Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (12 page)

“Never! Never! Never!” The frenzy intensified.

“Those who argue that this is a free country are absolutely right. Free to spread the Word of God, to fight for moral purity!” Taft raised
his arms like a crucified Christ. “To fight Satan for America and for God! Ladies and gentlemen, if we do not succeed, then it is America that will be committing suicide and we will all, every one of us, end up at the gates of hell!”

A rising chorus of amens. Energized by their leader’s words, some jumped to their feet and began moving down the aisles.

“Sit down, good people, sit down,” said the Reverend. As if about to share a secret, he lowered his voice. “Remember, our agenda is God’s agenda, and God is patient and wise.”

The crowd returned to their seats, mumbling assent. Sammy unclenched her fists and sat back.

“Like an avenging army, we must carefully plan our strategy.” The evangelist seemed to catch Luther’s eye as he smiled. Luther sat up straighter. “This afternoon we will organize the next campus mission of the Youth Crusade. These wonderful young people will form the core of our program to create a Christian America in the schools and homes. And, by supporting Christian candidates running for office, we will slowly spread God’s word to the government — to America itself.” He looked over the crowd. “Can we do this?” he queried his flock.

A resounding. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the answer.

“We must! It is God’s Will!” Taft closed his eyes for a dramatic moment, then opened them again and spoke softly. “We will not be ignored. We will win — for America and for God!”

Taft’s “Amen” was almost drowned out by the raucous cheers.

But Sammy could only hear Grandma Rose weeping.

Even before the choir sounded its last “Hallelujah!” the hall began emptying. Somehow word had spread through the congregation that instead of the predicted snow, it was pouring outside. Hammering down from an iron gray sky, the rain came in driving spikes. Rivulets dripped from the umbrellas of the few worshippers who had thought to carry them to the church service.

“Damn,” Sammy cursed, as she stepped into a puddle, losing sight of Luther Abbott. Like some apparition, he had melted into
the crowd drifting away from the church. Through the torrent, she couldn’t tell where he’d gone. She was just about to give up when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Heard about the Crusade planning meeting?”

Sammy spun around to see a young brunette about her age dressed in a hooded raincoat and carrying an umbrella with the blue and gold Ellsford colors. The girl must have figured her for a fellow Youth Crusader, Sammy thought, grateful that her campus fame was limited to radio. She pulled her coat collar up to cover her cheeks and shrugged.

The girl continued brightly, “The Reverend canceled it. The back of the rectory’s leaking.” She looked up at the gray sky. “All this rain.”

Sammy responded with a noncommittal “Yeah.”

“You got all your stuff for Wednesday’s march, didn’t you?”

Sammy nodded, refusing to reveal her ignorance.

“Good. Show up a few minutes early for final instructions.”

Smiling, the girl offered the shelter of her umbrella, but Sammy declined, shaking her wet mop of red curls. “I’m already soaked,” she explained. “Besides,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction, “I could use the extra library time. One more midterm to go.”

“Good luck. See you Wednesday.”

As the girl started to walk away, Sammy called after her. “What happens if it rains?”

The girl laughed. “If it rains, Nitshi Day will be a disaster anyway.”

Huddled together under a black umbrella, two men — one short and stocky, the other taller, mustachioed, and less willing to put up with the discomfort of their assignment — stood watching as Sammy waved good-bye. When she headed west across the humanities quad, they followed — the taller man complaining that he was cold and wet and none too happy. Only his companion’s terse reminder of the consequences of failure terminated his laments.

• • •

Sammy didn’t really have to study — there were already rumors that with Conrad’s death, her last exam would be postponed, if not cancelled altogether. But, to escape the inquisitive Youth Crusader, it seemed as good an excuse as any. She headed toward the library until she was sure the girl was out of sight, then turned south across campus to the radio station. Truth was, she had plenty of homework for Monday’s show.

Longhaired DJ Skip Hogan was finishing up his Sunday spot
Heavy Metal Thunder
out of Studio B. Otherwise, the station was dark and deserted. Fire-colored shadows played across the hallway as Sammy quietly inched her way past the red “On Air” sign to her desk in the back office. Outside, the wind had picked up again, splashing rain against the windowpanes. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance.

