Caught. Part 4

Wendy continued, pacing the small room, not looking at him, keeping her voice as matter-of-fact as possible. She even closed her prepared statement by thanking him for coming today and wis.h.i.+ng him well. Then she finally risked a glance in his direction.

John Morrow just looked up at her with tears in the bluest eyes she had ever seen and said, "But I love you, Wendy."

She had wanted to laugh and instead she started to cry and John slid off that d.a.m.ned beanbag chair and onto his knees and proposed, right there and then, with Wendy laughing and crying, and despite pretty much everyone's misgivings, they got married. No one gave them a chance, but the next nine years had been bliss. John Morrow was sweet and caring and loving and gorgeous and funny and smart and attentive. He was her soul mate with all that entailed. Charlie was born during their junior year at Tufts. Two years later, John and Wendy sc.r.a.ped up enough money to put a down payment on a small starter house on a busy road in Ka.s.selton. Wendy got a job at a local television station. John worked toward his Ph.D. in psychology. They were on their way.

And then, in what seemed like a finger snap, John died. Now the small starter house held just Wendy and Charlie and a great big hole to match the one in her heart.

She knocked on Vic's door and leaned her head in. "You rang?"

"Heard you got your a.s.s reamed in court," her boss said.

"Support," Wendy said. "That's why I work here. The support I get."

"You want support," Vic said, "buy a bra."

Wendy frowned. "You realize that made no sense."

"Yeah, I know. I got your memo--check that, your many and repet.i.tious memos--complaining about your a.s.signments."

"What a.s.signments? In the past two weeks, you've had me cover the opening of an herbal tea store and a fas.h.i.+on show featuring men's scarves. Just put me on something quasi-real again."

"Wait." Vic put a hand to his ear, as though straining to hear. He was a small man except for the enormous bowling-ball gut. His face might be called "ferretlike," if the ferret was really ugly.

"What?" she said.

"Is this the part where you rail against the injustice of being a hottie in a male-dominated profession and say that I treat you like nothing more than eye candy?"

"Will railing help me get better a.s.signments?"

"No," he said. "But you know what might?"

"Showing more cleavage on air?"

"I like the way you're thinking, but no, not today. Today the answer is, Dan Mercer's conviction. You need to end up the hero who nailed a sick pedophile rather than the overreaching reporter who helped free him."

"Helped free him?"

Vic shrugged.

"The police wouldn't even know about Dan Mercer if it wasn't for me."

Vic lifted the air violin to his shoulder, closed his eyes, began to play.

"Don't be an a.s.s," she said.

"Should I call in a few of your colleagues for a group hug? Maybe join hands for a rousing rendition of 'k.u.mbaya'?"

"Maybe later, after your circle jerk."

"Ouch."

"Does anybody know where Dan Mercer is hiding?" she asked.

"Nope. No one has seen him for two weeks."

Wendy wasn't sure what to make of that. She knew that Dan had moved away because of death threats, but it seemed out of character not to show in court today. She was about to ask a follow-up when Vic's intercom buzzed.

He held up a finger to quiet her and pressed the intercom: "What?"

The receptionist's voice was low. "Marcia McWaid is here to see you."

That silenced them. Marcia McWaid lived in Wendy's town, less than a mile from her. Three months ago her teenage daughter Haley--a schoolmate of Charlie's--had purportedly sneaked out of her bedroom window and never returned.

"Something new in her daughter's case?" Wendy asked.

Vic shook his head. "Just the opposite," he said, which, of course, was much worse. For two, maybe three weeks, Haley McWaid's disappearance had been a huge story--teenage abduction? runaway?--complete with NEWSFLASH and scrolls-across-the-screen and bottom-feeding "experts" reconstructing what might have happened to her. But no story, even the most sensational, can survive without new food. Lord knows the networks tried. They had touched on every rumor from white slavery to devil wors.h.i.+p, but in this business "no news" was truly "bad news." It was pathetic, our short attention span, and you could blame the news media, but the audience dictated what stayed on the air. If people watch the story, it stays on. If they don't, the networks go searching for the new s.h.i.+ny toy to catch the public's fickle eye.

"Do you want me to talk to her?" Wendy asked.

