Carol was wearing dark pants and a long-sleeved rose shirt that concealed her holstered gun. The heat of the lights made her grateful that neither she nor Marla were wearing kevlar vests in the studio.
Madeline came over. “I’ve told Charlie, my floor manager, to let you stand wherever you like. He’ll tell you if you’re in the way of a camera.”
Resolutely pushing away the vision she had of Madeline lying in her arms, Carol clicked into the cool working persona with which she was most comfortable. “It concerns me that this is a live broadcast, Madeline. That means Wellspring knows where and when.”
That Joseph Marin knows where and when. It had taken Denise a few days of concentrated effort, but ASIO had done a preliminary analysis of the telephone records Carol had requested and the telltale calls had been there. Nothing was to be done to alert any potential Wellspring members, but the key names were under twenty-four hour surveillance. But of course, there were the unidentified Wellspring agents out in the field…
The floodlights burnished Madeline’s hair and accentuated the strong line of her jaw. She wore a teal blue dress that deepened the dark gray of her eyes. “Where and when is all very well, but I’d be more worried about how, if I were Wellspring. The whole studio’s as tight as a drum—not only has it been searched twice for bombs, each person has been through a metal detector and a personal search and had every bag or purse emptied. Unless someone leaps up and tries to strangle Marla in front of us, I can’t see how she can be attacked.” She grinned mischievously. “Would you like the water glasses replaced with paper cups on the off-chance that Dr. Britt smashes one and slashes her?”
Carol said stubbornly, “I don’t feel good about this interview.”
“Carol, I’m not going to call it off. And it’s not only that the ratings are going to be phenomenal, it’s also going to be exciting television, and I want my show to be the one that gets it to air.”
“If there’s any danger, you’ll be in the middle of it.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared.”
Carol didn’t smile at Madeline’s mockery. “I do care, very much.”
Madeline touched Carol’s hand lightly. “I won’t be in any danger.”
“Madeline, listen.” Carol spoke urgently to convince her. “Wellspring didn’t want to kill Marla before. There wouldn’t have been enough publicity. But the apparent attempts on her life, the death of those three people…Everything’s been orchestrated to make whatever happens to Marla Strickland from now on a media sensation. This program tonight has already been picked up by the networks in the States, hasn’t it?”
She nodded slowly. “Apart from America, we’ve sold internationally, particularly in Europe.”
Rubbing her forehead as though she could remove the conviction that she’d overlooked something, Carol said, “Can’t you see that this gives Wellspring a perfect stage for an execution? Lucas Britt condemns her to the world, then someone kills her.”
“On live television? Who? Lucas Britt himself? Someone in Marla Strickland’s staff? My crew? Everyone working in the studio has been checked out, and anyway my staff has been with me for years. I’d trust every last one of them.”
Carol felt the suffocating force of certainty. “I don’t know who, except it won’t be Lucas Britt personally—he’d use someone else. And I don’t know how. There aren’t any weapons here. I’ve had anything potentially lethal removed.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve been paranoid enough to worry about the drinks or food being poisoned, or the air-conditioning used to feed something deadly into the studio.”
“Darling Carol,” Madeline said softly. “When this is over…”
“You don’t know how much I want Marla Strickland and her staff safely on a plane and winging their way across the Pacific.”
Madeline’s grin had a wicked edge. “Not half as much as I do. I’d love to know what you’re like when I have your full attention.”
* * *
Carol used her most reasonable tone. “I want to put your staff in the control room. You’ll be able to see them, and speak with them, but they won’t be here in the studio.”
Marla was clearly nervous, moving from foot to foot as she clasped her leather folder close to her chest like a talisman. “I don’t want any changes, Carol. During the commercial breaks I want to be able to speak with Bev in particular, but I could have questions that only Pam could answer on direct mailing and advertising…” She made a petulant gesture. “Look, this is important and I want everything as it always is, okay?”
“You don’t need Gary.”
“Jesus!” Marla exploded, “just leave it, Carol!”
* * *
Carol stood as close as she could to The Shipley Report set, which was composed of a huge semicircular cream-colored desk supported on contoured columns. Madeline was seated in the middle with Lucas Britt to her left and Marla to her right. Off set, Lucas Britt’s assistant, a substantial middle-aged man in a tight-fitting blue suit, sat with folded arms on a metal chair out of the way against the wall. Both Pam Boyle and Bev Diaz stood near him, but Gary had commandeered a battered armchair near the back of the studio.
Flexing her shoulders to release some of the tightness, Carol double-checked positions: Anne on the other side of the set close to Lucas Britt; Denise in the control room; Sid and one of his men at the studio door.
The monitor was showing the end of the news, with the aging male personality doing his trademark paper shuffle as he signed off. This was followed by a breathless promo for the debate and the advertisements for the car company sponsoring it.
Obeying the director’s voice in their headphones, the camera operators glided their hulking cameras in an elaborate ritual, one moving forward as the other retreated. The floor manager, earphones in place, was stepping confidently over the obstacles presented by the cables that snaked everywhere over the floor.
He gestured to Madeline, “Ten seconds,” then began the silent countdown for her with his fingers. On cue she smiled, and Carol could imagine the countless screens where her palpable charm flowed out to warm her audience. Her introduction outlined the careers of her guests with brevity and then she set the conditions of the debate: each person would make a short introductory statement, then Madeline would moderate as they discussed the issues raised. When they had first arrived in the studio they’d drawn lots to see who would speak first, and Britt had won. “God’s will,” he’d remarked.
In the full glare of the studio lights Lucas Britt’s white hair formed a radiant halo to frame his kindly face. His color was high, his smile serene.
