Deadly Messengers (21 page)

After the shock fades, the guilt fills the space left behind. Remorse winds around every memory associated with the event and strangles you.

Thoughts of that night tortured Kendall. If she hadn’t drunk so much that night and been unable to drive her own car home. Instead of calling her mom, she could have so easily accepted a friend’s offer of a lift. If her mom had driven a different way or if the lights at the intersection had been green instead of red, all these minute differences could have changed everything. In penance, she’d never touched a drop of alcohol again. Not even in cooking.

She saw the intersection in her mind, the yellow traffic light changing to red, felt the car slowing, the rain beating on the windshield, the way everything looked blurred through the side window, her mother humming the tune on the radio even though it was one a.m.

Kendall pushed the thoughts from her mind, but her stupid Nicholas Sparks-influenced mind turned to O’Grady again. Without thinking, she Googled him, this time she checked back through older links.

Success.

Fifth page, near the bottom, was something she’d missed in her earlier search. Clicking open the page, she began to read.

He’d had a brother.

“Oh no,” she said to the screen as she read the article about the accident and subsequent suicide. “That explains a lot.”

Now she completely understood and felt for him. In fact, it made
her
feel a little better. It wasn’t personal. In his mind, she was part of a collective who’d hounded his brother.

Kendall never gave much thought to what happened after she finished interviews. Even though she didn’t normally write about sensational events, what did happen to the subjects after she left? Did she harm them in any way? She didn’t mean to. Often people’s stories touched her, but they were, in the end for her, a story that paid bills.

Suddenly she saw herself through O’Grady’s eyes and felt ashamed.

The cursor drummed a beat in her mind.
You-suck-up-people’s-misery-and-spit-it-out-for-money.

Her fingers went to the keys and she actually typed it.

You suck up other people’s misery and disaster and spit it out for cash.

She stared at the words. Yes, there lay the truth, ugly and careless, in black and white. She hadn’t even given poor Doug McKinley much more of a thought.

His words bounced into her head.
“Please look through my research. If it receives publicity maybe we could make a change.”

Preoccupied with Beastie’s deadlines, she hadn’t even bothered to look at the folder yet. She’d only taken it to keep him happy in case she needed him later. She’d told herself one day, when she had a spare ten minutes, she’d give it a glance.

She saw his face, desperate, sad, and hopeful as she took the folder. Maybe he sat there each night wondering if she had read it yet, counting on her, imagining Kendall had more pull than she actually did, that she was some kind of investigative journalist. Maybe he even thought she could get a story on it published in a big newspaper like the
New York Times
and bring the world’s attention to his cause.

Doug McKinley was still inside the story of his son’s death, and he would stay trapped inside there for the rest of his life, unless …

Kendall looked across her desk, across the mess of newspaper clippings, bills, the collection of empty coffee cups, the stacks of books she was meant to review for a measly twenty bucks apiece, and a half-empty box of chocolates (she told herself chocolate improved her writing). Now where had she put his folder?

Still seated, she rolled her chair over to the two-drawer filing cabinet at the side of her desk and pulled out the drawer with such vigor the side of it clipped her leg.

“Ouch.”

Is that what I get for my trouble?
Could be a sign this was a bad idea, a squandering of her time.

She peered inside the bottom drawer, expecting to find the file where she threw most get-to-it later things. Nothing there, except a jumble of old files and a packet of candies she’d forgotten. Rifling in the candy packet, she pulled out a sugar treat, popped it in her mouth, and chewed, while she returned to scanning her desk.

Nope, it wasn’t there and, right now, she didn’t have time to look further. She’d look later. If it were difficult to find that would be the Universe pushing her in a different direction. She vaguely remembered advice to that effect from a tarot card reader she’d interviewed. Chris Lamben, if she remembered correctly. He’d flirted and hit on her twice during the interview.

Kendall looked back at the screen. The cursor flashed as though it was sending a message. Boy, she hated that cursor right now. She had nothing to offer it, no words to fill the page. She gathered up the three empty coffee cups from her desk and walked toward the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes awaited her. If she went into the laundry there would be a pile of clothes waiting, too. Everything had been put on hold for these stories. For her own sanity, she really needed to get off the merry-go-round.

A bunch of queries and pitches to her usual editors was probably what she needed to do. Ideas fired in her brain instantly.
What bananas can do for you?
Mid-life crisis, real or imagined.
Myriad banal headlines were there for the plucking, all of them doing nothing for anyone except filling a quarter page of a magazine or website. And that used to be enough for her.

So why couldn’t she do it? Why couldn’t she just do the washing, clean the apartment, then get on the computer and compose the emails, which would remind editors she was still available and ready to work?

She didn’t like the answer.

Even though the nightmares tore at her, the recounting of the killings making her sick to her stomach, she realized something about herself. She relished her byline in the papers. A thrill flared in the pit of her stomach when she thought about people talking about her articles on their way to work or around their dinner tables. As much as she’d told herself repeatedly she was giving this up, the time had not yet arrived.

