Allison (A Kane Novel) (45 page)

The interview aired the following evening as a CBS Special.  To no one’s surprise, it proved one of the most-viewed presentations of the year.  Brent, Lauren, and I, as well as others from the newsroom, watched it in Lauren’s office.  In the edited version I came off as being even more sympathetic toward Jordan’s parents, as if I considered them the injured parties.  It was an effect that I knew had been carefully choreographed by network from the beginning.  Conversely, Brent appeared even more the senior journalist, the one dealing with the nuts and bolts of the case.  It was a part he executed with consummate skill.  Afterward, disappointed and depressed, I returned to my room at UCLA.

When I arrived at the dorm, I found a stack of bills and letters that Mrs. Random had left for me on a narrow table inside the front entry.  There was also a small package addressed to me, partially hidden beneath my pile of mail.  Inside the package was a DVD labeled
Forgotten River.
  No note.

After ascending the stairs to my room, I stripped off my clothes and took a long, hot shower, standing beneath the steaming spray as the water gradually eased the tension from my body.  Twenty minutes later I stepped out, dried myself, and donned my robe.  I briefly contemplated going to bed.  I glanced at the DVD I had received in the mail.  Though exhausted, I wasn’t sleepy.

Deciding to watch the reedited version of
Forgotten River
, I flipped on my TV, shoved Mike’s disc into my DVD player, and lay on my bed.  Before long, despite my anger over Mike’s betrayal, I was snared anew in the artistry of his work.  He had taken my suggestions and improved upon them, laying down a classical music soundtrack over his ending montage and splicing in a number of more optimistic images throughout—including a shot of the waterfall we had visited in Santa Ynez Canyon.  Though subtle, the changes he had made imbued the documentary with a note of hope that had formerly been missing, seeming to say that despite tragedy and hardship, life could be meaningful; and although bulldozed and trodden and cemented over in places, the beauty of nature still existed for those who looked for it.

But as the film ended, I felt anything but optimistic.  More despondent than ever, I stared at the blank TV screen, wondering how things in my life could have gone so wrong.  Raising the remote control, I turned off the set, at a loss about what to do next.  I still wasn’t sleepy.  Crossing to my desk, I decided to put in a few more hours on my novel.  I had nearly completed what I hoped would be my final revision, and work was going well.  Thinking that my writing was the only thing in my life that
was
going well, I booted up my computer.  As I was about to open my Word application, my cell phone rang.

“Allison?” Brent’s voice came over the line.  “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“The preliminary numbers are in on tonight’s broadcast.  They’re off the chart!  Nobody’s ever seen anything like it!”

“Great,” I said, struggling to match Brent’s enthusiasm.

“Great?  It’s better than great!” Brent raved.  “It’s like hitting a home run and winning the lottery all rolled into one.  We really did it this time, Allison.  C’mon, we’re going out to celebrate.”

“Now?”

“Right now.  Victories like this don’t come around every day.”

“It’s late, Brent.”

“Late?  It isn’t even ten yet.  Listen, I’m meeting Liz and a few friends at The Gardens
for drinks
. 
That’s just down the street from you, right?  I’m in my car heading to Westwood.  I’ll stop by for you on my way.”

I wasn’t dressed and my hair was still damp from the shower, but going out suddenly sounded better than staring at my computer screen.  “All right,” I agreed, starting to get caught up in Brent’s infectious mood.  “It’ll take me a while to get ready.  I’ll meet you there.”

Fifteen minutes later, after hurriedly drying my hair, dressing, and throwing on a touch of makeup, I left the dorm and headed down Hilgard on foot.  As I turned the corner at the intersection of Glendon and Lindbrook, I spotted the tiled roof and rough brick exterior of The Gardens, the restaurant where Mike and I had eaten dinner earlier that summer.  As I approached the entrance, a voice sounded from behind me.  “Allison!  Wait up.”

I turned, spotting Brent exiting a nearby parking garage.  “Got caught in traffic,” he explained after crossing the street to join me.  “My friends are probably already here,” he added, seeming even more elated than he had on the phone.  “Let’s go join the party.”

Brent escorted me through the front door.  As we stopped at the hostess station, I glanced into the dining area.  To my shock, I saw Mike sitting with Don Sturgess and several other people I didn’t recognize.  A thicket of champagne bottles and cocktail glasses littered their tabletop.  As I was about to turn away, Mike looked up.  Our eyes met.  Then Mike saw Brent.  Without a word, he pushed away from the table and started toward us.

