The Last Surgeon

CHAPTER 9

As she emerged from the dimmed lighting of the trailer, the morning sun took Jillian by surprise. Her focus during the broadcast had been so unwavering, she had completely lost track of time. Pausing in the weedy gravel parking lot, she blinked until her vision had adjusted to the glare. Then she checked her watch and sighed.

The only four hours I could get you on any broadcast and I let you down.

She tried, with some success, to convince herself that Joe from Monroe was nothing more than a twisted prank caller. Cop or not, though, his words still cut and had hurt her deeply.

… She made the choice. She took the pills. She died. Case closed. Don’t blame us for it, lady. Blame her.

In the studio, she had suppressed the urge to shout names at the callers that would have embarrassed Howard Stern. But she couldn’t risk upsetting Clemmons and possibly having him cut the broadcast short.

When the morning crew arrived, Jillian was in a somber mood, still reeling from the horrific experience. Despite what had just transpired in the trailer, from Clemmons’s wandering eye to his legion of moronic callers, she still managed to pitch the newly arrived morning show producer for more airtime. He politely declined.

It wasn’t until Jillian reached her rental and unlocked the door that she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Rick Clemmons, straw hat in hand, hurrying toward her.

“You did great in there,” he offered. “Thought maybe you and I could head on down to WaffleTown for some eggs or somethin’. Talk about the show and all.”

Then he winked, as if he needed to make the subtext of his offer perfectly clear.

Jillian shook her head in disgust. “Clemmons, you really amaze me. You know that?” she replied. “I mean, don’t you have any appreciation for what I just went through in there? And you’re not making it any easier out here by hitting on me. My sister is dead and you were my best hope for catching her killer.”

“Show still might help,” Clemmons said, seeming not the least bit affected by her harsh words.

“Okay, I’m sorry for snapping at you. Your show wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I wrote and asked for a spot on it, but at least you gave me a chance. I owe you for that. But a thank-you-nothing more.”

Clemmons’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he was about to say something when the trailer door flew open and the pale, ovoid face of his producer poked out.

“Got a phone call ’bout the show, Rick. Guy says his cell ran outta juice afore he could get through. He wants to talk to our guest here. Won’t tell me what it’s about.”

Jillian groaned. She knew the call would most likely be crude or abusive, but she trudged back up the trailer stairs anyway. For Belle.

“Hello? This is Jillian,” she said, slightly breathless from fatigue and the short climb.

“Ah, hey there, Jillian. Name’s Roach, Kyle Roach, from out Oak-bridge way.”

“Yes, Kyle. Do you have information for me?”

Jillian tensed at what she was certain was going to be a crude retort.

“Tough callers t’night. Real bottom-feeders if ya ask me.” He sounded like all the others, and Jillian was about to thank him and hang up when he added, “But I ain’t one of them, I assure you. I have a wife and two kids at home. I listen to Rick Clemmons because I work the night shift at the Daimler plant, and those idiot callers he gets keep me laughing and awake.”

“I’m listening,” Jillian said.

“I would have called in to the show and all, but my cell phone here died on me.”

“Yes, yes. The producer told me that. Now what is it?”

“I think we might want to get together and talk.”

Jillian had had enough.

“Good-bye, Mr. Roach,” she said.

“Wait. I said I was serious and I meant it.”

Jillian was poised to cut him off but something made her stop. “Go ahead,” she said, “but one crude word and you’re gone.”

“Okay. Here’s why I think we should meet. I know who Dr. Nick Fury is.”

“What?”

“I served with him in Afghanistan.”