Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (11 page)

Reed’s laughter had been contagious. “Actually, Dad’s in banking.” He’d smiled at the perky redhead. “And I’m allergic to wool. How about you?”

“Strictly New York Jewish, went to PS 125, waitressed at a local deli most summers, searched for bargains with Grandma Rose at Macy’s.”

“Sounds like a lot more fun.”

She’d looked for ridicule, but his lavender eyes were guileless. Turned out she’d been completely wrong about him. He’d rejected pressure to enter the family business and impressed her with his dedication to medicine. And Reed found her spunk “cute.” Sammy had been called many things, but never cute. To her surprise, she’d liked it.

So they’d been attracted to one another, had been dating steadily. That is, as steadily as both their busy schedules would allow. Once a week at best, occasionally time together on weekends. He’d shared the exhilaration of sailing at the Cape, she’d introduced him to bagels and cream cheese. They’d eased into intimacy like two friends might, three months after meeting. Over a ruined dinner of chicken soup and brisket, Reed had told her she was special. Sammy’d thrown her arms around him and he hadn’t let go.

Being with him was fun; it felt good, and nice. With AIDS around, other choices could be dangerous. What she had with Reed was probably not tenure track, but for now at least, the comfortable aspects of a risk-free, steady relationship neutralized the lack of earth-shaking passion.

Michael Bolton sang “Don’t Make Me Wait for Love,” and she promised herself to talk with Reed again tomorrow.

“Here is Kenny G playing “Silhouette” from his
Live
album — how sweet it is.” Sammy had to agree with the DJ as she listened to the deliciously mellow sounds emerging from the alto sax. The piece ended and the audience went wild with applause. Sammy wondered whether Sergio Pinez would have found that kind of fame as C.C. had predicted. So sad for the boy, she thought, trying to imagine what it must have been like for him, the depth of his pain. Unable to deal with his life, driven to the brink of despair.

She held the cassette with his concerto in her hands, running over the label with her fingers. This really belonged with his family.

She jotted down plans to visit the registrar’s office Monday morning and get his class list. And maybe, she could even swing a trip to New York next weekend to check out his home. She smiled broadly at the thought. For almost a year, she’d been looking for a chance to get back to civilization. A chance to revisit roots. Sergio’s and hers.

She sat up, frustrated. A half hour to fill. Larry wanted to do something to help the other students. Looks like she was back to suicide counseling and prevention. And Reed. How would she get him to go along with this one?

She flipped the cassette around in her hands, deciding to escape with Sergio’s music.

Where was her tape recorder?

Her purse. That was what had started the day, after all — the excuse to return to Conrad’s home. Fishing it out, she realized the machine was still set on voice activated. She hit “rewind”. When the tape was ready, Sammy’s finger hovered over the “play” button for a few moments, afraid of what she might hear. If she pressed it, Conrad could die once again. But she
had
to know. She took a long, deep breath, then clicked the machine on.

Conrad’s voice came through clearly. “So, what makes you think I’ve got an answer?
”

Her voice was next. “Because of what you said about the teaching award.”

Friday night’s interview. Momentarily relieved, she fast-forwarded a bit.

Conrad was speaking again. “I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Stay as far away from this as you can.”

Sammy slowly inched the tape forward and pressed the “Play” button. This time, all she heard was static.

After a few moments, the tape crackled and Conrad’s voice rasped, “Who’s there?”

Silence. And more static.

Conrad’s voice, louder, “I said, who’s there?”

Sammy heard only sounds of movement. She thought she recognized a door opening. “Wadda ya want?” Conrad’s speech slurred by alcohol.

Another stretch of static and then Sammy recognized the sound of a door slam.

“What . . .going . . .”

“. . . is it?”

“Give . . . me . . .”

Bursts of static made it impossible to understand the jumbled spurts of words, but Sammy thought she could distinguish at least one voice besides Conrad’s on the tape. She couldn’t be sure, but the tones were clearly angry.

“. . . bye . . .”

Something from Conrad, several minutes of static, then just dead air. A few beats later, her own voice broke in: “Sorry to intrude, but — I thought maybe —” followed by an audible gasp and “Professor Conrad!”