I knew from talking with Brent that Mike had returned from the film festival earlier that week, but I still hadn’t spoken with him.  Irritated, I turned to Brent, finding him waving to a boisterous group in the bar.  “There they are,” he said, casually placing an arm around my shoulders.  “Let’s head in.”

“Unfortunately, someone wants to talk with us first.”

Brent turned.  I felt him tense as he saw Mike coming toward us.

“Hello, Allison,” said Mike when he arrived, his eyes flat and expressionless.

Despite my hurt at Mike’s betrayal, the sight of him tugged at me.  “Hello, Mike,” I replied coolly.

Noting Brent’s arm around me, Mike addressed his friend.  “I take it you two are an item now.  Congratulations.”

Although Brent quickly removed his arm, I spoke before he could reply.  “What I do is none of your business, Mike,” I said.

Ignoring me, Mike shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped closer to Brent.  “I guess congratulations are also in order for your big news special, Brent.  Not to mention your
piece on the Jordan French autopsy last week.”

“Thanks,” Brent said nervously.

Though Mike’s mouth formed a smile, his dark eyes remained as hard as slate.  “Speaking of which, I’ve done a little thinking about our last phone conversation,” he continued.  “You remember, when you called me before I left for Colorado.”  Mike stared at Brent as though he were examining something he had found in the gutter.  “It took me a while to figure it out, but I finally did the addition.  I’ve always said you would do anything for a story.  I just didn’t realize how far you would go.”

Brent shifted uneasily.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do.”  Mike moved closer.

“I . . .”

“We’re going outside, hotshot,” Mike said, his lips barely moving.  “You and me.  And as we’re such
good
friends, I’ll tell you what.  I’m going to let you take the first swing.  Maybe even the first couple.”

Brent’s eyes traveled the room, searching for a way out.  Though he was as large as Mike and taller by inches, he was no match for his thick-muscled friend.  “I don’t want to fight.”

By now several people were staring.  “Too bad,” Mike said, still not taking his hands from his pockets.  “You should have thought of that earlier.”

I stepped between them.  “Stop it!” I ordered.  I glowered at Mike, then addressed Brent.  “Go join your friends.  I’ll be in shortly.  I want a word with Mr. Cortese first.”

Warily backing away, Brent retreated to the bar.  Once he was gone, I turned to Mike.  Though confused regarding what had just transpired, I intended to vent a rancor that had been simmering inside me all week.  But as I started to speak, something in Mike’s eyes reminded me of a look I had seen in one of his photographs . . . the one of his mother.  And with that remembrance, my mind filled with thoughts of my own mother.  And all at once, compared with my larger problems, Mike’s betrayal didn’t mean much anymore.  Despite my anger, my bitter words died unspoken, my fury melting away.  Abruptly, I just felt empty and alone.

As Mike saw the anger fade from my eyes, his own rancor deflated as well.  “Sorry,” he said.  “Didn’t mean to cause a scene.”

Not knowing what to say, I glanced toward Mike’s table in the dining room, again noting the champagne bottles.  “I heard the festival went well,” I said.

Mike nodded.  “
Forgotten River
took first in the documentary category.  PBS is airing it this fall.”

“I’m not surprised.  Congratulations seem to be in order for you, too.”

“Thanks,” Mike replied cautiously.  “By the way, I’m leaving KCBS.  Next month Don is starting that feature film he mentioned.  He showed my documentary to the director, and the guy liked it.  I was offered a job as the second-unit cameraman.  I’m going to take it.”

“Again, my compliments.”

“Things appear to be looking up for you, too.”

Mike’s words rang hollow in my ears.  “Couldn’t be better,” I said dully.

“I guess we both got what we wanted.”

“I guess we did.”

Suddenly needing to be alone, I stopped a passing waitress.  “Excuse me, miss.  Could you tell my friend Brent Preston that I’m going home?  He’s in the bar with—”

“I see him, Ms. Kane.  I’ll be glad to tell him.”

Surprised at being recognized, I watched as the hostess made her way into the bar.  Over the course of the summer I had somehow become a celebrity.  It was a status I wasn’t certain I liked, but at times it did have its advantages.

“Leaving?”

I looked at Mike for a long moment.  Despite all that had happened, I still had things I wanted to say to him.  Some were angry; some were not.  I could find words for none of them.  “Good-bye, Mike,” I said instead.  “Take care of yourself.”

“Ali . . .”  Mike hesitated.  Then, with a sad smile, he looked away.  “You take care of yourself, too.”

