Gail Bowen: Love You To Death

Marion’s laugh is short and dry. “People don’t care about C.S. Lewis anymore. They don’t care about perspective. Listen to the people whose calls you take. They don’t care about anyone but themselves. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. That’s all they care about. People who read and think are no longer relevant.”

I can hear the pain in her voice. She deserves to be heard. Our audience of demographically desirable young crazies should know there are people like Marion out there. People who may not be able to bare their souls on their blogs or on Facebook, but who are just as deeply wounded by life as they are.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to find answers, and nobody cares,” Marion says . “My time is past. Nobody wants to hear from me. I’m too old, and I care about the wrong things. I’m obsolete. When you stopped taking my calls, you threw me on the scrap heap with all the other junk that people didn’t need anymore. Televisions that aren’t high definition, cd players, portable radios, rotary phones. We’re all garbage now. And we’re all in the same burial ground.” Marion’s voice catches. “Charlie, I’ve been answering your questions. Now I have a question for you. How could you do this to me?”

I can’t answer. I didn’t put up a fight when Nova told me the network wanted us to block Marion’s calls. All I cared about was the show. If Marion got in the way of what the network wanted, she had to go. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean that, Marion. I’m truly sorry.”

There’s silence, and I think she’s hung up. When, finally, she speaks, her voice is thick with tears. “It’s not your fault,” she says . “The world just passed me by.”

I glance into the control room. Nova is wiping her eyes. “Marion, leave your number with my producer,” I say. “I’ll call you after the show when we can talk privately.”

“No,” she says. Her voice is loud and frightened.

I’m confused. “If you’d rather I didn’t call, I won’t.” For a beat, there’s no sound on her end of the line. “Marion, would you rather I didn’t call?”

Still no response. Then suddenly- there’s a thud, a crash, the sound of glass breaking. I can hear Marion’s voice, but it’s distant. “What are you doing here?” she says. “How did you get in? The deadbolt was…”

I call out to her, “Marion, what’s happening?” It’s a stupid move. Marion’s too far from the phone to hear me. And as an experienced caller, she knows enough to turn down the radio when she’s on air. Suddenly the phone is slammed down. There’s silence.

“What the hell’s going on?” I say. I’ve forgotten to turn off my microphone. My question is echoing live from coast to coast.

Nova switches off my mike from the control room. She’s on autopilot, but she’s a pro. “Go to the tune,” she says. “Script’s on your computer screen. I’ve got the cops on the line.”

I flick my button, and I’m back on air. “Apologies,” I say , “but I take heart in knowing that my question was the question in all your minds.

“In nine weird years, this is our weirdest night. Let’s do what we can to keep our focus. Sarah McLachlan wrote a song about her stalker. It’s called ‘Possession.’ Sarah’s stalker sued her for using the material in the love letters he sent her. Later he blew off his head and sent Sarah the video.” I pause to drive home the next point. “No one’s life should end like that,” I say . “Rani, call me.”

As Sarah sings about a man who would rather kill her than live without her, I call Nova. There’s an edge in her voice, an urgency. “The police traced the number,” she says. “Marion is one of theirs-a member of the police force. She’s a researcher for their Major Crimes division. ‘Marion the Librarian’ was just your name for her. Her real name is Janet Davidson. She lives in a high-rise two blocks from here. The cops are on their way there now.”

“So if Rani was there, she’s close,” I say.

“Very close. Charlie, the police think I’m a target because I’m the one who stands between you and her…”

“You’re the triangulator,” I say. “That’s the term Marion used. Get out of here, Nova. Go home.”

“Charlie, you know if I weren’t pregnant, I’d stay. But I’ve waited so long for this baby.”

“I know. Just go.”

“The police are sending an officer to take me out of the building. They think I’m going to need protection for a while. They want you to stay on the air-appeal to Rani. Pull out all the stops. You have to get her to come to the station. The cops don’t even have a description. Rani could be anywhere. She could be anyone. The one thing the police are certain of is that she’s going to kill again.” There’s an edge of hysteria in Nova’s voice. “Charlie, I have this…terrible feeling…that Janet Davidson is already dead. You have to do something.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Be careful. If anything happened to you…”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say. “Only the good die young.”

“You’re good,” Nova says. “You’re one of the best people I know.”

“You’ve got to start associating with a better crowd,” I say.

She laughs softly. “When this is over, I’m going to teach you how to take a compliment. Charlie…hang on. The police say Rani’s on line one. They want you to get her talking. An on-air confession will make things a lot easier for them.”

“And for us,” I say. “The network will love the publicity. We chose a wild and wacky business, Nova.”

“I think the business chose us,” Nova says. “My grandmother always said we have to grow where we’re planted.”

“Was your grandma ever faced with a psychotic serial killer?”

“I don’t think so. She taught grade three. Look, my personal cop is waiting outside, so I’d better skedaddle. The police are covering the entrances to the building; there are three cops in the studio next to ours, and they’re monitoring the show. If anything goes wrong, they’ll be in. Now, reassure me. Tell me you’re going to be all right.”

“Mama Nova, I haven’t been all right since the day I was born. Tonight the ride is just a little rockier than usual. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Charlie. You’re very dear to me.”

I reach for my tough-guy voice. “That goes both ways,” I say. “Okay. Time for you and that baby you’re carrying to let the boys in blue escort you home. Tomorrow morning this will all be over, and you’ll have a truly rocking bedtime story to tell your daughter.”

I watch as Nova throws her gear into her backpack. I figure she’s heading out, but she surprises me by coming into the studio. She kisses my hair, murmurs, “Good luck,” and then she’s gone, leaving behind the scent of hemp oil. Someone told her it would prevent stretch marks.

The familiar smell boosts my spirits. I flick the button that opens my microphone. “Rani, hello. I googled your name and learned that ‘Rani’ means ‘queen.’ What can I offer you that is worthy of a queen?”

She growls, a low animal growl, and my marrow freezes. “The beat of your heart,” she says . “The warmth of your arms. The press of your belly against mine. The electric thrill of your fingers running down the small of my back. I want to feel your body against mine.”

I try to match her intensity. “Your voice is seductive, but words are just air, Rani. I need to see you, and you need to see me. Otherwise, how can we know what’s real and what’s fantasy?”