Sammy clicked off the recorder, upset by the memory of her discovery, renewing her feelings of helplessness. Poor Professor Conrad. His last words were buried in an avalanche of static. She could only make out that he had had one or more visitors. Surprise visitors. Friends? Or —?

The Ellsford Teaching Award is the kiss of death.

She shuddered at the thought. Better not to let her imagination get the best of her. Shaking her head, she stood and walked to the
window. For a moment she simply stared out at the velvety layers of darkness, then closed the drapes. She grabbed her notebook and jotted a few words. Another task for Monday. She’d hit up Brian at the station to see if he could enhance the sound.

Monday was going to be a very busy day.

S
UNDAY
7:25 A.M.

Reed Wyndham was beyond exhaustion. In addition to his regular hospital night call schedule, Dr. Palmer expected him to work in Student Health several times a week as well as help with the immunology research at the Nitshi Institute. His call-room bed was barely slept in. No matter that it was Sunday. Just another morning to face with almost no sleep.

Close to seven thirty, he still hadn’t finished checking lab results for Palmer’s AIDS patients. Case discussion rounds started promptly at eight.

“Okay, and the CD4 count? That low? Well, thanks.” Frowning, he hung up the phone, entering the results in the chart. A tap on the shoulder and he spun around, startled.

“Can I buy you breakfast?” Sammy offered a bag of bagels and a conciliatory smile.

He turned back to his work without responding.

“Sesame, rye, wheat, and,” she grimaced, “I even got you blueberry.”

Still no response.

“So, you’re not going to talk to me?”

Reed continued recording results, his silence a clear signal that he was still angry.

“You didn’t mean it yesterday when you said we were through,
did you?” It was Sammy’s plaintive tone that made Reed turn and take a measured look at the pixie face that had been slowly claiming his heart for months, knowing that underneath lay a passionate, but complicated soul that could — and often did — drive him to distraction.

“What is it you want from me?” he finally asked. “From us?”

Sammy drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Well at least that’s an honest answer,” he said. “But after all this time together, I thought we had something special.”

“Of course we do. We —”

Reed held up a hand to cut off her protest. “Not special enough to deserve your full attention.”

“Now that’s not fair. We both have lots to do —”

“True, but I’m at the bottom of
your
to-do list.”

“That’s what I came by to explain.” Her green eyes appealed to him. “About yesterday.”

Glancing at his watch, Reed interrupted. “You’ve got five minutes. I can’t be late for rounds,” he said, adding pointedly, “again.”

In breathless spurts, Sammy quickly explained what had happened the day before. “Conrad, my biology professor. He, uh. I went to get my purse. I left it there Friday evening. On my way to your place Saturday morning, I found him, lying on his couch. Shot. Dead.”

Reed’s expression switched to concern. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Suicide. He left a note. Pappajohn thinks the guy had too much to drink, got depressed and,” Sammy fought back an unwelcome gasp. “I had no choice. I found him. I had to call the cops. I had to wait. I tried to tell you. I’m really sorry.”

Reed reached for her hand. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I keep wondering if there was something I missed when I talked to Conrad, maybe some way I could have —”

“Prevented his suicide?” Reed shook his head. “Don’t you think that’s a lot of responsibility to put on yourself? You hardly knew the guy.”

“But are there some signs or clues that people should know about? Maybe I couldn’t help Conrad, but if I knew what to look for —” Sammy said. “I was talking with Nurse Matthews in Student Health. She thinks we need to reach out to the campus. In fact, she suggested I talk with you about doing our show.”

“I see.” Reed’s eyes narrowed, “So if Matthews hadn’t recommended me, you wouldn’t be here now with your bagels and apologies?”

Sammy produced a genuinely hurt expression. “I really do want to make us work,” she said. “How could I know that you’d be the expert Matthews felt could best relate to students?”

Aware that Sammy had dodged the question, but too tired to resist her wiles, Reed exhaled a sigh. “Oh, all right. What time’s the show?”

