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“None other than Jimmy Carpenter.”
The words hit Mitch like a punch in the stomach. “Thanks, Jennie.”
He closed the phone and sat lost in thought. Why was a car belonging to the drug lord of Oxford sitting across the street from C.J.’s house and following her? Maybe that radio show was becoming even more dangerous than he thought.
The hands on the wall clock pointed to 3:45 p.m. C.J. sat in the broadcast area, her palms damp with sweat. She stared through the window into the adjacent room where Harley busied himself checking the control board before airtime. Just a few more minutes and she’d be transmitting live.
Four to 7:00 p.m.—the most coveted segment of afternoon drive time. She still had to pinch herself to believe that the station had given it to her. But it seemed to be paying off. Her ratings were climbing every week. She just hoped Harley’s disagreement with Michael Grayson didn’t do anything to jeopardize the program.
She pulled the microphone closer to her mouth and reached up to check the earphones again. In the next room Harley mouthed the countdown, his fingers cueing her to the seconds left before broadcast. With a grin he pointed to her.
C.J. took a deep breath and leaned closer to the console. “Good afternoon, and welcome to C.J.’s Journal. You’re listening to WLMT-FM in Oxford, on the air with C.J. Tanner. It’s good to be back among friends. No matter where you are, at home or driving from work, loosen that tie, settle back and get ready to spend the next three hours chatting with me about life in Oxford. Get your questions and comments ready and call me at 555-WLMT—that’s the number. But while those calls are coming in, we’re going to take a few minutes to recognize our sponsor. I’ll be back right after this message.”
She clicked off and glanced to her left at the call screener. The calls, first routed to Harley, were approved before they were put through to the broadcast booth. The caller ID on the monitor displayed the incoming phone numbers, and she watched as he lined them up for her. She always felt a moment of apprehension before the first question. Once into the broadcast, she relaxed, letting the callers voice their concerns and responding to them in a lively give-and-take.
All too soon the commercial ended. Harley was counting down again. She scanned the caller screen and frowned: the display read private number. They had agreed when the show went on the air that all callers had to be identified. Why was Harley putting this one through?
She looked at Harley and shook her head, but he motioned for her to take the call.
Frowning, she spoke into the microphone. “This is C.J. What’s on your mind tonight?”
A soft chuckle sounded on the other end of the line, and a voice purred into her ear. “My name is Fala. I thought we might tell your listeners about our game.”
Cold fear washed over her, and she fumbled to bring the mic closer. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.”
“Come on, C.J. You know what I mean. I sent you a riddle this morning. Have you solved it yet?”
The voice held a wheedling tone and maybe a Southern drawl. But one thing she was certain of—she was talking to Fala.
From the next room Harley grinned at her. C.J. motioned to him to cut the call, but he shook his head. “If you don’t have something to discuss, then I’m going to take the next caller.”
“But I want everybody to know about our little game. I sent a riddle telling you I’m going to kill somebody. The only way to stop me is for you to solve it.”
C.J. glared at Harley who appeared to be enjoying every word of the exchange. “Okay, I’ve heard enough. I don’t appreciate practical jokes.”
A long sigh came over the line. “I assure you this is no joke. Maybe you don’t understand. Someone is about to die, and only you can save them.”
She swallowed and struggled to speak. “Wh-who’s going to d-die?”
Fala’s exasperated sigh sent chills down C.J.’s spine. “You disappoint me, C.J. Instead of trying to figure out the riddle, you expect me to tell you the answer. That’s against the rules. If you want to win, you have to do it on your own.”
She sat silent, her mind whirling, but Harley motioned for her to keep the caller talking. No dead air—one of his cardinal rules.
She straightened in her chair and tried again. “Okay, Fala—if that’s your real name—tell me more about this game you’re playing that’s going to end in someone’s death. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
A shrill laugh echoed in C.J.’s ear. “You’d better believe it. I’m not afraid to kill.”
C.J.’s. shaking fingers clutched the edge of the console. “But why would you do such a horrible thing?”
“Maybe it’s because of the look in their eyes.”
“What do you mean?”
There was a moment of hesitation. “Because they never expect it. And when they realize what’s happening, it’s too late.”
This was escalating into a horrible nightmare. Mitch’s warning flashed into her mind, but she pushed it aside. “Fala, you can’t be serious.”
The laughter increased. “Oh, but I am. I’m about to kill someone, somewhere in Oxford, and the only way you can stop me is to figure out the riddle. If you haven’t done it yet, you’re not going to. So this one’s for you, C.J.”
The phone clicked in her ear, leaving behind a dead silence that chilled her blood and sent goose bumps flying over her flesh. Harley’s clenched fist shot into the air, and he mouthed a big “All right” as the board lit up with calls.
C.J. covered her face with her hands and shook. Never in her life had she heard such hatred in a voice. Could Fala be telling the truth? Was someone about to die?
All she could do was hope it was someone playing a joke on her. But something told her that Fala meant every word he said.
