Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read online

  She sat up, frustrated. A half hour to fill. Larry wanted to do something to help the other students. Looks like she was back to suicide counseling and prevention. And Reed. How would she get him to go along with this one?

  She flipped the cassette around in her hands, deciding to escape with Sergio’s music.

  Where was her tape recorder?

  Her purse. That was what had started the day, after all — the excuse to return to Conrad’s home. Fishing it out, she realized the machine was still set on voice activated. She hit “rewind”. When the tape was ready, Sammy’s finger hovered over the “play” button for a few moments, afraid of what she might hear. If she pressed it, Conrad could die once again. But she had to know. She took a long, deep breath, then clicked the machine on.

  Conrad’s voice came through clearly. “So, what makes you think I’ve got an answer?”

  Her voice was next. “Because of what you said about the teaching award.”

  Friday night’s interview. Momentarily relieved, she fast-forwarded a bit.

  Conrad was speaking again. “I’ve learned that sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie. Stay as far away from this as you can.”

  Sammy slowly inched the tape forward and pressed the “Play” button. This time, all she heard was static.

  After a few moments, the tape crackled and Conrad’s voice rasped, “Who’s there?”

  Silence. And more static.

  Conrad’s voice, louder, “I said, who’s there?”

  Sammy heard only sounds of movement. She thought she recognized a door opening. “Wadda ya want?” Conrad’s speech slurred by alcohol.

  Another stretch of static and then Sammy recognized the sound of a door slam.

  “What . . .going . . .”

  “. . . is it?”

  “Give . . . me . . .”

  Bursts of static made it impossible to understand the jumbled spurts of words, but Sammy thought she could distinguish at least one voice besides Conrad’s on the tape. She couldn’t be sure, but the tones were clearly angry.

  “. . . bye . . .”

  Something from Conrad, several minutes of static, then just dead air. A few beats later, her own voice broke in: “Sorry to intrude, but — I thought maybe —” followed by an audible gasp and “Professor Conrad!”

  Sammy clicked off the recorder, upset by the memory of her discovery, renewing her feelings of helplessness. Poor Professor Conrad. His last words were buried in an avalanche of static. She could only make out that he had had one or more visitors. Surprise visitors. Friends? Or —?

  The Ellsford Teaching Award is the kiss of death.

  She shuddered at the thought. Better not to let her imagination get the best of her. Shaking her head, she stood and walked to the window. For a moment she simply stared out at the velvety layers of darkness, then closed the drapes. She grabbed her notebook and jotted a few words. Another task for Monday. She’d hit up Brian at the station to see if he could enhance the sound.

  Monday was going to be a very busy day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SUNDAY

  7:25 A.M.

  Reed Wyndham was beyond exhaustion. In addition to his regular hospital night call schedule, Dr. Palmer expected him to work in Student Health several times a week as well as help with the immunology research at the Nitshi Institute. His call-room bed was barely slept in. No matter that it was Sunday. Just another morning to face with almost no sleep.

  Close to seven thirty, he still hadn’t finished checking lab results for Palmer’s AIDS patients. Case discussion rounds started promptly at eight.

  “Okay, and the CD4 count? That low? Well, thanks.” Frowning, he hung up the phone, entering the results in the chart. A tap on the shoulder and he spun around, startled.

  “Can I buy you breakfast?” Sammy offered a bag of bagels and a conciliatory smile.

  He turned back to his work without responding.

  “Sesame, rye, wheat, and,” she grimaced, “I even got you blueberry.”

  Still no response.

  “So, you’re not going to talk to me?”

  Reed continued recording results, his silence a clear signal that he was still angry.

  “You didn’t mean it yesterday when you said we were through, did you?” It was Sammy’s plaintive tone that made Reed turn and take a measured look at the pixie face that had been slowly claiming his heart for months, knowing that underneath lay a passionate, but complicated soul that could — and often did — drive him to distraction.

  “What is it you want from me?” he finally asked. “From us?”

