Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (2 page)

“Mr. Stanton, could you enlighten us?”

The blond-haired sophomore was a mere three seats from Sammy. Better him than me, she thought. She breathed a sigh of relief as Stanton flashed his disingenuous smile. “Sorry, didn’t catch the question.”

Embarrassed titters from his cohorts.

“That’s ’cause it wasn’t a ball,” Conrad parried, aiming a look of disdain at the young man he knew to be one of the university’s star hoopsters and one of his least promising science students. “The answer is polymerase chain reaction. PCR. You might be surprised to know a jock like you discovered it.”

“Cool. Did he play basketball?”

“No. Kary Mullis is a surfer — among his other hobbies.” Conrad resumed his pacing as he delivered a two-minute lecture on the eccentric inventor and the discovery that revolutionized biology.

“While winding through the mountains of northern California in his Honda Civic, Mullis envisioned a way to copy a single fragment of DNA in a chain reaction so gracefully simple, it makes Mother Nature’s work seem tacky.”

“Like a biological Xerox machine,” a girl in the middle of the class volunteered.

“Probably a pre-med,” Sammy grumbled under her breath.

“Not a bad analogy, Miss Novak, though slightly misleading. PCR cranks out copies of DNA, not one by one, but in an exponential fashion.”

The young woman’s head bobbed up and down to show off her understanding. “Twice the genetic material each cycle?”

Definitely a pre-med.

“Exactly, and invaluable to researchers who require relatively large quantities of DNA,” Conrad responded, “or to someone who needs to know if a given gene sequence is present in a test sample of DNA.”

“Haven’t they used that technique to find murderers?” Sammy interjected, her interest piqued.

“And in some cases, convict them.” Conrad added with a hint of irony. “With PCR, law enforcement labs can make an identification from the DNA in dried saliva left on a cigarette butt, a licked envelope, even a single hair. Basically any bodily fluid or tissue can be analyzed — bone chips, bloodstains, or semen. Imagine if Sherlock Holmes —”

“Is this on the midterm?” Bud Stanton interrupted.

“Let’s just say this, Mr. Stanton. You’re going to need to know this material and then some to pass my class. You in the game?”

Stanton favored Conrad with a polite smile and a barely perceptible nod. “Double or nothing,” the athlete mumbled just loudly enough for the few students nearby to hear.

Conrad glanced at the overhead clock. “Then match game begins Monday, folks. Remember to bring two blue books and a couple of number two pencils for the exam. I’m afraid I’m late for a meeting,” he said, collecting his lecture notes from his desk and heading for the door. “Any last-minute questions, come by my office from three to four tomorrow. After that, you’re on your own.” At the door, he turned to the class, “Oh, and good luck,” his eyes focused on Stanton, “to all of you.”

Conrad disappeared before Stanton’s smile slid into a menacing sneer.

F
RIDAY
. N
OVEMBER 17, 1995
1:00P.M.

“All I remember is the pain.” After a few moments, the tremulous voice choked back a sob. “I couldn’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“Talking about it helps,” Sammy answered gently. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.” She nodded and gave a thumbs up signal at the engineer’s window across from her rickety stool. For Sammy, these few hours hosting her own daily campus radio
broadcast were a welcome respite from the challenge of required science and math courses. Sammy had worked the graveyard shift, midnight to six a.m., for six months to stir up buzz for her talk show
The Hot Line
and to finally land the prime afternoon spot. Now it was the most listened-to program on the Ellsford campus — if not St. Charlesbury itself.

“We were friends,” the caller explained. “I never thought he’d do something like that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sammy reassured her again. “Tell us what happened.”

“We had a couple beers, that’s all. He was going to crash at my place for a few hours, you know.”

“Mmm.” Sammy encouraged vocally, as she scribbled notes on her station log, and cast a pleased eye at the bank of telephone lights blinking invitingly off to her side.

“I thought he just wanted to sleep. And then. And then.” The caller could no longer hold back her tears. “He attacked me! I tried to fight, but he was so big. There was nothing I could do!” Her crying filled the cramped room.

“I know,” came the soothing response. “It’s okay.” Sammy paused, “Did you call the police?”

The voice sounded terrified. “I-I couldn’t. I c-can’t.”

