Allison (A Kane Novel) (43 page)

He lifted the phone again.  He needed independent corroboration, either from the DA’s office or the coroner’s office.  Preferably both.  It wouldn’t be easy, but he had done this kind of thing before.  When he told his contacts that CBS
knew for certain
that the autopsy results were consistent with chronic child abuse, someone would crack—especially if Brent said he was merely seeking confirmation from a second independent source.

It turned out to be more difficult than expected.  Among other things, Brent had to call in markers and make promises he wasn’t certain he could keep.  But none of that mattered.  Within an hour he had everything he needed:  quotes, corroborating statements, even a pro forma “no comment” from the LAPD.

Time to talk to Lauren.

*        *        *

I stuck my head into the bureau chief’s office.  “You wanted to see me?”

“That’s right,” said Lauren.  “Come in and close the door.”

Glancing curiously at Brent, who was lounging cross-legged on the couch across from Lauren’s desk, I stepped inside.  “What’s up?”

“Brent has put together a new piece on the French case.  We’re running it this evening,” Lauren replied evenly.  “Given the circumstances, I want to know whether you have anything to add.”

Puzzled, I shrugged.  “What story and what circumstances?”

“I’m sorry, Ali,” Brent jumped in.  “Mike called me this morning.  He told me all about your bike ride and how you had discovered that Mr. French knew of the reservoir location—well before the murder.”

I paled.  “Mike told you that?”

Brent smiled sympathetically.  “He also told me that you said there was evidence in the autopsy report proving that Jordan had been sexually abused.  I just got confirmation from several independent sources.  Ali, you know I had to follow up on this.  I can’t imagine why you didn’t come forward with the story earlier, but this is too big to ignore.”

Silently, I cursed myself for having confided in Mike.  Although I hadn’t told him that much, look what had come of it.  Thank God I hadn’t mentioned the time-of-death discrepancy.

“Why
didn’t
you come forward with this?” demanded Lauren.

“I couldn’t,” I replied, still not wanting to accept that Mike had betrayed me, but seeing no way around it.  “The sexual-abuse angle was something I got off the record.”

“You could have gone to another source for corroboration,” Lauren pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“I know.  But my father said that if it got out, it would jeopardize his case.”

“That’s
his
problem. 
Ours
is to report the news.”

“But if we disclose this, it will definitely screw up the investigation,” I repeated, my stomach sinking.  “Why not wait?  If we hold off, my dad said we’ll get an exclusive on everything when an arrest is made.”

“Impossible.  Now that it’s out, we have to run with the story.  If we don’t, someone else will.”

“But . . .”

“No buts, Ali.  If you had come to me earlier, I might have been able to help.  As it is, there’s nothing I can do now other than give you an opportunity to get onboard.  I’m asking you one more time.  Is there anything you want to add?”

“No.”

“In that case, Brent’s piece will air tonight as it stands.  And Allison?”

“What?”

“You have some thinking to do.  We’re in the news business.  Your father is in the police business.  Decide which side you’re on.”

29

Monday afternoon, Kane took time off from work to drive Catheryn to the UCLA Medical Center.  Catheryn’s first hours there were spent registering, filling out forms, and signing authorizations.  Next, a white plastic hospital band encircling her wrist, she underwent yet another round of lab tests.  Afterward she was taken to a private room in the Transplant Unit, located on the tenth floor of the west wing in an area known to doctors and staff as Ten-West.

Later Dr. Gary Miller, the transplant team’s attending hematologist, stopped by Catheryn’s room for a final review of her therapy.  The radiation treatments, the first of which she would receive that evening, entailed three consecutive days of total-body irradiation, followed on the fourth day by a massive dose of chemotherapy.  According to Dr. Miller, the goal of this combined approach was to achieve a condition know as pancytopenia in which all cells of Catheryn’s immune system, normal and cancerous alike, were totally destroyed.  After one day of rest, she would receive a bone-marrow graft taken from Allison.  If everything went as planned, donor stem cells from Allison would reestablish Catheryn’s immune system, leaving her cancer-free.  Though Dr. Miller tried to sound reassuring without instilling false hope, his additional review of the risks involved left Catheryn with an encroaching sense of dread.

