Private Screening (39 page)

Now she was with Tony Lord.

Lord was almost as intuitive as Phoenix himself; this much was clear from watching the trial. That his own need had driven her to Lord had kept him sleepless and tormented.

He beckoned Alexis forward.

As at his apartment, the sidewalk near Lord's office was crowded with reporters, cameras, sound trucks. He pushed through them, ignoring questions.

Cass had set up the videotape machine. “The clerk released a copy of that film,” she said.

“Good enough. Did you phone Stacy?”

“Uh-huh. She's safely at the Mark, arranging the concert with Bill Graham. Asked you to call if there's anything about Damone.”

He glanced at the yellow slips on his desk. “All Phoenix?”

Cass nodded. “Mostly people wanting interviews.” She paused. “
Us
would like a cover on you and Stacy.”

He stared at her. “That's grotesque.”

“Look at the bright side—
People
wanted Marcia.”

They both smiled a little. “Same thing for everyone,” he said at length. “No comment until both hostages are returned. Moore thinks the worst thing we can do is give Phoenix more inspiration, or make him angry.”

“Sure.” She left the rocm.

Lord dialed Marty Shriver.

He sounded surprised. “I've been watching you on television,” Shriver said finally.

“That's what I'm calling about, in a sense. DiPalma's intimating that Phoenix is tied to Harry.”

There was a startled silence. “Do you have any reason to believe that?”

“None. But under the circumstances, Harry has to be approached.”

“How, exactly? ‘By the way, are you tied in with the biggest maniac of the eighties?' I'm still trying to get him out of Vietnam.”

“That's no better, then?”

“No. He won't communicate.”

Lord hesitated. “Look, I need you to be the one who broaches this. I can't go anywhere without media trying to figure out why—it would be like damning Harry.”

“And this just undercuts what we're trying to do for him.…”

“I'm in an impossible position, Marty, and the question has to be asked.” Lord paused. “
Before
Stacy Tarrant's concert.”

He could almost hear Shriver thinking. “And then?”

“Call me.”

There was silence on the other end. “I'll cancel some appointments,” Shriver said, “and go down tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks.”

Shriver hung up.

Pensive, Lord switched on the machine.

On its screen, Carson and two other men began a fifteen-year-old kidnapping mission, carrying semiautomatic weapons down a barren hill.

Moments later, still watching, Lord picked up the telephone again.

The number he dialed rang for several minutes. As Carson burst into the village, a harried-sounding receptionist answered, “Hart Taylor's office.”

Phoenix pushed the door open, motioning her outside.

She took off the microphone with hesitant fingers, and edged slowly past him.

Sunlight dazed her. Placing one palm between her shoulder blades, Phoenix gently pushed her through the door.

Alexis stumbled into the grass. When she turned, he pointed to the ridge of pines where he had buried the three men.

Quiet, cool, they smelled of spring dampness, rustling boughs which filtered shafts of light. Phoenix felt more peaceful; the woods distracted him from Lord and Stacy.

Alexis scrambled ahead, neck turning to see him.

Lighting a joint, he inhaled through the mouth of his hood. From the back she seemed much younger; the slacks and black turtleneck fit her as he'd known they would. The first perfume-tasting hit seemed to rush to his head.

Her eyes locked on the joint.

Phoenix took a second drag, waving her forward. She crab-walked sideways, afraid not to see him, and stumbled across the new-dug dirt.

She stopped, gazing down as Phoenix waited for her to understand. Then her eyes changed, and she knew what it was.

She turned to him, arms stiff at her sides. The pines were close to still, the faintest stirring at the corner of his mind. Her face turned white as he put the joint to his mouth again, watching her imagine her own death.

For a moment, he imagined it himself, and then Alexis stepped slowly off the dirt.

When he crossed it, she still moved backward, the ten feet between them like an invisible rope. She did not know that she had reached the edge of the pines.

As he motioned her to turn from him, he watched her shudder, then comply.

Suddenly she was staring in surprise as the ocean appeared in front of her, sparkling with afternoon sun. She took one instinctive step forward and then stopped, looking back. He pointed; moving from the trees, sunlight glinted on the crown of her head.

