Night Shift Read Free

kept the room dark, but for the light of a few sputtering candles. He liked the mystic, spiritual glow of them, and their dreamy religious scent. The room was small, but it was crammed with mementos—trophies from his past. Letters, snapshots, a scattering of small china animals, ribbons faded by time. A long-bladed hunting knife rested across his knees, gleaming dully in the shifting light. A well-oiled .45 automatic rested by his elbow on a starched crocheted doily.
    In his hand he held a picture framed in rosewood. He stared at it, spoke to it, wept bitter tears over it. This was the only person he had ever loved, and all he had left was the picture to press to his breast.
    John. Innocent, trusting John. Deceived by a woman. Used by a woman. Betrayed by a woman.
    Love and hate entwined as he rocked. She would pay. She would pay the ultimate price. But first she would suffer.
    ***
    The call—one single ugly call—came every night. By the end of a week, Cilla’s nerves were frazzled. She wasn’t able to make a joke of it, on or off the air. She was just grateful that now she had learned to recognize the voice, that harsh, wire-taut voice with that undercurrent of fury, and she would cut him off after the first few words.
    Then she would sit there in terror at the knowledge that he would call back, that he was there, just on the other side of one of those blinking lights, waiting to torment her.
    What had she done?
    After she dropped in the canned news and commercial spots at 2:00 a.m., Cilla rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands. She rarely slept well or deeply, and in the past week she had managed only a few snatches of real sleep. It was beginning to tell, she knew, on her nerves, her concentration.
    What had she done?
    That question haunted her. What could she possibly have done to make someone hate her? She had recognized the hate in the voice, the deep-seated hate. She knew she could sometimes be abrupt and impatient with people. There were times when she was insensitive. But she had never deliberately hurt anyone. What was it she would have to pay for? What crime, real or imagined, had she committed that caused this person to focus in on her for revenge?
    Out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement. A shadow amid the shadows in the corridor. Panic arrowed into her, and she sprang up, jarring her hip against the console. The voice she had disconnected barely ten minutes before echoed in her head. She watched, rigid with fright, as the knob on the studio door turned.
    There was no escape. Dry-mouthed, she braced for a fight.
    “Cilla?”
    Heart thudding, she lowered slowly into her chair, cursing her own nerves. “Mark.”
    “Sorry, I must have scared you.”
    “Only to death.” Making an effort, she smiled at the station manager. He was in his middle thirties, and he was drop-dead gorgeous. His dark hair was carefully styled and on the long side, adding more youth to his smooth and tanned face. As always, his attire was carefully hip. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
    “It’s time we did more than talk about these calls.”
    “We had a meeting just a couple of days ago. I told you—”
    “You told me,” he agreed. “You have a habit of telling me, and everybody else.”
    “I’m not taking a vacation.” She spun around in her chair to face him. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
    “Everybody’s got somewhere to go.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “I’m not going to argue about this anymore. I know it’s a difficult concept for you, but I am the boss.”
    She tugged at the hem of her sweatshirt. “What are you going to do? Fire me?”
    He didn’t know that she held her breath on the challenge. Though he’d worked with her for months, he hadn’t scratched deep enough beneath the surface to understand how precarious was her self-esteem. If he had threatened her then, she would have folded. But all he knew was that her show had pumped new life