Sammy shook her head, but continued, “It’s hard, I understand. Maybe calling our campus support group at the Rape Crisis Center can help.” Reaching off to her left, she grabbed a scrap of paper. “Campus extension forty-eight twenty-four,” she read. “Forty-eight twenty-four, twenty-four hours a day. Thanks so much for sharing with us.” Before the woman could respond, Sammy clicked off the connection.

“Sex, Lies, and Date Rape, today on
The Hot Line
, Ellsford station W-E-L-L.” She punched another of the blinking phone buttons. “Hello, you’re on the air.”

“This is Jeff.”

“Yeah, Jeff, go ahead.”

“It’s all bullsh —”

Sammy managed to hit the buzzer before her caller completed the word. “Keep it clean,” she warned.

“Okay. How come it’s ‘yes’ until the morning? Then she changes her mind.”

“We’re all allowed to change our minds. That’s no excuse.”

“After we had sex? The fucking bit — ?”

Sammy’s fingers leaped for the “off” button, but her reflexes couldn’t prevent the expletive from going out over the air. Glancing at the window into the producer’s booth, she winced at the angry face staring back at her. Program Director Lawrence Dupree had his limits — and obscenities crossed the line. Ellsford University was still a bastion of New England conservatism. Though she had chosen the Vermont campus to get far away from painful memories of home, it was hard to deny her roots. Sammy was well aware that her New York–bred tart tongue was a constant irritation to Larry. As she clicked for the next caller, she hoped he wouldn’t fly off the handle at the slipup this time.

“Sammy?”

“You got me. Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The male voice was brusque.

“Okay. What’s on your mind?”

The caller cleared his throat. “They like it, you know.”

Sammy was incredulous. “They like it?”

“Sure. She fought for a while, but then she just relaxed and let it happen, you know.”

“You’re telling me you raped somebody?”

The caller hesitated. “Wasn’t rape. I just had to push a little, you know. We still see each other. We’re friends.”

Sammy shook her head in disgust. “Sounds like rape in my book. I’d have nailed your
batzim
to the wall. If your ‘friend’ is listening, that number for the Rape Crisis Center again is forty-eight twenty-four. Call them. You need help.”

She clicked off. A glance at the clock showed enough time for one more call.

“You’re on the air.”

“You’re all sinners!”

Sammy couldn’t be sure if the high-pitched agitated voice was male or female.

“Violating God’s word and God’s law! You’re going to burn in hell!”

Sammy adopted a mocking tone. “For what?”

“The sin of fornication. You will face the wrath of God and die a thousand deaths of the horrible plague! AIDS will —”

Sammy severed the connection. Her own tolerance for on-air invective was nonexistent. “I think it’s about time for a little less passion and a little more compassion. That’s
my
kind of religion.”

She looked over at the program director as he simulated pulling a knife across his throat. “Well, it looks like our time’s up. Stay cool, and we’ll see you again tomorrow — on
The Hot Line
.”

No sooner had she clicked off her mike than the studio door burst open to admit Larry Dupree. Sammy threw up her hands. “I know. I know.”

“Ah can’t keep doing this, Sammy, ah just can’t,” he drawled in his Mississippi accent. “Potty mouths and lunatics. Next, you’ll be getting death threats.”

Sammy nudged her delicate features into a calculated pout. “Hey, it’s not like I’m Rush Limbaugh or Howard Stern.”

“Is that what ahm supposed to tell the dean? After your shenanigans last year, you know he’d like to can this show. The board of regents doesn’t take kindly to controversy.”

“Tell the dean and the board we’re exercising our first amendment rights
and
our religious freedom.”

“Religious freedom?”

“Sure, free expression is America’s secular religion. My job is to protect those rights — and give them a forum.”

The program director shook his head. “Sammy, you are some piece of work.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Gathering her papers, Sammy eased her tiny frame off her stool, and turned to Larry who hadn’t moved. “Hey, stop looking so worried.”

“That’s
my
job!”

“Okay then, let’s set up a seven-second delay. That should give me enough time to cut off the kooks.”

Larry nodded at the engineer’s booth. “Brian’s working on it. Maybe by next week. But until then,” he added firmly, “do something a little less controversial, okay? How ‘bout a story on that teaching award? Or those hydroponic veggies they’re growing in the greenhouse?”