Dorothy, who had once more driven down from Santa Barbara to stay with the family, visited briefly, as did Travis and Nate.  Catheryn also received numerous phone calls from friends and neighbors.  Even Dr. Kratovil telephoned to wish her well and say that Catheryn would be in her prayers.  Yet despite the calls and the presence of family, as the afternoon wore on Catheryn began to feel more and more alone, as if, like a shroud, her disease were descending between her and those she loved.

Lying in bed, she stared out the window, ruefully thinking that although the view from her room in the UCLA Medical Center was different from the one she had enjoyed at St. John’s—she now had an aerial panorama of the palm-lined streets and high-rises of Westwood rather than those of Santa Monica—everything else about the room looked the same.  Bland, colorless walls.  Waist-high electrical receptacles and gas outlets.  IV stands, monitoring machines, IMED pumps.  A wall-mounted TV across the room.  And everywhere, the hard, impersonal gleam of stainless steel.  The family pictures and the collection of Nate’s drawings that she had brought from home brightened things somewhat, but not enough.

Attempting to shake her feelings of foreboding, Catheryn tore her eyes from the window.  Kane, who had stayed with her the entire afternoon, sat in a chair across from the bed.  Lines of concern etched his face.  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

“They’re not worth a penny.”

“They are to me, sugar.”

Catheryn shook her head.  “I guess I’m a little scared,” she said quietly.  “Maybe more than a little.”

“Everything will go great.”  Kane took her hand.  “You’re strong, we’re in one of the finest hospitals in the country, and we have the best medical team available.”

“I know,” Catheryn sighed.  “I just hate being here.  I hate being sick and weak and ugly like this.  Most of all, I miss you and the children.”

“Oh, you’ll be seeing plenty of me,” Kane said lightly, glancing at a cot that an orderly had set up for him by the window.  “As for being ugly—hell, Kate, even with all you’re going through, you’re still the best-looking broad in this place.”

Catheryn attempted a smile.  “How would you know?” she asked, realizing Kane was attempting to lift her spirits and trying to play along.  “Been doing a survey of all attractive females in the hospital?”

“Don’t have to,” said Kane.  “Some things I just know.”

*        *        *

Having come straight from work that evening, I knocked on Mom’s UCLA hospital room door, then eased it open.  Mom glanced up from her bed.  She looked tired, shadows darkening the skin under her eyes, strain pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Come in, Ali,” she said.

Hesitantly, I stepped inside.  “Hi, Mom.  Dad.  How’s everything going?”

From across the room, Dad scowled at me without answering.  “Everything’s fine,” Mom replied.  Then, turning to my father, “Dan, could you give us a few minutes?  I have something to discuss with Allison.”

“Join the club,” my father said.  He strode to the door.  “See you in a bit, Kate.”

“Is something wrong?” I asked after he’d left.

“You could say that.”  Mom studied me for a long moment.  “I had a disturbing conversation with Grandma Dorothy today.  It seems she got a call from the accounting office at USC.”

I lowered my head, knowing what was coming.  “Could we talk about this later?”

“No.  We’re going to talk about it now,” Mom said firmly.  “The woman at the accounting office wanted to know where to return Dorothy’s tuition money, as you wouldn’t be attending classes at USC in the fall.  Do you have an explanation?”

“I planned to tell you.”

“You
planned
to tell me.  When?  Next Christmas?  In any case, quitting school isn’t something you just
announce
, young lady.”

“I didn’t discuss it with you because you’d have just said no.”

“Correct.  Dropping out of college is the worst thing you could do right now.”

“Why?”

“I’m not going to give you a list of reasons,” said Mom.  “But you’re just starting out in life, and—”

“—and it’s
my
life,” I interrupted.  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of something big at CBS.  I want to see where it goes.”

“Honey, you’re capable of so much more.  What you’re doing on television is simply pandering to morbid public curiosity.”

Stung by my mother’s tone, I felt the barriers descending once more, years of alienation hanging between us like dirty linen.  Angrily, I looked away.  “Nothing I
ever
do is good enough for you.”

“Ali, that’s not true.”

