Nowhere to Run (11 page)

Two uniformed security guards stood at the doorway of John Lee’s newly reopened office, waiting to escort him from the building while Annabelle helped him fill the cardboard boxes that had been provided for packing his personal possessions.

This was so humiliating. Annabelle winced as she took Lee’s medical school diploma from the wall. One day you’re waltzing through the lobby, flashing your ID to enter the heady world of broadcast journalism, the next you’re persona non grata, the enemy, forbidden inside. She had heard stories of others who had been hurried out the door like this, given the literal bum’s rush, but she had never actually seen it happen. She hoped she never would again. Annabelle couldn’t stand John Lee, but she wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

“I can’t carry all this stuff with me, Annabelle.”

“I know. I’ll have the attendants come, and we’ll send the cartons of books and things to your apartment. In fact, if you want to get out of here, I’ll finish packing up.”

“Okay, but I want to clean out my desk myself.”

As he cleared the Rolodex and clock from the desktop, the phone rang. Annabelle pretended to be preoccupied with taking books from the shelves as she overheard Lee’s angry half of the conversation.

“It’s about time you returned my call.” The doctor’s voice cracked. “How the hell could you do this to me, telling me it was anthrax when it wasn’t?

“Don’t give me that crap. There was no anthrax in there. It was powdered sugar.

“No, it’s not impossible. The lab tests were conclusive.

“Well, if you swear that what you gave me was anthrax, then where the hell is it?”

The risk had been enormous, but there was no way that the swap could have been done at home; the chance of contamination there was unacceptable. If the authorities found traces of anthrax in the Broadcast Center, they would attribute them to Dr. Lee’s stunt and clean up the mess.

Yes, it had been a good call to do it all right here in the building. It had worked out so effortlessly, really, costing next to nothing. The bonanza of finding the anthrax so easily in the drawer in John Lee’s office, the scanning of the Internet for a crash course in handling the deadly white powder, the trip to the biohazard supply store for the masks and the gloves. Even the children’s chemistry set sent by the toy manufacturer as a sample for promotion had shown up at precisely the right time, its small glass test tubes indistinguishable from the one in Lee’s desk.

The Broadcast Center was a sprawling building with subterranean layers of storage rooms and forgotten closets. One of those served as the convenient, hidden workshop.

There had been only one hitch, one thing that should have been done differently. It would have been better to pick up the confectioners’ sugar at the supermarket instead of sneaking into the cafeteria and filching it there. That mistake had the potential of ruining everything.

And there was another loose end that needed to be tidied up as well. That manuscript couldn’t stay in Annabelle’s bag forever. After Jerome died, Annabelle could bring his vile diatribe to a publisher herself, or she could go ahead and write her own book.

The press information department issued Yelena Gregory’s statement, and a half hour later Annabelle read on her computer screen the text from the Associated Press.

Short, and not so sweet.

Now she knew where this was going to leave her, at least for the time being. Since she had no medical correspondent to work with, Linus expected her to field-produce. Familiarizing herself with the locations they were shooting and suggesting angles for their coverage wouldn’t be a problem. Annabelle knew her city well, but it sure wouldn’t be fun standing out in the freezing cold New York Harbor on Tuesday morning.

She glanced at her watch, eager for one o’clock to come. She hadn’t had lunch with Constance in quite a while, and she wanted to catch up on everything that had been happening. They were only going up the street to the little Greek restaurant, but at least it was an opportunity to talk without interruption, away from the KEY News crowd.

As she was putting on her coat, the phone rang and she stopped to answer it. “Annabelle Murphy speaking.”

“This is Essex Hills Hospital. We have you listed as the emergency contact for a Jerome Henning.”

“Yes?” she answered with trepidation. It couldn’t be good if they were calling the emergency contact. Her mind raced. Jerome’s parents had died while she was dating him. He had only one sibling, a brother who lived on the West Coast. She was touched that Jerome had put her down to be the person to call in an emergency.

“Hold on one moment, please. The doctor would like to speak with you.”

Oh my God—Jerome.
Annabelle felt her face grow hot. What kind of friend was she, so consumed by what was happening in her immediate world that she hadn’t tried again to check on Jerome? She hadn’t been overly concerned. After all, it was just a virus or the flu, wasn’t it? There was so much of all that going around this season.

The doctor was on the line now, and she listened in disbelief.

“Mr. Henning is in critical condition. He’s on a ventilator to help him breathe but, quite honestly, the prognosis is not good.”

Annabelle tried to stay calm. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We’ve just notified the health department, and as the one he’s listed to be informed of his condition, you have a right to know as well. The blood culture indicates anthrax exposure.”

“Fiona Simon on line three” came the call from the intercom.

Linus punched the lit extension button. “Fiona,” he called. “How’s it going?”

“I’m fine, Linus. The question is, how are you?”

“Oh, you mean the anthrax thing?” He made a concerted effort to sound nonchalant. “Not to worry. It will blow over.”

“People are talking about it, Linus. I was thinking we might include something about it in your book.”

Linus was alarmed. There was no way he wanted this fiasco immortalized.

“Isn’t it too late for that, Fiona?” He searched for a way out. “The editing is all done.”

“True, and I have the advance reading copies all set to send over to you. But we could add another chapter on this anthrax thing before we go to press with the hard covers.”

He had to buy himself some time to figure a way out. He didn’t like refusing Fiona again. He’d already said no when she had pleaded with him to include the heartbreaking story of Seth’s accident, an account sure to hook readers.

“Let me think about it, Fiona, all right? In the meantime, when can I see the reading copies?”

“I’ll messenger them over. To your office?”

“No. Send them to my home.” He rattled off the Central Park West address.

Good. He’d have them to give out at the party on Sunday.

Linus barked out to his secretary. “Get Russ Parrish on the line, will you? And tell him I want to see him right away.”

It took less than two minutes for the entertainment correspondent to arrive.

“Close the door,” Linus commanded, “and take a seat.”

Russ obeyed.

“First of all, you’re lucky that I didn’t rip into you in front of everyone at the meeting this morning.”

Russ looked at his boss with trepidation. “Rip into me about what?” he managed to ask.

“About that ridiculous review of yours this morning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Linus.”

“Oh, you don’t? What was it again? ‘A dazzling new film’? ‘Amazing performances’? That’s a crock and we both know it, Russ. I got a copy of the movie too.
Icicle
is a piece of crap.”

“That’s your opinion, Linus,” Russ defended himself. “I thought otherwise.”

“Well, you may have ‘thought otherwise,’” Linus imitated with sarcasm, “though I would hope you have better taste than that. But the bottom line is, our viewers listen to your reviews to decide what they are going to spend their entertainment money on. If you steer them wrong, they aren’t going to listen to you anymore, and that’s bad for the show. And what’s bad for the show has to go.”

Russ waited, desperately wanting to escape to his office and the comfort of his soft white powder.

“So, I’m telling you like it is, Russ,” Linus continued. “Another one of those bogus reviews and you’re history.”

In light of everything else that was going on at KEY News, Yelena knew some would sneer at the e-mail she was about to send out. But she wanted to get on record on this subject. It concerned her that so many employees were conducting personal business on company time.

Yelena read the message over again and hit the Send button.