Throwing her soggy peacoat over her chair, Sammy kicked off her black boots and poured herself a cup of hot chamomile tea from the electric teakettle on the windowsill. She pulled out several cassettes from her purse, checked them carefully for water damage, and popped the last cassette out of her slightly damp recorder. Thankfully, it, too, was dry. She didn’t want to lose the interviews from which she’d draw the sound bites for tomorrow’s introductory piece.

Sammy rummaged through her cluttered desk and located several box-like tapes that resembled old eight tracks. Juggling the carts, her notepapers, her cassettes, and her half-empty cup of tea, she moved into the editing room, eager to get started. Scanning the material on her cassettes, selecting the best passages from her interviews, then editing them onto the carts enveloped by her narrative track would take several hours.

The rain was still coming down in buckets when she finished the preliminary edit of the five-minute introduction almost three hours later. It opened with an excerpt of Sergio’s haunting music and ended with a touching poem read with a wavering voice by his roommate, Lloyd. After reviewing it, she sat quietly, moved by the memorial.

“Not bad.”

Sammy whirled around to face a dripping Larry Dupree. “Didn’t hear you trickle in.”

“Glad to see my staff doesn’t punch a time clock.”

“Neither rain nor snow —”

Larry nodded, removing his raincoat. “Rain, anyway. Ah feel like ah’m home in the Louisiana bayou.”

“So, what brings you here tonight?”

Ignoring her, Larry plunked down on a rickety chair. “Just wanted to go over the schedule for this week,” he said, pulling out a tattered notebook. “Knew you’d be working.”

“God, I’m turning into a radio wonk,” she moaned.

“Join the club.” He checked his notes. “Set for tomorrow?”

“Pretty much. You heard the intro piece. Next we’ll interview our expert on suicide. Then we go to the phones.”

“Who’d you get for the expert?”

Sammy hesitated. “He was highly recommended by Student Health.”

Larry waited expectantly.

“Reed Wyndham’s had lots of experience working with students on mental health issues.”

The program director raised his eyebrows. “That the Reed you’re datin’?”

“Uh, not at this moment,” Sammy answered semitruthfully. “He’s serving as a counselor for troubled students at Student Health, and he’s a top fourth-year medical student.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sure he’s very qualified,” Larry chuckled, adding, “And, of course, you’ll be there to hold his hand.”

Sammy answered tersely. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Good. What about the professor?”

“Conrad? What do you mean?”

“You going to talk about his death?”

“We’ll have to. But I haven’t been able to track down his people yet. I was thinking I’d hit the dean’s office tomorrow, maybe interview some of his colleagues or students if I have time. The funeral’s Tuesday. I thought I’d get more then.”

“So you want to save Tuesday for Conrad.”

“Or Wednesday, so I can get a chance to talk to —”

“Nope. Can’t. Remember? Wednesday we’re doing a remote for the Nitshi party outside the institute.”

Sammy groaned. “Oh, right. Nitshi Day.” How could she have forgotten? The station’s plans to report live on the midday ceremonies and subsequent celebrations had been set weeks ago.

Larry continued from his notes. “You’ll cover the speeches at noon by the chancellor and Nitshi President Ishida. Our booth will be across from the grandstand, with your hookup there. Gary will cover the parade at one and Roger will report from the carnival.”

Sammy didn’t hear the rest of Larry’s recitation. Her thoughts had turned back to her cryptic conversation with the Youth Crusader. It was obvious that Reverend Taft had plans to disrupt the activities. Perhaps she should say something about it to Larry. But Larry had already leaned on her for jumping to conclusions where Taft was concerned. No, better not to say anything yet. Whatever the Reverend had in mind, at least she’d be there to find out.

M
ONDAY

When Sammy sauntered into the registrar’s office at five to nine, only one student stood in line ahead of her. She recognized Chuck Lambert, president of Gamma Tau, EU’s “animal house.” A Beverly Hills brat from his Guess sweats to his Gucci loafers, rumor had it that the blond surfer would have flunked out long ago if his father had not endowed a chair at the university.

“You know you can’t drop a class after the third week,” the middle-aged woman at the desk was explaining. Tall, thin, all hard angles, she was one of the many locals employed by EU.