  Sammy drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  “Well at least that’s an honest answer,” he said. “But after all this time together, I thought we had something special.”

  “Of course we do. We —”

  Reed held up a hand to cut off her protest. “Not special enough to deserve your full attention.”

  “Now that’s not fair. We both have lots to do —”

  “True, but I’m at the bottom of your to-do list.”

  “That’s what I came by to explain.” Her green eyes appealed to him. “About yesterday.”

  Glancing at his watch, Reed interrupted. “You’ve got five minutes. I can’t be late for rounds,” he said, adding pointedly, “again.”

  In breathless spurts, Sammy quickly explained what had happened the day before. “Conrad, my biology professor. He, uh. I went to get my purse. I left it there Friday evening. On my way to your place Saturday morning, I found him, lying on his couch. Shot. Dead.”

  Reed’s expression switched to concern. “Jesus, what happened?”

  “Suicide. He left a note. Pappajohn thinks the guy had too much to drink, got depressed and,” Sammy fought back an unwelcome gasp. “I had no choice. I found him. I had to call the cops. I had to wait. I tried to tell you. I’m really sorry.”

  Reed reached for her hand. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. I keep wondering if there was something I missed when I talked to Conrad, maybe some way I could have —”

  “Prevented his suicide?” Reed shook his head. “Don’t you think that’s a lot of responsibility to put on yourself? You hardly knew the guy.”

  “But are there some signs or clues that people should know about? Maybe I couldn’t help Conrad, but if I knew what to look for —” Sammy said. “I was talking with Nurse Matthews in Student Health. She thinks we need to reach out to the campus. In fact, she suggested I talk with you about doing our show.”

  “I see.” Reed’s eyes narrowed, “So if Matthews hadn’t recommended me, you wouldn’t be here now with your bagels and apologies?”

  Sammy produced a genuinely hurt expression. “I really do want to make us work,” she said. “How could I know that you’d be the expert Matthews felt could best relate to students?”

  Aware that Sammy had dodged the question, but too tired to resist her wiles, Reed exhaled a sigh. “Oh, all right. What time’s the show?”

  Sammy smiled, triumphant. “It starts at one, but come by the station a half hour earlier so we can prepare. You’ll talk about suicide prevention for about ten minutes, then we’ll take phone calls and you can counsel the kids.” She leaned closer to give him a kiss.

  He pulled back, checking his watch. “Jeez. It’s after eight. I’m late.”

  Sammy pulled him closer to her lips. “As always, you can blame me.”

  The man pushed his reading glasses down along the bridge of his nose. Settling back into the soft upholstery of the leather armchair, he studied the pages. So here was the proof Barton Conrad claimed to have found. Proof that would make even the most extreme skeptic believe. Proof that would guarantee his undoing — not to mention Ellsford University’s. He frowned, lost in thought.

  Thank goodness they’d had the foresight to plant listening devices. Barely a word had been spoken within Connie’s home or office that wasn’t overh
eard. Satisfied, he placed the printed pages back in the manila folder. It was all such a nasty business. But, what other choice did he have?

  Embers shifting on the hearth made him look up. He was close enough to the fire’s warmth, yet he still felt chilled. For a long time, he simply sat there, staring into the flames. Then, with the agility of a man half his age, he rose from the chair and squatted before the fireplace, laying the manila folder on the logs, waiting until its edge ignited. Seconds later, consumed by flames, the folder began its evolution into ash.

  “There’s a religious war going on in this country,” Reverend Calvin Taft thundered from the podium of the St. Charlesbury Church of God. Dressed in a winter-white linen suit with gold blazer buttons, the pewter-haired preacher was an imposing figure, carefully modulating his voice to make each point.

  “We’re at a cultural Armageddon, as critical a test for us as the Cold War was,” he screamed into his microphone, “for this is a war for the very soul of America.”

  The speaker was awash in cheers and applause by his enthusiastic audience.

