Hostage (27 page)

Enough. You need, he told himself, to get even the slightest bit of sleep. If you’re going to be worth anything to anyone tomorrow you have to doze off for at least a few hours. He got up and poured himself a juice glass full of scotch, which he slammed down. He filled the glass again, downed that, and felt the burning liquid whirl down his throat and into his gut. Returning in the dark to his bedroom, he found a black heap of fur curled up at the end of the bed.

“Hey, Girlfriend,” Todd called gently to the black cat.

Before today she wouldn’t even come close to Todd, let alone beg for attention as she had done earlier this evening. Nor had she ever spent the night in Todd’s room. Yet here was Curt’s cat snuggled atop his comforter for the night. Taking refuge from thinking about the unthinkable by tuning in to her needs, he moved quietly across his room and slipped back into bed. Todd forced himself to lie quite still and found himself wondering exactly what Girlfriend, the silent witness, had seen that night Curt had died. He wondered because, of course, what had happened a month ago had just come up again this morning. A witness had reported seeing someone slip into Curt’s building, Rawlins had told Todd over the phone. So that proved, didn’t it, that Curt’s death had been either murder or assisted suicide? Sure, Todd had agreed, hoping it was the second, because that at least made some kind of sense.

Todd’s alarm started screeching just before five-thirty, and he rolled over, smashed the OFF button, then grabbed the remote. As he switched on the small color TV that sat on his dresser, he was surprised to look over and see Girlfriend still nestled on his bed. Small miracles, he mused, and lying there he watched as the familiar logo and background music of Channel 10’s
Day Breaking News
began to roll. A moment later the camera focused on a desk where the early-morning anchor, an attractive woman with short brown hair, was seated.

“Good morning, this is
Day Breaking News
” she began. “I’m Caroline Roberts, and WLAK’s coverage of the kidnapping of Congressman Johnny Clariton continues. It’s been almost seventeen hours since Congressman Clariton was abducted by three self-described AIDS activists just after a luncheon with Twin Cities executives. The unprecedented incident has shocked the nation, and at this hour Clariton’s whereabouts and safety remain unknown to authorities.”

So nothing of significance had happened overnight, thought Todd, propping a pillow behind his head. But was the airing of the videotape still on schedule for this morning?

As if answering Todd, Caroline said, “Last night, however, WLAK’s own Emmy Award-winning reporter, Todd Mills, discovered a videotape allegedly made by Clariton’s kidnappers showing Congressman Clariton in their custody. Broadcast of this tape, which has been described as shocking, is set for nine o’clock this morning here on WLAK TV. That broadcast will be carried live nationally, and I’m sure that our viewers will want to tune in both to hear Todd’s report as well as watch this most unusual footage.

“In Washington yesterday afternoon the President, who has been described as outraged over the incident, ordered the FBI to begin a full-scale manhunt.”

The program cut to a repeat and summary of the President’s statement, then switched to a reporter who used a computerized three-dimensional map to walk viewers through the scene of the crime. Moments later yet another reporter showed taped footage of the mayhem that had followed the kidnapping, including Todd’s first live report. The staff, Todd now thought as he watched all this, must have been up the entire night in order to put the footage and graphics together. That actually wasn’t that surprising, and he jumped out of bed and ran a hand over Girlfriend. He proceeded to the kitchen, where he got his coffee maker going, then headed for the bathroom and a hot, hot shower. Thirty minutes later he’d eaten some yogurt, fed the cat, put on a sport coat and tie, and was heading out the door with a cup of coffee in his hand. Traffic at that hour was light, and, driving Channel 10’s Ford Explorer, Todd made it to the station in record time.

Less than an hour after he’d risen, Todd hurried through the newsroom, pausing only to grab a mug of coffee, and then proceeded to his office. Sometime during the night the janitor had come in, vacuumed, emptied the trash, and raised the miniblinds on the glass wall overlooking the newsroom. Todd set down his coffee and now lowered the blinds once again. By habit he hit a couple of keys on his computer, which brought the color monitor from overnight hibernation. A series of messages filled the screen, none of them important except the last couple from the morning producer, confirming that Todd still had the green light and that the FBI concurred that the tape should be shown this morning. Todd had, he inquired, remembered to bring the tape this morning, hadn’t he?

