Quokka Question

FIFTEEN

After making love with Ariana, anything else was set to be an anticlimax. On Saturday evening I arrived at the radio station at the appointed time. I'd been quite looking forward to sitting in the studio watching Pen, as Dr. Penny, dispensing advice to callers, but now my thoughts were fixed on something far more disturbing-and exciting.

As I parked my car in the lot beside the khaki-colored building that had seen better times, I reminded myself I had to collect a compilation of the suspicious calls that Pen had had made up from the master recordings of her show. My name had been given to security, so after I'd been thoroughly checked to make sure I was who I said I was and then provided with a badge reading VISITOR, Pen was summoned to collect me from the reception area.

Bubbling with enthusiasm, she punched the button to summon the lift at least ten times. "That Lonnie of yours, he's quite a ladies' man," she said. "Sexy as all get-out."

"Lonnie?" Chubby, dimpled Lonnie-sexy? Pen had to be referring to someone else.

"He did a great job installing the pinhole camera," Pen continued. "And he stayed for quite a while. We found we had so much in common."

I visualized Lonnie next to the Amazonian Pen Braithwaite. He was shorter than me, so he'd probably be about her breast level. And Lonnie was a total technology freak, who didn't seem to have a private life at all. What could he and Pen possibly have in common?

"Now, don't tell Rube," said Pen, smiling girlishly at me. "He can get quite jealous at times, although we do have an open relationship."

"There's nothing to tell Rube," I pointed out. "Lonnie just installed a surveillance unit for you."

Pen's smile widened. She gave me an affectionate, one-armed squeeze that pushed most of the air out of my lungs. "Little you know!" she said, following this with a hoot of laughter.

Could she mean it? Lonnie had written: "Dr. Penny! Cool!" on the bottom of his note to me about the camera installation. But, Lonnie and Pen Braithwaite? Quite unexpected pictures danced in front of my eyes.

"I hope you'll be very happy together," I declared.

"Speaking of happy," said Pen, peering closely at me, "you look positively sated, Kylie. Some wonderfully sensual experience?"

I knew I was blushing. "Fair," I said, offhand. "Nothing to write home to Mum about."

And that was true. My mum would never hear a word about my night with Ariana.

Thankfully at this moment the lift arrived with a tired wheeze, and Pen swept me into it. She jabbed the floor number multiple times. "Come on," she said, "Come on!" The lift doors creaked arthritically closed.

"Bloody elevators," said Pen. "Got stuck in this one the other day. And I was by myself, worse luck. Now, if it gives up the ghost right now, it'll be you and me, Kylie, all alone. What do you say to that?"

"Help?"

"Love it," said Pen, chuckling, "that Aussie sense of humor."

Heeding my urgent prayer, the lift opened on the correct floor. "Better luck next time, eh?" said Pen, striding in the direction of double doors with an illuminated ON AIR sign.

We passed a window through which I could see a bloke at a console speaking animatedly into a microphone, although we could hear nothing until we entered the control room, where his voice was fed through speakers. He was giving news headlines: high-speed police pursuit of a carjacked SUV, influence peddling scandal in City Hall, gang-related shootout in one of the poorer L.A. areas, top movie star checks into upscale substance abuse clinic.

"Same old, same old," said Pen.

In quick succession, she introduced me to several preoccupied people, each of whom said. "Hi," then went straight back to preparing for the coming program. One called Roger seemed to be in charge. Then I was bundled into a cramped studio, seated in a high-backed leather chair, and fitted with cumbersome earphones. "Can you hear me?" boomed in my ears. I gestured to the sound engineer to indicate I could.

Then there was a lull in proceedings. Through the window between the control room and the studio, I could see Pen waving her hands around as she spoke to a diminutive woman who for some reason reminded me of an aristocratic whippet. If she'd been larger, I reflected, it'd have been a greyhound.

With nothing to distract me, my thoughts boomeranged back to Ariana. This morning we'd breakfasted together, and Ariana had been quiet but not cold. If anything, she'd been pensive, even sad. I'd silently admonished myself not to say too much. Any declaration of love, for example, was definitely not on the schedule. Both of us scrupulously avoided discussing our night together, and I managed not to impulsively blurt anything out about undying devotion over my porridge.

