J. Wachowski - In Plain View

“Who’s that, Aunt Maddy?” Jenny whispered right in my ear. With her head on my shoulder, I’m sure she could hear the whole thing, loud and clear.

“That’s my boss.”

“He’s loud.”

“Yeah.” But not so bad.

Ainsley came back on the line. “There’s someone else here who wants to speak to you.”

“If you ever satellite something without my approval again I will fire you, blackball you, and badmouth you at every ITVA convention I attend for the rest of my career. Clear?” Shirley Shayla said with the kind of cold-blooded lizard directness that left no doubt of bluff.

“Uh, yeah.”

“How is your niece?”

General managers drive straight to the point.

“She’s going to be all right.” My awareness shifted from the phone conversation to the weight of Jenny fitting right against my side. It felt like having a secret, like I’d finally figured out the answer. “We’re going to be fine.”

“Good,” Shayla said and I really think she meant it.

Ainsley came back on the line suddenly. “It was Uncle Rich who talked to the guys at network. They were a bit freaked about the shift from the autoerotic angle. But everybody’s cool now. Ms. Shayla really went to bat for you, too.” His voice dropped to a half whisper. “They just walked out so I can tell you, Shayla really liked the final version. She said, ‘Now that’s what I was hoping to see.’ After everyone talked, I only had to do a couple small changes-”

“What?” I stiffened. Jenny’s head bounced lightly against my collar bone.

“-but I think you’ll like them.”

“You changed my story?”

“Only a little. Mostly audio.”

“You changed my story?”

He blew out a rush of words. “We-they thought the end was sort of preachy. I took out a couple lines of voice-over and added some music. Some good music.”

“You changed my story.” I wondered for a minute if the pain in my leg was making me delirious.

“Yeah,” Ainsley gave in. “I changed it.”

“What ‘good music’?”

“It’s instrumental. Nothing canned. It’s an old folk song that starts with a flute and ends with a full rock band. It’s cool.”

“I’m sorry? Did you say ‘full rock band’? My funky, Amish-modern-world tragedy, This American Life meets 60 Minutes, sure-bet-for-an-Emmy-nomination-at-least, now has a music video soundtrack?”

No answer.

“College, did you ever explain to me exactly why they kicked you out of school?”

“Ha,” he laughed nervously. “Funny.”

“We’re going to talk about this later. I’m hanging up now. I think I may be hallucinating.” My pride sluiced through a filter of relief. “Thanks, Ainsley. For handling stuff on the work front. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“You’re welcome, Maddy.”

Jenny decided she was hungry as soon as I got off the phone. Curzon volunteered to stick around and supervise the heating of the frozen pizza. Then he stayed while we watched a mind-numbing kids’ movie on cable. When Jenny finally fell asleep on the couch, he was the one who carried her into her room while I limped along behind them. But he left me to do the tucking in.

“You did good today, kid,” I whispered to the sleeping girl. If people in a coma can hear you, why not someone merely dreaming? I brushed the hair off her face and rubbed her forehead lightly with my thumb. Little by little the motion smoothed the furrows between her brows. “Don’t give up on me.”

She didn’t answer. She slept. Peacefully. That was enough.

For the moment.

Before I went back into the family room, I went and found my messenger bag and the large plastic storage container that my sister had filled with medicine and supplies. The same one Jenny had pulled out to treat me after my fall. Hobbling back into the family room, I set the box on the coffee table in front of Curzon. Curious, he reached for the lid. I stopped him from lifting it.

“Did you know?” I asked.

“Know?”

“Pat. My sister. He drove the car-”

“He tell you that?” he interrupted, suddenly shifting forward on the couch.

I nodded. Holding so much inside, I lost the ability to verbalize. I was afraid I’d scream if I opened my mouth.

Curzon stared at me. “He’s going to jail. For a long time.”

I hit the top of the plastic box with the flat of my hand. The sting helped. “Did. You. Know.”

“I suspected.”

I heard my breath rush out as if I’d taken a hit. “Why…why didn’t you say something?”

“I told you I hadn’t given up investigating your sister’s case.” He was completely matter of fact about it. “I’ve been watching that guy for weeks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

“Same reason you didn’t you tell me, until a few hours ago, you had an SUV following you all over town!” He stood up fast and sent the box skidding across the table. “You have secrets you need to keep, Maddy O’Hara? I have mine.”

True enough. I hadn’t told him half the things I should have.

Curzon tipped his head and winced, as if he didn’t like the sound of his own words. “Nicky’s letter had the fire service people in an uproar. I couldn’t go near Pat without a written complaint, something concrete to investigate. The IAFF filed a grievance against the police department that named every man at station six. Politics muddied the water.”

I sat down on the edge of the table. “That’s why you were nagging about reporting the car that ran me off the road? Politics?”

“Pat’s connected. You know how things work.”

“Where’s the pressure coming from? The guy who brought Pat to your party? The one who’s challenging you for Sheriff?”

“Got it in one.”

“I’ll witness a complaint. But I can do concrete, as well.” I pulled the box close and took off the lid. Beneath the princess band-aids and the hot water bottle sat a gallon-sized baggie full of several dozen foil blister packs. “This is what Pat was looking for. Jenny found it out in the garage the other day. According to Pat, my sister took it from him. She was planning to turn him in.”

Curzon squeezed the bag, smooshing the foil packets around inside. “They’re samples. Handed out by the pharmaceutical companies to doctors as trial medicine for patients. Not tracked like other medication because they’re supposedly available in limited quantities.” He looked at the labels. “These are popular on the club scene.”

We both took a few calming breaths. Curzon finally sat back down on the couch.

“I have one more thing to show you.” From the bottom of my backpack I pulled out Tom Jost’s cell phone and put it on the table. “Jane Q. Public wants to turn this in.”

“Christ, O’Hara! I’ve been looking everywhere… Where did Jane get it?”

I thought of the old man in the plastic hospital tent and his daughter in Grace’s car, both struggling to heal in isolation. Curzon was right. I needed to keep their secrets. “Jane doesn’t remember.”

The sheriff did not look happy with that answer, so I kept talking. “The phone numbers in memory show that Tom Jost called the authorities and invited them to his pending suicide. He also called his dad. And Pat.”

Curzon nodded. “I looked those calls up with dispatch after Jane gave me her last tip. Didn’t know about the dad or Pat. But that fits.”

“Fits how?”

“Am I still speaking to Jane? Or am I speaking to Maddy O’Hara?”

“Maddy’s story is in the can. Jane is merely curious.”

“Tom did write a note. He mailed it to the fire chief. Didn’t say he was going to kill himself, but he confessed that he’d failed to discourage Pat from engaging in harmful activities and the fire chief might want to investigate.” Curzon waved the sample packet in the air. “Figured it was something like this. I tried to use the note as leverage for a warrant but there was too much blow-back. How could the judge trust the word of a guy who was obviously unstable?”