Night Shift (25 page)

It was Thea who filled her in on Billy Lomus. In his troubled childhood, the only bright spot had been John McGillis. As fate would have it, they had fed on each other’s weaknesses. John’s first suicide attempt had occurred two months after Billy left for Vietnam. He’d been barely ten years old.

When Billy had returned, bitter and wounded, John had run away to join him. Though the authorities had separated them, they had always managed to find each other again. John’s death had driven Billy over the fine line of reason he had walked.

“Delayed stress syndrome,” Althea said as they stood together in the hospital parking lot. “Paranoid psychosis. Obsessive love. It doesn’t really matter what label you put on it.”

“Over these past couple of weeks, I’ve asked myself dozens of times if there was anything I could have done differently with John McGillis.” She took in a deep breath of the early spring air. “And there wasn’t. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to finally be sure of that.”

“Then you can put it behind you.”

“Yes. It’s not something I can forget, but I can put it behind me. Before I do, I’d like to thank you for everything you did, and tried to do.”

“It was my job,” Althea said simply. “We weren’t friends then. I think maybe we nearly are now.”

Cilla laughed. “Nearly.”

“So, as someone who’s nearly your friend, there’s something I’d like to say.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve been watching you and Boyd since the beginning. Observation’s also part of the job.” Her eyes, clear and brown and direct, met Cilla’s. “I still haven’t decided if I think you’re good for Boyd. It’s not really my call, but I like to form an opinion.”

Cilla looked out beyond the parking lot to a patch of green. The daffodils were blooming there, beautifully. “Thea, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“My point is, Boyd thinks you’re good for him. That’s enough for me. I guess the only thing you’ve got to decide now is if he’s good for you.”

“He thinks he is,” she murmured.

“I’ve noticed.” In an abrupt change of mood, Althea looked toward the hospital. “I heard he was
getting out in a couple of days.”

“That’s the rumor.”

“You’ve already been up, I take it.”

“For a few minutes. His sister’s there, and a couple of cops. They brought in a flower arrangement shaped like a horseshoe. The card read ‘Tough break, Lucky.’ They tried to tell him they’d confiscated it from some gangster’s funeral.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Funny thing about cops. They usually have a sense of humor, just like real people.” She gave Cilla an easy smile. “I’m going to go up. Should I tell him I ran into you and you’re coming back later?”

“No. Not this time. Just—just tell him to listen to the radio. I’ll see if I can dig up ‘Dueling Banjos.’”

“‘Dueling Banjos’?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you later, Thea.”

“Sure.” Althea watched Cilla walk to her car and was grateful, not for the first time, not to be in love.

***

Though the first couple of nights in the booth after the shooting had been difficult, Cilla had picked up her old routine. She no longer got a flash of Boyd bleeding as he knelt by the door, or of Billy, his eyes wild, holding a knife to her throat.

She’d come to enjoy the request line again. The blinking lights no longer grated on her nerves. Every hour she was grateful that Boyd was recovering, and so she threw herself into her work with an enthusiasm she had lost for too long.

“Cilla.”

She didn’t jolt at the sound of her name, but swiveled easily in her chair and smiled at Nick. “Hey.”

“I, ah, decided to come back.”

She kept smiling as she accepted the cup of coffee he offered. “I heard.”

“Mark was real good about it.”

“You’re an asset to the station, Nick. I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“Yeah, well …” He let his words trail off as he studied the scar on the palm of her hand. The stitches had come out only days earlier. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me too. You want to get me the Rocco’s Pizza commercial?”

He nearly jumped for it, sliding it out of place and handing it to her. Cilla popped the tape in, then potted it up.

“I wanted to apologize,” he blurted out.

“You don’t have to.”

“I feel like a jerk, especially after I heard … well, the whole story about Billy and that guy from Chicago.”

“You’re nothing like John, Nick. And I’m flattered that you were attracted to me—especially since you have a class with my incredibly beautiful sister.”

“Deborah’s nice. But she’s too smart.”

Cilla had her first big laugh of the month. “Thanks a lot, kid. Just what does that make me?”

