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  Amazingly, we’ve never lost a caller. We’ve come close. But somehow I’ve always been able to find the words that convince our lost souls that life is worth living. At least till we get off the air and Nova can connect them with a professional.

  Tonight, my bag of tricks is empty and so am I.

  Rani has killed three people. She’s smart enough to know that her life is not going to have a happily-ever-after ending. The talkback is still open. “So where do we go from here?” I ask Nova.

  She rakes her hair with her hands. “Beats me,” she says. “I guess we just take care of business and keep the show moving. I’m going to play music for a while.”

  “We never just play music,” I say. “I should go on air and explain.”

  “Explain what?” Nova says testily. “That we’re playing music because there’s a psycho out there killing our listeners? In my opinion, it’s better to have a hundred thousand people wondering why CVOX has suddenly become ALL MUSIC/ ALL THE TIME than to have a hundred thousand people going into cardiac arrest.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “But you’re always right.”

  “No, I’m not,” Nova says. “But I am right about this. Charlie, the police psychologist wants to talk to you directly. He’s on line two. His name, incidentally, is Dr. Steven Apple.”

  “An Apple a day,” I say.

  “He doesn’t like jokes about his name,” Nova says. “I tried. He likes to be called Dr. Apple, and he’ll call you Charlie—it’s a power thing. Have fun.”

  I pick up the phone. “Charlie Dowhanuik here,” I say.

  “I’m Dr. Steven Apple.” His bass voice rumbles with authority. Guys who are that certain of themselves make me want to scoop out their eyeballs with a spoon. But he’s the only game in town.

  “So, Steve, what’s shakin’?” I say.

  “Actually, it’s Dr. Apple,” he rumbles.

  “Got it,” I say. “So lay it on me. What do I do next?”

  “You have to get Rani out of the shadows,” he booms. “We have to know where she is, so we can keep her under surveillance.”

  I’m tempted to tell Steve that Emo Emily, with her screaming soul and her shoe fetish, could have figured that one out. But I need him too much to piss him off. “I’m doing everything I can,” I say. “I just answered Rani’s latest email. I told her she was right—that the pressure is too great. The walls are closing in. Unless I get help, I’m going to walk away again, and this time I might not come back.”

  “That’s a very good start,” Steve says. He sounds like my grade one teacher. She always smelled of mint Life Savers and gin. I hang up and check out Nova’s choice of music. The tune I’m listening to is Jann Arden’s “I Would Die for You.” Very tasty and very appropriate. I listen to Jann and stare at my computer screen. Rani is not answering my email. Steve calls. He believes that the reason Rani hasn’t answered is that she’s on the move. He thinks that she’s on her way to her next victim.

  “So we’re screwed,” I say.

  He laughs his deep bass laugh. “Not at all,” he says. “Rani’s obsessed with your show. Even if she’s on her way to commit murder, she’ll tune in. She’s the kind of listener you must dream about.”

  “Maybe I can get her to do a promo,” I say. “So, doc, where do we go from here?”

  “You go on the air and say everything you said in your email—pull out all the stops.”

  “Most of our listeners are hanging on by their toenails. If I say I’m desperate enough to pull the plug on ‘The World According to Charlie D,’ all hell will break loose.”

  “That’s a chance you’re going to have to take.”

  Nova surprises me by siding with the good doctor. So as Jann Arden sings the final lament of the doomed lover, I turn on my mike.

  “This is for Rani. You’re right. I’m suffocating, and I’m running out of time. I don’t want to say goodbye to ‘The World of Charlie D,’ but I may not have a choice. I need to breathe. You’ve offered help. I’m asking for it now. Come down to CVOX, and Rani, hurry.”

  We go to music again. Three in a row. A record. But this is a record-breaking night. Our incoming call-board is twinkling like a Christmas tree, and the email inbox is jammed.

