Nobody Knows (20 page)

“Earth to Cassie Sheridan. Hello?”

“I’m thinking, Leroy. I don’t know. You want to go to an evacuation center and get some pictures and interviews there?”

“Good idea. That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Cassie.”

She couldn’t stand the smug sarcasm in his voice.

“They want us to do the live stand-up on Siesta Beach,” Tony complained after talking to the noon broadcast producer.

“What’s the difference? We’re already soaked.” He was really going to be sick now.

Brian steered the microwave truck past the tennis courts into the deserted public lot and parked as close as he could to the beach. He busied himself making the connections necessary to transmit back to the station. Brian watched the audio levels and adjusted the dials as Tony recorded his track. Then the cameraman fed the evacuation pictures they had shot along with the video of the Bayler house.

“Maybe we should go back after the live shot and try to get the mother to say something. We could make a piece with that for the six o’clock show,” Tony mused.

“Whatever.” Brian grimaced. “Who’s really going to care, though? Tonight is going to be all hurricane, all the time.”

“I’m starving,” Tony declared as they waited until it was time to go out for the stand-up.

“A ginger ale sounds good to me. There better be somewhere open around here.”

Tony began one of his standard harangues about what he was in the mood for, a dripping meatball sandwich and golden onion rings topping his list. Brian plotted how he would demand that the assignment editor let him go home. Neither one of them noticed the boy sliding the box beneath the trash can next to the tennis courts.

It was after 12:30 when he parked a few blocks from the tennis courts and walked the rest of the way. He didn’t need anyone to be able to identify his vehicle, conspicuous in an empty parking lot.

The soggy, sand-coated package that he pulled from beneath the trash can was bigger and much heavier than expected. Inside, the ruby ring was nowhere to be found.

The rotten kid had double-crossed him.

How dare he? How dare the kid dictate how it was going to be? He felt the rage pulse inside him as he reread the directions written in immature handwriting.

You want the ring. I want my brother and I have to be sure that you are really going to give him back. We need to swap. Come to the Old Pier at 6 o’clock tonight with my brother. When I see Mark, then I’ll give you the ring. Here is Mark’s medicine and the machine he needs to help him breathe. He can tell you what to do with it. You
better take good care of my little brother. If anything happens to him, you are in BIG trouble.

Vincent Bayler

He stuffed the note back into the box and ran from the parking lot. The kid had big ones to threaten him like this. The little bastard had no idea who he was dealing with.

Vincent could feel his heart pounding as he waited to come out from his cramped hiding place. The slits between the wooden boards that rimmed the outdoor beach showers had provided a good spot for spying.

He wanted to make sure Mark’s medicine and pounder were going to get to him. He’d hoped that he would be able to see what kind of car the man was driving, maybe even get the license number. He hadn’t expected the man to come on foot.

He wished he could have been closer and gotten a look at the man’s face. But there had been nowhere else to conceal himself.

All in all, though, his mission had been a success. At least now he knew that Mark could get the stuff he needed.

It was busy. A steady stream of customers came through the doors of the 7-Eleven, emptying the shelves of juices and sodas and cookies and crackers. Hurricanes were good for business. The young clerk had been occupied all morning, ringing up purchases, refilling the Slurpee machine, restocking the shelves. The owner called to say he should close up by one o’clock and get out of there. It couldn’t come soon enough.

“This is all you have left?” asked a man with a too-perfect haircut, holding out a pair of plastic-wrapped tuna sandwiches.

“Sorry. That’s it, mister.”

“Pathetic. I waited in the line for this?” Brian wasn’t going to be happy with these lousy things. Tony dreaded going back out to the truck with these paltry offerings.

The conscientious clerk felt somehow responsible. “We have some donuts left,” he offered, thrusting his chin toward the display cabinet.

“Forget it.”

The clerk watched as the man opened his wallet, revealing a picture ID card embossed with big letters. WSBC-TV.

“You with the news?” the clerk asked.