The rot had set in when I'd walked Ariana to her dark-blue BMW. She said a casual goodbye, slid into the driver's seat, shut the door, started the engine.

I tapped gently on her window. She slid it down and gazed inquiringly at me. "Something you forgot?"

"To tell you that I love you."

Ariana looked away. "Don't say that, please."

"Why not? It's true."

"Please."

"Right-oh," I'd said, "but it won't make any difference. I'll still love you."

We hadn't exchanged another word. I'd stepped back, and she'd put the car in gear and driven away.

Pen broke into my thoughts by barging through the studio door.

The room seemed suddenly smaller. In the space of a couple minutes, she'd dumped the compilation of questionable calls in my lap, flung herself into a chair opposite mine, slapped down a bunch of typed pages, whacked on her earphones, fiddled with switches, and adjusted the hanging microphone to her liking. This was followed by a sound-level check.

All this accomplished, she leaned back and grinned at me. "If the guy calls, and I'm betting he will, Roger's on the ten-second delay, and the program will go to station identification while I keep him talking."

Roger came through the earphones to say it was sixty seconds to airtime.

"Have you listened to my program before?" Pen asked me.

I had to admit I'd missed that pleasure.

Pen chortled. "Be ready to be surprised."

I said I would be.

"Emily screens the calls," said Pen, indicating the whippet woman, who was seated on the other side of the dividing window, earphones dominating her narrow head. "She's got a talent for voices, and will recognize Creepy Guy-that's what we've taken to calling him-if he's on the line. I've told her to put him through like a regular caller." She rubbed her hands together. "Creepy's starting to be a bit of a challenge. I always like a challenge."

"No, you don't," I said, having read much more about stalking and stalkers since last we'd talked. "True stalkers are much more than a challenge. They're unhinged, unpredictable individuals who can go from being a mere nuisance to becoming a murderous threat."

Pen seemed ready to argue, but I went on, "Did you read through the list of preliminary steps that Ariana gave you?"

She waved a dismissive hand. "All just common sense. Besides, being a celebrity of sorts, I've already got more than half of them in place."

The basic safety precautions to take when being stalked were, as Pen said, common sense: block your address at the DMV and voter registration; get a post office box for mail; screen all calls with an answering machine; get an additional, unlisted number and only give it to family and very close friends; never accept delivery of a package unless you personally ordered the item; shred all receipts and statements; keep a cell phone by your side at all times, even inside your home, because a stalker can cut telephone wires; get a watchdog; install a security system including video surveillance of entry points; be aware of exactly where the nearest police station is; establish where twenty-four-hour stores are situated; inform neighbors, coworkers, and friends that you are being stalked so they won't innocently provide information; take a class in self-defense; consider changing your address.

I'd opened my mouth to emphasize that taking a stalker for granted had been a fatal mistake for some victims when a voice in our earphones started the countdown. The program was about to go to air. The theme music, I found, was the old Cole Porter song "Anything Goes." I had a feeling this would prove to be an entirely appropriate choice.

The music faded, and an announcer, his resonant delivery full of joyful enthusiasm, exclaimed, "Welcome to Sexuality Unchained, Dr. Penny's award-winning advice column of the air, covering all issues of adult sexuality!" He dropped his voice to add in a serious tone, "A warning: this is for adults only. Some material discussed may offend some listeners." Another burst of Anything Goes was followed by: "And here's Dr. Penny!"

I recalled that Harriet had said Dr. Penny began her program with a statement that sex was her great passion. Harriet wasn't wrong. "Sex is my great passion!" Pen exclaimed. "My great passion! A life not filled to the brim with healthy sensuality is no life at all! For those listeners new to Sexuality Unchained, let me promise you an unbridled, unrestrained, candid exploration of adult sexuality in all its wonderful diversity."