Fate must have had a point to prove. She suddenly remembered where she’d put Doug McKinley’s file—in a box in the spare room, where she put everything that was
really
-
get-to-it-much-later
. Later for this box usually being a once a year tidy-up and throw out.

Kendall set the coffee cups down on the sink, where they joined the rest of the mess, walked into the spare room, and found the box. The file lay on top, overflowing with pages and looking larger than she’d remembered. A thumb drive would have been nice, but Doug McKinley was probably not of the modern age.

Kendall pulled out the folder and opened the cover. Inside, to her surprise, was a handwritten letter addressed to her. She hadn’t realized he’d been so prepared for her visit. How did he know she would even take the folder? Smiling at the determination of the man, she walked back into the living room, made herself comfortable on her sofa, and began to read.

The more she read, the more she wished she’d read it sooner. What it contained was totally unexpected. No, rephrase that—shocking.

Dear Miss Jennings,

Thank you for taking the time to look through my research.

I’ve spent a great deal of money and effort collecting this information, but nobody will listen to me. I’m hoping if you help me gain publicity for my findings, maybe these senseless killings can be stopped.

The killers are not who they seem to be.

My son didn’t need to die. If the corruption that caused his death had been exposed earlier, he might still be alive. In fact, I believe he
would
be alive today.

It’s been twenty years since then, and you will discover there are many people to blame for what is happening now.

If you need my help with anything, please feel free to contact me.

Yours very sincerely,

Doug McKinley

Kendall read the letter twice. What did he mean by
many people to blame for the killings
? Surely, this was nothing more than a man grieving for his son, looking for reasons to explain madness, when no reason existed?

Turning the letter over and placing it face down, Kendall checked the wall clock—a Felix the Cat clock she’d bought to remind her to never watch time-wasting cat videos on YouTube. The folder contained a great deal of information, and it would take some time to get through. Doug McKinley had done his research, and even the first few pages held startling revelations, if there were any truth to them.

After she’d read a dozen pages and looked over the accompanying graphs, she began to understand why McKinley was passionate in his beliefs. What Kendall couldn’t understand was why this hadn’t become general knowledge, even as an urban myth. There certainly was a story amid all the supposition.

First, though, she needed to complete some research, and she needed to speak to someone in particular, even though he probably wouldn’t want to speak to her.

WHEN O’GRADY SAW THE IRRITATING journalist standing at the front desk, he did a double take.
What the hell was she thinking?
Last time he’d seen her, had he not made himself perfectly clear.

He admired her determination, but either she was brainless—and she didn’t seem to be—or ignorant. Since she was a journalist, he voted the latter.

He had mixed feelings: resentment, curiosity and something else he didn’t care to admit—she filled her jeans and pale-blue t-shirt very nicely. The minute the last thought entered his head, he experienced another emotion: annoyance. Right now, he didn’t care to think like that about any woman, especially her.

Clearly, he needed to up the ante. He headed toward her, running multiple lines in his head, all of which should piss her off enough to send her packing and assure she left him alone.

As he drew closer, she moved toward the elevators and stood looking up at the floor indicator. In her hands she held a large folder and over her shoulder was slung a big green slouch bag. He hated to admit the casual look suited her.

He came up behind her and waited. She hadn’t noticed him yet. She was so close he could reach out and brush his hand across her hair. He noticed again the way the strands curled on her shoulder and bounced as she looked up from the folder checking the elevator’s floor location.

He used his deepest, harshest voice. “I thought I’d made myself pretty clear last time.”

She swung about to look up at him, and the color of her incredible blue eyes struck him again. He had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from smiling instead of frowning.

“Oh, it’s you.” As if she wasn’t obviously on her way to his squad’s floor to find him. “Clear about what?”

“Clear that I won’t give you an interview or any information about these murders. So you can just crawl away and write about something else. Or make up lies, like you people normally do.”

She fixed her stare on him, and he was surprised at the confident way she met his own glare. He hadn’t expected that after their last meeting and he didn’t expect her answer.

“You know what? I really appreciate your
wise
advice. But I hope you won’t mind if I
don’t
take it.”

She turned back to face the elevator door, leaving O’Grady looking at her back and noticeably squared shoulders.

“Seriously, there’s no interview here. So scoot along why don’t you, back to your lair.”

Still facing away from him: “I’m not here to interview you.” Then after a pause, “You really are very self-important, aren’t you?”

Then he understood.

“Ah-hh, right.
Trip
has agreed to talk to you. Shows you where your morals are, doesn’t it.”

She whipped around to face him.

“My morals are in the exact right place, thank you. You wouldn’t have a clue.”

The sound of an elevator bell interrupted them. They both looked away toward the three elevators. Above the furthest car, glowed a red arrow.

Ignoring his comment, Kendall Jennings began to walk toward the opening doors until suddenly she stopped and glanced back at him. Their eyes met for just a moment too long. It was he who now felt uncomfortable.