“Even aggie shows talk about manure. It’s part of life, if you get my drift.”

“Well, y’all’ll be standing deep in it if you don’t tone it down. If you get
my
drift.”

Sammy refused to acknowledge the warning as she headed out the studio.

“Going to the greenhouse?”

“Going to hell,” she retorted. “I’ve got an afternoon rendezvous with the Reverend Taft.”

“Gawd, Sammy, please be careful.”

“
Halevai!”

“And what in hell does that mean?” The tall, lanky southerner was as much a foreigner to Yiddish as to Yankee.

Already at the door, Sammy turned and tossed Larry an ironic smile, “Loose translation: ‘the saints preserve us.’ ”

He’d been sitting there, feet dangling over the precipice of the university clock tower for nearly twenty minutes, not clear how he got there or why. But then he hadn’t been certain of much since — since when? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t seem to remember anything except the recurrent nightmares. Tormenting him. Invading his thoughts. He’d hardly slept at all in two weeks.

A sudden lancing pain pierced his temples. He grabbed his skull. What was happening to him?

Fifty feet below his perch, campus life proceeded at its usual frenetic pace. Everyone rushing: to classes, to meetings, to parties. No time to stand still — even for an instant. He closed his eyes, seeking
solace. Deep breaths. That girl in his psych class had shown him how to do it. Progressive relaxation. Another inhalation. It seemed to help. What was her name?

The thunderous clang of the two o’clock hour resonated within him, sending out tendrils of pain. It felt as if his head would burst.

“Look! Someone’s in the clock tower.”

In the courtyard below, a crowd quickly gathered around the student pointing up.

“Wait! Don’t jump! We’ll get help!”

Help? He’d told them something was wrong, but nobody believed him. Now it was too late. No one could help him. All those voices, shouting, screaming. He wanted them to shut up, to leave him alone. Just a few precious moments. Alone.

“He’s going to jump! God, somebody stop him!”

Easing himself to the very edge of the precipice, he pushed off, feet first, toward the bosom of the crowd. His final expression was a gentle smile. Soon it would be over. Finally the pain and the nightmares would stop.

Forever.

Sammy strode across campus, ignoring her twinges of guilt. Yes, she’d failed to tell her boss at the station that she’d been tipped off about an animal rights protest organized by the Very Reverend Calvin Taft for that afternoon. At best, Larry would send someone to accompany her; at worst, he’d forbid her going. She didn’t want either scenario. Taft was
her
story.

By the time she entered the university’s biology building, the demonstration was in full swing. She followed the rising sound of chants and claps to where Taft and more than two dozen rabid followers were trying to push past a harried-looking lab tech guarding the entrance to the animal studies unit.

“I’m warning you!” the tech shouted.” The police’ll be here any minute!”

A chorus of curses erupted from the mob.

“Murderers!”

“Killers”

“Death Dealers!”

Jockeying for a good position amidst placards and fists, Sammy raised her microphone above the heads of the protesters in front of her, shielding her small tape recorder under her left arm. The reporter in her loved to watch people react. The tilt of a head, a wrinkled brow, a downturned lip, a not-quite-guileless grin. She studied any gesture that might belie the speaker’s words — what Sammy liked to call the “story within the story.” Observing the faces of these kids, she was fascinated and horrified by the ardor she saw there. She knew it was a testament to the power of their leader.

Taft turned to his flock. “The hand of the abuser does not threaten us. We have come to rescue these poor suffering souls from your inhuman treatment.”

Right
, Sammy thought —
Father Teresa
. She’d run into the Reverend before. Tall and gawky as Ichabod Crane, Taft exuded the arrogance of a man personally chosen to serve God. For more than a decade the charismatic evangelist had led the Traditional Values Coalition, a vocal group of religious extremists. And for most of that time, Taft had been no more than back-page news copy, crisscrossing the country advocating his fundamentalist version of morality to local cable TV and after-midnight talk radio audiences.

But with the malaise triggered across the country by last year’s economic downturn, his message had begun to resonate. Not only religious kooks listened to his florid speeches. Taft had tapped into a frustrated segment of society that grew day by day: weary workers falling behind as they struggled for a piece of the American dream. God would stand by their side and give them hope. From the past year’s donations alone, Taft’s coalition now boasted a multimillion-dollar war chest.