“Sure it is.  From the beginning it’s always been Travis, Travis, Travis.  Well, I may not be a prodigy like Trav, but I’m doing what I can.  And a lot of people think I’m doing a pretty fair job of it.  Clearly, you’re not one of them.”

Suddenly seeming exhausted, Mom lay back and closed her eyes.  “You and I can’t even talk any more without getting into a fight,” she said softly.

I struggled to find words that could pierce the walls between us.  I could think of none.  “I didn’t come here to fight,” I said.

“I know.”

Silence.

“I should leave.  Let you rest.”

Mom opened her eyes.  “I love you, Ali.”

“I know you do, Mom.”  I rose and started for the door.  “I love you, too,” I added, knowing it wasn’t enough.  “I . . . I really should let you rest.  I’ll stop by tomorrow before work.”

“All right.”  Mom stared out the window.  “See you tomorrow.”

Shaken, I stumbled into the hall.  Ashamed of myself for arguing with Mom, now of all times, I turned to go back to her room.  A strong hand on my shoulder stopped me.

It was my father.

“It’s time we had another talk, petunia,” he said, his voice ominously flat.

“What about?”

“Not here.  Come with me.”

With a sinking feeling, I trailed my father to the family waiting room at the far end of the corridor.  I followed him inside.  The room was deserted.  Dad closed the door behind us, then turned to me.  “What’s this I hear about your quitting school?” he demanded.

“CBS offered me a full-time job.  I took it,” I replied nervously.  “I can go to school later.”

“And this is a decision that you figure you can make on your own?”

“It’s my life.”

“That it is, but others are affected by what you do,” Dad said, his temper barely in check.  “You should have discussed this with your mother and me.”

I knew he was right, but I stubbornly replied, “If I had, what would you have said?”

“I’d have said that you’re old enough to screw up your own life,” Dad snapped.  “Working for some dirtbag news station isn’t my idea of how to improve the world, but if I couldn’t talk you out of it, I’d have told you to do what you thought best.”

“And Mom?”

“That’s another story.”

“And that’s exactly why I didn’t discuss it with her.”

“You should have.”

“Well, I just did, and she couldn’t give me one good reason why I should stay in school,” I said.  Not exactly true, but I said it anyway.

“She couldn’t, huh?” said Dad angrily.  “Well, over the years I’ve learned to trust your mother’s judgment on things, and simply because she couldn’t give you her reasons doesn’t mean she doesn’t have good ones.”

“Whatever they are, they aren’t good enough.”

Dad glared.  “Your timing on this couldn’t be worse, Allison.  Your mother is on enough of an emotional roller coaster without your dropping this latest bombshell.”

“I . . . I know,” I said guiltily.  “And I’m sorry.  Lately I don’t seem to be able to do anything right,” I went on, suddenly remembering my recent meeting with Lauren.  “Dad, there’s something else I need to tell you.  I screwed up at work.  I made a mistake.  I know I promised not to say anything about—”

Dad raised a hand, his eyes blazing.  “I know all about it.  Brent Preston called me at the station.  He wanted my comments on a story he’s airing tonight on the Jordan French autopsy.  You promised to keep your yap shut about that, Ali.  Instead, you went right out and told your pal Brent.”

“That’s not how it happened,” I said.  “I trusted someone else I shouldn’t have, and he—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” Dad interrupted.  “Not right now.  We have personal issues between us, princess.  And by God when this is over, we’re going to straighten them out.  But what you’re doing to your mom is another matter altogether,” he continued, his voice as cutting as a whip.  “I swear, I’m beginning to think I don’t even know who you are anymore.  One thing I do know.  If you do one more thing to make life tougher on your mom, you
will
regret it.  Is that clear?”

“Dad . . .”

“I only want to hear one thing from you right now,” Dad said, his eyes as hard as granite.  “Do you understand what I just said?”

“Yes, sir.  I understand.”

By the time I left the Medical Center, dusk had settled over the campus.  Despondently, I shuffled past the darkened Biology and Plant Physiology Buildings, taking the pathway skirting the botanical garden to Hilgard.  But instead of returning to my dorm room, I kept walking.  It wasn’t until I found myself in front of a parking garage three blocks away that I knew where I was going.