Nowhere to Run (24 page)

After handing over her manuscript outline, Annabelle phoned and got the welcome confirmation. Her nasal swab had come back negative. Constance’s lawyer friend had agreed to represent her if need be. All in all, a productive, if hectic and uneasy, morning.

She called home again, this time to share the negative test results with Mike. As the phone rang, unanswered, Annabelle felt the worry that had become her familiar companion. Where was he? What was he doing? Was Mike all right?

There was nothing she could do right now, she told herself, except try to think positively. She would call again later and just pray that Mike would be there for the kids after school. She had to try to let herself trust him again, know that he would act responsibly.

Realizing she hadn’t had anything to eat except the half a bagel she had wolfed down in the cab on the way to Radio City, Annabelle grabbed her wallet and headed toward the cafeteria. She scanned the salad bar and grill station but decided on a BLT on whole wheat from the deli.

Getting in the checkout line, she thought of poor Edgar and his family. This would be such a sad holiday for them. This Thanksgiving and the ones to come would be marked with the memory of his death.

The cashier rang up the sandwich and the diet Coke.

“May, do you know any of the details about Edgar’s funeral?” Annabelle asked.

The heavyset woman nodded solemnly. “It’s tomorrow night at the Calvary Baptist Church in the Bronx. Seven o’clock.”

Annabelle thanked the cashier, considering it strange that a funeral would he held in the evening, but thinking it might work out for her to attend. So much of everyone’s focus had been on Jerome. Edgar’s life wasn’t any less important.

Lily was relieved to hear that Gavin Winston had called in sick. She had been dreading coming in to work all weekend. She had almost called in herself to say that she wasn’t feeling well, but she wanted to have a perfect attendance record for her internship.

She had talked with her roommate about the uncomfortable situation, showing her friend a copy of Winston’s e-mail. Her friend was enraged at what she thought to be blatant sexual harassment and urged that Lily complain to the higher-ups.

There was no one higher than Yelena Gregory.

Lily gathered up her courage and walked down to the president’s office. The secretary was checking the calendar for an appointment time when Yelena came out of her office and looked at Lily with interest.

“Yelena Gregory.” She extended her hand.

“Yes, I know.” The younger woman was flustered. “I’m Lily Dalton. I’m interning at
KTA
.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily.”

“I was wondering if I could speak to you for a minute.”

Yelena looked at her watch. “All right, but that’s just about all the time I have. Come in.”

The moment the intern left the office, Yelena picked up the phone and called Information Services.

“I want a blind cc put on all Gavin Winston’s e-mails,” she ordered. “And call up the e-mails of the past year.”

“No problem, Ms. Gregory,” came the response. “We know the routine.”

Gavin exited Saks Fifth Avenue and walked the several blocks north, cursing Marguerite for the substantial charges he had been forced to make to his credit card. The giant electronic snowflake hung, already lit, high above the intersection of Fifty-seventh Street, announcing to the well-heeled consumers pounding the sidewalks that the Christmas consumption season had begun.

He wore his newly purchased pin-striped suit, having shipped the one he’d been wearing for days to his home in Connecticut, since he didn’t want to carry it with him. Gavin realized now that that could have been a mistake. If Marguerite took in the package, she would have a fit when she opened it, crazed that it might be contaminated. Perhaps she’d even throw it out. The thought of that made his stomach tighten. That was one of his favorite suits, bought on his last trip to London.

As he turned west on Fifty-seventh, Gavin looked at his reflection in the plate-glass windows. A tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man striding purposefully toward his destination. Not a sniveling, henpecked husband!

He was going home tonight, whether Marguerite wanted him to or not. But first he had to get into the office and check his e-mail to see if dinner was on with Lily, and he wanted to see if there were any new developments with Wellstone and the SEC investigation. If anyone asked, he was going to say he still didn’t feel well but he had some things that just couldn’t wait, the implication being that he was devoted to the job, no matter what.

He wasn’t concerned about anthrax exposure anymore. He had started his Cipro.

Yelena crafted the message herself, hoping the news would help allay the fears in the Broadcast Center.

Lauren came home from the pharmacy and, with resolve, swallowed the first of the pills. She switched on the television and caught the rest of
Oprah,
marveling as always at how a young black woman, with no connections to speak of, had managed to build a multimillion-dollar communications empire. If Oprah could do it, so could she, or at least come pretty damn close.

Inspired, Lauren rose from the sofa, went to her desk, and tapped at the computer keys, signing on to collect her e-mails at home.

As she read Yelena’s message, she wondered if she should have bothered with the Cipro. But experience had shown her that the corporate line wasn’t always the whole truth. Sometimes management would say whatever was necessary to further its own agenda. Yelena would naturally want to reassure the staff so they would keep on working.

Lauren decided she was glad she had gone ahead and started the powerful antibiotic. She was determined to survive this mess at KEY. Survive and come out on top.

The anthrax-laced tissue hadn’t found its intended mark.

Annabelle Murphy was walking around the Broadcast Center healthy as could be.

With her knowledge of what was in Henning’s manuscript and her ability to re-create her own version of it if she wanted to, Annabelle was an unacceptable threat.

There was too much at stake here.

The decision had already been made to eliminate Annabelle. If the anthrax hadn’t worked, another, more immediate method would have to be found.