I'll Be Watching You Part 3

Close-knit? The gang at WVNY had been her lifesavers these past few months. No, they hadn't been in her face, showering her with sympathy like everyone else she knew. They hadn't sent flowers, made donations, baked cakes. They'd simply squeezed her arm, or murmured their condolences, or offered to fill in for her, or just to bring her a sandwich or a cup of coffee. Little things, all of them, but offered with a wealth of sincerity. Funny, the bunch of them who worked there were all so different; they had different backgrounds, different personalities, certainly different shows--from Bill's macho Sports Talk to her own Teen Talk, a family counseling show focusing on adolescents' issues that elicited phone-ins from teens and parents alike and that aired every weeknight from eight to ten. Still, the whole staff cared about one another.

"We're pretty tight," she admitted. "Like a little radio family."

"Good. So make some extra plans with them outside the studio," Dr. Phillips advised. "Maybe even for Christmas Day. Time alone is fine. Too much time alone isn't."

"Message received, loud and clear."

And it was.

Taylor didn't have close friends, only "friendly friends." With the exception of Steph, arm's distance was her motto. It was safer. Dr. Phillips disagreed. She'd been encouraging Taylor to deepen her relations.h.i.+ps, romantic ones included. Fine. Maybe someday--if the right someone came along. But so far, that someone hadn't shown up. So she counted on one person--herself.

"Taylor," Dr. Phillips prompted.

"Okay, okay. This holiday season I'll become a master mingler." Taylor tried to sound upbeat. But she knew she wouldn't take Dr. Phillips's suggestion to spend Christmas Day with anyone, and she knew the doctor knew. That day would be quiet. She'd spend it alone, working through her emotions, trying to get her life in order. She had a pile of real-estate ads to go through. That would be the first step. Time to get a different, smaller apartment. Time to stop spinning in neutral. Time to do something definitive to move on.

Christmas Day. A day of peace. Perhaps it would bring her some.

It didn't happen that way.

On Christmas morning, Taylor awakened, flipped on her computer to check the current real-estate postings, and found an e-mail greeting card waiting for her. It was a Christmas e-card, complete with falling snow, a brick chimney, and Santa Claus, cast in shadows, preparing to climb down the chimney and into the house.

As the card appeared, Taylor's speakers began to cheerfully play "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town."

In sync with the tune, the lyrics to one of the song's verses appeared on her screen: He sees you when you're sleeping He knows when you're awake He knows if you've been bad or good So be good for goodness' sake.

Beneath that was a personal message. It read: Like Santa Claus, I'll be watching you.

There was no signature.

CHAPTER 4.

Taylor went numb.

The first thing she did was contact the greeting-card company. Or at least she tried. All she got was a recording, cheerfully wis.h.i.+ng her a Merry Christmas and suggesting she call back tomorrow.

She did. For all the good it did her.

The customer-service manager explained that all they kept track of was the information the sender provided about himself--his name and e-mail address. And in this case, whoever had sent the e-card had provided Taylor's e-mail address in both the recipient and sender boxes. There was nothing more the company could tell her.

In short, the card was untraceable. Which meant there was no way to connect it to Gordon.

It didn't matter. Taylor knew in her gut that he'd sent it. And the very thought of it made her sick. Because it meant that the afternoon he'd forced himself on her hadn't been spur-of-the-moment l.u.s.t. It meant he'd been planning it--and arranged for his calling card to follow. He'd given this whole fict.i.tious relations.h.i.+p he'd conjured up in his mind far more thought than she'd realized.

Okay, fine, Taylor thought, desperately trying to get a grip on her emotions. So Gordon had sent the card. So he'd targeted her as more than his next s.e.xual conquest. From the things he'd said to her that day, he was clearly fixated on her. He saw her as something to capture--and to control. What difference did it make? All that was over now. He was dead. He'd obviously inputted this card months ago, providing a December 25 delivery date. She had to calm down.

She'd almost convinced herself when New Year's Day arrived--along with another e-card. Heart pounding, Taylor clicked her mouse to open it.