  “Barbarians are taking over our cities. It is no longer safe to walk our streets. These forces of evil seek to destroy the foundations of America and American greatness.”

  Appreciative murmurs echoed from the listeners below.

  “They wish to destroy the church, the family. They wish to destroy God!” Taft pointed a ringed index finger of accusation at his audience. “You know who they are. Feminists, gays, lesbians, abortionists, atheists, agnostics — all agents of Satan!”

  From her pew in the crowded sanctuary, Sammy observed the Reverend. Like a brilliant musician, Taft played the audience. His range was as wide as C.C. Marone’s — from velvety lows to bellowing highs. A virtuoso performance. The emotional rush she felt was undeniable. The man was amazing — and dangerous. Setting himself up as the final arbiter of morality; manipulating so many souls.

  “The child is being born and they say it’s okay to kill it,” the preacher was shouting.

  “Murderers! Devils!” sang his chorus.

  “Radical feminists are taking over the Senate, homosexuals are infiltrating the military. We have leaders who would put women in combat and gays in the Cabinet.”

  “Blasphemers!”

  Someone waved a placard that read “Family rights forever, gay rights never.” The Y in gay was written with a pink triangle.

  Sammy shuddered, recalling late night chats with Grandma Rose. As a teenager, she’d often stay up past two a.m. studying, then head downstairs for a snack. Sometimes Rose would be there, her gaze lost in the ripples of a large glass of chamomile tea. Remembering, vowing never to forget. Grandma Rose escaped Poland in 1939, but the vivid pictures she painted of her country’s descent into hell resonated with Sammy as she watched the spectacle before her.

  “They would take God and the Bible from our schoolchildren,” the Reverend warned. “And replace them with condoms, sex, and AIDS!”

  “Atheist demons!” Caught up in the passion of the moment, a familiar sibilant voice was especially loud.

  Sammy recognized Luther Abbott in front of her from the animal rights protest and made a mental note to stop him after the service for an interview.

  “And if they cannot kill our children through fornication and sodomy, they will force them into the ultimate sin against God: suicide. They will be handed the weapons to kill themselves and close the path to heaven for eternity.”

  Sammy fought to suppress her anger. Her God would always open his arms for troubled souls like Sergio, Professor Conrad, her mother.

  “It is time we awaken America to their wicked agenda. Our nation must return to its Christian roots or we will continue to legalize sodomy, slaughter innocent babies, destroy the souls of her children, squander her God-given resources, and sink into oblivion.”

  “Never! Never! Never!” The frenzy intensified.

  “Those who argue that this is a free country are absolutely right. Free to spread the Word of God, to fight for moral purity!” Taft raised his arms like a crucified Christ. “To fight Satan for America and for God! Ladies and gentlemen, if we do not succeed, then it is America that will be committing suicide and we will all, every one of us, end up at the gates of hell!”

  A rising chorus of amens. Energized by their leader’s words, some jumped to their feet and began moving down the aisles.

  “Sit down, good people, sit down,” said the Reverend. As if about to share a secret, he lowered his voice. “Remember, our agenda is God’s agenda, and God is patient and wise.”

  The crowd returned to their seats, mumbling assent. Sammy unclenched her fists and sat back.

  “Like an avenging army, we must carefully plan our strategy.” The evangelist seemed to catch Luther’s eye as he smiled. Luther sat up straighter. “This afternoon we will organize the next campus mission of the Youth Crusade. These wonderful young people will form the core of our program to create a Christian America in the schools and homes. And, by supporting Christian candidates running for office, we will slowly spread God’s word to the government — to America itself.” He looked over the crowd. “Can we do this?” he queried his flock.

  A resounding. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the answer.

  “We must! It is God’s Will!” Taft closed his eyes for a dramatic moment, then opened them again and spoke softly. “We will not be ignored. We will win — for America and for God!”

  Taft’s “Amen” was almost drowned out by the raucous cheers.

  But Sammy could only hear Grandma Rose weeping.

