"Cooney, Caroline B - Janie Johnson 03 - Voice on the Radio" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cooney Caroline B)

It was Visionary Assassins. They'd hired a voice. For the Assassins, the more attention, the better. They, too, could up the ante.
It's giggly girls with nothing else to do. Junior
high kids listening after they're supposed to be in bed. Kids in the student center, sick of video games. The professor's wife, filling in her chart.
But not Hannah.
He felt cold from the inside out.
He needed to swallow and couldn't. He needed to throw up and couldn't. He needed to think and couldn't.
"I need to know one thing," said the voice. "Just one."
They all said that. But this voice shivered on the words. It was not a demand. It was a plea.
Reeve disconnected. With the slightest pressure from just one finger, he got rid of the voice.
Then he stared at the phone. Why did I do that? I know so much that almost nobody else knows. I could have asked a single question myself, and if it's Hannah, or if it's not-I'd know.
She's gone now. I can't ask.
His mouth was full of something. A towel. Probably his tongue.
And what if it is Hannah? What then, stupid? he said to himself. His pulse whacked in his temple. It felt like a golf ball under the skin. Hire a real Visionary Assassin to do away with her? Invite her for dinner? Suggest a friendly local FBI agent?
If it was a listener trying to increase the action, he thought, she'll call back.
He waited. His heart beat as fast as a hummingbird's.
This is a college town, he reminded himself. Boston in November equals bored college kids with nothing better to do than listen to a dumb college radio station and make dumb calls.
Around him, clocks with sweep hands ticked off seconds.
Then, once more, the clear plastic bump on the telephone twinkled.
He tried to wet his lips. Couldn't. Tried to look away long enough to find his Coke. Couldn't.
Should he answer?
One more ring and the answering 'machine would pick up. He could not have Vinnie notice anything amiss.
Vinnie would love it, thought Reeve. He'll make it be Hannah even if she's not Hannah. In fact, Vinnie is the likeliest person to set this up.
His eyes flickered to Vinnie out in the hall. Vinnie was not subtle, could not act. If he was in this, it would show. But Vinnie continued to wave his clipboard at the stranger.
Reeve picked up the phone, finger poised over the Disconnect button. Reeve had large hands:
hands meant for circling basketballs or carrying one end of a piano. A voice on a wire had reduced his hand to quivers.
Janie loved his hands. Loved resting her thin fingers against his big ones. He could not think of Janie now. He could not allow himself to think what he might have loosed upon Janie.
It's not Hannah, he repeated to himself. That call was a joke.
And what was selling Janie? he thought. A joke?
He had been building a bomb here, as carefully as a terrorist in a basement. And hadn't even realized it.
But who would be blown up?
Not me, he thought. I'm the talk show host. Nothing happens to the host. Hannah isn't my daughter. She isn't my kidnapper. She's theirs.
Reeve managed a swallow. Dry, no Coke.
Hannah would explode Janie, and both families.
It'll go away, Reeve told himself. I didn't really do anything, and nobody really listens to this station. It isn't Hannah, and I'll stop doing janies. I'll attend class, I'll study, eat at McDonald's instead of the cafeteria, pick up my mail in the dark of night, sleep in the park. "This is WSCK! We're Here, We're Yours, We're Sick, how can I help you?" Only his fingers quivered, not his vocal cords.
"I just have one question, Reeve." Chipper, perky voice. Demanding, in a Hills College way. "I wanna know if Visionary Assassins look like their songs. Somebody told me that in real life, they're wimpy, weedy nerds. I picture them as big, lean thugs. What's the truth?"
Reeve's horror faded to nothing. He felt thick and somewhat silly. His racing pulse dropped, and his sweat dried.
"Ah, the elusive truth," said Reeve. "Only if you see the Assassins live will you come close to the truth." He disconnected.
Well, that was a relief. No Hannah. Just an ordinary evening in the life of a deejay.
He'd have to put a third CD on. He couldn't fill his lungs enough to talk on the air. Couldn't wet his lips. '
He felt like somebody who's just missed having a fatal car accident and has to pull over until the jelly-legs go away. He took two extremely deep,
calming breaths, the way he used to do in high school before a wrestling match.
High school. Talk about remote. He'd been a kid then, with kid-sized problems.
This is a kid-sized problem, too, he reminded himself.
The phone lit once more.
He tried to plan what to say to the fake Hannah, but no plan came to mind. He'd have to wing it. This time he would not hang up. He had to hear the woman out, find out who was behind her nonsense.
"Hey! You've reached WSCK! We're Here, We're Yours, We're Sick, how can I help you?"
"Reeve? This is Brian Spring. Jodie and I are here in Boston for her college interviews. We heard your broadcast."
Reeve had been braced for a fake Hannah. Not a real Brian Spring. Reeve's head splintered. Brian and Jodie? But they would tell Janie.
"We're at the Marriott. We're not alone, Reeve. Janie came up with us," said Brian. "The Marriott. Room six sixteen. You better come here."
Janie was here.