Todd shook his head. What did they take him for around here, he wondered as he turned to his phone and checked his voice mail, the village idiot? Of course he had the goddamn tape. He’d clutched it, slept with it, not let it out of his possession.

On the phone there were six messages: four from fans who had called to express how glad they were that Todd hadn’t been hurt when Clariton was taken, the other two from friends. But again nothing from Rawlins.

Shaking his head, Todd turned to the small bank of video equipment at the end of his office and inserted the copy of the kidnappers’ tape into the VCR. He plugged in a set of earphones, slipped them on his head, and punched PLAY. As the tape began to roll, Todd grabbed a pen and a yellow legal pad. How the hell was he going to come at this thing? What would his intro be, how much should he and could he say? While nine times out of ten the angle of any story and just what was said were left to the reporter, given the circumstances Todd wouldn’t be surprised if the producer—as well, of course, as the station manager—were all over this one. And he was certain that the FBI was going to want Todd to slip in something that would have significance to the kidnappers, who would surely be watching. There was one thing that Todd was certain of though: He didn’t want this to get personal. So far no one knew about Rawlins’s scribbled note on the envelope, and for now he was going to keep it that way. Nor would he reveal on camera that he’d found the tape in his car. No, if anyone—namely the other stations in town, specifically Channel 7—found out about any of that they’d do their damnedest to turn it into some sort of story, perhaps accusing Todd of involvement. Who knew, in an attempt to spice up their own coverage, they might even dredge up Michael’s murder again. So how would Todd put it this morning, merely that he’d obtained the videotape? Could he simply leave it at that? Sure. Better yet, perhaps he should even hint that he’d worked his investigative skills to get the tape.

Hell, he thought. What difference did it make?

He watched the whole tape, hit REWIND, then viewed it a second time. He focused on Clariton’s face, studied his comments and words. No doubt about it, the congressman was frightened. No, he didn’t think they should show the last bit, Clariton’s panicked reaction, his screaming, and his desperate kicking. They should stay focused on satisfying the kidnappers, whose primary goal was undoubtedly to show the world Tina’s story. So maybe they’d end the footage with the woman pulling out the blood-filled needle. At that point they could cut to Todd, who’d then explain the rest. At least that would be Todd’s recommendation.

Or would it?

Watching the tape a third and fourth time he realized it might be all wrong to sanitize the thing and put his own spin on it. After all, where did his allegiance really lie? Perhaps it was better to let the world see the raw terror of AIDS. Tina’s story, her pain, her indignation, her frustration, and, finally, her hate. And Clariton’s total lack of compassion, his cockiness, his assured righteousness, and, finally, his pathetic fear.

Todd halted the tape, bowed his head into his palms. God only knew what lay ahead for Rawlins and him. Perhaps hope. Perhaps disaster.

He shook his head, took a large gulp of coffee, rewound the tape, and watched it once again from the beginning. Beyond what had been said and done in that little room, there was one thing that Todd kept tripping up on—that odd humming noise that kept repeating itself through the course of Tina’s story. Just why in the hell did it sound so familiar? He’d heard it somewhere before, hadn’t he? He was sure he had. But where? Could it really be as simple as the sound of jets approaching the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport?

This time he ignored Tina’s story, Clariton’s remarks, and all that happened. Instead, he put his hands on the earphones, closed his eyes, and focused on that sound. There it was the first time. There the second. Right, and a third. And finally a fourth. During the course of the videotape the sound repeated itself a total of four times. It actually could be jets. They came roaring out of the sky that regularly, didn’t they? And if so, that meant they could be holding Clariton either in a hangar or perhaps in a house abutting the airport. Sure, that was possible. Just off the northwest edge of the runways was a postwar development of tiny houses now slated for demolition because the noise of the jumbo jets was so severe. Could Clariton be tied up in a basement out there?

