Our local TV station was a few blocks over, wedged between a candy store and a gun shop. The station was a rinky-dink affair, but sufficient to the needs of Stagger Bay.
A few network news vans were in the parking lot, the nearest out of Oakland from an East Bay station. Even from half a block away I recognized the beautiful redheaded anchorwoman standing by the side of the van, sipping her coffee.
When she saw me rolling up, her mouth opened and the coffee cup tumbled from her grasp to slosh its steaming contents into the gutter. Then she put her news face back on and started slapping the side of the van with her dainty little hand.
Behind her I saw our local station’s excuse for an anchorman, standing in the entrance to his studio. He saw me but didn’t try to approach – he’d made some on-air remarks during my trial seven years before that had been less than kind, and he probably figured I wouldn’t give him the time of day now. He was right.
By the time I reached her, her cameraman was backing her up and another assistant flanked her. The camera tracked me as I approached, making me feel like I had a bull’s eye painted on my forehead.
“Markus,” she said with a grin, sticking the microphone up at me like a weapon. “This is news.”
Her cameraman stepped back and adjusted his lens focus to include us both.
“I’ll keep this short,” I said, facing the camera’s bulbous insectile eye full on like an opponent. “I’m speaking to the coward who killed the Beardsleys seven years ago. I’m talking to the human waste who’s terrorized the people of this town ever since.”
“You think you can hide behind your connections,” I said, keeping my words slow, my tone reasonable and light. Still, I was involuntarily swaying back and forth like in the moments before I’d charged the school.
“But your time is coming. I’m calling you out, if you have the courage to face me.” Rage built as I spoke, that same old dangerous, addictive electric heat wanting to course through me as I threw down the gauntlet here. My face was cramped with the effort of staying squeezed down into clarity. “I’m coming to get you, I swear. I swear it on the life of Officer Kendra Tubbs. I swear it on the lives of every one of your victims.
“I’m going to be the last face you ever see,” I promised.
I nodded at them to indicate my sign off. “Thanks,” I said, turning to go.
“Wait,” she said, dancing around to block my path. “I have about a million questions to ask you. Who were you just speaking to, what killings are you talking about? What’s this about connections? You’re saying you weren’t just wrongfully imprisoned, you were framed? Why aren’t you working with the police? Are you alleging some kind of cover-up? Just what is it you’re planning to do?”
“The questions will have to wait. I think you can see I’m busy here.”
She snorted. “Sure. You’re giving someone a poke to see which way the cockroaches scuttle in response. You’re flushing out a ghost, that’s basic media strategy.”
I looked at her in new appraisal. This news lady was no dummy.
A scowl crossed her porcelain face. “You want to use me to send a message? That’s fine, that’s the way this game is played. But you owe me tit for tat: I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
I grimaced – she had a point whether I liked it or not. “I give you my word that when the time comes – when it’s all over – you’ll be getting the exclusive.”
She twirled out my way, hugging herself delightedly. “We’ll be a cinch for an Emmy,” she told the cameraman.
“Hell yeah,” he replied.