  Even before the choir sounded its last “Hallelujah!” the hall began emptying. Somehow word had spread through the congregation that instead of the predicted snow, it was pouring outside. Hammering down from an iron gray sky, the rain came in driving spikes. Rivulets dripped from the umbrellas of the few worshippers who had thought to carry them to the church service.

  “Damn,” Sammy cursed, as she stepped into a puddle, losing sight of Luther Abbott. Like some apparition, he had melted into the crowd drifting away from the church. Through the torrent, she couldn’t tell where he’d gone. She was just about to give up when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Heard about the Crusade planning meeting?”

  Sammy spun around to see a young brunette about her age dressed in a hooded raincoat and carrying an umbrella with the blue and gold Ellsford colors. The girl must have figured her for a fellow Youth Crusader, Sammy thought, grateful that her campus fame was limited to radio. She pulled her coat collar up to cover her cheeks and shrugged.

  The girl continued brightly, “The Reverend canceled it. The back of the rectory’s leaking.” She looked up at the gray sky. “All this rain.”

  Sammy responded with a noncommittal “Yeah.”

  “You got all your stuff for Wednesday’s march, didn’t you?”

  Sammy nodded, refusing to reveal her ignorance.

  “Good. Show up a few minutes early for final instructions.”

  Smiling, the girl offered the shelter of her umbrella, but Sammy declined, shaking her wet mop of red curls. “I’m already soaked,” she explained. “Besides,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction, “I could use the extra library time. One more midterm to go.”

  “Good luck. See you Wednesday.”

  As the girl started to walk away, Sammy called after her. “What happens if it rains?”

  The girl laughed. “If it rains, Nitshi Day will be a disaster anyway.”

  Huddled together under a black umbrella, two men — one short and stocky, the other taller, mustachioed, and less willing to put up with the discomfort of their assignment — stood watching as Sammy waved good-bye. When she headed west across the humanities quad, they followed — the taller man complaining that he was cold and wet and none too happy. Only his companion’s terse reminder of the consequences of failure terminated his laments.

  • • •

  Sammy didn’t really have to study — ther
e were already rumors that with Conrad’s death, her last exam would be postponed, if not cancelled altogether. But, to escape the inquisitive Youth Crusader, it seemed as good an excuse as any. She headed toward the library until she was sure the girl was out of sight, then turned south across campus to the radio station. Truth was, she had plenty of homework for Monday’s show.

  Longhaired DJ Skip Hogan was finishing up his Sunday spot Heavy Metal Thunder out of Studio B. Otherwise, the station was dark and deserted. Fire-colored shadows played across the hallway as Sammy quietly inched her way past the red “On Air” sign to her desk in the back office. Outside, the wind had picked up again, splashing rain against the windowpanes. The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Throwing her soggy peacoat over her chair, Sammy kicked off her black boots and poured herself a cup of hot chamomile tea from the electric teakettle on the windowsill. She pulled out several cassettes from her purse, checked them carefully for water damage, and popped the last cassette out of her slightly damp recorder. Thankfully, it, too, was dry. She didn’t want to lose the interviews from which she’d draw the sound bites for tomorrow’s introductory piece.

  Sammy rummaged through her cluttered desk and located several box-like tapes that resembled old eight tracks. Juggling the carts, her notepapers, her cassettes, and her half-empty cup of tea, she moved into the editing room, eager to get started. Scanning the material on her cassettes, selecting the best passages from her interviews, then editing them onto the carts enveloped by her narrative track would take several hours.

  The rain was still coming down in buckets when she finished the preliminary edit of the five-minute introduction almost three hours later. It opened with an excerpt of Sergio’s haunting music and ended with a touching poem read with a wavering voice by his roommate, Lloyd. After reviewing it, she sat quietly, moved by the memorial.

  “Not bad.”

  Sammy whirled around to face a dripping Larry Dupree. “Didn’t hear you trickle in.”

  “Glad to see my staff doesn’t punch a time clock.”