Better Off Dead (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 3) Read online

  “She loves you, Cal. She told me not only with her words but in the way she spoke about you. And you know what my pastor says about love?”

  Cal shook his head, still staring at the ground. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear a sermon, but he didn’t want to show Mrs. Banks any disrespect. So he invited her response.

  “He said that we need to believe what the Bible says about love, true love. Not the mushy, gushy love—what real love is all about. He said, ‘Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.’ You think this doesn’t fall under the ‘every circumstance’ category here, Cal? Kelly loves you and she’s going to endure, if for no other reason than her deep love for you.”

  Cal knew Mrs. Banks’ words should have made him feel better, but he wasn’t feeling it. Not when Kelly was banging on death’s doorstep in a room just down the hall. Not when God seemed to abandon Kelly in her hour of need. At least, that’s what Cal thought as he pondered how he might feel about an outcome that resulted in her death. It wouldn’t be fair—and he didn’t want to hear about God right now.

  Mrs. Banks let her thoughts sink in before finally stunning Cal.

  “If you love her, Cal, you won’t give up.”

  Cal looked back up and stared at Mrs. Banks. Tears welled up in his eyes. He had given up. Was it written on my face? How did she know? Cal determined to believe. It was all he could do. That and pray.

  Mrs. Banks got up and rubbed Cal’s head.

  “You hang in there, Mr. Cal Murphy,” Mrs. Banks said. “You’re a pretty special guy. And you gave me hope when I didn’t have any. Don’t you give up hope yourself.”

  With that salvo, Mrs. Banks got up and walked away. Cal watched as she walked down the hallway and disappeared. She helped him realize that true love doesn’t lose hope, even in the darkest hour. She helped him realize that he truly loved Kelly.

  Just then a doctor dressed in light blue operating room scrubs approached Cal.

  “Are you Cal Murphy?” the doctor asked.

  Cal nodded.

  “Can I have a word with you in private? It’s about Kelly.”

  CHAPTER 45

  MILES KENNEDY STARED at the newsroom television. Channel 5, the local station owned by Robinson’s media conglomerate, only had the guts to run a breaking news alert on the bottom of its regularly-scheduled programming, announcing Robinson’s arrest in a deadly hostage situation with police. But not Channel 7.

  Like circling sharks in bloody waters, Channel 7 unleashed on Robinson. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone. The station was chocked full of reporters who had escaped the auspices of Robinson’s heavy-handed approach to media coverage. Many of them joked that they worked at the California Pravda before working for a real news station. Kennedy knew many of the station’s reporters, including Stacy Hartwick, who was dishing the emerging details live and on Twitter.

  Kennedy grabbed an empty reporter’s chair and sat down, putting his hands behind his head and propping his feet up on the desk. He wasn’t smug about his role in taking down Robinson. Just proud that he participated in one of the most dramatic takedowns in new media history. He never imagined the picture provided by Cal’s cell phone would provide such an incredible behind-the-scenes picture of Robinson’s sinister side. Nor did he think it would take such a dramatic turn and show a person being taken hostage and shot.

  Before Cal contacted him and shared his wild plan to stream the entire event live, Kennedy wondered how much longer he could work for such a news organization. He even sent out a few resumes, some which might be getting a longer look at the moment considering his role in the story of the year. But Cal’s idea was his own Hail Mary. Already finished in California if Robinson’s vendetta was to be believed, Cal had nothing to lose. Kennedy, however, did. But he bought in to Cal’s crazy plan and wanted to make history, something they did with quite a bit of flair.

  As Kennedy sat enjoying the public defrocking of Robinson and his media’s empire, he didn’t see his editor storming down the hall toward him.

  “Kennedy! In my office—now!” he roared.

  Kennedy jerked up out of his seat and followed his boss, who stomped his way across the newsroom to his office.

  The next 15 minutes qualified as verbal abuse. Kennedy’s editor subjected his sports editor to every possible four-letter word and then some. Plenty of rhetorical, “How could you?” and “Who do you think you are?” questions. The door remained shut, but his editor’s voice was so loud that it surely reached auditory levels throughout the newsroom. Kennedy kept waiting for his editor to take a breath so he could announce that he quit before the tirade ended with, “You’re fired, Kennedy!”

  Kennedy didn’t care about his job. What he did care about were his people, especially his people who still upheld the tenets of respectable journalism. He cared about people who breathed journalism. He cared about people like Cal, who cared so much about the craft of journalism that he never stopped chasing the story even when he had nowhere to print it.

  Reporters gawked and stared at Kennedy as he walked through the newsroom. He even smiled, wallowing in his newfound freedom.

  Hardman shot a disapproving glance at Kennedy, who couldn’t wait to unload on him.

  “You think I did something wrong, Hardman,” Kennedy said, stooping toward him and invading his personal space.

  Hardman remained quiet as he drew back, using his feet to roll his chair deeper into his cubicle.

  “You wouldn’t know real journalism if it hit you in the face. And, yeah, I know you stole all of Cal’s tips last week. You only wish you were half the journalist he is.”