She stopped again, fearing to go near the cliff. Wind rippled her hair. She seemed to respond, standing straighter and brushing back a strand. There was color in her cheeks now. He wished he could take off the hood, feel sun and wind on his face.

Reluctantly, he waved her back.

When she passed, leaning away, he saw that she was still not certain that he had taken her out for a walk, not to murder her. Though fear was transforming her as he wished, he was suddenly, deeply angry.

At the cabin, he shoved her inside her room, locking the door. Closing it on himself.

Finishing the joint, he made himself envision how he could use her against Parnell.

The plan was working. All he needed, now that fear had begun opening up the past for her, was the help of SNI.

As Stacy entered the SNI dining room with Lord, Hart Taylor rose to greet her.

“This would be such a pleasure,” he said, “if what made it happen weren't so terrible.” Turning to the hazel-eyed woman next to him, his grin flashed. “Tony, you know Rachel Messer. We've stolen her from TV–6.”

Their eyes met. “Congratulations,” Lord said after a moment. When Rachel gave Stacy an appraising look that lasted beyond her cool “hello,” Stacy was certain that what she sensed between her and Lord was as simple, or as complex, as sex.

Still smiling, Taylor told Lord, “Rachel will be covering this Phoenix Countdown.”

“Is that what you're calling it?” Lord inquired. “Catchy.”

Taylor's smile contracted. “Just journalistic shorthand,” he said. “In any event, I'm glad you requested we get together.”

A waiter seated them at a table with a sweeping view of the Bay Bridge. Car lights moved like soldier ants above the water, a black void with a foreground of too many high rises, dim rectangles with patchwork squares of yellow. Where the window ended, Stacy saw an alcove arranged like the private screening room, with one wall a TV screen.

“Cocktails, anyone?” Taylor asked.

Lord glanced at Stacy. “Not tonight. Thanks.”

“Okay.” Taylor spread his hands. “You wanted to exchange ideas.”

Lord nodded. “For openers, Miss Tarrant's trying to save Damone from a terrorist no one knows. Because his plan depends on television, you might have some notion of his sophistication, what he's hoping to achieve, even what kind of person he might be.”

“I've thought about that since you called.” Tenting his fingers, Taylor leaned toward Stacy. “Despicable as it may be, his opening is brilliant. He takes Alexis on a weekend, when news is slow, leaving a spectacular tape to assure it's the lead story worldwide. It sets out the ultimate drama—life or death. And by making its climax depend on two celebrities, he recruits a hundred million ‘jurors' to vote on their response.”

Stacy's arms and wrists felt cold. She placed them in front of her, one covering the other, and caught Lord's glance.

“Phoenix,” Taylor went on, “then starts nightly broadcasts to give the jury full knowledge of compliance. But they're also more hypnotic than saturation advertising, because each packs its own surprises, up to and including the potential murder of a hostage. You don't dare miss one, right to the bitter end.”

It struck Stacy that his tone was close to admiration. “I guess,” she said softly, “he may have a future as a program director.”

Taylor turned to her, unsmiling. “Actually, I think he understands the average program director perfectly. Because you're who you are, Stacy, Joe Shmoe at Station X can reach into the morgue for one of a million file clips—including with Senator Kilcannon. Same for the first Parnell kidnapping. So Phoenix creates a wave of subsidiary programming.…”

“I'll give you an example.” Speaking for the first time, Rachel had a certain brightness in her eyes. “An hour ago I saw on the wire that a UHF station in East Lansing is running Alexis's old movies as an ‘Alexis Parnell Film Festival.'”

Stacy stared at her. “What Rachel's saying,” Taylor cut in quickly, “is that it's like ‘War of the Worlds,' and Phoenix is Orson Welles.” He finished with a kind of intimacy. “I think he knows the media cold and has the instincts of a great entertainer. In fact, he may be a genius.”

“Considering all that,” Lord interjected, “how were last night's ratings on Stacy and Parnell?”

Turning, Taylor's face set. “We've just got overnights. But in layman's terms, about eighty percent of the audience.”