“I didn’t mean—” He broke off, mortally embarrassed. “I only meant—”

“Don’t bury yourself.” Giving him a quick grin, she turned on her mike. “Hey, Denver, we’re going
to keep it rocking for you for the next quarter hour. It’s 10:45 on this Thursday night, and I’m just getting started.” She hit them with a blast of Guns ’n’ Roses. “Now, that’s rock and roll,” she said to herself. “Hey, Nick, why don’t you …” Her words trailed off when she saw Boyd’s mother in the doorway. “Mrs. Fletcher.” She sprang up, nearly strangling herself with her headphones.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” She smiled at Cilla, nodded to Nick.

“No, no, of course not.” Cilla brushed uselessly at her grimy jeans. “Um … Nick, why don’t you get Mrs. Fletcher a cup of coffee?”

“No, thank you, dear. I can only stay a moment.”

Nick made his excuses and left them alone.

“So,” Mrs. Fletcher said after a quick study. She blinked at the posters on the wall and examined the equipment. “This is where you work?”

“Yes. I’d, ah … give you a tour, but I’ve got—”

“That’s perfectly all right.” The lines of strain were no longer around her eyes. She was a trim, attractive and perfectly groomed woman. And she intimidated the hell out of Cilla. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“No, I … I’m used to working with people around.”

“I missed you at the hospital the past few days, so I thought I’d come by here and say good-bye.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Since Boyd is on the mend, we’re going back to Paris. It’s business, as well as pleasure.”

Cilla made a noncommittal noise and cued up the next record. “I know you must be relieved that Boyd … well, that he’s all right. I’m sure it was dreadful for you.”

“For all of us. Boyd explained it all to us. You’ve had a horrible ordeal.”

“It’s over now.”

“Yes.” She lifted Cilla’s hand and glanced at the healing wound. “Experiences leave scars. Some deeper than others.” She released Cilla’s hand to wander around the tiny booth. “Boyd tells me you’re to be married.”

“I …” She shook off the shock, cleared her throat. “Excuse me a minute.” Turning to the console she segued into the next record, then pushed another switch. “It’s time for our mystery record,” she explained. “The roll of thunder plays over the song, then people call in. The first caller who can give me the name of the song, the artist and the year of the recording wins a pair of concert tickets. We’ve got Madonna coming in at the end of the month.”

“Fascinating.” Mrs. Fletcher smiled, a smile precisely like Boyd’s. “As I was saying, Boyd tells me you’re to be married. I wondered if you’d like any help with the arrangements.”

“No. That is, I haven’t said … Excuse me.” She pounced on a blinking light. “KHIP. No, I’m sorry, wrong answer. Try again.” She struggled to keep her mind clear as the calls came through. The fourth caller’s voice was very familiar.

“Hey, O’Roarke.”

“Boyd.” She sent his mother a helpless look. “I’m working.”

“I’m calling. You got a winner yet?”

“No, but—”

“You’ve got one now. ‘Electric Avenue,’ Eddy Grant, 1983.”

She had to smile. “You’re pretty sharp, Slick. Looks like you’ve got yourself a couple of concert tickets. Hold on.” She switched on her mike. “We’ve got a winner.”

Patient, Mrs. Fletcher watched her work, smiling as she heard her son’s voice over the speakers.

“Congratulations,” Cilla said after she’d potted up a new record.

“So, are you going to the concert with me?”

“If you’re lucky. Gotta go.”

“Hey!” he shouted before she could cut him off. “I haven’t heard ‘Dueling Banjos’ yet.”

“Keep listening.” After a long breath, she turned back to his mother. “I’m very sorry.”

“No problem, no problem at all.” In fact, she’d found the interlude delightful. “About the wedding?”

“I don’t know that there’s going to be a wedding. I mean, there isn’t a wedding.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “I don’t think.”

“Ah, well …” That same faint, knowing smile hovered around her mouth. “I’m sure you or Boyd will let us know. He’s very much in love with you. You know that?”

“Yes. At least I think I do.”

“He told me about your parents. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No.” She sat again. “Mrs. Fletcher—”

“Liz is fine.”

“Liz. I hope you don’t think I’m playing some sort of game with Boyd. I wouldn’t ask him to change. I could never ask him to change, and I just don’t know if I can live with what he does.”

“Because you’re afraid of his being a policeman? Afraid he might die and leave you, as your parents did?”

Cilla looked down at her hands, spread her fingers. “I guess when you trim away all the fat, that’s it.”