The calls began. Leaping lizards! There were some uninhibited people out there! I was no prude, but a couple of times my mouth literally fell open. Pen took it all in her stride, even the bloke who'd had a surprising experience while swimming with dolphins.

"Dolphins," said Pen approvingly. "Sexy beggars and opportunists too. You wouldn't be the only case of a cross-species romp."

"But it was male dolphin!" the bloke exclaimed in some distress. "And I'm not gay."

"Three possibilities," said Pen. "A bisexual dolphin, a homosexual dolphin, or a heterosexual dolphin with poor eyesight."

This observation generated a positive firestorm of calls, and perspiration began to run down Emily Whippet's face. Pen was obliged to state emphatically that she did not subscribe to bestiality as a way of life.

"There is no homosexuality in the animal kingdom," declared one irate woman. "These are all God's creatures, and each and every one follows God's design for natural, normal behavior."

Pen snorted at mat. "Homosexual and bisexual behavior is common. In fact, it's more common in other species than in humans. Read up on bonobo chimpanzees. It'll curl your hair."

The woman snorted right back at Pen. "I doubt anything you could say would curl my hair," she sneered.

"Wrap your ears around this," said Pen with a ferocious grin. "Bonobo chimpanzees are among humankind's closest relatives. All the bonobos that have been closely observed turn out to be one hundred percent bisexual." She paused for that to sink in. "You got that? Every last chimp swings both ways."

An inarticulate cry, and the caller disconnected.

"And that, listeners, is the sound of hair curling," said Pen with satisfaction.

It was half an hour into the program that Pen's stalker called. Whippet Emily gestured from behind the glass that she had something, then, in the next commercial break, she came on through our earphones. "Creepy Guy's the call after next-calling himself 'Robert of Agoura Hills.' I'm sure it's him."

"Put him through first, as soon as the break ends." Pen looked over at me, triumphant. "I knew he'd call."

The seemingly interminable commercials finally ended. "You're listening to Sexuality Unchained. And we're back with Dr. Penny…"

Pen purred into the microphone, "And our next call is from Robert of Agoura Hills. What do you have for us, Robert?"

"It's what I have for you, Dr. Penny."

Although masculine, it was a high-pitched, slippery voice with an unpleasant note of insinuation.

"You have a problem with your sexuality?"

"I have a problem with you, you ball-breaking bitch."

Emily made a cutthroat gesture to indicate the ten-second delay was in operation and the caller was off the air before listeners could hear his last words.

"Do women intimidate you, Robert?" Pen inquired sweetly.

He ignored that, saying, "You'll be getting a message soon-a very lethal message. You should learn from it." He sniggered. "I wish I could see your face when it's delivered."

There was a click, and he was gone.

Disappointed, Pen sat back in her chair. "That was a bummer," she said. "He hardly said a thing."

My imagination was buzzing with possible meanings of a very lethal message. "It was a threat, Pen. The message he mentioned could be a bomb, anthrax-"

"Kylie, I've heard much worse than that from callers," said Pen with a shrug, "and nothing's ever happened."

"Five seconds," said Roger.

As cheerfully outrageous as ever, Pen continued with depressed callers suffering premature performance problems, premature rejection problems-"You must be making a lousy first impression," Pen remarked at one point-as well as upbeat callers who readily shared the most intimate particulars of their sexual experiences in surprising detail.

Near the end of the program, Pen was busily quizzing a woman who claimed to have discovered some amazing techniques while traveling in Tibet, when a movement in the control room caught my eye. I was astonished to see Rube Wasinsky, his face haggard, staring through the glass at Pen.

She saw him too. "What's wrong?" she mouthed, while the caller burbled on about secret Tibetan sex arts.

When he put his face in his hands, Pen turned back to the microphone. She interrupted the woman, with, "I'm so sorry, but we're out of time," then she rapidly wrapped up the show.

Pen and I took off our earphones as Rube came into the room. "Oh, Pen," he said. "Oh, Pen."

She stared at him, white-faced. "What is it?"

"It's Oscar."

Pen leaped up. "He's hurt?"

"He's dead, Pen. Oscar's dead."