The man’s face brightened. “Yeah, I’m Tony Whit-comb.”

“Covering the hurricane, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” came the self-important response. “The hurricane and that missing Bayler kid.”

The clerk looked puzzled. “What Bayler kid?”

“A five-year-old that lives a couple of blocks from here has been missing since last night.”

“Wow. I didn’t know that. That’s really bad.” The clerk turned to ring up the next customer.

It wasn’t until he had locked the doors of the store that the clerk had a chance to think of it. The weird guy who came in last night. The one who thought no one saw him rip out the page from the phone book. The one who asked how to get to Calle de Peru.

The clerk went to the phone book and paged through to the B’s. The page where Bayler would have been listed was gone.

Islanders arrived at the evacuation center, staking out their territory. Sleeping bags, air mattresses, and cots lined the floors of the high school cafeteria, gymnasium, classrooms, and hallways.

“I suppose this is where we should come if it gets too bad tonight,” Leroy mused aloud. “Maybe we should mark out our spot.”

“If you want to,” answered Cassie without enthusiasm. She wouldn’t be sleeping, she’d be working. Felix would be shooting, she would be interviewing evacuees and writing a script for
KEY to America
. The morning broadcast would undoubtedly want a piece. Only Leroy might have a chance to get some rest.

It didn’t take long to get what they needed for their story. Felix took some general shots of the evacuees and Cassie did a few interviews. They were leaving the building when Cassie’s pager went off. The tiny screen told her to call Yelena Gregory in New York.

She tried to keep her fingers steady as she pushed the numbers on her cell phone. Maybe there was some
news on the lawsuit. Maybe a settlement had been reached. “Cassie Sheridan answering Yelena’s page.”

“Yes, just a moment please.”

Yelena came on the line quickly. “How’s it going down there, Cassie? You keeping dry?”

Cut the small talk, Yelena
, Cassie thought with impatience.
You know it and I know it. News presidents don’t call to discuss the weather
.

“We’re doing okay, but it looks like it’s going to get rough.”

“I know you’ll do a great job.”

“Thanks, Yelena.”

“Uh, Cassie. I have something I want to tell you before you hear it from someone else.”

“Something happen with the lawsuit?”

“No. No news on that front.”

Cassie’s mind raced. If it wasn’t the legal nightmare, then what? “Well, what is it, Yelena?” She braced herself.

“Cassie, I’m sorry. I truly am. But we’ve felt it important to officially name Valeria Delaney as justice correspondent. She’s been doing a great job and she’s earned it.”

Cassie tried to control her voice. “You told me that you were going to hold off, and when we finished with the lawsuit, I could be coming back to Washington.”

“I’m sorry, Cassie.”

“I hear you saying you’re sorry, Yelena, but sorry doesn’t cut it. That’s my job. This isn’t fair.”

The argument about fairness sounded childish to her own ears. Fairness had nothing to do with anything anymore.

This was the first kid he had ever seen who was eager to take his medicine.

“I have to lay down on my side and you have to hold the pounder to my chest.”

The machine did its work as the child coughed up phlegm into one Kleenex after another.

“Who gave you my medicine? Did my mommy bring it?”

“No. Your brother gave it to me.”

“Vincent? Vincent brought it?”

“Yeah, Vincent.”

“Where is he? I want to see him.”

“You’ll see him, don’t worry.”

“When?”

“When I say so. Now be quiet.”

The little boy began to cry. “I want my mother.” The coughing increased, racking the small body.

“Look, kid, try to relax. You’re going to see your mommy. I promise. But until we can get to her, you’ve got to do what I tell you.”

Mark wiped at his swollen eyes.

“Why do you have all that makeup? That’s for ladies.”

“Not always. Men wear makeup in the movies and on television.”

“Are you on television?”

“No.”

“Then why do you have it?”

He answered the boy with another question. “Ever been to the circus?”

“Yes, my mother took me.” Mark looked like he was going to start bawling again.

“Remember the clowns?”