“I understand. I worry about him,” she said quietly. “I also understand he’s doing what he has to do.”

“Yes, it is what he has to do. I’ve given that a lot of thought since he was hurt.” Cilla looked up again, her eyes intense. “How do you live with it?”

Liz took Cilla’s restless hand in hers. “I love him.”

“And that’s enough?”

“It has to be. It’s always difficult to lose someone you love. The way you lost your parents was tragic—and, according to Boyd, unnecessary. My mother died when I was only six. I loved her very much, though I had little time with her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She cut herself in the garden one day. Just a little nick on the thumb she paid no attention to. A few weeks later she was dead of blood poisoning. All from a little cut on the thumb with a pair of rusty garden shears. Tragic, and unnecessary. It’s hard to say how and when a loved one will be taken from us. How sad it would be not to allow ourselves to love because we were afraid to lose.” She touched a hand to Cilla’s cheek. “I hope to see you again soon.”

“Mrs. Fletcher—Liz,” Cilla said as she stopped at the door. “Thank you for coming.”

“It was my pleasure.” She glanced at a poster of a bare-chested rock star with shoulder-length hair and a smoldering sneer. “Though I do prefer Cole Porter.”

Cilla found herself smiling as she slipped in another tape. After the ad, she gave her listeners fifteen uninterrupted minutes of music and herself time to think.

When the request line rolled around, she was as nervous as a cat, but her mind was made up.

“This is Cilla O’Roarke for KHIP. It’s five minutes past midnight and our request lines are open. Before I take a call, I’ve got a request of my own. This one goes to Boyd. No, it’s not ‘Dueling Banjos,’ Slick. You’re just going to have to try a new memory on for size. It’s an old one by the Platters. ‘Only You.’ I hope you’re listening, because I want you to know—” For the first time in her career, she choked
on the air. “Oh, boy, it’s a lot to get out. I guess I want to say I finally figured out it’s only you for me. I love you, and if the offer’s still open, you’ve got a deal.”

She sent the record out and, with her eyes closed, let the song flow through her head.

Struggling for composure, she took call after call. There were jokes and questions about Boyd, but none of the callers
was
Boyd. She’d been so certain he would phone.

Maybe he hadn’t even been listening. The thought of that had her dropping her head in her hands. She had finally dragged out the courage to tell him how she felt, and he hadn’t been listening.

She got through the next two hours step-by-step. It had been a stupid move, she told herself. It was unbelievably foolish to announce that you loved someone over the radio. She’d only succeeded in embarrassing herself.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She’d told him to listen, damn it. Couldn’t he do anything she asked him to do? She’d told him to go away, he’d stayed. She’d told him she wasn’t going to marry him, he’d told everyone she was. She’d told him to listen to the radio, he’d shut it off. She’d bared her soul over the public airwaves for nothing.

“That was a hell of a request,” Jackson commented when he strolled into the booth just before two.

“Shut up.”

“Right.” He hummed to himself as he checked the programmer’s clock for his shift. “Ratings should shoot right through the roof.”

“If I wanted someone to be cheerful in here, I’d have brought along Mickey Mouse.”

“Sorry.” Undaunted, he continued to hum.

With her teeth on edge, Cilla opened her mike. “That’s all for tonight, Denver. It’s 1:58. I’m turning you over to my man Jackson. He’ll be with you until 6 in the a.m. Have a good one. And remember, when you dream of me, dream good.” She kicked her chair out of the way. “And if you’re smart,” she said to Jackson, “you won’t say a word.”

“Lips are sealed.”

She stalked out, snatching up her jacket and digging for her keys as she headed for the door. She was going to go home and soak her head. And if Deborah had been listening and was waiting up, it would just give her someone to chew out.

Head down, hands in her pockets, she stomped to her car. She had her hand on the door handle before she saw that Boyd was sitting on the hood.

“Nice night,” he said.

“What—what the hell are you doing here?” Anger forgotten, she rushed around the car. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital. They haven’t released you yet.”

“I went over the wall. Come here.”

“You jerk. Sitting out here in the night air. You were nearly dead two weeks ago, and—”

“I’ve never felt better in my life.” He grabbed her by the front of her jacket and hauled her against him for a kiss. “And neither have you.”