按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
There was a vacant bank of phones in the narrow access corridor。 It was there that he chose to break down。 It only took a minute to sob his way clear。
Which brought him right back where he'd started from。
Not that he didn't trust Blake； if anyone had more to lose than Leonard himself； that person was certainly Blake。 It was just that he felt so helpless； so utterly out of the loop。
Not to mention guilty as sin。
Not to mention terrified。
He kept thinking about the dead boy； and wondering what had happened。 The thought that he could have caused someone's death； however inadvertently； was just too horrible to bear。
And then there was the other boy。 Otis's son。 Perhaps； Leonard thought； he's getting better。 Lord； what a relief that would be！
And if not 。。。
He had Pusser's number； burning a hole in the inside pocket of his sport coat。 He withdrew it now； punched in the number； tried to breathe normally。
〃What？〃 snapped the voice on the other end； midway into the second ring。
〃H…hello； Otis；〃 Leonard stammered。
〃That YOU； Leonard？ God damn it！〃 The malice in Pusser's voice shifted； focused； went pletely specific。 〃What the fuck are you doin' for me and my boy？〃
〃W…w…well； that's actually why I called 。。。 〃
〃 'Cause I'm about FIFTEEN FUCKIN' MINUTES AWAY from callin' the cops on your ass 。。。 ！〃
〃Otis； you can't do that。〃 He was striving for an authoritative tone； but the rivets that held his reality together were rattling loose。
〃My boy is DYIN'！ Do you understand me？〃 And in the background； Leonard could hear the boy mewling： a horrible sound。 〃You gonna find some kinda hospital can take him？ He don't have no insurance！ You gonna pay the fuckin' bill？〃
〃Listen 。。。 〃 He tasted blood in his mouth； realized he'd gnawed a tiny hole in his lip。 〃I t…talked to my people； and 。。。 〃
〃YOUR PEOPLE GOT ABOUT FIFTEEN MINUTES TO SAVE HIS LIFE AND KEEP HIS ASS OUT OF JAIL！〃 The sound blistered through the plastic earpiece。 〃OR YOU'RE GOIN' DOWN； YOU STUPID FAT FUCK 。。。 ！〃
Leonard hung up the phone。
And stood there； terrified； weighing his options。 None of them were good。 If Otis rolled over； then…Blake or no Blake…the world as he knew it would surely end。
He reached up to fish around in the coin return； and stopped。 Some punk had plastered a sticker over the slot； a design rendered in jarringly garish neon colors and squiggles。 It was a circle…and…slash motif： the universal forbidden symbol； stamped across squiggly letters that spelled
F 。。。 U 。。。 T 。。。 U 。。。 R 。。。 E。
The gestalt gelled in Harold's quivering mind。
NO FUTURE。
〃Very funny；〃 he muttered； jabbing a fat finger defiantly into the slot。 〃Very fucking funny。〃
It took less than five minutes to round up the family； pay the bill； and get back in the van。 Leonard fidgeted more than he customarily did in the cashier's line； and didn't even bother to scarf his customary handful of chalky mints from the bowl by the register。 Marge knew better than to pry； and the kids never even wondered why Daddy looked so bad。
They wouldn't have understood it if he'd told them。
Nobody did。
Sixteen
Getting the tape out of the edit deck was easy。
Getting the hell out of the studio was impossible。
It had been a mess； alright； the tape had mitted hari…kari； spilling its innards into the guts of the deck in nasty little inextricable knots。 Mike was right about the decks： the Sony had seized up like it was holding the cassette for ransom； it took twenty minutes to free the hostage。
Gary stood at his bench in the repair bay behind Studio B； putting the edit deck back together。 The bay was his domain： a garage…sized space housing repair benches stacked with ripped…down gear； plus storage space for the bulky microwave relays and other accoutrements of broadcast technology maintenance。
He screwed the last screw into place and did the mental math of his redemption。 It would take him ten minutes to get across town； give or take a stoplight or two。 Add that to the ten it took to get there and twenty at the bench； divided by the time Micki's flight was due in over the square root of Gwen's pregnancy 。。。
。。。 equals a world of shit； he thought。 God； she's gonna be pissed。 He sighed； picked up the phone and tried again： no answer。
Oboy； he groaned； wincing； then shrugged it off。 He'd deal with it later。 There was certainly nothing he could do about it now。
Gary hefted the deck and carted it down the hall。 The nattering buzz of the newsroom was tangible from all the way down the hall。 It made his gut rumble。 He stopped at the doorway to Studio A and stuck his head in。