Mark shook his head up and down.

“Well, what do you think? You think those were their real faces? Of course not. They were wearing makeup.”

“So, you’re a clown?”

“On the inside, kid. On the inside.”

FOR AS
long as he could remember, all he had ever really wanted was reassurance that he was attractive, acceptable, lovable. He had found none in the house where he grew up.

There was no touching in his house. No cuddling, no caressing, no good-night kisses. Even discipline was meted out without the touch of the human hand. A leather belt did that, or a yardstick, or the back of his mother’s hairbrush.

He watched the boy lying on the studio couch. The child was breathing better now, the coughing less frequent.

“You ever get in trouble, kid?”

Mark look puzzled. “Whaddya mean?”

“Does your mother ever hit you?”

“No,” answered the child. “But she hits my brother sometimes,” he offered, wanting to please his captor.

“What does she hit him with?”

“Her hand.”

The feelings inside were pushing, pushing to the surface. He needed to do it. He needed some release. “Come here, kid. Come on over here.”

Mark got up from the couch and took the seat at the makeup table.

“How ‘bout I make you up as a clown?”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He drew and painted and powdered the small, soft face, remembering that first clown. The one at the circus he had begged his father to take him to for his birthday when he was just a little bit older than the boy who sat before him now. He could still remember his excited anticipation of that rare outing with his dad. The terror he felt when he had wet his pants in the circus stands. His father’s disgusted expression, the hissed threat of what would happen when they got home.

In the circus ring, the clown had continued his antics, the grinning face mocking his already total humiliation.

Screw KEY News
. She’d had it.

She had devoted her professional life to the organization and had sacrificed a good deal of her personal life as well. Somehow Cassie had thought her loyalty would be returned. If she played by the rules, gave it her all, surely KEY News would do the right thing by her.

You fool
. The fact of the matter was that everyone was expendable. You were useful as long as you were useful, but when things got too difficult or another option better suited their purposes, you were history.

They could argue that they paid you for services provided and they had every right to decide how they wanted to staff the news division. That was surely true. But Yelena had promised that they weren’t going to hang Cassie out to dry. KEY News was going to stick by their award-winning correspondent. By naming Valeria Delaney to the Justice Department beat, KEY News was in fact announcing that it was leaving Cassie Sheridan behind.

Cassie hated herself for her naïveté. Or had it been wishful thinking? She had gone docilely to Miami when they told her to, hoping that they would manage things, expecting them to take care of her. That had been a huge mistake.
For a smart girl, you’ve been pretty damned stupid. You should have known you have to take care of yourself
.

On the ride back to the hotel from the evacuation center, Cassie stared out the window at the pounding rain and devised her plan. She’d be damned if she was going to roll over and play dead. She was going to show them, and herself, that she was one of the best reporters KEY News ever had.

IN RECORD
time she pounded out her script on the laptop. She showed it to Leroy and then e-mailed it to the Fishbowl. While waiting for approval, Cassie went back to her room and fished the business card from her purse.

Sarge Tucker answered on the second ring. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“About?”

“The Boys Next Door and ‘Nobody Knows.’ ”

“All right. Why not? But I’d prefer talking in person.”

Cassie looked out the window, calculating that she still had to record her track and, later, do the live standup from the hotel balcony. “I can’t get away right now. Any chance you can come to me?”

“In this mess? You’ve got to be kidding.”

She held out the carrot. “I’ve heard that Merilee Quiñones was claiming that she wrote ‘Nobody Knows.’ ”

“Where are you?” There was resignation in his voice.

“The Inn by the Bay—it’s on Tamiami. There’s a Denny’s downstairs.”

The tranquilizers had worked. Dozing on the couch, Wendy awoke to the sound of a crash at the window. She pulled herself up and looked outside. A giant palm frond lay on the grass at the base of the house.

“Vincent?” she called out.

The sound of the howling wind was the only response.

“Vincent,” she demanded, checking his empty bedroom.