This time the bullet hits the tree eleven inches down from the knothole and a few inches to the left. She uses up most of the bullets.
It’s perfect. A calculated risk, certainly, but perfect nonetheless.
And the truth of it is it’s not her life on the line here, but Joe’s. And that’s an acceptable risk.
Chapter Forty-Three
Schroder hates working on Sundays. It seems he’s busier now than he was when he was a cop. His wife sure thinks so. She was grumpy with him this morning over breakfast. The excuse that This is his job was no better today than it has been over the last twenty years. And the kids were being annoying. The baby last night was hard work. He’d sleep for half an hour and then whimper and be grizzly and then wake up. So Schroder would wake up too. So would his wife. They’d take turns at feeding him. At one point the baby shit himself so bad Schroder thought they were going to have to call in an exorcist to clean up the mess. It’s been a night of broken sleep, following a week of broken sleep, following what has now felt like forever. He loves his kids more than anything, but every night as four a.m. rolls into five, he figures the difference between being a good dad and a bad dad is that a good dad doesn’t put a pillow over the baby to make it go quiet. He knows from the job that there have been plenty of bad dads over the years. Bad mums too.
There are things to be pleased about this morning. Reasons to be calm. Joe led the police to a body yesterday evening. It hadn’t been a trap. Melissa didn’t reveal herself. There were no explosions, no splashes of blood. Schroder had been expecting bad news. When the call came he was almost too afraid to answer it. It wasn’t Joe calling on the dead detective’s cell phone, it was Kent herself reporting in.
The deal was going ahead. The body, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, was still missing. So Jonas Jones was going to become a hero. Or he is facing a huge embarrassment if the body belongs to somebody else. Though, knowing Jones, there’ll be a way to spin that into a positive. He’ll probably say Calhoun, even from the spirit world, is still first and foremost a cop.
Also, Kent had said, have you heard about the university students?
Yeah, I’ve heard.
I just don’t understand young people, she said.
Nobody does, he said. Not even young people.
People have been killed, people are hurting, but it’s just an excuse for a party for these kids. I just hope none of them dress as any of the victims. You think they’d do that?
Schroder didn’t know, but hoped not, and told her so.
He stopped for coffee on the way to the TV station. He popped a couple of caffeine pills into his mouth and they disappeared with the first swallow of coffee, the extra hit helping him wake up, but the problem with those extra hits is they just don’t last as long as they used to.
There aren’t many people in the studio. Sunday isn’t a popular day for making stuff happen. Even God thought that way. There’s a small crew. Two camera operators, a man and a woman who Schroder is sure are involved with each other in some way. A sound guy with a German accent whose job is to hold up a boom microphone and stay out of the way. An intern holding the lights. And the director, a very butch-looking woman who looks like she could field strip a rabbit and turn it into stew. They’re all on the set where they normally film. Schroder hates this part. He is the police presence to give the show more authenticity.
Schroder’s used to talking into the camera. He’s done it with cases in the past. It’s not difficult. Not when you’re speaking about a case. But it is when you’re talking from a script. He is sitting opposite Jonas Jones, Psychic. They are at a table with a black cloth over it. There are flowers in the center, more flowers in the backdrop, some candles too. There are two product-placed bottles of McClintoch spring water on the table. The labels are facing the camera and the advertising department of McClintoch spring water are contributing funds to the making of the show.
Everyone’s a winner.
Schroder feels sick.
He looks into the camera.
“Today we’re investigating the disappearance of Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun,” he says. Then he freezes. Suddenly he’s thirsty. His voice is catching in his mouth.
“Take a drink,” the director says, “and try again.”
“Okay,” he says, and he grabs himself a bottle of water and takes a few sips, then places it back, careful to keep the label pointing outward. “Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just waiting for you,” the director says.
He coughs into his hand even though he doesn’t feel the need, then carries on. “Tonight we’re investigating the disappearance of Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun,” Schroder says, “who was killed twelve months ago by a woman by the name of Natalie Flowers, who has become better known as Melissa X. Attempts to find Detective Calhoun’s body have all been in vain. Today Jonas Jones is going to change that. Today Jonas Jones will be offering his much-needed assistance to the police and to Detective Calhoun’s wife and will lead us to his body.”
“Cut,” the director says.
“What was wrong with that?” Schroder asks.
“It was good. Just don’t say Today Jonas Jones is going to change that. Say Jonas Jones is going to try and change that.”
“Okay,” Schroder says, and he starts at the beginning.
There is a camera pointing at Schroder and a camera pointed at Jonas, and it will get cut and edited together later on today. Jonas is slowly nodding. Schroder can feel an itch growing at the base of his nose, but doesn’t want to scratch it. No doubt during his speech the camera will cut to Jonas during the much-needed assistance part of his dialogue, as the words made his face scrunch up a little like he’d just bitten his tongue.
“Yes, yes,” Jonas says. “It was a very horrific killing,” he adds, leaning back and crossing his left leg over his right. He sits with his top two fingers pressing against each other, and his bottom two interlocked. He rests his hands on his lap. “Detective Robert Calhoun is not resting peacefully. He is a man who demands justice, and a man begging to be returned home. He has come to me for help, and he has a lot to say,” Jonas says, then he pauses and slowly nods and lowers his voice as if letting the world in on a big secret, and at the same time his hands come up to his face so his top two fingers, which are shaped like a gun, touch his lips. “I’ve been loaned one of his uniforms,” he says, and there’s a uniform on the table that Jonas puts his hands on top of. He closes his eyes and bunches some of the material up into his hand as if having a stroke, then lets it go and smoothes it out. “I can get an extremely strong sense of Detective Calhoun,” he says. “He was—or still is—a very strong-willed being.”
Schroder feels his stomach turn. Last time he felt this sick was when his brother invited them over for a barbecue and undercooked the chicken. He should quit. None of this is worth it. In forty years when he’s facing cancer and lung disease and whatever other sickness cocktail life throws at him, this is one of those weeks he’s going to look back at and hate himself for. Unless the Alzheimer’s has set in by then—and Alzheimer’s would be just like his Wake-E pills, a godsend.
Jonas carries on. Schroder takes another drink of water, knowing it won’t make the TV cut. Jonas tells the audience the pain that Calhoun is in. He pads it out. The candles are flickering. Jonas is deep in concentration as he makes a connection to the dead policeman. His legs are no longer crossed. Ever the professional, Jonas gets it right the first time. There is no need for a reshoot.