  Nova calls me. “You’ve got to ratchet it up. The building is filled with cops, but they don’t want to spook Rani, so they’re staying out of sight. They’re ready to take her, but they have no idea what she looks like, so they can’t do anything until you get her inside the building. That’s problem number one. Problem number two is our listeners. They’re panicking, terrified that you’re going to leave. And you know what happens when our listeners get scared. Charlie, you have to find a way to reassure them and still keep the heat on Rani.” Nova’s voice breaks. “Drat,” she says. “Hormones. This is making me crazy. You’re dancing on the edge of a razor blade, and there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Sure there is,” I say. “Be grateful I’m not wearing high heels.”

  Nova rewards me with a small laugh.

  “I’ll go back on the air and tell our listeners to hang with me,” I say. “That should at least give us a little time.”

  “Do that. And Charlie, our old friend Marion the librarian is on line three. Take her call. Nobody can turn down the emotional temperature like Marion. Get her to unload some of her research—that’ll chill everybody out.”

  “True enough,” I say. “Marion’s better than Xanax. Wish me luck.” I flip on my mike and dig deep for my sane and hopeful voice. It’s there.

  “We’re back,” I say. “And I’m doing better—not tip-top, but I’m still here. A glance out my nonexistent window tells me there’s a full moon—always a lunar spookfest—so let’s send back positive energy. Stay tuned and stay loose—we’ve got a lot of living to do.”

  I start to cue the music, and I realize that tonight being cool is not enough. Our audience deserves more. When I start to speak again, the emotion in my voice is something I didn’t put there. “Thanks for hanging in,” I say. “Knowing you were there made all the difference.” My voice cracks. It’s the real thing. I’m losing control, and it scares me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’ve fallen overboard, but lucky for me, I have a life preserver. I can hang on to Marion the Librarian until I’m paddling in safe waters again. I lean into my mike.

  “You are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D’ and our topic tonight is Erotomania. To help me navigate the tangled web of passionate longings and secret messages, we have an old friend: Marion the Librarian.

  “Marion, my Marion, where have you been? I’ve missed the sound of your voice. I’ve become unmoored without your reassuring presence and your amazing breadth of knowledge.”

  “I’ve been listening, Charlie. And I’ve been calling, but your producer has been blocking my calls.” Marion’s voice is flat and angry. I don’t blame her. We used her for a while. But when the network decided we had to go for a younger demographic, they drew up a list of callers who were no longer welcome. Marion’s name was at the very top.

  “You’re on the air now,” I say. “And I’m going to put that Wikipedia brain of yours to work by asking a hypothetical question: If one of our listeners was the object of an erotomaniac’s fixation, what should he or she do?”

  Marion leaps at the chance to share her expert knowledge. The chill melts. “Call the police,” she says earnestly. “Do not—and I cannot emphasize this enough—do not attempt to handle the situation on your own. Only five percent of erotomaniacs kill. Most often they kill the ‘triangulator’—that’s the person whom they believe stands between them and the object of their love. But no one can predict what an erotomaniac might do. They are very, very dangerous. I repeat: Do not attempt to handle this situation on your own.”

  “Marion’s advice is as solid as she is,” I say. “Pay attention to her words. If a lover you don’t know is closing in on you, call the police. If you’re obsessed with thoughts you can’t
control, call me. We can talk—off the air, if that’s your comfort zone. I can put you in touch with somebody who can help. Whatever the problem—you’re not alone.” My eyes wander to my computer screen. No word from Rani. I look questioningly at Nova. She shakes her head to indicate that Rani is still a no-show.

  Through the glass that separates us, I see that Nova is chewing her fingernails. She’d given that up, saying she didn’t want to set a bad example for the baby. When I suggested that it would probably be a while before the baby cared about manicures, Nova rolled her eyes and told me there was a lot I didn’t understand.