As the card materialized on her monitor, she was greeted with the tinkling notes of "Winter Wonderland."

Talk about a paradox.

The graphics were anything but upbeat. Another night scene. This time a far-off cabin on a barren hill. Naked trees. A blanket of fallen snow in the forefront. Inside the cabin, a single window, dimly lit.

The figure of a woman silhouetted there.

The scene conveyed an eerie sense of isolation, one that sent s.h.i.+vers up Taylor's spine.

The rhyme itself was inked in the snow. It was ent.i.tled "My New Year's Vow."

Like snow without footprints, the New Year unfolds A stark new beginning, and all that it holds Looming ahead like a snow'covered hill Is a book of blank pages that I'll watch you fill.

No signature.

But none was necessary.

I'll be watching you ...

There it was again. Implicit or not. Gordon's threat, thrown back in Taylor's face. And, like the previous card, her name and e-mail address had been inputted as both sender and recipient.

Taylor snapped.

At nine a.m. on January 2, she called Detective Hadman at the Nineteenth Precinct, blurting out the details of the back-to-back incidents.

"Listen to me, Ms. Halstead," he said calmly. "First of all, there's no proof Gordon Mallory sent you those cards. That having been said, yeah, given the MO and the wording, it is a little weird. So let's a.s.sume he sent them. You know the way these greeting-card Web sites work; you can instruct them to send the card up to a year after you write it. So he programmed one to show up on Christmas Day and one on New Year's."

"I realize that, Detective. I also realize that this is hara.s.sment, even if the guy who's doing it is dead. Clearly, Gordon was scoping me out for some time. G.o.d knows how many more of these cards he programmed to pop up on my computer this year."

"I see your point," Hadman replied carefully, as if weighing the best way to rein Taylor in. "My suggestion? Change your e-mail address. Then whatever else he might have sent won't ever reach you."

"But--"

"Let it go, Ms. Halstead. Gordon Mallory is dead."

"Are you sure?" she heard her own shaky voice demand. "Absolutely sure? Even without a body?"

She was panicking, pursuing the absurd, and she knew it. But she needed the rea.s.surance of hearing Detective Hadman's staunch verbal confirmation.

"Yes." Hadman said. "I'm sure. Mallory was identified as being aboard the yacht when it left the dock. The explosion was enormous. No one survived. The waters off Montauk are shark-infested. So, like I said, Gordon Mallory's dead. Stop torturing yourself."

Yeah, right, Taylor thought. Easy for you to say. "All right, Detective. I'll do my best."

"Good. And don't forget what I said about changing your e-mail address."

"I won't. I'll call my Internet provider right away. Thanks for your time."

She hung up.

JANUARY 8.

8:30 P.M.

CHRYSLER BUILDING,.

405 LEXINGTON AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY.

Jonathan Mallory leaned back in his office chair, listening with interest to the panel discussion taking place on WVNY's Teen Talk.

Two renowned psychiatrists were discussing the impact of childhood trauma on the adults those kids became. Moderating the panel was the talk-show host, Taylor Halstead.

She was a bright woman. Jonathan had listened to her show for several weeks now. She had a lot to say about children and their environments, about parents and their responsibilities, about familial relations.h.i.+ps and how to make them work.

If she wanted to hear about screwed-up childhoods, he could tell her stories that would make her head spin.

Actually, he'd fully expected to have the chance to do just that. He'd a.s.sumed she'd contact him months ago. She'd asked enough questions of Gordon's colleagues right after the explosion. Questions about Gordon and his family. She knew he existed, and that he lived and worked in Manhattan. He a.s.sumed she'd follow through by showing up on his doorstep, especially after hitting a brick wall out at the Hamptons with Douglas and Adrienne.

But she hadn't.

Too bad. It would have made keeping tabs on her much easier.

Next week's meeting would tell. Either she'd take the money and go away quietly or she'd keep poking around. The latter could mean trouble. And that would force his hand.

Rising, Jonathan walked over to his sideboard.

He paused, listening intently to Taylor's earnest tone as she posed the next question to her guests: How can a traumatized child overcome the odds and make the most of his or her future?

