Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read online

  “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.

  Taft targeted colleges and universities as “dens of iniquity,” promoting rallies against abortion, gay rights, and recently, animal research. What worried Sammy most was that so many students seemed persuaded by his hateful rhetoric.

  Reaching into her purse, she grabbed her Nikon One Touch and snapped shots of the demonstrators. She’d track them down for interviews later.

  The flash caught Taft unaware. For a moment he stared in her direction. Even from the distance, Sammy was struck by the power in his dark eyes, an expression she’d seen at last year’s abortion protests — rage saturated with hatred that seemed just a fraction away from an explosion of violence. Then he had led a mob through the medical school, painting hate messages on the walls of the GYN clinic where poor women came for abortions. One nurse ended up in the ICU with a head injury, but after hospital bills were quietly paid, no one pressed charges. Sammy never did discover the name of the anonymous benefactor, though she had strong suspicions.

  Now she took a deep breath, unconsciously anticipating trouble.

  “Chill out man!” the tech snapped. “They’re just animals.”

  “You’re the animals!” retorted a conservatively dressed protester to Sammy’s left.

  A boy with a military-style crew cut shoved the tech to the ground, “Let’s get ’em!”

  The mob pressed forward, pushing open the door and storming into the laboratory where the pigtail macaques were boarded.

  Sammy stopped to help the tech who was on the ground, moaning. Blood oozed from a cut on his forehead. “It looks as though it’s just superficial,” she told him as she helped him sit up. She handed him a Kleenex from her purse.

  “I’m okay,” he said, “but these people are nuts. Don’t they know our work saves lives?” Sounds of crashing cages and breaking glass brought him to his feet. “Jesus, they’re letting them out,” he screamed. “The monkeys!”

  Sammy turned to where he pointed. Taft stood to one side, nodding approval as several of his group unlatched the animal cages. The injured tech started to run from one cage to the other, trying to prevent the jailbreak, but he was outnumbered by the violent horde. Several monkeys, now free, joined the melee, providing a chattering chorus amid the shouting.

  Sammy watched the tech lunge for one tiny pigtail whose silver collar glistened in the morning sunlight. In a flying tackle, two of the protesters pounced on the hapless lab worker, and the frightened primate leapt into the arms of the youth with the crew cut.

  “Ow!” Sucking his bleeding hand, the flat-topped youth dropped the squirming animal, which scampered off into the crowd.

  Sammy witnessed one of the protesters fly backward onto a lab table, victim of a well-placed accidental kick from the struggling technician.

  “Freeze!”

  As three more protesters lunged in revenge, Sammy heard a whistle behind her.

  “I said, all of you, freeze!”

  A balding, pot-bellied policeman with a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache stood at the door to the lab. He was flanked by a corps of younger deputies. Sammy recognized Gus Pappajohn, campus police chief, and his cavalry, and stepped aside to make way.

  “Don’t anybody move,” Pappajohn barked. He pointed at Sammy. “That means you too, Greene.”

  The deputies moved in to corral the protesters while Pappajohn bestowed a withering glare at the reporter. “Where angels go —”

  Sammy responded with a tense smile.

  The chief of police shook his head. “Greene, haven’t you graduated yet?”

  “Less than two years, Sergeant.”

  “May they go ever so quickly.” Pappajohn’s Boston accent held a trace of his Greek roots. A member of Boston’s finest for over twenty-five years before taking two bullets in the gut, he was forced to accept early retirement, and moved up the coast to Ellsford. He hadn’t counted on the climate being quite so harsh. In a weary voice, he added, “You want to tell me about it?”

  “Look, this isn’t my show.” She scanned the gathered protesters for their leader.

  “What’s wrong, officer?” Reverend Taft appeared at the lab entrance as if he’d just arrived on the scene.

  How did he get back there? Sammy wondered.

  Pappajohn’s expression grew more dour. “Good. Another one of my favorite people. Join the party.”

  While the deputies helped the tech round up the monkeys, Taft surveyed the damage with an unconvincing look of shock. “My heavens, what is going on here?” He nodded at the injured protester, who clutched his abdomen. “This is what happens when a university allows innocent animals to be used for experiments.”