On the home monitor； the closing credits for WWF Superstars of Wrestling were rolling by。 This Is the NFL was less than three minutes away。 John Bizzano was tending to the changeover with his customarily laconic aplomb。
〃Mornin'； Gar；〃 he said； not even looking up as he cued up the mercial tapes。 〃What're you doin' here today？〃
〃Beats me；〃 Gary grumbled。 〃Misplaced sense of duty； I guess。〃
〃Don'cha hate it when that happens？〃 Bizzano replied； presiding over the switch as they cut from World Federation Wrestling to a five…second station ID and a thirty…second mercial for toilet bowl cleaner。
John Bizzano was a burly bear of a man； with a bushy black beard and no visible neck； but his fingers were pure magic。 John was the Iceman； 'PAL's Amadeus of the digital cross…fade。 No task fazed him； he could orchestrate the mix of two live feeds in different time zones； with satellite uplink； taped outtakes； and special effects； and load and cut to sixteen mercials。 Never bumping his blood pressure up a single point on the stressometer。
Never blowing a fucking cue。
John was cool。
〃Hmmm；〃 Gary began； offhandedly scanning the bank of monitors above the console。 〃Anything weird happening here today？〃
〃Hmmph；〃 John scoffed。 〃Ask a stupid question。〃
〃No； I mean weird weird；〃 Gary amended。
〃Sorry； bro'；〃 John replied。 〃It's dead。〃 He reclined back in his chair and watched as little cartoon scrubbing bubbles raced around a bathtub like it was the Indy 500。 〃Dead； dead； deadskies 。。。 〃 he drawled in a passable Michael Keaton…Beetlejuice growl。 〃Why do you ask？〃
Gary shrugged。 〃I dunno。 Just a feeling； I guess；〃 he said； and ambled off down the hall。
A minute later； he entered the newsroom。 〃Here you go；〃 he said。 〃All better now 。。。 〃
And stopped。
It was like walking into range of an enormous field generator： the police scanners all cranked and buzzing； the tension so charged it stood the short hairs of his arms on end。 He clammed up as if he'd just stumbled onto a live soundstage。
But it was only Laura； pacing and smoking up a miniature smog bank。
〃Ahem 。。。 〃 Gary said cautiously。 〃Deck's back up。〃
〃Uh； thanks；〃 she said； looking up as though just noticing him。 〃Just set it up； okay？〃
〃You got it；〃 Gary said； putting the deck back in its place。 So much for gratitude； he thought。 News was big on making nice when they needed something…a quick fix； a rush edit； or some effects generation…but give them a hot story and watch everything else drop right off the map。
A garbled transmission squawked across the police scanner； Laura bolted to the desk； pen and notebook in hand。 〃County to Adam…sixty； e in please 。。。 Adam…sixty； please respond 。。。 〃
〃Shit！〃 Laura hissed。 〃That little bastard！〃
〃What's going on？〃 Gary asked。 Not that she was talking to him or anything。
〃What？〃 Laura started as if she'd forgotten he was there。 〃Oh； nothing。〃 She turned toward the scanner； figurative steam hissing out of her ears。 〃Kirk and Mike took off chasing down a lead almost forty minutes ago；〃 she said； 〃and I told them to maintain radio contact； but Kirk is such a little goddamned asshole sometimes； and 。。。 〃
And Mike's such a stoner； Gary thought。 Mike hadn't been around too long； but Gary liked him in a my…dorky…kid…brother kind of way。 In some ways； Mike reminded Gary of himself； a decade or so ago。 Same goofy go…for…broke resolve； same fascination with the toys and tools of his trade。
Of course； Mike seemed spacier； but then Gary wasn't sure how much of that was the change in himself。 He could remember more than once looking down to find his face wrapped around the pay end of a bong。
〃Well； if that's all you need； then 。。。 〃 Gary began； easing his way toward the door。
And that was when Kirk came busting in。
Now； ten years in television news could turn the most delicate stomach lining to boot leather。 Gary's had long since made the change。 Experience had sharpened his senses even as it had dulled his feelings； he picked up on the heady adrenaline…scent of disaster almost instantly。 It mingled with another smell： the high nasal tang of undiluted ambition。
It didn't take a master detective to win the first round of what's wrong with this picture！ Kirk Bogarde was one of the vainest sons…of…bitches on earth； but here he was； showing up at work spattered from head to toe in mud； his hair all unmoussed and tousled。 Mike's battered camera dangled from one hand； mud…spattered