  Kennedy then spun and continued down the aisle toward his office. He slammed the door and sat down, rooting around for an empty box to gather his things with.

  He noticed he had five new emails in his inbox, four from other papers around the country. News wires burned up trying to disseminate this incredible story, one that Kennedy directed to be broadcast live on the paper’s website.

  Kennedy halted what he was doing to read the messages in his inbox. The first one was from his IT guy who said social media pushed more than eight million unique visitors to the website to watch Cal’s confrontation with Ted and then Robinson.

  Cal’s initial plan was to get Ted Simpson to confess live. Whether he told the truth or not was a matter for the authorities to decide, but it would certainly create a hedge of protection around Cal. If anything happened to him in the coming weeks, Robinson would be a prime suspect. But neither Kennedy—nor Cal—ever expected Robinson to waltz through the door after a dramatic suicide by his assassin and then shoot a woman in the back before trying to kill Cal. All caught live and streamed to the web.

  The rest of the IT guy’s email said he had over 500 requests forwarded to him already, requesting footage of the streamed webcast.

  Kennedy smiled and glanced at the next group of unread emails. Houston, Atlanta, Kansas City and Orlando—all great places to live and great newspapers to work for. All requesting an interview. He hated to leave San Francisco, but he knew it would be for the best.

  He was eager to resume packing but couldn’t stop thinking about Cal. He wanted to get to the hospital to see how he was doing. He would get there soon enough. Instead, he texted Cal telling him that he would be there soon. He also wondered if Cal might be interested in moving east a few thousand miles.

  CHAPTER 46

  THE COLOR DRAINED from Cal’s face as he stepped into a private consultation room with the operating doctor. Cal didn’t pray regularly or very often at all. But he was praying now, begging God that he didn’t have to hear those dreaded words: “I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy. There was nothing we could do.” Cal wanted to freeze the moment, the moment when he knew hope was alive. It seemed strange but at least it was better than pressing forward with a crushing reality—a reality without Kelly.

  Cal decided he wanted to get it over with, one way or another.<
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  “Out with it, doc. Is she gonna make it?” Cal asked.

  “Kelly lost a lot of blood when she got shot­­—”

  “Just tell me if she’s gonna be OK or not!” Cal felt his desperation to know rise with every nuanced statement or evasive action. He wanted this news like he reported his own—straight and to the point.

  “It’s hard to say, but we think she’s going to pull through,” the doctor replied.

  Cal exhaled, crumpling into a chair to his left. He knew there was more, but a giant heaping of hope gave him reason to believe the future—the future he imagined with Kelly—was still possible.

  “We had to induce her into a coma to give her body more time to heal, but she’s stable for now and we should know more tomorrow when we plan on waking her up.”

  Cal thanked the doctor and heeded his advice to go home and get some rest. More than anything Cal wanted to see Kelly’s beautiful face again. He wanted to gaze at her while she slept, slide his hand along the brown tendrils surrounding her face. But it would have to wait. Apparently, there would be time for that later, time Cal wasn’t sure existed twenty minutes ago.

  * * *

  Cal pulled into his apartment complex just after seven o'clock in the evening, craving something to eat and a good night’s sleep. He planned to order out from the rib shack down the street and wash it down with a cold beer or two. Without Kelly around, he still wanted to celebrate Robinson’s demise. But doing it alone didn’t seem right. Maybe Kennedy could join him.

  However, Cal never made it out of his car. For all his years of reporting on stories, he never actually considered the fact that he was putting himself into the same one he was covering. Journalists of every stripe—TV crews, radio reporters, magazine and newspaper scribes—descended upon his car with cameras and microphones, demanding to know more details.

  “How do you feel?” and “How did you come up with this plan?” and “Did this have anything to do with your public spat last Sunday?” and a hundred other unintelligible questions flooded Cal’s ears.

  Why he never saw this sudden spotlight coming was a true testament to his journalistic focus and integrity. He was so focused on doing exactly what these reporters were doing—getting the story—that he didn’t have time to consider the consequences of his actions. Not for him. And certainly not for Kelly.

  Then he responded with the same words he loathed to hear while covering a big story: “No comment.”

  Cal didn’t even roll his window down, mouthing the words through the glass to the pack of reporters. With what felt like 5,000 watts of lighting glaring in his face, surely his comment was discernible.

  He slowly reversed his car and raced out of his apartment complex. Dinner would have to be to-go on this night. And he wouldn’t be eating it at his apartment either.

  He needed a place to crash. He needed a friend who understood him. He needed Kelly. But Kennedy would have to suffice tonight.

  CHAPTER 47

  CAL AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING on Kennedy’s couch to the slobbery wet kisses from Montana, Kennedy’s frisky golden retriever. The sun glinted off the bay, alerting Cal to the fact that Friday morning rush hour had been in full stride for a while now—and he wasn’t going to spend a second in it.

  “What time is it?” Cal moaned. If it was before 10, he thought he would scream.

  Kennedy chuckled as he scarfed down a bagel and cream cheese.

  “10:30, sleepy head,” Kennedy said.