With a tight smile, Jonathan poured himself a Scotch.

10:03 P.M.

WVNY TALK RADIO,.

SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY.

STUDIO B.

The red "on the air" light went out.

Keying the mike, producer Kevin Hodges announced, "We're off." From inside her private, softly lit recording studio, Taylor took a reviving sip of cranberry juice and eased away from the microphone and the control panel that coordinated her activities with the ma.s.sive array of dials, switches, and computers sitting on the other side of the wall--the side that was her producer and audio engineer's domain.

Meeting Kevin's gaze through the long rectangular window that was her only visual connection with the outer studio, she gave him a thumbs-up. She then sat back in her chair, tugging the audio piece out of her ear and smiling across the desk at her guests. "That was great. You touched on some very important points. Especially the fact that childhood trauma doesn't have to ruin lives. It can be dealt with through counseling and emotional support. Kids need to hear that. Thanks so much for being here."

"Our pleasure." Dr. Mazer rose from one of the tufted leather guest chairs that were cl.u.s.tered around Taylor's kidney-shaped desk and gathered up her notes. "Let's hope we helped some people who are reluctant to call in."

Dr. Felmore shook Taylor's hand. "Your style is commendable," he praised. "A combination of compa.s.sion and clarity. You'll reach a lot of young people that way."

"I hope so. It's certainly my goal in hosting this show." Taylor glanced up as the thick door to her inner sanctum opened and her a.s.sistant, Laura Michaels, poked her head in.

"I have some things to go over with you when it's convenient."

"We have to be going anyway," Dr. Mazer a.s.sured Taylor. "Let's do this again sometime."

"I'd enjoy that."

Taylor waited until her guests had left, then turned to Laura. "So, what do we have--letters? E-mails? Phone calls?"

"All the above." Laura plopped down in a chair across from Taylor's desk and began organizing her various pieces of correspondence.

"Nice show," Kevin commented through the mike that connected the production side of the studio with Taylor's.

"Yeah, not to mention that Dr. Mazer bakes one h.e.l.l of a blackout cake." Rick Sh.o.r.e, Taylor's audio engineer, put in his two cents, cutting another slice of cake as he popped out the minidisk containing tonight's show, then labeled it. "You know," he commented, turning to Kevin, "I think we should make bringing baked goods a prerequisite for all our guests."

"Great. Then you won't be able to reach the controls over your spare tire." Kevin continued to shut things down on his end while he spoke. "Better get out here fast, Taylor, or you won't get anything but crumbs."

Taylor smiled. "Thanks for the warning."

"By the way, Romeo called again tonight. He wanted to know if you were free for brunch on Sunday."

"And you said?"

"That you had a previous commitment, and that if he wanted advice, he should call with a question, not a request for a date."

"Straightforward enough." Taylor's lips twitched. Being in this business, she'd gotten used to all kinds of odd phone calls. It was natural that when you spoke about personal issues, people would feel a connection. Some regarded her as a personal friend, some despised her views and used her as a whipping post, and some wanted to bring her home to mother. Everyone at WVNY was a pro. They knew when a caller sounded scary. This one just wanted a date--every other day.

"Do you need us?" Rick asked, finis.h.i.+ng the shutdown process--and his cake. "Because I've got a situation at home. If we're through, I'm going to take off."

"Go." Taylor waved them away. "I've got a few things to review with Laura, then I'll be heading out, too. I've got an early meeting at school tomorrow." She turned to Laura. "Okay, shoot."

Laura shoved a pile across the desk. "This is the take-home stuff. Read it when you have time." She pointed at another pile. "Here's what we have to go over. But before we do ..." She pulled out a pink phone message and handed it to Taylor. "Your attorney called. He said to call back at your earliest convenience."

Taylor frowned, taking and scanning the message that read Joseph Lehar, Esq.--call back ASAP.

"Did he mention what it was about?"

"Something about a meeting."

A meeting? That was odd. Usually, when Joseph called her, it was to discuss Steph's estate, of which she was the executor.

"I'll call him first thing tomorrow."