Ozzie launched right in. "Kitty, what's going on, what's wrong?"
"You'll see it soon enough," I said with a sigh. "Did Stockton bring you up to date?"
"Yeah—he says you're televising the show. But it's not Friday, we haven't announced anything—"
"Just set it up, Ozzie. Make it legal. Secure the rights, grant the license to the network, whatever you have to do."
"Are you okay?"
"No. But don't worry about me. I'll get through it." I hoped. I really, really hoped. "Call Ben O'Farrell for me, will you? Use his cell number."
"Sure. Put that reporter back on."
I handed the phone back and immediately missed Ozzie. I wished he were here.
They talked for a couple minutes, then Stockton hung up.
"Roger. Can I have that phone back for just a minute? I just want to make a call." Two—I wanted to call Alette, and I should call Ben myself while I was at it. Ben and Cormac both. Three calls. No, make that four—Mom. I should call Mom.
Stockton glanced at Flemming, who shook his head.
That was it, then.
Stockton brought the bags to the cell. "If I open the door, will I regret it?"
How far did he think I'd get if I made a run for it? "That depends. Is Mr. Black Ops over there packing silver bullets?"
We looked at the remaining soldier, who didn't twitch a muscle.
"Silver bullets?" Stockton asked.
He nodded, once, curtly. I had no doubt he was a very good shot.
"I'll stand back," I said wryly. Of course, I could let him shoot me and spare myself the next few hours.
Stockton got Flemming to unlock the door and open it a crack—just wide enough to shove in the shopping bags, before shutting and locking it again.
Well, I'd missed my chance to go out in a blaze of glory.
I went through the bags. It was a little like Christmas. He'd brought me a portable CD player with speakers and batteries, a stack of disks, a couple of books—London, Thoreau. And the meat, which I shoved in the corner for later. Couldn't think about that now, even though I could smell it through the plastic.
"You ready?" Stockton said, shoving a personal mike through the door slot.
I wasn't, but I'd have to be. I took the mike—still attached to a cord, which ran through the slot to the news team's broadcast equipment—and clipped it to my shirt. "How's that?" The sound tech gave me a thumbs-up.
I finished searching the CDs. One of them had a youthful and comparatively unaltered Michael Jackson on the cover.
I glared at Stockton. "Thriller ? You brought me Thriller ?"
"You know. Thriller !" He clawed a hand at me and snarled like he was an extra in a certain music video.
The man had no tact. I tore the plastic off and put the disk on anyway. But I cued it up to "Billie Jean" and turned up the volume.
I watched out of the corner of my eye, and sure enough, by the second bar of music, the two news guys were tapping their feet. Stockton was bobbing his head a little; he probably didn't realize he was doing it. Hey, when the music said to dance, you had to dance.
Duke looked like he was fuming himself into a fit; his face was actually going red. But he couldn't do anything but stand there. His aide—who seemed old enough to remember freaking out over this album in grade school—shifted nervously. Like he wanted to tap his feet, but didn't dare.
Flemming's expression didn't change at all.
"Just tell me when we're on the air," I said to Stockton. He conferred with the crew's tech guy, then nodded quickly.
"We'll be in time for the ten o'clock news," he said.
I could imagine it, the regular anchor interrupting the newscast with a very special report from Roger Stockton: Kitty Norville, Exposed.
It wouldn't quite work like that. I hoped. I had maybe an hour before the Wolf took over completely. Had to make it count.
I cut off Michael and put on John Fogerty. CCR's "Bad Moon Rising" was the show's theme song on regular nights. It wouldn't have felt right without it.
Wait for it… wait for it…
"Okay, Kitty, you're on in three… two… one…" He pointed at me. I punched the play button. I let the guitar strum a few chords before looking out the glass wall and facing the camera.
Think happy thoughts. No different than being behind the mike. Don't think about the fact that I can't hide, that I can't be anonymous anymore. This was about revenge, about turning the tables, and to do that I had to be on top.
I smiled. "Greetings! Welcome to the first televised edition of The Midnight Hour , the show that isn't afraid of the dark—or the creatures who live there. I'm Kitty Norville."
The inside of the cell was lit as brightly as the outside, and the camera was at an angle. They'd made sure there wouldn't be any glare. Everyone could see me. All of me.
"If you're not familiar with The Midnight Hour , let me tell you what this is all about. Every Friday night for a few hours, I talk to people on the radio. I take calls, I invite guests on for interviews—politicians, writers, musicians, anyone I can convince to talk to me. What do we talk about? Nightmares: werewolves, vampires, witches, ghosts, demons, and magic. All those stories you read under the blanket with a flashlight, that kept you awake on nights when the wind rattled your bedroom window? You may not be ready to believe it, but those stories are real. And if you don't believe it now, just stick around. Because in an hour or so, I'm betting you'll change your mind. I'm a werewolf, and tonight I put my money where my mouth is." Money shot? Hoo-boy.
I turned the music down but let it keep playing. It distracted the part of my brain that was starting to gibber. "If you are familiar with the show, you may notice something a little different about the format. You may also notice this isn't the usual time slot. And those of you who are very astute might notice that tonight's the full moon, and you might be asking yourself, what the hell am I doing locked in a room? Those are really good questions. Let me introduce you to the people who've made this possible. Can we get the camera pointed that way for a second? Great, thanks." The cameraman obliged, pivoting the camera toward the other side of the room.
Flemming backed away, shaking his head. But he didn't have anywhere to go. The camera lens pinned him against the wall. Duke, a little more used to appearing on camera, didn't flee. But he glared bullets.
"Let's see, to your right is Dr. Paul Flemming, director of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, whose laboratory I'm currently locked up in. Across the room you might recognize Senator Joseph Duke, who's heading up hearings regarding the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Camera back here, please. Thanks." Keep smiling. Beauty queen smile, frozen and glittering. Oh, yeah.
"I want to add at this point that I'm here completely against my will. You see, Flemming and Duke are both afraid that cheap talk in a special committee hearing isn't enough to convince the government or the American public that werewolves are real. They both really want to do this, because Flemming wants to keep his funding for the lab, and Duke wants to start a witch hunt. Wolf hunt. Whatever. So they arranged to tie me up with silver, lock me up, and broadcast the results live on national television. You know why they think they can get away with this? Because they don't believe I'm human."
"No, that isn't—" Flemming stepped forward, beginning some kind of protest. I glared him to silence.
"If you thought I was human you wouldn't have agreed to this. You wouldn't have this jail . So. I sort of made a deal to try to tell my side of the story before things get hairy. I mean, really hairy.
"A couple of things before we go much further. Mom, Dad, Cheryl?" If Cheryl was watching, she'd have called my parents by now. She was always telling on me. "I'd really appreciate it if you turned off the TV right now. You do not want to watch this. It'll upset you. You're probably not going to listen to me, but don't say I didn't warn you. I love you guys. And Ben, if you're watching? Just one word: lawsuit. No, make that two words: multiple lawsuits."
I rubbed my hands together. "Right. Let's get started then. Roger, come on over here."