No, something wasn’t right here. Todd concentrated on the noise. It was kind of jetlike, but not really. No huge roaring thrust, no explosion of power as a huge metal thing tried to force itself into the air. Each of the sounds on the tape was identical too, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. If those were jets he was hearing, wouldn’t the noise vary from plane to plane, 727 to 747? He rewound the tape, played it all over yet again. Todd pulled back his sleeve, stared at his watch. The noise cycled on and off with computerized regularity every three minutes and thirteen seconds.

What?

Todd hit the STOP button, ripped the headphones from his ears. No, it couldn’t be, he thought with a jolt.

There was an abrupt banging on his glass door, the miniblinds rattled, and the morning producer, a young guy with curly hair, black glasses, and a permanent smile, burst into Todd’s office.

“The station manager’s here,” said Craig, who’d become a producer most likely because he had the unique ability to always be cheery, no matter how tense the situation. “So are the assignment editor and the other two producers.”

Knowing it would come to this—that they would try to meddle—Todd turned around and snapped, “Give me a couple of minutes!”

“Oh, no, Todd. Right now. Very right now. You see, all of my bosses are here, as are my bosses’ bosses.”

“I’m busy!”

“My dear Mr. Mills, the FBI’s here too. And everyone wants to know exactly how we’re going to handle this—or more specifically, exactly what you’re going to say at nine o’clock.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry,” continued Craig as he kept on smiling, “I’ve got a draft of something written up. They’re all waiting for you down in the conference room. Let’s go, Todd. Like now. Like really, absolutely right now.”

He took a deep breath, grabbed the tape from the VCR, and pushed himself to his feet. No, he wasn’t sure, not just yet. It could be a coincidence, a weird one at that, so he wouldn’t say anything to anyone here at the station or to the FBI without first checking something else. But a roar every three minutes and thirteen seconds could only mean they’d taken Clariton to one place, couldn’t it?

Elliot wasn’t sure why
he woke up so early. It was either his battery of meds, which, if they hadn’t been doing anything else for the past few weeks, were certainly making him, well, perky. Or the fact that he’d never liked sleeping bags—too confining, you had to sleep all zipped up and everything like a mummy. Or that Tina’s body was beginning to stink. They’d wrapped more plastic around her, dragged the corpse into the bathroom, and left the fan going, but it wasn’t enough. Tina was in the air, no doubt about it.

Whatever the reason, Elliot’s eyes had popped open some ten minutes ago and refused to close. He peered around without so much as flinching and saw that Matthew was fast asleep and probably would be for hours, given the number of pills he’d swallowed last night. Undoubtedly he was exhausted after yesterday, all that running around, all that stress of having to deal with Clariton, not to mention Tina croaking and everything. Oh, and the videotaping had been no easy feat either! Just imagine, Elliot thought with a giggle, sometime soon his story would be broadcast everywhere, all over the entire country!

As for Rawlins and Clariton, they were both locked tight in the next room.

“Sorry, pal,” Matthew had told Rawlins last night, “but I think it’s best if you sleep in here with Mr. Congressman. We just want to make sure you don’t slip out in the middle of the night.”

Elliot now sat up, rubbed his eyes, and scanned the room. No doubt about it, he had to get out of here, just for a bit. Some fresh air. A change of scenery. This was way too intense down here in this bomb shelter of a joint.

“Psst,” he whispered. “Psst, Matthew?”

On the other side of the room Matthew slept like the dead. When Elliot called out a second time and Matthew again failed to budge, Elliot stared at him. Okay, okay, so his chest was rising and falling, so he was still breathing. Thank the Lord, at least Matthew hadn’t kicked the bucket too. Wouldn’t that be the pits if the two of them, Tina and Matthew, checked out and left Elliot to wrap up this mess?

“Matthew,” whispered Elliot to the sleeping man, “I’m going to just step out for a bit. I need to get out. I need some fresh air. Tina, you know, is a little thick in the air, if you get what I mean. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Okay, huh? Okay?” Elliot smiled. “Great. Yeah, I’ll be okay. Yes, I’ll be careful. No, don’t worry, I’ll be back long before they broadcast the videotape of Tina and Clariton. Love ya.”