"No, I'll do it. It's why I get the big bucks."

Vic shooed her away. Wendy headed down the end of the corridor. She turned in time to see Marcia McWaid in front of Vic's door. Wendy didn't know Marcia, but she'd seen her in town a few times, the way you do, at the Starbucks or school car-pickup lane or local video store. It would be a cliche to say the perky mom who always seemed to have a kid in tow now looked ten years older. Marcia didn't. She was still an attractive enough woman, still looked her age, but it was as though every movement had slowed down, as if even the muscles that controlled facial expression were coated in mola.s.ses. Marcia McWaid turned and met Wendy's eye. Wendy nodded, tried to give a half-smile. Marcia turned away and entered Vic's office.

Wendy went back to her desk and picked up her phone. She thought about Marcia McWaid, that ideal mother with the nice husband and beautiful family and how quickly and easily that had been s.n.a.t.c.hed away, how quickly and easily any of it could be s.n.a.t.c.hed away. She dialed Charlie's phone.

"What?"

The impatient tone actually comforted her. "Did you do your homework yet?"

"In a minute."

"Okay," Wendy said. "You still want Bamboo House tonight?"

"Didn't we already have this discussion?"

They hung up. Wendy sat back and threw her feet up on the desk. She craned her neck and checked out the b.u.t.t-ugly view from her window. Her phone rang again.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Wendy Tynes?"

Her feet fell back to the floor when she heard the voice. "Yes?"

"This is Dan Mercer. I need to see you."

CHAPTER 3.

FOR A MOMENT, Wendy said nothing.

"I need to see you," Dan Mercer said again.

"Aren'tIalittle mature for you, Dan? I mean, I'm old enough to have a menstrual cycle and b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

She thought that she could hear a sigh.

"You're very cynical, Wendy."

"What do you want?"

"There are things you need to know," he said.

"Like?"

"Like nothing here is as it seems."

"You're a sick, twisted, depraved perv who has a genius for a lawyer. That's how it seems."

But even as she said it, there was just the slightest hesitation in her voice. Was it enough to warrant reasonable doubt? She didn't think so. Evidence doesn't lie. She had learned that often enough both personally and professionally. The truth was, her so-called woman's intuition was usually c.r.a.p.

"Wendy?"

She said nothing.

"I was set up."

"Uh-huh. That's a new one, Dan. Let me jot that down and grab my producer, have him put one of those news scrolls on the bottom of the screen. 'Newsflash: Sicko Says He Was Set Up.' "

Silence. For a moment she feared that she'd lost him, that he had hung up. Stupid to get all emotional. Stay calm. Talk to him. Make friends. Be nice. Get information. Trap him maybe.

"Dan?"

"This was a mistake."

"I'm listening. You said something about being set up?"

"I better go."

She wanted to protest, scold herself for going too far with the sarcasm, but something about this felt like cla.s.sic manipulation. She had danced his tangos before, several times, in fact, starting with the first time she tried to interview him last year for a piece about his work at the shelter, almost a year before he'd been caught on camera. She didn't want to cave, but she didn't want to let him go either.

"You were the one who called me," she said.

"I know."

"So I'm willing to listen."

"Meet me. Alone."

"I'm not crazy about that idea."

"Then forget it."

"Fine, Dan, have it your way. See you in court."

Silence.

"Dan?"

His voice was a whisper that chilled her. "You don't have a clue, do you, Wendy?"

"A clue about what?"

She heard a noise that might have been a sob, might have been a laugh. Hard to say over the phone. She gripped the receiver tighter and waited.

"If you want to meet me," he said, "I'll e-mail you the directions. Two PM tomorrow. Come alone. If you choose not to show, well, it was nice knowing you."

And then he hung up.

VIC'S OFFICE DOOR WAS OPEN. She took a quick peek and saw him on the phone. He held up a finger to give him a second, said a gruff good-bye to whomever was on the phone, and hung up.

"I just heard from Dan Mercer," she said.

"He called you?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Just now."

Vic leaned back, put his hands on his paunch. "So he told you?"

"He said he was set up and wanted to meet." She saw the look on his face. "Why? What else is there?"

Vic sighed. "Sit down."

"Uh-oh," Wendy said.