He began gently, “It is God’s intention that every person play his or her part in the pattern the Almighty has designed for our happiness.” His voice took on a sterner timbre. “So why the suffering of God’s people? Why is there dreadful crime after dreadful crime? We hear every day of the breakdown of society, of the appalling abuse of the young, of the virtual desertion of the old by their children…” A pause, then he flung out his arm to point dramatically at Marla. “It is because of this woman! And others like her. In their arrogance, they believe God’s way can be abandoned. It cannot!” He dropped his hand and shook his head sorrowfully. “These women disturb God’s natural order, and chaos results.”
Marla had listened to him impassively, her chin high. Carol could see no trace of nervousness on her face, although her fmgers played with the edge of her document folder. When the camera’s red light glowed, indicating she was now on the screen, her lips curved in her usual assured smile. “I will be speaking to you about self-respect. Something that every individual should have as a birthright. But self-respect can be fleeting when you have been disregarded, have been violated, have seen opportunities others have snatched away. And in our culture this happens to millions, simply because they are women.” She let a moment pass. “What is the rationale behind this? The justification for the denigration of half the population of the world? Ask the male-dominated religions.” Another interval to emphasize the last point, then she continued, “In our society every woman, at some time, has been denied self-respect, has felt that she is less important, less esteemed, less able. That is the lie that has to be destroyed.”
Marla gestured with an open hand toward Lucas Britt. “The so-called natural order that Dr. Britt says we must follow is not natural at all. It is based on gender slavery cleverly disguised as religion. Make no mistake: independence, education, freedom—these are reserved for males in Dr. Britt’s ideal world. Tell this to your sisters, tell this to your daughters: unless we stand together, unless we fight the forces who want to keep us weak, all our lives we will have less power, less money, less freedom…”
When Marla finished her introductory remarks, Madeline smoothly came in with a question to Lucas Britt. She let him answer fully, but expertly cut him off before he could use the question as a springboard to something further. Then it was Marla’s turn to speak.
The floor manager signaled a commercial break. When the ads started to roll on the monitor, the professional tension in the crew immediately lessened. Madeline stood to brush the creases out of her skirt, Lucas Britt took a sip of water. Gary heaved himself out of his chair and came forward to examine the set. Marla turned her head as Bev called out, “You missed an important point in that last response. The figures are in your folder.”
Marla flicked over the pages. “Where? Come and show me.”
Bev raised her eyebrows as Carol stepped onto the set with her. “Don’t you trust me, Carol? Think I’m going to karate chop Marla on national television?” She turned her back on Carol and took the folder from Marla. “Look, here’s where I mean—the disparity of research funds devoted to women’s health. You need to emphasize how all the research on heart trouble is based on men, not women…”
The floor manager said, “Ten seconds.” The relaxed crew was suddenly alert.
Bev handed back the folder. “Marla, I’ll stay close by to help you in the next commercial break.” She stepped off the set to stand just outside the bright circle of light.
When the program restarted, Lucas Britt launched into a spirited attack on Marla Strickland’s supporters: “…they are deviates, men-hating lesbians, childless women whose shrunken souls can only envy mothers and wives who are content within the protection of their husbands’ authority—”
A movement caught Carol’s eye. Pam Boyle was carefully making her way over the floor obstructions to join Bev Diaz. She watched them exchange a few words, her mind slipping back to a conversation she’d had before the program began. What had Madeline said? “…each person has been through a metal detector and a personal search, and had every bag or purse emptied…”
But that wasn’t true. Marla Strickland was the potential victim, so she hadn’t been through a detector and she hadn’t been searched. And all she’d brought with her to the studio was a black leather folder…
Marla was replying to Lucas Britt’s attack, speaking into the camera as though to a real person, her voice ringing with passionate persuasion.
Carol looked at the folder lying open on the cream-colored surface of the desk.
Marla had carried the weapon that was to kill her into the studio.
Carol and Bev Diaz moved at almost the same moment, but Carol was too far away.
Startled, Marla looked up as Bev loomed behind her. The thin blade flashed in the brilliant lighting as she stabbed down at Marla’s exposed throat.
Carol had no time to get close enough to disarm her. From the other side of the wide desk she swept her right arm in a parody of a tennis backhand, desperately attempting to interrupt the slender weapon’s deadly arc.
The blade stung like fire as it slashed through the thin cotton of Carol’s shirt and into her forearm. It wasn’t enough to deflect the blade completely. As though in slow motion, Carol saw blood spurt from Marla’s shoulder.
Marla twisted in her chair, screaming as she held up her hands in vain protection. Bev brought her arm up for the next blow.
Carol flung herself across the desk. Disregarding the dagger, she seized the collar of Bev’s polo shirt. With her full weight and all the strength in her shoulders, she yanked the woman towards her. Bev stabbed at her eyes.
She jerked her head away. The sting of the blade slicing her cheek filled Carol with red rage. She had Bev spread-eagled across the desk: Marla was out of immediate danger. Bev struggled wildly, slashing with the bloodied weapon. Carol released the shirt collar to seize her wrist with one hand while she chopped hard at her windpipe with the edge of the other.
Bev gave an inarticulate sound. The blade dropped from her hand and spun across the surface of the table. Exultant, Carol drew back her hand to strike again. Bev looked up at her, open-mouthed, gagging.
“We’ve got her, Carol!”
She let her arm drop, suddenly aware of the blood soaking her sleeve. She stood stupidly as Anne and Sid wrestled Bev face down off the desk. Blood was running in a steady stream through her fingers and onto the floor.
“Oh, darling…” Madeline had an arm around her. “You’re bleeding—” She gave a half-hysterical laugh, “—all over my set.”