Outside, the night air had grown chilly.  I had worn only a light skirt and a sweater to the restaurant.  Belatedly, I wished I had brought a jacket.  Walking briskly to warm up, I headed back to the dorm.  As I passed a line of Friday-night moviegoers on Glendon, I realized that I was retracing the same route Mike and I had taken earlier that summer.  Though it had been only a few months ago, it seemed like an eternity.

Staying on well-lit streets, I turned on Le Conte at the edge of campus, starting toward the dorm.  I paused when I reached the Medical Center complex.  Without thinking I crossed the street, ducked into an ivy-covered parking structure, and ascended a flight of metal stairs to a broad plaza fronting the hospital.  Seconds later I entered through a pair of sliding glass doors.  After stopping in the lobby to sign the visitor’s register, I hurried down a corridor to the West Wing elevators.

When I reached the tenth-floor Transplant Unit, all seemed quiet.  I proceeded down the hallway, stopping at the nurses station to pick up a mask and gown—a hospital precaution required for all marrow-transplant visitors.  Donning the mask and gown, I continued on, hesitating outside my mother’s room.  I didn’t know why I was there, only that I had needed to come.  I lifted my hand to knock.  I hesitated, not wanting to wake Mom.  Nervously, I cracked the door.

The interior of the room was dark.  I slipped inside.  In a faint light from the window I could make out the IV stands and IMED pumps beside my mother’s bed, a spidery web of tubes trailing down to a catheter in Mom’s chest.  Not making a sound, I inched closer.  As I did, I noticed my father sleeping on a cot near the window, hospital mask covering his nose and mouth, the rhythmic rasp of his breathing mixing with the hum of an air filter in the corner.  Mom appeared to be asleep, too.  After washing my hands with alcohol and drying them at the sink, I crept closer, stopping beside her bed.

Despite the dimness, I could see how heartbreakingly weak my mother had grown.  Her face, puffy and swollen from the cortisone she was receiving, had taken on a deathly, ashen cast.  The fever that had struck following her transplant, spiking as high as 104° at the worst, had retreated slightly, but Mom’s condition still remained critical.  Her white blood cell count was practically nonexistent, and the transplant team seemed increasingly unsure whether the bone-marrow graft would take.  Against my will, I recalled a conversation I had overheard between Mom and Dr. Miller weeks before.  Their discussion had involved the degree of resuscitation Mom wanted were she to develop life-threatening complications.  At the time, the prospect of withholding heroic resuscitative measures had sounded ghastly.  Now, the possibility that the situation might actually arise was becoming terribly real.

I stood beside Mom’s bed, once more thinking that nothing in my life had turned out as I’d hoped.  Nothing . . . especially my relationship with my mother.  I had always believed that someday, even if it took years, we would be able to work things out between us.  After all, Travis and my father had.  Why couldn’t my mother and I?  Now, though I fought to banish the possibility from my mind, the thought kept returning that there might not be time.

And so I stood beside my mother in the darkness, more than anything wishing to mend the rift between us.  Yet no matter how much I wanted it, I knew wishing wouldn’t make it so.  Finally, choking on a fear that I would never get the chance to make things right, I turned and walked out into the night.

32

Kane left the hospital at 6:15 AM, stopping briefly in Westwood to grab a sweet roll and a cup of coffee.  Catheryn had been sleeping when he’d departed, and he hadn’t awakened her.  Her condition had stabilized over the weekend, but her fever still remained dangerously high, and the drugs and antibiotics didn’t seem to be working.  Though gripped by a sense of helplessness that had plagued him since she had first started treatment months earlier, Kane resolved for the moment to clear his mind of thoughts of Catheryn.  Today was a day for which he would need all his powers of concentration.  Today Mr. and Mrs. French were finally coming in for their formal interrogation.

Shortly after their CBS interview, the Frenches had notified authorities that with certain conditions and safeguards in place, they would agree to a police interrogation.  It was an unexpected turn that still puzzled Kane.  Given the circumstances, it was his opinion that no attorney in his right mind would allow Jordan’s parents to voluntarily submit to a police interrogation, unless there were another factor at play.  Of course, there was still the possibility of a grand jury subpoena to force them to testify, and in that case they would have to do so without their lawyers present.  Granted, they could exercise their Fifth Amendment rights and refuse to cooperate with the grand jury, but that wouldn’t play well in the media.  A widely reported poll following their televised interview had reported that the public was generally unsympathetic regarding Mr. and Mrs. Frenches’ refusal to be interviewed by authorities.  Maybe finally agreeing was their idea of damage control.  Or maybe they really were innocent, and they had experienced a change of heart regarding their cooperation.  Whatever the case, Kane planned to make the most of the opportunity.