Free A Killing Spring by Gail Bowen Page A

from the mirror, and asked Tina to tell me about her wedding. The week before, she’d been agonizing about howto tell her future mother-in-law that, since the wedding dinner was catered, she wouldn’t need to bring the jellied salads in the colours of the bridesmaid’s dresses that she had made for all of her other children’s weddings. I was eager to hear if Tina had brought it off.
    When Tina was done with me, I went, as I always did, to the green room to wait until Jill came out to talk me through the first question and walk me into the studio. But that night, Jill didn’t come. Five minutes before airtime, I took matters into my own hands. As I pushed the door into the studio open, a young man I’d never seen ran into me. He glanced at my face, then grabbed my arm and pulled me into the studio.
    “They’re waiting,” he said.
    “I’ve been here all along,” I said.
    He looked right past me. “Whatever,” he said. “Let’s just say there’s been a screwup.”
    It wasn’t the last one.
    When she’d first set up the weekly panel, Jill had decided to cover the ideological spectrum rather than have representatives from specific political parties. From the outset, Keith Harris, who had once been my lover and was now my friend, spoke for the right, Senator Sam Spiegel articulated the view from the centre, and I was there for the left. Over the years, the images of Keith and Sam on the television monitor had become as familiar as my own. But that night as I glanced towards the screen, I saw a face I’d never seen before in my life. The woman on screen appeared to be in her mid-thirties; she had a head of frosted curls, cerulean eyes, and a dynamite smile.
    The young man who’d dragged me into the studio was kneeling in front of me, trying to fasten my lapel mike. I touched his shoulder. “Who’s that?” I asked.
    He glanced quickly at the monitor. “Didn’t anybody tellyou? That’s Glayne Axtell. She’s the new voice for the right.” He leaped out of camera range.
    “What happened to Keith Harris?” I asked.
    He looked irritated and moved his fingers to his lips in a silencing gesture. Through my earpiece, I heard the familiar “Stand by,” and we were on the air.
    By the time the last caller had been thanked and the moderator in Toronto was inviting people to join us next week, my back was soaked with sweat. It had been a rough evening. Keith’s mysterious disappearance had been a blow. I had to admit that Glayne Axtell was good. She was far to the right of Keith, but she was witty and crisply professional. The problem wasn’t with her; it was with me. I couldn’t seem to adjust to the new rhythm, and for the first time, I let the callers on our phone-in segment of the program get to me. Usually, I dealt with the crazies by reminding myself that the law “every action has an equal and opposite reaction” governs physics not politics. In politics, most of the time, you got back pretty much what you handed out, and if you were lucky, reason would beget reason.
    That night I seemed to be beyond both luck and reason. As the torrent of hate and fear poured through my earpiece, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from lashing back. I kept wondering where Jill was with the cut-off button. But as the red light went black, and we were finally off the air, I had to admit that, as exhausting as it had been, the panel on homophobia had been good television.
    Jill came down from the control booth almost immediately. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a houndstooth jacket, and she didn’t look happy.
    I unclipped my mike and went over to her. “I thought you were going to keep the mad dogs at bay tonight. But maybeyou were right to let them yelp and foam. It was an exciting show.”
    Jill gave me a tight smile. “Do you have time for a drink?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Angus is with Taylor. He has plans, but I’ve got time for a quick one. I wanted to ask you about Keith. Did he quit or