Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read Free

sinners!”
    Sammy couldn’t be sure if the high-pitched agitated voice was male or female.
    “Violating God’s word and God’s law! You’re going to burn in hell!”
    Sammy adopted a mocking tone. “For what?”
    “The sin of fornication. You will face the wrath of God and die a thousand deaths of the horrible plague! AIDS will —”
    Sammy severed the connection. Her own tolerance for on-air invective was nonexistent. “I think it’s about time for a little less passion and a little more compassion. That’s
my
kind of religion.”
    She looked over at the program director as he simulated pulling a knife across his throat. “Well, it looks like our time’s up. Stay cool, and we’ll see you again tomorrow — on
The Hot Line
.”
    No sooner had she clicked off her mike than the studio door burst open to admit Larry Dupree. Sammy threw up her hands. “I know. I know.”
    “Ah can’t keep doing this, Sammy, ah just can’t,” he drawled in his Mississippi accent. “Potty mouths and lunatics. Next, you’ll be getting death threats.”
    Sammy nudged her delicate features into a calculated pout. “Hey, it’s not like I’m Rush Limbaugh or Howard Stern.”
    “Is that what ahm supposed to tell the dean? After your shenanigans last year, you know he’d like to can this show. The board of regents doesn’t take kindly to controversy.”
    “Tell the dean and the board we’re exercising our first amendment rights
and
our religious freedom.”
    “Religious freedom?”
    “Sure, free expression is America’s secular religion. My job is to protect those rights — and give them a forum.”
    The program director shook his head. “Sammy, you are some piece of work.”
    “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Gathering her papers, Sammy eased her tiny frame off her stool, and turned to Larry who hadn’t moved. “Hey, stop looking so worried.”
    “That’s
my
job!”
    “Okay then, let’s set up a seven-second delay. That should give me enough time to cut off the kooks.”
    Larry nodded at the engineer’s booth. “Brian’s working on it. Maybe by next week. But until then,” he added firmly, “do something a little less controversial, okay? How ‘bout a story on that teaching award? Or those hydroponic veggies they’re growing in the greenhouse?”
    “Even aggie shows talk about manure. It’s part of life, if you get my drift.”
    “Well, y’all’ll be standing deep in it if you don’t tone it down. If you get
my
drift.”
    Sammy refused to acknowledge the warning as she headed out the studio.
    “Going to the greenhouse?”
    “Going to hell,” she retorted. “I’ve got an afternoon rendezvous with the Reverend Taft.”
    “Gawd, Sammy, please be careful.”
    “
Halevai!”
    “And what in hell does that mean?” The tall, lanky southerner was as much a foreigner to Yiddish as to Yankee.
    Already at the door, Sammy turned and tossed Larry an ironic smile, “Loose translation: ‘the saints preserve us.’ ”
    He’d been sitting there, feet dangling over the precipice of the university clock tower for nearly twenty minutes, not clear how he got there or why. But then he hadn’t been certain of much since — since when? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t seem to remember anything except the recurrent nightmares. Tormenting him. Invading his thoughts. He’d hardly slept at all in two weeks.
    A sudden lancing pain pierced his temples. He grabbed his skull. What was happening to him?
    Fifty feet below his perch, campus life proceeded at its usual frenetic pace. Everyone rushing: to classes, to meetings, to parties. No time to stand still — even for an instant. He closed his eyes, seekingsolace. Deep breaths. That girl in his psych class had shown him how to do it. Progressive relaxation. Another inhalation. It seemed to help. What was her name?
    The thunderous clang of the two o’clock hour resonated within him, sending out tendrils of pain. It felt as if his head would burst.
    “Look!