He even found himself singing the familiar guilty survivor’s song: if only he’d been there...
His job had been to serve and protect. He had served the public well that day, protecting the President of the United States, but not his own family.
And now who was he serving — the public? The show? His own interest in justice? Revenge? Who was he protecting? Certainly not Carmen. The cast, the crew, and his team had become close to him, a chance to start over, and here he was putting his second family in harm’s way.
What the hell good was he doing?
He was trying to stop a madman, yes, but now that they had information, he could just step aside and let law enforcement do its job. He and his people were, in fact, actively avoiding the FBI at the moment, playing off the limitations of distance and personnel the federal field offices faced.
No, he’d had to push it, had to do it himself, with the help of the team, of course... Yet what had he accomplished? The abduction of one of their own.
But these emotions roiling within him had to be set aside, contained, compartmentalized until this was done, until Carmen was safe. He took a deep breath, held it, and waited for everything to subside, then let the breath out slowly.
When he sat back and opened his eyes, Jenny was standing there, a small sheaf of hard copy in hand.
“Got it,” she said.
“The car or the drop point?”
“Both.” She removed a sheet from atop the pile. “Russell, Kansas — it’s at the intersection of this road and Interstate seventy, running west from Topeka.”
“What’s all the paperwork?”
“Rental contract.”
“You did good, Jenny,” he said, taking the papers.
Then, on his cell, he called Dennis Byrnes and explained what he needed.
“What makes you think I can make that happen?” Byrnes asked.
“Dennis, you’re president of a major television network. What can’t you do?”
“Control the talent.”
“Then make the ‘talent’ happy. Does UBC have a Topeka, Kansas, affiliate?”
“No.”
“Well, you employ freelance crew all over the world. You must use somebody out of Topeka. Hire him or her to drive the car to Russell.”
“You’re lucky your ratings are on the rise...”
“Dennis, I’ll owe you one.”
“I know you will,” Byrnes said, and hung up.
Twenty minutes later, Byrnes’s assistant called with the details for picking up the car.
And when they got to Russell, everything went well. Harrow accepted the keys to a Chrysler 300, and he and Choi jumped in to lead the parade toward Lebanon.
In a hamlet called Downs, twenty-two miles south of Lebanon, the team pulled into a little diner-cum-truckstop that would serve as their staging area.
The diner was a retro affair, checkerboard tile floor, fixtures done up in black, red, and metallic silver, shiny and bright. Maybe ten late afternoon diners — truckers taking breaks, and farmers who had knocked off early for a cup of coffee — were scattered around the joint, all gawking for a second when the entire Killer TV team trudged in, from stars to PAs, camera and sound personnel as well.
Harrow figured — or anyway hoped — the reaction was due more to the size of the group than who they were. Famous people really turned heads in this part of the world; but once that second or two of recognition was over, locals tended to remember their manners, and go back to minding their own business.
Harrow recalled why he’d always loved the Midwest, and it reinforced his belief that, eventually, he would move back.
The diner manager opened up a closed-off area for them, and the booths and tables were soon filled. Harrow gathered the forensics team at a table, and included cameraman Hathaway and audio gal Hughes. The other camera and audio personnel had been given permission by Harrow and the diner management to go out and gather B roll.
Over coffee, Harrow said, “All right, gang — Laurene, Billy, and I will go into town in the rental. The rest of you will wait for our call and then join us.”
Pall, Jenny, and Anderson were clearly disappointed.
“Look,” Harrow said, “this is not personal. Billy and Laurene have the most experience, if things go sideways — that’s the only reason they’re going. Besides, you three are strong in the lab. I don’t want you in the field with me, when at any moment we might need you there.”
They didn’t look happy, but accepted their lot.
“What about camera?” Hathaway asked. “We are going to shoot this, aren’t we?”
Harrow didn’t want them along but knew, whether he liked it or not, trying to do this without shooting footage would be the end of their show-within-the-show. And that was something he wasn’t prepared to give up yet.
Besides, he had imposed on Byrnes, and didn’t have it in him to double-cross the man.
“You and Nancy go with us. Stow your gear in the trunk. Pack as light as possible.”
“Roger that,” Hathaway said, catching Harrow’s toss of car keys.
Then the husky cameraman rose, Hughes tagging after, ponytail swinging, as they went to fetch their gear from a bus.
Harrow nodded to Choi, got up, and Choi followed him to a quiet corner. “Suppose, hypothetically, I wanted three handguns. Where would I go to get them?”
“You’d go to me.”
“Good to know.”
“What, no hypothetical hand grenades?”
“What?”
Choi grinned. “Just kidding.”
“Round up the Kevlar vests too, before we go.”
“Can do.”
They went back and joined the others at the table, where baskets of burgers and fries and other traditional diner fare was being served up.
“All right,” Harrow said, when everyone had eaten. “Let’s get ready. Any questions?”
“Excuse me!”
The voice came from just behind Harrow. It belonged to a matronly lady in purple knit slacks, a purple sweatshirt, and a large red hat. She and three similarly dressed women lined up near Harrow’s chair — he had to swing around a little to take them all in.
Then he rose, and said, “Ladies.”
“We do apologize,” the spokeswoman said, “for interrupting you.”
“We were just finishing our meals. No problem.”
“You are J.C. Harrow, aren’t you? And this is the Killer TV team, isn’t it?”
He smiled a little. “Guilty as charged.”
“We’re with the Red Hat Society. We all watch your show, and just love it.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Now the spokeswoman’s features grew somber. “We were wondering — you don’t think that killer you’ve been chasing is here in Downs, do you?”
He shook his head. “No reason to worry, ma’am. We’re just passing through.”
Their group sigh of relief amused Harrow and the rest. But he suddenly realized another problem with the size of their operation — rolling into a little town, their semi and buses all but announcing serial killer seemed the modern-day equivalent of shouting fire in a crowded theater.
“Well, uh... before you go, could we have your autographs?”
“No problem,” he said. Much as he wanted to hit the road, he was not about to insult matrons in a diner in Downs, Kansas. A napkin was passed around, and everyone signed.
“Where is that nice young girl?” the woman asked. “Carmen Garcia? We just love her.”
“We love her, too,” Harrow said. “She’ll be joining us later. Leave your address with my friends here, and we’ll see you all get signed photos.”