First Time Killer (24 page)

Rick tried again to hug Barb, and this time she didn’t shrink away. “Oh, I miss you so much, baby,” Rick whispered, mouth inches away from Barb’s ear. “I wasn’t kidding about the room.” Barb felt stiff in his arms. “What’s wrong?”

Rick cut the embrace short and held her at arm’s length. Barb just stared at him. She opened her mouth, then closed it and shook her head. He knew what was wrong. Everything.

They’d traveled to the museum separately. He’d driven, first going west on I-66, then looping around and driving east. He’d gotten off 66 in Rosslyn, cruised the side streets for a while, then got back on the highway. Once in the District, he’d parked blocks away and walked in circles before heading to the art gallery on the Mall. Barb had taken the Metro, and Rick had instructed her to jump on and jump off a few times, checking out the platform as she did, making sure she wasn’t being followed. He was afraid to ask her if she’d done that. Hopefully, she’d taken him seriously.

“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger stuff. But we can’t take any chances. I think it’s clear now he’s after us,” Rick said, watching Barb’s eyes get big. “No, not us specifically. Those of us connected with the show. I know it’s hard to be apart, but you and Livvy are safe as long as I’m not around.”

“I’m scared, Rick.”

“Me, too. If it’s any consolation, Adams thinks First Time killed Ashlee as revenge for what she said.”

“How’s that a consolation?” Barb started walking, slowly, at a museum pace.

Rick took his cue and followed alongside. They were in one of the Impressionists galleries. His favorite artists. “Well, I haven’t done anything to piss him off. And we’re not even on the air any more.”

“Don’t be an ass. You and your show have mocked him every which way ’til Sunday. You really think he’s going to make any distinction about who’s who? Besides, the
Circus
wasn’t broadcasting when Ashlee got killed. Being ‘on-air’ doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. If you think you’re safer now, you are an idiot with a capital I.”

Rick grinned. “I am an idiot. But at least I
know
I’m one, unlike most idiots who don’t have a clue.”

Barb’s face was stone.

Better off changing the topic. “How’s my little angel?”

“She’s fine. I don’t think she likes Ray very much, but she hasn’t told him she hates him to his face, like she did to her art teacher last week.” Barb continued her walk, heading through the center of the galleries, hardly glancing at the artwork on the walls.

“So there’s progress.” Rick said. Smoothed out his voice. “How are you doing?”

Barb stopped and turned square-on to Rick. “Yesterday, I walked into the family room and I found Livvy watching Ray clean his rifle. How the hell do you think I’m doing?”

“Oh shit.”

“No shit. I practically ripped his head off. Didn’t faze him a bit. Just went on about how he used to shoot all his food. Then he said something about bringing his rifle to the grocery store. I hustled Livvy out of there as fast as I could. Told her Uncle Ray likes making up stories.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Lotta good that will do. He’s set in his ways, in case you haven’t noticed,” Barb said.

“I’ll be clear: no guns.” Rick moved his family to make them safer, not endanger them. What other boobytraps laid waiting?

“Great.” She flashed a fake smile and Rick thought the small crow’s feet around her eyes made her look sexy.

Barb turned and continued her spin through the Impressionists. Her pace had increased and Rick hustled after her. They exited the gallery room, spilling into a corridor lined with large urns and other sculptures, hundreds of years old. Without talking, they continued toward the rotunda occupying the center of the museum. Stately marble columns ringed the cavernous area. In the middle, water splashed in a two-tiered fountain topped by a bronze winged Mercury. Barb pulled up and turned to Rick. “How’re things at Winn’s?”

“Well, it’s not quite like staying at the Four Seasons. Since Bette died, things have deteriorated. Let’s just say Winn could use a few lessons from Ray in the housekeeping department,” Rick said, trying to keep things light.

Barb didn’t smile. “Have you thought over my request?”

That morning on the phone, Barb had asked Rick if they could go away on vacation, now that the show was on hiatus. Rick had adroitly deferred the question. Or so he thought. Now it was back to bite him. “I’d like to. I really would. But I feel I’ve got to be here. Our window of opportunity to close the SatRad deal is shrinking. I’ve got to get right back on the air, as soon as First Time is apprehended. Besides, we can’t run scared from this guy. If we do—”

“I know, I know, the terrorists win.” Barb locked eyes with Rick. “That’s a crock of shit. You’re just trying to be macho for all of your radio friends. Some friends, letting you choose them over your wife and daughter.”