  She was right. There is a lot I don’t understand. But, ready or not, this seems to be my night for a crash course. Nova lays her head down on the desk. She looks so alone, and so vulnerable. Suddenly I know this isn’t about me anymore. I lean into my mike. “Rani, if you’re listening, come down to the studio. So much depends on us seeing one another face-to-face.”

  Marion cuts me off. “I’m still here, Charlie,” she says.

  Her voice is stiff with fury. I blew it again. I’m off my game. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “Marion, my Marion, I need some help answering the big question about people who love this way. Why? Why do they do it? We all know that, sooner or later, even the greatest love will bring us grief. Why do erotomaniacs choose a love that brings them nothing but grief?”

  “That is the big question,” Marion agrees. “And it’s a tough one. I’ve read up on this subject, and I think the writer C.S. Lewis has an answer for us. Someone once asked him why we love when losing hurts so much. He said we love so that we know we’re not alone. Lewis’s point is clear. For someone who has no intimacy in their life, even pathological love brings feelings of great joy.”

  “Even unrequited love is better than no love at all?” I say.

  “That’s it exactly,” Marion replies. She sounds proud. I’m not the dunce in the class after all. “Love gives people a reason to get up in the morning,” she continues. “The act of loving gives our life purpose.”

  I lost the woman I loved three years ago. Sometimes, out of nowhere, I remember the care with which she folded her nightgown and placed it under her pillow. Or her insane joy when she beat me at Scrabble. And I can barely breathe. I can’t remember the last time I wanted to get up in the morning. “It’s good to hear from you, Marion,” I say, and my voice is choked. I clear my throat and move along. “You always have something worthwhile to say. People like C.S. Lewis give us perspective.”

  Marion’s laugh is short and dry. “People don’t care about C.S. Lewis anymore. They don’t care about perspective. Listen to the people whose calls you take. They don’t care about anyone but themselves. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. That’s all they care about. People who read and think are no longer relevant.”

  I can hear the pain in her voice. She deserves to be heard. Our audience of demographically desirable young crazies should know there are people like Marion out there. People who may not be able to bare their souls on their blogs or on Facebook, but who are just as deeply wounded by life as they are.

  “I’ve spent my whole life trying to find answers, and nobody cares,” Marion says. “My time is past. Nobody wants to hear from me. I’m too old, and I care about the wrong things. I’m obsolete. When you stopped taking my calls, you threw me on the scrap heap with all the other junk that people didn’t need anymore. Televisions that aren’t high definition, cd players, portable radios, rotary phones. We’re all garbage now. And we’re all in the same burial ground.” Marion’s voice catches. “Charlie, I’ve been answering your questions. Now I have a question for you. How could you do this to me?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I can’t answer. I didn’t put up a fight when Nova told me the network wanted us to block Marion’s calls. All I cared about was the show. If Marion got in the way of what the network wanted, she had to go. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean that, Marion. I’m truly sorry.”

  There’s silence, and I think she’s hung up. When, finally, she speaks, her voice is thick with tears. “It’s not your fault,” she says. “The world just passed me by.”

  I glance into the control room. Nova is wiping her eyes. “Marion, leave your number with my producer,” I say. “I’ll call you after the show when we can talk privately.”

  “No,” she says. Her voice is loud and frightened.

  I’m confused. “If you’d rather I didn’t call, I won’t.” For a beat, there’s no sound on her end of the line. “Marion, would you rather I didn’t call?”

  Still no response. Then suddenly— there’s a thud, a crash, the sound of glass breaking. I can hear Marion’s voice, but it’s distant. “What are you doing here?” she says. “How did you get in? The deadbolt was…”

  I call out to her, “Marion, what’s happening?” It’s a stupid move. Marion’s too far from the phone to hear me. And as an experienced caller, she knows enough to turn down the radio when she’s on air. Suddenly the phone is slammed down. There’s silence.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I say. I’ve forgotten to turn off my microphone. My question is echoing live from coast to coast.

