Gail Bowen: Love You To Death

“And I became a Buddhist because Orlando is a Buddhist, and I went green and started recycling everything because Orlando is seriously into caring about the environment. I was like a total Orlando Bloom FREAK!”

Nova and I exchange smiles. The child Nova is carrying is a girl. Nova believes her daughter will be a Nobel Prize winner. I tell her she’ll probably give birth to the next Britney. The current Britney stops to take a breath, and I see my chance. “So what made you decide to do the Orlando detox?” I ask.

She sighs theatrically. “Loving him just took too much time. No offence to your Buddhist listeners, Charlie D, but all that meditating really ate up my mall time. And I’m sorry-I believe in recycling and all, but whenever I stirred my compost heap, that smell stayed in my hair for, like, hours.”

“So how did you kick the habit?” I ask .

“Purging.”

I wait for Britney to embroider her story, but she has become a woman of few words. “Purging as in throwing up?” I ask encouragingly.

“Right,” she says, and she’s back on track. “Doing the technicolor yawn. Spewing. Woofing. Zuking. Blowing chunks.”

“Got it,” I say. “So how do we purge ourselves of the passions that destroy us?”

“Condensed milk,” she says . “Charlie D, for a man who’s supposed to have all the answers, there’s a lot you don’t know. Every time I thought of Orlando, I just drank a can of room-temperature condensed milk. By the time I was halfway through the second case of milk, I couldn’t look at Orlando without ralphing, and I’d lost seven pounds. ”

“Impressive,” I say. “NOneed for a twelve-step program when you can open a can of moo and chug-a-lug. Keep clean, Brit…”

I glance into the control room. Nova is talking on the phone, but she’s also keying a message on her computer. I look at my screen: Appeal to Rani. Make it good. Then we’ll go to music. Marilyn Manson-“Sweet Dreams.”

“Hey, Rani,” I say. “Are you purging yourself of me? We were getting along so well and now…silence. What went wrong between us? I need to know. I’m waiting for your call. You’re my fantasy. Here’s Marilyn Manson’s take on the love that doesn’t quit-‘Sweet Dreams.’”

The music starts, and Nova is on the talkback. “No word from Rani,” she says. “The coward in me hopes that we won’t hear from her again-that she’s just vanished, crawled back into whatever hellhole she crawled out of. Then I remember Ian Blaise and Marcie Zhang and James Washington, and I want her caught.” I can hear the anger in Nova’s voice. She’s a good and gentle person, but she believes in justice. “I googled the meaning of Rani’s name,” Nova says. “It means ‘queen.’”

“And Queen Rani gets to decide who lives and who dies,” I say. “Are you doing all right?”

Nova laughs softly. “As well as can be expected for a woman who’s eight-and-threequarter months pregnant and waiting for a call from a sychopath.”

“Somewhere along the line, you must have made a bad life decision,” I say.

“Actually, I’ve made quite a few bad life decisions,” she says. “But none of them involved you. When it comes to you, Charlie, I have no regrets.”

Through the glass that separates us, her eyes seek out mine. “Surprised?” she asks.

“Surprised and speechless,” I say.

“You’ll think of something.” Nova glances at her computer screen, and her smile fades. “Charlie, take a look at your monitor. There’s an email from someone named S.A. Viour.”

“S.A. Viour,” I say. “Saviour.”

“Your Saviour,” Nova says. “Read the note.”

The message is chilling. They’r e burying you, Charlie D. Every night they pile their weakness and loneliness and stupidity on you. They’re suffocating you. But it’s almost over. I’m going to save you. I’m going to kill them all. After the first three, it will be easy.

We’ve had gut-churning moments on the show before. Bomb scares from university kids who threatened to blow up the Lab Building so they wouldn’t have to waste time studying for their finals. Suicide threats from people with pills. People with knives. People with guns. And people who knew how to tie a noose that would do the job. One night we even had a call from a guy lying on the subway tracks who said if we didn’t tell the world what a witch his ex-girlfriend was, he was going to cuddle up with the third rail.

Amazingly, we’ve never lost a caller. We’ve come close. But somehow I’ve always been able to find the words that convince our lost souls that life is worth living. At least till we get off the air and Nova can connect them with a professional.

Tonight, my bag of tricks is empty and so am I.

Rani has killed three people. She’s smart enough to know that her life is not going to have a happily-ever-after ending. The talkback is still open. “So where do we go from here?” I ask Nova.

She rakes her hair with her hands. “Beats me,” she says. “I guess we just take care of business and keep the show moving. I’m going to play music for a while.”

“We never just play music,” I say. “I should go on air and explain.”

“Explain what?” Nova says testily. “That we’re playing music because there’s a psycho out there killing our listeners? In my opinion, it’s better to have a hundred thousand people wondering why CVOX has suddenly become ALL MUSIC/ ALL THE TIME than to have a hundred thousand people going into cardiac arrest.”

“You’re right,” I say. “But you’re always right.”

“No, I’m not,” Nova says. “But I am right about this. Charlie, the police psychologist wants to talk to you directly. He’s on line two. His name, incidentally, is Dr. Steven Apple.”

“An Apple a day,” I say.

“He doesn’t like jokes about his name,” Nova says. “I tried. He likes to be called Dr. Apple, and he’ll call you Charlie-it’s a power thing. Have fun.”

I pick up the phone. “Charlie Dowhanuik here,” I say.

“I’m Dr. Steven Apple.” His bass voice rumbles with authority. Guys who are that certain of themselves make me want to scoop out their eyeballs with a spoon. But he’s the only game in town.

“So, Steve, what’s shakin’?” I say.

“Actually, it’s Dr. Apple,” he rumbles.

“Got it,” I say. “So lay it on me. What do I do next?”

“You have to get Rani out of the shadows,” he booms. “We have to know where she is, so we can keep her under surveillance.”

I’m tempted to tell Steve that Emo Emily, with her screaming soul and her shoe fetish, could have figured that one out. But I need him too much to piss him off. “I’m doing everything I can,” I say. “I just answered Rani’s latest email. I told her she was right-that the pressure is too great. The walls are closing in. Unless I get help, I’m going to walk away again, and this time I might not come back.”

“That’s a very good start,” Steve says. He sounds like my grade one teacher. She always smelled of mint Life Savers and gin. I hang up and check out Nova’s choice of music. The tune I’m listening to is Jann Arden’s “I Would Die for You.” Very tasty and very appropriate. I listen to Jann and stare at my computer screen. Rani is not answering my email. Steve calls. He believes that the reason Rani hasn’t answered is that she’s on the move. He thinks that she’s on her way to her next victim.

“So we’re screwed,” I say.

He laughs his deep bass laugh. “Not at all,” he says. “Rani’s obsessed with your show. Even if she’s on her way to commit murder, she’ll tune in. She’s the kind of listener you must dream about.”