  Members of Taft’s flock joined in a chorus of assent. “They must pay for their sins!”

  “Fuck you!” screamed the tech whose head wound now sprouted fresh blood. “You’ll all pay for this!”

  “All right. I’m not about to play judge and jury here,” Pappajohn answered. “We’ll talk about it at the station.” He turned to his men and pointed to the tech. “Get this guy to the hospital ER, ship any injured kids to Student Health, and move the rest of ’em out.”

  Pappajohn draped one arm over the Reverend’s shoulders. “Okay, let’s go.” He nodded at Sammy, who was inching toward the door. “You too, Greene. “

  Damn. Larry Dupree was not going to be happy about this. Not one bit.

  “Special interests are taking over our campus!” Barton Conrad slammed his fist on the end table, startling several bored colleagues. “One of these days, you’ll wake up and find you’ve paid too high a price for their support. And you can kiss your precious academic freedom good-bye!”

  The science professor poured his second glass of sherry and swigged it down in one gulp. A log in the oak-paneled fireplace sparked and snapped, the crackle an emphatic coda to his impassioned outburst. In the flickering light Conrad appeared far older than his forty-two years.

  Seated nearby, Dean Hamilton Jeffries pushed his poker at the embers with tense, staccato strokes. “I understand your concern, Connie,” Jeffries answered. “But we’ve taken every precaution to ensure that no financial contribution will interfere with the work we do here. Even the Nitshi Corporation has a written hands-off policy.”

  “Have we read the fine print?” Conrad wondered aloud, ignoring his colleagues’ smirks.

  “No one’s asking you to sleep with the devil.” Jeffries responded.

  “Not in so many words. But it does seem that the more money we bring in from industry grants, the happier we are.”

  Jeffries adopted a tone of frigid politeness. “You are probably aware that federal grant funding for research is down forty percent this year. Tuition increases can’t even touch our needs.” He glared at the professor. “Just how do you propose we pay your salary, Connie?”

  “All I’m saying is there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

  “Except at our Friday faculty meetings,” injected Bill Osborne, professor of psyc
hology, triggering a round of laughter. He filled his sherry glass and passed the decanter to his neighbor in the circle of faculty.

  Friday afternoon gatherings at the chancellor’s home were a once a month tradition at Ellsford University — ever since Thomas Ellsford, Jr., had founded the private institution some eighty years earlier. Over the years, the catered luncheons had become a reluctant obligation — especially for junior faculty out to impress those elders who would award tenure, a lifetime of job security. The tasty fare compensated for the stultifying atmosphere and obsequious conversation. Today, though, Conrad’s outburst was livening up the late meal and après sherry hour.

  In deference to old-fashioned manners, everyone now stood when Chancellor Reginald Ellsford entered the study. In his arms he held a bronze plaque.

  “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen and ladies. A little business to attend to. Thank you for waiting.” He took his place in the throne-like chair beside the fireplace. Conrad refilled his sherry glass and found an empty space on the couch as the group nestled back down into their seats.

  The Chancellor continued. “I don’t have to tell you that outstanding teaching has always been top priority on this campus. So, it is my great pleasure to bestow this year’s Ellsford Award for Excellence in Teaching to —” Pausing, he squinted at the engraved letters “to Dr. Burton Conrad.” He looked up and scanned the room until he saw Conrad. Acknowledging him with a nod, he added, “It’s an honor to have you at Ellsford University.”

  Polite faculty applause broke out as the chancellor rose and displayed the bronze plaque.

  “Well done, Connie!”

  “Right on.”

  Conrad summoned a tenuous smile and slowly stood, unsteady from multiple drinks. The chancellor met him halfway, shook his hand, and gave him a pat on the back. Face flushed, Conrad muttered a quiet “thanks.” After a short pause, he took a deep breath, deciding to use this moment to further express his concerns. “We’re on the verge of —”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” the Chancellor interrupted. “Business calls.” He smiled and pointedly adjusted his Rolex. “See you all next month.”

  The cue for the meeting’s dissolution given, the others stood up as well, gathering overcoats, papers, and grabbing last-minute snacks from the half-eaten platters of pâté and crackers.