It wasn’t that simple. First Time had crawled out from under a rock on his watch. He wasn’t turning tail. “Not true. But I won’t run. And I honestly believe you’re safe with Ray. If I didn’t think so, I’d have put you and Livvy on a plane to Tahiti days ago.”

“We might just go without you.” Barb pivoted and leaned against one of the gigantic black marble columns. “Livvy needs her daddy.”

Rick’s throat felt dry. “Adams will catch him soon. You’ve got to believe that.”

“Why? What makes you think they’ll ever catch him?”

Rick reached out and placed his hands gently on Barb’s shoulders, wanting to turn her around, but she didn’t yield. Kept facing away, gaze aimed at the sculpture of Mercury. To the back of her head he said, “They have to. Because if they don’t, the terror will continue. They have to catch him.”

R
ICK WASN
’
T USED
to being on the “wrong” side of the glass partition separating the studio from master control. But there he sat, keeping J.T. company in master control while the young producer ran the board for the day’s Best Of episode.

Rick had futzed away a couple hours in his office reading trade mags and answering email, but the busywork routine was getting old. He was itching to get back on the air. Connect with his listeners. Give advice to the confused. Amuse drivers stuck in traffic. He was ready for anything that entailed speaking into the microphone on-air to his loyal audience. As usual, Barb was right, radio was in his blood.

J.T. finished with the spots and started the next segment. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. Not a care in the world.

“How are you holding up?” Rick asked. By all outward appearances, J.T. seemed unperturbed by First Time’s terror, but some guys were better at hiding stress than others.

“I’m okay. I’ve been taking wagers on when they’ll catch this guy. The over-under is eleven days.” J.T. grinned, and Rick wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

“Uh huh. Well, if you ever want to talk about it, just let me know.” Rick nodded at the phone. “It’s pretty quiet when there’s no live show going on.” During a regular episode of the
Circus
, there’s
always
someone calling in, usually more than one at a time.

“Yeah. Although the regulars still call in. I guess they’re pretty lonely. I wonder if First Time realizes what he’s doing to their social life.”

“I wouldn’t guess he cares much about anyone’s life, other than his own.” Rick swiveled in his chair, heard it squeak. Not good to have a squeaky chair in a radio studio. He turned back to J.T. “Why do you think he’s targeting the show?”

Rick saw J.T. sneak a peek at the clock. A producer’s habit. Still a while to go before he needed to break for spots. “Probably does it for the attention. Kinda like the regulars, if you think about it,” J.T. said. “Their lives suck, and the only thing some of them really have is this show, as perverted as that sounds. First Time’s in the same boat, except he takes it too far.”

“You have a real talent for understatement. But I have a hard time believing he’s doing it just for the attention. And why us? Why not a more popular show?”

J.T. shook his head. “He’s crazy, all right.” A ring tone sounded in master control, but it wasn’t the station phone. “It’s mine, boss. ’Scuse.” He pulled his cell out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Hello.”

Rick watched the color drain from J.T.’s face. His eyes got large. After a few seconds, he held the phone out to Rick. “For you. First Time.”

Rick grabbed the phone from J.T. and said, “You’re sick. You need help. Turn yourself in and I’ll see to it you get what you need.”

“Easy, Rick. Take it slow. Breathe.”

Rick thought he detected a small, mirthless chuckle. “What do you want? Why are you killing people from this show?”

Nothing.

“Goddamn it, answer me, you freak!” Rick had to make a conscious effort not to yell. Next to him, J.T. was on his feet, staring helplessly.

“I don’t like it that you’ve gone off the air, Rick.” First Time’s monotone delivery creeped Rick out. “I don’t like it one bit.”

“That wasn’t my call. Give yourself up. You can get the help you need. You’ll feel better. Just—”

“I feel great now. Most of the time. You need to go back on the air, though. Then I’ll feel great all of the time.”

“You’re sick. You need help.”

“I’m as sane as you are, Rick.”

