fist as best he could, and whispered.
“Remember love...remember what we do with hurricanes.”
Clara, moving almost silently despite her considerable bulk, intruded on her reveries.
“Telephone mum, they’s callin you from Canada.”
It was Dennis Lessing, Vice-president of Beale Broadcasting Ltd., trouble shooter and hatchet man for Thomas Beale when he was alive, and now for his attractive widow, who last week had toasted herself on her forty-fifth birthday. Many, when meeting Sandra Beale for the first time, were deceived by the smallness of her. The thin, almost anorexic body, the tiny gamine face. Only the eyes revealed the steel: Black, intense, intelligent and dancing with life.
Most of the world credited Thomas Beale solely with building the radio empire. Sandra had never resented that misconception. She knew the truth. So did Dennis Lessing.
“Mrs. Beale,” said Dennis, “we’ve got a major crisis on our hands, and very little time to make a decision.” Carefully, Dennis explained the situation and their options. “If we air the tape and it turns out to be some kind of hoax, we could look very bad, especially with a rating period coming up. Unquestionably, some people will think we’ve done it only to hype the listenership. If we don’t run it, and something happens to that little girl, God help us all!”
Sandra’s mind was racing.
“What about the CRTC?,” referring to the federal commission which controlled everything from the content of commercials to the amount and type of music every radio and TV station in Canada could broadcast.
“I’ve talked with the chief commissioner,” said Dennis, “and got the usual run around. You know ‘It’s too late to call the full commission into a meeting; I can’t make a decision on my own; it sounds like a matter for the federal cabinet.’ All the usual excuse-me-while-I-cover-my-ass stuff. The long and short of it is, they won’t give us any advice. What you can be sure of is that, if the shit hits the fan, they’ll be in there blowing it at us along with everyone else. The only break we’d get from that sleepy bunch is that it would probably take them a couple of years to find the fan.”
“What does David have to say about it?” asked Sandra, referring to David Parsons, general manager of their Ottawa station.
There was a grunt at the other end.
“You know good old Dave. ‘Anything you and Mrs. Beale decide is fine by me.’ He did remind me though, that this kind of thing would be great for ratings! Guy’s got a lot of class.”
Sandra ignored the sarcasm.
“What about Grant? How is he? He must be terribly broken up. What will his role be if we decide to air the tape?”
Dennis paused for several seconds.
“I only talked with him for a few moments. He sounded awful, as you can imagine, and absolutely desperate that we play the tape. He’s obviously convinced this is no hoax. I mean after all his daughter is still missing. If we go to air with the recording, my suggestion is we make a simple announcement, play it, then roll music. There’s no way Grant should do any kind of a program after that.”
There was another pause, a longer one.
“Mrs. Beale, I must tell you something else...I...I should have at the outset. Ahh...the tape contains a brief appeal from the little girl. From Lee Henry. In it, she says...ahh...that they have removed her clothes and are looking at her.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.
“Oh my God, Dennis, we’ve got to play the tape. The bastards! Oh, those bastards! Can you imagine anyone doing a thing like that? They’re animals, nothing but bloody animals. Dennis I’m catching the first flight out of here. I’ll be there sometime tomorrow. I’ll call you when I know the arrival time. Meet me at the airport...in the meantime, the tape goes on tonight. Come hell or high water, don’t let anyone stop you.”
No even, she said to herself, a hurricane!
Chateau Henri 4:12 PM • DAY ONE
When they were married, a crisis of virtually any magnitude had usually resulted in an emotion-charged fight. Now, during this, the greatest crisis of their lives, Grant and Carol Henry found themselves looking to each other for comfort and support. Whatever they felt about each other, whatever their differences, they shared the common link of love for their child, and a terrible fear for her safety.
Hearing their daughter’s plaintive plea for help had shattered their reserve with each other. Carol, on the verge of hysteria, began sobbing uncontrollably in the lab, and Grant found himself with his arms around her, cradling her like a child, wiping away her tears, trying to reassure her, and himself, that Lee would be found unharmed.
They were back in the “chateau” now, seated side by side in the screened-in porch, overlooking the broad, swiftly flowing Gatineau River. It was here where, a million years or so ago they had all spent so many happy times. It had always been one of Lee’s favourite places. As a little girl she often dragged a blanket down in the evening and pleaded to be allowed to sleep there so she could hear the peeper frogs in the spring and the birds and squirrels of summer.
Now, as the late afternoon sun drew long shadows across the lawn, her parents sat enveloped in silence, drawn deeply down into their own private thoughts. An observer would have thought them a loving couple, facing middle age at peace with each other and the world.
They were far from being at peace, but some of the tension had dissipated when they learned, shortly after arriving back from the lab, that Sandra Beale had been contacted in the Bahamas and has given her approval to air the recording on the entire network. In fact, Superintendent Charron was at that moment making the arrangements to have the lab run off a dub to be delivered to the station in plenty of time for the eight pm deadline. From there it would be fed to all network stations.
It was Charron as well who brought them up to date on the investigation. As they suspected, no strange fingerprints had been found. The blood on the cloth was animal, presumably Niki’s. The lab was still running tests on Lee’s hair and the sweepings from her room. The licence plate had not revealed anything, although they were following up on the type and make of paint used to cover the numbers. Essentially, to this point at least, they were at a dead end. Madame Gratton had been questioned extensively again, but was unable to reveal anything new. There was absolutely no suspicion that she had anything to do with the abduction, or was withholding any information. Whoever was responsible had been well prepared and professional. How they had escaped the roadblocks was still a mystery.
“We aren’t standing still on this though,” Charron tried to assure the Henry’s. “Already several people, mostly former members of the FLQ, have been rounded up across the province and are being questioned.”
When Grant and Carol returned from the lab, they found that Jake had prepared lunch. It was the first food of the day for all of them and Grant was surprised to find himself hungry. Carol, still badly shaken, was able to eat only a few mouthfuls, bursting into tears at one point and shivering perceptibly.
The phone’s sudden ring startled her. She let out a small scream. Everyone’s heart jumped, but it was the Ottawa General Hospital calling for Jake. His mother had fallen in her kitchen and injured her back. She was asking for him. Apologizing