When C.J. switched the last caller off, she stormed out of the broadcast booth. Harley, his face filled with satisfaction, grinned at her. “Some night, huh? Your ratings ought to go through the roof tomorrow.”
“Harley,” she yelled, “how could you let that person stay on the line?”
He reached out toward her, but she swatted his hand away. His face creased into the little boy look she’d come to recognize as his way of saying I-want-my-way. “Now, C.J., you have to expect these crazies to come out of the woodwork every once in a while. You gotta use them to build your audience appeal. That’s all I was doing.”
“But he said he was going to kill somebody!”
“Aw, don’t pay any attention to that,” he purred. “Whoever it was just wanted fifteen minutes of fame, and I gave it to him. You’ll never hear from Fala again.”
C.J. crossed her arms and shook her head. “You don’t know that.”
Harley began to shut the console off. “Come on. The satellite programming has taken over. Let’s go home. I’ll walk you to your car.”
C.J. hugged her arms around her body and shivered. By this time it would be dark outside, and she didn’t want to walk into that parking lot alone. “Okay, let me get my coat, and we’ll go.”
Walking back to her office, she looked over her shoulder with each step. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something evil had invaded WLMT.
The wooded area across from WLMT provided the perfect place to observe the radio station. Three of the tall letters on the flat roof burned this evening and cast an outline of the boxlike, two-story brick building against the night sky. Office lights on the second floor went out. Harley and C.J. must be getting ready to leave. Fala pulled the coat pocket open and dropped the cell phone into it.
C.J. had been scared all right. It was evident in the way her voice trembled. Would she walk to her car alone? No, she’d be afraid that Fala would be waiting.
I’m close, C.J. Can you see me?
The door to the station opened and Harley Martin escorted C.J. to her car. She got in, rolled the window down and spoke to him. He nodded and walked around the car, testing the locks on each door. When he’d finished, he waved, and jogged back to his truck. C.J. waited until he pulled up behind her before she drove into the street.
“Oh, C.J., you’re so predictable. That’s what makes you such an easy target,” Fala muttered.
With excitement growing at what lay ahead, Fala turned and strode back through the trees to the car on the other side of the woods. Moonlight drifted through the bare branches. A cat chewed on the carcass of a dead bird at the end of the path. A well-placed kick sent the feline darting away.
Fala’s gloved hand picked up the bird’s lifeless form and caressed it. The smell of death drifted upward. It radiated through his every pore and set his every sense on fire.
The hand holding the bird’s body shot toward the sky. “Let the game begin!”
THREE
5:00 a.m.
The bedside clock glowed in the early morning darkness. C.J. moaned and pounded her pillow into shape once more. Last night, when she had arrived home and checked her computer, she saw that another e-mail had awaited her. With shaking fingers she opened the message and read it, her eyes growing wider with each word.
You didn’t guess, my first move’s through,
Someone now is blaming you.
You should have stopped my fun-filled spree,
Death surrounds you, wait and see.
Fala
Chilled by the reminder of a maniacal laugh and a sinister message, she had cowered underneath the covers.
With a groan, she sat up in bed. She couldn’t sleep anymore because of her worry about Fala’s e-mail, so she decided to go for a morning run to distract herself.
A few minutes later she walked into the kitchen. Dressed in sweats, her key ring hanging from her wrist, she adjusted the band covering her ears and headed into the cold. Very few lights burned in the neighborhood houses on the street. How she envied those sleeping peacefully in their beds.
She approached the intersection at the end of the street, the slap of her tennis shoes on the pavement beating out a steady rhythm. She had laid out the square that composed her two-mile route when she first moved in the neighborhood, and it never varied. Left from her driveway, right on Crump Avenue, right on Knight’s Way, right on Bellevue and finally back onto Lansdowne. She always breathed a sigh of relief when she made that last turn onto her street and jogged into her driveway.
There were never many vehicles on the roads this time of morning. She liked it that way—alone with her thoughts, no sounds except the panting of her breath and her shoes hitting the asphalt. A car approached from the rear, causing her to glance backward. A black SUV moved toward her, its engine purring. She jogged to the edge of the street to let it pass, but it stayed behind her. Her chest tightened. In the early morning light it was impossible to tell for sure, but it looked like the car she’d spotted across from her house the day before.
Her heart pounded, and she picked up her pace. The vehicle maintained its slow speed. Taking a deep breath, she surged forward. The car sped up, but didn’t pass. Now she ran faster, the SUV’s engine humming in her ears. Certain that she was being pursued, she lengthened her strides until the muscles in her thighs screamed in pain and her lungs burned. The car crept behind her like a giant shadow, waiting to pounce.
Ahead she could see the turn onto her street, and she willed her legs to move even faster. As she turned onto Lansdowne, the newspaper delivery van rumbled toward her. With a roar, the SUV shot past her and disappeared down the street.
Panting for breath, C.J. stopped and leaned over, her hands propped on her knees. She gulped mouthfuls of air. The deliveryman paused to wave before flinging a newspaper onto a driveway. C.J. sank down on the curb and smiled in relief.