“Practicum in Art. It’s just a three-credit class,” Chuck argued. “My pre-law classes are real tough.” He pointed to the pile of textbooks in his overstuffed backpack. “I don’t have time to play with toothpicks and tissue paper.”

“Take an incomplete.”

“You have my transcript. I’m maxed out.”

“Should have thought of that before.” No sympathy was offered from the other side of the desk.

Chuck flashed his best counterfeit smile. “Come on, Mrs. Teicher. What harm can it do?”

“Sorry. I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them.”

“I can see we’re getting nowhere.” Lambert zipped up his backpack and angrily slung it over his shoulder. “I guess my father’ll just have to have a talk with the chancellor.”

Mrs. Teicher refused to be intimidated. “Be my guest.” When he’d gone, she shook her head. “Always an angle, that one. If you ask me, you kids all get too much coddling.”

“College can be pretty stressful,” Sammy offered, “especially around midterms.”

“Whatever.” Her voice tightened suspiciously. “You want to drop a class, too?”

“No, I work for the campus radio station,” Sammy explained. “We’re doing today’s show on suicide. I guess you know about Sergio Pinez.”

The woman’s expression softened. “Now there was a nice young man. A real pity.”

“You knew Sergio?”

“Scholarship students are required to work ten hours a week on campus. Sergio put his time in here. He was so polite, always followed the rules,” Mrs. Teicher said. “He invited me and my husband to one of his concerts last month. A real talent.”

“So I’ve heard. Listen, Mrs. Teicher, I’ve talked to some of Sergio’s teachers in the music school, but I wanted to get a few comments from others on campus. Could I get a copy of his class schedule?”

The tall woman thought a moment, then responded. “I don’t see what harm it would do.” She typed a few lines on her desk computer, keyed in the printer, and a few minutes later handed Sammy a printout.

Perusing the list of classes, Sammy noted that except for Psych, Sergio’s courses were all in the music school: Advanced Composition, Ear Training, Musicianship, Orchestra, Pop Music USA. Twenty-one credits. The kid carried a heavy load.

“Thanks,” she said, checking her watch: nine fifteen. Psych 101 was due to start at ten. She had little hope that the professor would remember Sergio. It was an intro course with over two hundred students. Cakewalk class for general education requirements. As she left the office, she planned her strategy. She’d skip the prof and try to find the teaching assistant who just might recall the shy freshman, then ditch the lecture and swing around to Dean Jeffries’s
office. After that she had to head over to the radio station. Still a lot to prepare before her show at one.

The line barely moved. It coiled around the foyer of the Student Health clinic like a snake, its tail lengthening every few minutes.

“I’m gonna miss my midterm,” one student complained.

“Tell the nurse. Maybe they’ll let you go first,” suggested Lucy Peters, who stood just ahead of the girl, waiting her turn.

“Naw, that’s okay.” The girl leaned over and lowered her voice. “I’m not ready for the Physics test anyway. I’ll just get an excuse from the doctor. Another week to study, maybe I can pull a D.”

Lucy nodded. She wasn’t exactly prepared for her exams today either. Too much partying this weekend. She smiled, thinking of her hours with Chris. The time had passed too quickly. She’d never been so happy. She wanted to spend every minute with him — to be with him forever. Forever, she mused. Christopher Oken. Mrs. Christopher Oken. Lucy Oken.

“Lucy Peters!” Nurse Matthews strode into the foyer and read her name from a clipboard.

Lucy raised her hand.

“Come on in here,” the buxom nurse summoned. “Dr. Palmer will see you now.”

Lucy stepped out of line, temporarily destroying the uniform contour of the snake.

“Aren’t you lucky?” the girl behind her remarked.

“I, uh.” Lucy was surprised and slightly embarrassed by the obvious special treatment.

“Miss Peters called ahead for an appointment,” the nurse intervened. “If the rest of you kids would do that instead of just dropping in, we wouldn’t have such long waits.”

Lucy scurried behind the nurse, trying to ignore the groans and grumbles. She followed her into an alcove off the foyer where Dr. Palmer routinely saw his patients.

“What are we here for today, dear?” the nurse asked, smiling for the first time.

Lucy smiled back. There was warmth and sympathy in the woman’s hazel eyes. “My rash. I called Saturday.”