Sammy smiled, triumphant. “It starts at one, but come by the station a half hour earlier so we can prepare. You’ll talk about suicide prevention for about ten minutes, then we’ll take phone calls and you can counsel the kids.” She leaned closer to give him a kiss.

He pulled back, checking his watch. “Jeez. It’s after eight. I’m late.”

Sammy pulled him closer to her lips. “As always, you can blame me.”

The man pushed his reading glasses down along the bridge of his nose. Settling back into the soft upholstery of the leather armchair, he studied the pages. So here was the proof Barton Conrad claimed to have found. Proof that would make even the most extreme skeptic believe. Proof that would guarantee his undoing — not to mention Ellsford University’s. He frowned, lost in thought.

Thank goodness they’d had the foresight to plant listening devices. Barely a word had been spoken within Connie’s home or office that wasn’t overheard. Satisfied, he placed the printed pages back in the manila folder. It was all such a nasty business. But, what other choice did he have?

Embers shifting on the hearth made him look up. He was close
enough to the fire’s warmth, yet he still felt chilled. For a long time, he simply sat there, staring into the flames. Then, with the agility of a man half his age, he rose from the chair and squatted before the fireplace, laying the manila folder on the logs, waiting until its edge ignited. Seconds later, consumed by flames, the folder began its evolution into ash.

“There’s a religious war going on in this country,” Reverend Calvin Taft thundered from the podium of the St. Charlesbury Church of God. Dressed in a winter-white linen suit with gold blazer buttons, the pewter-haired preacher was an imposing figure, carefully modulating his voice to make each point.

“We’re at a cultural Armageddon, as critical a test for us as the Cold War was,” he screamed into his microphone, “for this is a war for the very soul of America.”

The speaker was awash in cheers and applause by his enthusiastic audience.

“Barbarians are taking over our cities. It is no longer safe to walk our streets. These forces of evil seek to destroy the foundations of America and American greatness.”

Appreciative murmurs echoed from the listeners below.

“They wish to destroy the church, the family. They wish to destroy God!” Taft pointed a ringed index finger of accusation at his audience. “You know who they are. Feminists, gays, lesbians, abortionists, atheists, agnostics — all agents of Satan!”

From her pew in the crowded sanctuary, Sammy observed the Reverend. Like a brilliant musician, Taft played the audience. His range was as wide as C.C. Marone’s — from velvety lows to bellowing highs. A virtuoso performance. The emotional rush she felt was undeniable. The man was amazing — and dangerous. Setting himself up as the final arbiter of morality; manipulating so many souls.

“The child is being born and they say it’s okay to kill it,” the preacher was shouting.

“Murderers! Devils!” sang his chorus.

“Radical feminists are taking over the Senate, homosexuals are
infiltrating the military. We have leaders who would put women in combat and gays in the Cabinet.”

“Blasphemers!”

Someone waved a placard that read “Family rights forever, gay rights never.” The
Y
in gay was written with a pink triangle.

Sammy shuddered, recalling late night chats with Grandma Rose. As a teenager, she’d often stay up past two a.m. studying, then head downstairs for a snack. Sometimes Rose would be there, her gaze lost in the ripples of a large glass of chamomile tea. Remembering, vowing never to forget. Grandma Rose escaped Poland in 1939, but the vivid pictures she painted of her country’s descent into hell resonated with Sammy as she watched the spectacle before her.

“They would take God and the Bible from our schoolchildren,” the Reverend warned. “And replace them with condoms, sex, and AIDS!”

“Atheist demons!” Caught up in the passion of the moment, a familiar sibilant voice was especially loud.

Sammy recognized Luther Abbott in front of her from the animal rights protest and made a mental note to stop him after the service for an interview.

“And if they cannot kill our children through fornication and sodomy, they will force them into the ultimate sin against God: suicide. They will be handed the weapons to kill themselves and close the path to heaven for eternity.”

Sammy fought to suppress her anger.
Her
God would always open his arms for troubled souls like Sergio, Professor Conrad, her mother.

“It is time we awaken America to their wicked agenda. Our nation must return to its Christian roots or we will continue to legalize sodomy, slaughter innocent babies, destroy the souls of her children, squander her God-given resources, and sink into oblivion.”