“No one who kills people is sane.” Rick’s throat tightened. “You’ve got to stop. What have these people done to you? Nothing. They’re innocent. You’re killing innocent people.”

“You have to go back on air, Rick. I want people to get to know me. Then they’ll learn to love me.” This time, Rick was sure he heard some a guttural sound on the other end of the line. A rasping no one would confuse for a laugh.

Rick bit his lip, tasted blood. “Why should we give you airtime? You’re a murderer.”

“Because if you don’t, more people will die.” A pause. “It’s in your hands, Rick.”

“If we go back on the air, you’ll stop killing people? Is that what you’re saying?” Rick was grabbing at straws, and he knew it, but he’d grab at anything if he thought it would prevent more deaths.

“Only one way to find out, Rick.”

“A
TTENTION EVERYONE
. Q
UIET
, please,” Celia said, as she surveyed her troops, all crammed into the break room, half standing, half sitting. Because of the unofficial liberal leave policy adopted by many of the WTLK staff, there was enough room for an all-hands meeting in the break room. Crowded, but there was room.

Celia clapped twice and cleared her throat. “The
Circus
is going back on the air!”

A few people applauded, most waited in silence for the other shoe to drop.

From the back of the room, Rick watched Celia strut like she was a highly paid motivational speaker. Maybe, in a sense, that’s exactly what she was. From his vantage, he could see everyone in the room. Winn sidled up next to him, raised a single eyebrow.

“As I’m sure you know by now, First Time called Rick yesterday. Demanded that the
Circus
be put back on the air, threatening to kill more people if it wasn’t. Brewster and I discussed things—Marty, too—and we decided it would be in everyone’s best interests if we put the
Circus
back on.”

Damon Oh shouted out. “Does that mean he’s going to stop killing people now?”

Celia stared at him, like he was speaking German. “How would I know? All I know is what he said: he’d kill more people if we
didn’t
put the show back on.” She looked around. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Why is he killing us? What have we done to him?” A pretty saleswoman Rick had never met stepped away from the wall she was leaning on to ask her question. Her eyes darted around the room while she waited for Celia’s response.

Celia held up her hands. “Look, these are all good questions, but I don’t know the answers. This guy is crazy. Unbalanced. Only he knows why he’s doing what he’s doing.”

This time, Damon stood up to speak. “So we’re going to let him tell us what to do? He says go back on the air, and we do? Isn’t that giving him too much power?”

Celia tapped her fingernail against her front teeth while she thought. To Rick, it appeared to be a theatrical gesture. He figured Celia knew exactly how to answer every conceivable question before she entered the room. “We wouldn’t go back on the air unless we thought it was the best thing to do, considering all the facts. Look at it this way, if we refuse to go back on and First Time kills someone, the public will say it was our fault. Then we’d get skewered in the press. Now, we’re seen as doing what we can to help prevent more killing.” She paced along the front of the room. Rick noticed everyone’s heads turning to follow her path. Next to him, Winn stared, mouth slightly parted.

A loud snort caught Celia’s attention. It came from the front corner, where Tin Man sat by himself. The cheese always stood alone.

Celia marched up to Tin Man and positioned herself in front of him. Put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at a forty-five degree angle. “You have something to say?”

Tin Man glanced back over his shoulder at the crowd. Then he turned to Celia. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do. I think First Time’s a pussy. And I think we should try to humiliate him on the air. Get him so riled up he does something foolish and the cops catch him.”

Frankie the engineer stood up quickly, sending his plastic chair skittering backward, barely missing an intern. “Hey, man. It’s your fault that girl is dead. You and your stupid chicken contest. That’s what killed her.” The tendons on his neck stood out. Rick smelled the beginning of a schoolyard fight brewing. Winn mumbled something about the engineer kicking Tin Man’s ass back to Trenton. Fear and nerves had pushed people’s tempers past their boiling points.

Celia inserted herself into the fray. “Now, Frankie, it wasn’t—”

“Bullshit. It was his fault she got killed, and it’ll probably be his fault someone else’ll get killed too. You should fire his ass.” Frankie took one step toward Tin Man, who had already bounced up from his seat and squared off in a classic boxer’s stance.