“What's your usual share at eight o'clock?”

Taylor hesitated. “Six percent.”

“And then other stations share your clips, captioned ‘Courtesy of SNI.'”

“Free of charge, naturally.”

Lord tilted his head. “Has Phoenix affected your ad revenues?”

“I really have no idea. Obviously, we've had calls from advertisers.…”

“I was only wondering,” Lord observed, “if Phoenix knows
that
, too?”

Stacy caught Rachel's faint smile before Taylor faced her. “We're hostages as well, Stacy. If I'd refused to broadcast, then Damone and Alexis would be dead.”

She paused. “Will
you
do other things on Phoenix?”

“The standard news coverage. Perhaps a segment on the Parnells.…”

“Is that all?”

Taylor put one finger to his teeth. “We did think we might do something on
you
, to create some sympathy before the concert. After all, it
is
news, and you'll be asking for votes, as it were. Contributions, really—”

“Perhaps,” Rachel broke in, “we might do an interview.”

Stacy turned to her. “No. Thank you.”

As Rachel glanced at Lord, Stacy checked her wrist-watch. In twenty minutes, she thought in disbelief, she would see what this terrorist had done with John.

“Actually,” Lord told Rachel, “I have a request on that subject. Given that I agree with Hart that Phoenix's plan is geared to the media.” He turned to Taylor. “What I want is simple. No interviews, speculation, or programming beyond the Phoenix broadcasts. No leaks from DiPalma or anyone else. No clips of the Kilcannon shooting. Absolutely nothing on Stacy. In fact, nothing to excite Phoenix, make him angry, or give him new ideas until
both
hostages come back alive.”

Taylor shook his head. “What you're asking, Tony, is a quarantine no newsperson can accept. For my part, I can't agree that
covering
news makes us responsible for it.”

“Really? Before the Carson verdict, didn't SNI poll viewers on how they'd vote?”

Taylor shot Stacy a furtive look. “Just once.”

“Do you happen to recall which witness drew the highest ratings?”

“Probably Stacy's testimony, Damone's—Carson's, of course.…”

“Because one thing that came to me this morning is that the tape of Alexis's kidnapping is almost identical to the film of Carson's last mission.”

Both Stacy and Taylor stared at him. “Using that film was your tactic,” Taylor answered pointedly. “Like the film you turned on Stacy.…”

“And in the process I showed millions how deeply Kilcannon's murder still affected her. Then I dragged in John Damone.” Lord finished in an incisive voice. “While I was defending Carson, I think we also prepared an audience for Phoenix. Perhaps gave him his basic script—‘Courtesy of SNI.'”

“Alexis wasn't there—”

“The Parnells
did
come up, though. In a question I asked Stacy.” Lord watched him. “We're back at the same old stand, Hart—right where we were with Carson. I hope this time you'll agree with me.”

Lord kept surprising her, Stacy thought. “Despite how you felt about the Carson trial,” Taylor was retorting, “SNI can't be held responsible for every psychopath who might get notions from the news we cover.”

“Except that
this
one called you, and now you're giving him massive coverage.” Lord leaned forward. “It's dangerous. And if this continues, you're morally implicated in whatever he does.”

As Rachel watched him with a curious, almost neutral look, Taylor folded his arms. “
If
Damone is still alive,” he answered finally, “we'll consider your request.”

Stacy waited a moment. “It's also
my
request.”

Taylor turned to her. “It's nearly eight,” Rachel interrupted.

Nodding to Stacy, Taylor rose and led them to his alcove.

Following, Stacy found herself with Lord. “You didn't want it televised?” she murmured.

“God, no.” He gave her a sharp, sudden look. “That was your friend DiPalma.”

Parnell and Danziger waited in Moore's office. When Moore switched off the lights, the glow of his television turned the tile a sickly green. Distractedly, Parnell noticed smudges, a scuff.

“We've received a picture,” the anchorman said. Looking up, Parnell saw a blurry hood between Danziger and Moore.

“Mr. Parnell,” the slurred voice said. “Your charitable donations are an affront to those in need. They expose your politics as self-aggrandizement.