Had she really been followed or had her imagination run away with her? After a few minutes, she rose and trotted toward home. As she passed Mary’s house, she slowed and let her gaze travel over the brick structure. Something was out of place.
She stopped in her driveway and stared at the dark house. With a shrug she headed to her front door. Her sleep-deprived brain must be conjuring up problems where there were none.
Thirty minutes later, fresh from the shower and wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she stepped into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and remembered that she hadn’t yet brought in the newspaper. Hurrying out the front door into the driveway, she scooped up the paper, then stopped and stared at Mary Warren’s house. What was different this morning?
Her eyes widened. The closed living-room drapes. She’d never seen that before. Mary, who retired early every evening, was always up by this time, and she never drew the curtains in her living room. The newspaper dropped from her hand. She ran across the yard and stopped at Mary’s front door.
The unlocked storm door opened with her touch, and she pounded on the wooden front door. “Mary! Mary!”
From somewhere inside, Otto howled. C.J. cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned close to the small glass pane in the door. She looked into the dark, but could detect no movement. Otto wailed again.
She backed away, her legs shaking. Maybe Mary was sick or hurt. She raced across the yard and rushed into her house. Running to the bedroom, she grabbed the key ring she’d tossed on the dresser before showering. Months ago Mary had insisted that C.J. take a key to her house. It made her feel better to know that a trusted neighbor could get in if there were ever an emergency.
She ran out the back door and toward the gate in the fence that separated their yards, leaped onto the back porch, and pounded her fist against the door. “Mary! Let me in.”
Inside, Otto’s howl pierced the air, and he pawed at the door.
The keys jingled against each other as C.J. tried to jam the key in the lock. After several attempts, her shaking fingers finally inserted the key and turned it. Otto jumped up on her leg the moment she stepped inside.
She patted his head and stepped into the dark kitchen. An ominous silence hovered in the air. She stopped just inside the door and switched the kitchen light on. Otto ran to the door to the den and hesitated. He looked back as if inviting her to follow, then dashed from the room.
A strange smell assaulted her nose. She inched toward the den.
“M-Mary!”
Her voice echoed through the house.
Another step. “Mary, are you all right?”
The tapping of Otto’s paws on the hardwood of the den caused her to halt. He ran through the door and whined. “Where’s your mama, Otto? In her bedroom?”
C.J. switched on the den light and walked toward the dark hallway on the other side that led to the bedrooms. Otto ran ahead of her and stopped at Mary’s closed bedroom door.
She tapped on the door. “Mary, are you in there?”
As she pushed the door open, Otto wiggled past and disappeared into the bedroom. The rusty scent poured from the room and overwhelmed her. She staggered backward into the hall.
Otto rushed back to her, raised his head and howled before he leaned forward and nuzzled her leg, the red stain on his nose smearing her jeans. What was it? She reached down, touched his nose, and studied her fingertips. With a strangled cry she fell against the wall and stood there, her eyes transfixed on the bedroom door.
Slowly, she pushed the door open wide. Cold sweat popped out on her forehead. She swallowed and groped the wall for the light switch. The chandelier illuminated the room the moment she turned it on.
C.J. pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress the scream that welled up from the depths of her soul. The bedroom that Mary had so lovingly decorated looked like a chamber of horrors. Red stains soaked the carpet around the bed where Mary’s lifeless body lay. Blood covered the once-white sheets and comforter.
But that wasn’t the worst. On the walls red handprints, arranged much like a kindergarten fingerpaint project, covered the white sheetrock.
“No-o-o.”
Early mornings had always been Mitch’s favorite part of the day—a time when he could reflect on God’s promises. This morning, though, he couldn’t turn past the page in his Bible with the passage he’d underlined a month ago when C.J. broke their engagement.
Do not be yoked together with unbelievers.
How many times had he read that in the past few weeks? He’d known what the Bible said. Even Pastor Donald had cautioned him when he started dating C.J., but he thought he could change her. He should have listened and backed away before he fell in love. Now he was suffering the consequences.
His gaze drifted downward. What does a believer have in common with an unbeliever?
The words tore at Mitch’s soul, and he bowed his head. “Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “Forgive me for thinking I was smart enough to escape being hurt by disobeying your teachings. I thought I could bring her to You, but I failed. Please give me the strength to let her go now, Father, but I beg You not to give up on her.”
He sat with his head bowed for several minutes before he glanced out the window at the first light of day beginning to break, then at his wristwatch—6:30 a.m. He still had a few hours before he needed to check in at the station.
He drained the rest of the coffee and stood up to pour himself another cup. His cell phone rang, always a cause for concern this early in the morning. The station’s number flashed on the caller ID.
“Hello.”
“Mitch, this is Jennie at dispatch. Just got a call reporting a murder. First responders are already there, but the chief thinks you and Myra need to get over there right away.”
Mitch hurried toward the bedroom, the phone pressed to his ear. “Have you called Myra?”
