? The other one is quite credible and articulate." "Your sources are a reputed criminal and someone who doesn't even have the guts to come forward and accuse me to my face." "Woodward and Bernstein started with less and ended up frying an administration and making history." "Charity prohibits me from pointing out how far you are from a Woodward or a Bernstein, Mr. Truitt." He merely grinned, flipped down the cover of his spiral pad, and stood. "If I turned my back on a story this hot, I'd be drummed out of the press corp." "It's a lie," Cat said. "A bizarre, unfounded lie." "Can I quote that?" "No," Webster said, rising from his chair. "We're still off the record. Ms. Delaney isn't making an official statement at this time." "Bill, I'm not afraid to--" "Please, Cat," he said, cutting her off. "You'll be hearing from our public relations department later this afternoon," he told Truitt as he escorted him to the door. After he left, the silence in the room was funereal. Cat was seething. She glared at Bill, following him with her eyes as he returned to his desk and sat down heavily. "I'm waiting for an explanation, Bill," she said, rising to her feet. "Why did you sit there mutely and let me be slandered? Why'd you even give him an audience?" He held up both palms. "Sit down, Cat. Get a grip on yourself and listen to reason." She sat down, but angrily lashed out, "Do you think I'm a child molester?" "For God's sake, of course not! But I have to consider what's best for the station."

"Ah, the station. As long as it remains inviolate, my reputation can be thrown to a pack of wild dogs and ripped to shreds." He looked momentarily chagrined. "We can't stop him from writing and printing the column. All we can do at this juncture is batten down the hatches for the storm it will surely generate. I'll have the public relations department begin gathering character references. You can work with them on an official statement." "To hell with that," she said. "I won't honor such a heinous lie with a denial." Her eyes smarted with sudden tears. "How could anyone believe that I would harm a child?" "Your viewing public won't believe it, Cat," Jeff said with conviction. "Not for a second." "I don't believe they will either," Bill said. "Once the story's printed, there'll be nothing more to say on the matter because there's nothing more to it. Your fans will regard it for what it is, a malicious attack on you by someone who obviously holds a grudge. "It'll blow over. In a few weeks it'll be forgotten." He paused before adding, "During that time, I'm suspending the production and airing of Cat's Kids." She didn't trust her hearing. For several moments all she heard was a terrific roaring in her ears. "You . . . you can't possibly mean that." "I'm sorry. That's my decision." "But that's tantamount to admitting guilt," she cried. "Bill, I implore you not to take that action." "You know that I wholeheartedly approve and support the work you've done. It's important to the station. It's made a significant contribution to the community. I want it to resume in due time. "It also goes without saying that I have a tremendous amount of respect and regard for you, Cat. I hate to disappoint you like this. I'm sure you view my decision as a betrayal, but it's my unpleasant responsibility as CEO to consider what's best for everyone, including you. "Until this episode is over, I don't think your face should appear on television screens, serving as a reminder of the damaging story." His somber expression and tone underscored that his decision was final. Cat stared at the floor for several moments, then finally raised her