placed her hand on the gearshift. “Well, work calls. I’ll talk to you later.”
Adam waved and backed away. She glanced in the rearview mirror to return the wave but hesitated, a sense of unease filling her. An unfamiliar black SUV was parked across the street from her house. She could barely make out the person behind the wheel, but it appeared to be a woman.
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. Could Fala be a woman? Fear rose in her throat and she swallowed, then relaxed. She was being silly. If she started worrying about every message she received, it would affect her work. Besides, the e-mail was just somebody’s idea of a joke. She pressed the accelerator and turned her attention to the morning traffic.
Juggling a cup of coffee in one hand and her briefcase in the other, C.J. stopped in front of the closed door to her office on the second floor of the WLMT radio station building. Gwen Anderson, her blond hair bouncing on her shoulders, hurried forward.
“Let me get that for you.” She opened the door and motioned C.J. to enter. “What are assistants for if they can’t assist the boss when she’s loaded down?”
Pert. That was the only word C.J. had ever been able to come up with to describe Gwen, whose blue eyes always sparkled behind the oversize glasses she wore. She had boundless energy that never seemed to flag. And her intuition! Gwen could foresee an assignment and complete it even before it was given to her. Gwen was a jewel among the staff of WLMT.
C.J. entered the office and set her coffee on the edge of the desk. She dropped the briefcase next to her cup and sank into her chair. “Thanks for the help, but you know I don’t think of myself as your boss. I’ve never had a better working relationship with anyone.”
Gwen eased into a chair across from C.J. “I should thank you every day for giving me this chance. I sure wouldn’t have gotten it if it’d been left up to our esteemed producer.”
C.J. tilted her head and arched an eyebrow. “Harley appreciates your work.”
A snort of disgust came from Gwen’s throat. “Sure he does. That’s why he’s been so quick to recommend me for a raise.”
“Now, Gwen. You know that’s Mr. Cunningham’s decision. Harley’s just our producer.”
C.J. leaned back in her chair. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s really been good to me. This new show is just what I needed.”
Darkness the color of storm clouds flashed in Gwen’s eyes. “Don’t be taken in by him. He thinks he’s the most important person around here. Can’t get along with any department. He calls the engineering guys idiots, and they take it out on us. I can’t get anything repaired—not even my printer.”
This wasn’t the first time C.J. had heard employees complaining about Harley. Every few days someone asked her to intervene in a conflict with him. Gwen was just the latest in a long line. “I’ll talk to Matt in engineering.”
Gwen crossed her arms and frowned. “While you’re at it, ask him about the WLMT sign. Ever since I was a child I’ve loved driving by here at night and seeing those tall letters standing on the flat roof of the building. They used to light up the sky, but not anymore. Have you seen it lately?”
The sign had been the trademark of their station for years, but like a lot of things around the building, it had fallen into disrepair. “Yeah, I noticed the other night the T was the only letter lit.”
Gwen nodded. “Right. You never know which letters will be illuminated. I came by here last night, and the sign was completely out. Now this morning it’s fine. How do you explain that?”
“Harley said there’s a short in it, but the company that’s supposed to fix it keeps putting us off.”
“Good morning, lovely ladies. Did I hear my name mentioned?” Harley Martin, his wire-rimmed glasses propped on his head, stuck his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled pants and stepped into the room. His potbelly hung over the waist-band and his belt looped underneath the bulging girth. He stopped next to Gwen’s chair and grinned down at her.
Gwen rose slowly and turned to face Harley. “Well, if it isn’t the genius behind the success of C.J.’s Journal. We were just talking about you.”
The mischievous gleam in Harley’s eyes contradicted the serious expression on his face. “I thought I heard you telling C.J. how lucky you are to work for such a great guy.”
Gwen glared and took a step toward Harley. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I stay here.”
He winked at C.J. “’Cause you know you’re never gonna find another boss who takes such good care of you.”
Gwen’s face flushed. She headed toward the door. “I give up. See what you can do with him.”
Harley watched until Gwen left the room, then smiled at C.J. “You gotta love that girl. Best researcher we’ve ever had here.”
C.J. stood up, her gaze taking in Harley’s white shirt with the gravy stain that had been there the day before. One thing about her producer—he never would make the top ten best-dressed list. “Maybe it’s time to show your gratitude and ask Mr. Cunningham to give her a raise.”
Harley held up his hands and backed away. “Whoa, there, girl. We gotta hit the top of the ratings first. Then we’ll see who gets a raise.”
She shook her head. “Gwen’s right. You are impossible.”
He winked and headed for the door. “Maybe. But I’m making you a household name around Oxford. Before I’m through with you, C.J.’s Journal will be the most listened to show in our area. And after that, who knows?” He flipped a little salute in her direction. “Catch you later. We need to talk about tonight’s show. I have a feeling it’s gonna be quite a broadcast.”
For some reason his words, which on the surface seemed innocent enough, stirred the uneasiness she’d felt all morning. The stories she’d covered in the past few weeks flashed through her mind. Most of them were concerned with the dark side of life in Oxford, not what she’d intended when she began her program. For a moment she wished she’d never gotten caught up in the world of crime and drug dealers like Jimmy Carpenter. But there was no turning back.
A soft chime sounded from the direction of her computer. Another e-mail. She glanced at the screen and stared with wide eyes at the sender’s name—Fala. Her heart pounded at the subject line. Ready to play, C.J.?
With shaking fingers she clicked the mouse and stared at the message before her:
Four there are await your play,
One won’t see the break of day,
From East to West they all will cry,
Who will be the first to die?
Fala
TWO
The words gyrated on the computer screen in rhythm with the drumbeat of C.J.’s heart. She grasped the edge of the desk, the message sending chills down her spine.
“Who will be the first to die?” she whispered.