  Nova switches off my mike from the control room. She’s on autopilot, but she’s a pro. “Go to the tune,” she says. “Script’s on your computer screen. I’ve got the cops on the line.”

  I flick my button, and I’m back on air. “Apologies,” I say, “but I take heart in knowing that my question was the question in all your minds.

  “In nine weird years, this is our weirdest night. Let’s do what we can to keep our focus. Sarah McLachlan wrote a song about her stalker. It’s called ‘Possession.’ Sarah’s stalker sued her for using the material in the love letters he sent her. Later he blew off his head and sent Sarah the video.” I pause to drive home the next point. “No one’s life should end like that,” I say. “Rani, call me.”

  As Sarah sings about a man who would rather kill her than live without her, I call Nova. There’s an edge in her voice, an urgency. “The police traced the number,” she says. “Marion is one of theirs—a member of the police force. She’s a researcher for their Major Crimes division. ‘Marion the Librarian’ was just your name for her. Her real name is Janet Davidson. She lives in a high-rise two blocks from here. The cops are on their way there now.”

  “So if Rani was there, she’s close,” I say.

  “Very close. Charlie, the police think I’m a target because I’m the one who stands between you and her…”

  “You’re the triangulator,” I say. “That’s the term Marion used. Get out of here, Nova. Go home.”

  “Charlie, you know if I weren’t pregnant, I’d stay. But I’ve waited so long for this baby.”

  “I know. Just go.”

  “The police are sending an officer to take me out of the building. They think I’m going to need protection for a while. They want you to stay on the air—appeal to Rani. Pull out all the stops. You have to get her to come to the station. The cops don’t even have a description. Rani could be anywhere. She could be anyone. The one thing the police are certain of is that she’s going to kill again.” There’s an edge of hysteria in Nova’s voice. “Charlie, I have this…terrible feeling…that Janet Davidson is already dead. You have to do something.”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Be careful. If anything happened to you…”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I say. “Only the good die young.”

  “You’re good,” Nova says. “You’re one of the best people I know.”

  “You’ve got to start associating with a better crowd,” I say.

  She laughs softly. “When this is over, I’m going to teach you how to take a compliment. Charlie…hang on. The police say Rani’s on line one. They want you to get her talking. An on-air confession will make things a lot easier for them.”

  “And for us,” I say. “The network will love the publicity. We chose a wild and wacky business, Nova.”

/>   “I think the business chose us,” Nova says. “My grandmother always said we have to grow where we’re planted.”

  “Was your grandma ever faced with a psychotic serial killer?”

  “I don’t think so. She taught grade three. Look, my personal cop is waiting outside, so I’d better skedaddle. The police are covering the entrances to the building; there are three cops in the studio next to ours, and they’re monitoring the show. If anything goes wrong, they’ll be in. Now, reassure me. Tell me you’re going to be all right.”

  “Mama Nova, I haven’t been all right since the day I was born. Tonight the ride is just a little rockier than usual. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Charlie. You’re very dear to me.”

  I reach for my tough-guy voice. “That goes both ways,” I say. “Okay. Time for you and that baby you’re carrying to let the boys in blue escort you home. Tomorrow morning this will all be over, and you’ll have a truly rocking bedtime story to tell your daughter.”

  I watch as Nova throws her gear into her backpack. I figure she’s heading out, but she surprises me by coming into the studio. She kisses my hair, murmurs, “Good luck,” and then she’s gone, leaving behind the scent of hemp oil. Someone told her it would prevent stretch marks.

  The familiar smell boosts my spirits. I flick the button that opens my microphone. “Rani, hello. I googled your name and learned that ‘Rani’ means ‘queen.’ What can I offer you that is worthy of a queen?”

  She growls, a low animal growl, and my marrow freezes. “The beat of your heart,” she says. “The warmth of your arms. The press of your belly against mine. The electric thrill of your fingers running down the small of my back. I want to feel your body against mine.”