  Cal sighed, relieved that it wasn’t too early, nor had he slept the day away. He still had some work to do, like delivering a final report with all the supporting evidence to a respectable website that would take his story. He figured The New York Times was respectable enough and he had pitched his story the night before over email. He checked his email on his phone and smiled at the response agreeing to run his story. The fee for keeping this story an exclusive made Cal hoot out loud.

  “Do you always wake up this happy?” Kennedy asked, turning a page in the newspaper in front of him.

  “I haven’t had much to be happy about lately, but this freelance gig from The New York Times is changing that.”

  Cal shoved his phone in front of Kennedy, pointing to the dollar figure on the screen.

  “For one article?”

  “It’s The New York Times.”

  “I would’ve paid double that.”

  Cal grumbled something unintelligible.

  “It’s the sports story of the year if not the decade, for crying out loud. I would sell my kidney to have that as an exclusive,” Kennedy said again.

  Cal cared, but not too much to fight it. He needed to focus on pounding out a story worthy of the grand lady of journalism. It would be no small feat, but he had all the supporting evidence he needed. Bank records, drug testing documents, internal Head Gear emails, recorded confessions, black mail attempts. It was all there. Cal simply needed to sort it out and write one killer of a story.

  The television in the background shifted to financial news. A reporter shared the stunning development surrounding Head Gear and how the initial public offering had been cancelled as federal officials opened an investigation into the company’s business dealings. The reporter also went on to add that the NFL voided its recently-signed, multi-million dollar contract with the helmet provider. Cal smiled as he saw the wheels of common justice turning more swiftly than the court’s.

  “Would you mind running by my apartment and getting my mail for me since you don’t have anything to do?” Cal asked.

  “I get fired—thanks to you—and you think I’m suddenly your errand boy?” Kennedy asked.

  Cal knew the outrage was feigned.

  “Pretty please?” Cal asked, raising his voice several octaves to achieve the desired effect.

  Kennedy finally agreed and mumbled something as Cal tossed him the key.

  * * *

  Kennedy returned in the early afternoon with Cal’s mail.

  “You haven’t filed your story with The Times yet, have you?” Kennedy asked as he walked in the door.

  “No. Why?”

  Kennedy held up a piece of mail out of the stack of credit card offers and coupons he collected from Cal’s mailbox.

  “You got a letter from Ted Simpson.”

  Cal leaped from his chair and scrambled across the room toward Kennedy.

  “Gimme that,” he said, snatching the letter from Kennedy’s hand.

  Cal tore open the letter and began reading aloud.

  Dear Cal,

  First, let me begin by apologizing that you had to witness my gruesome death. I hope by now you’ve been able to figure out a way to use everything I told you and gave you to take down Charles Robinson. There’s no way I was ever going to be free from that man. I felt like death was my only escape.

  However, that brings me to the point of my letter. While I was at peace with having to die, I don’t feel that way about my brother. Robinson’s goons will likely still try to have my brother removed from the special treatment facility. But I want him to still have a chance at life. He’ll never have that if he’s removed from the experimental treatment.

  From what I understand, he might be able to leave the facility in the coming months. To that end, I set up a trust fund in your name to care for my brother, Tommy. It truly is a trust fund since I am trusting you to use it on my brother’s health care costs. I feel comfortable asking you to do this since you are the person I came to in the first place. I had to trust you all along—and I’m doing it again.

  Enclosed is a page detailing the name and contact information for my lawyer who helped set all this up. He’ll give you instructions on where to direct funds for Tommy. I’m hoping there will even be some left in there when he gets released to help him start a new life.

  Thanks for everything!

  Warmest regards,

  Ted

  “Wow!” Cal said. “I thought I was thorough. This guy didn’t miss a trick.”

  “It�
��s exactly what I would expect from someone who collected enough goods on Charles Robinson to bring him down,” Kennedy said.

  Cal returned to writing and took intermittent breaks to eavesdrop on Kennedy’s phone interviews with several newspapers. Kennedy was a pro and he would find a home somewhere. Cal hoped it would be soon—and he hoped Kennedy would be true to his word and hire him again. More than anything, Cal hoped it would be somewhere warm—and that Kelly could go with him.

  CHAPTER 48

  CAL REREAD HIS FINAL STORY one more time before attaching it to an email and sending it to his contact at The New York Times. He then took digital pictures with his camera of all the supporting documents. The story would run in Sunday’s paper, giving the staff enough time to fact check everything and undoubtedly make sure everything was fine with the legal department. When he heard the sound of the final email swooshing into Internet fibers headed for New York City, Cal sat back in his chair. His satisfaction felt muted by the absence of Kelly.

  Cal grabbed his coat and decided to go to the hospital alone. Kennedy volunteered to accompany him but Cal had some thinking to do. Plus Cal didn’t want anyone else around but him when she woke up.

  * * *

  At the hospital, Cal met with one of the doctors who told him they had just woken her up for the first time thirty minutes ago. She was responding well and talking. The doctor cautioned Cal to go easy on her, trying to avoid stressful conversation. Cal agreed and proceeded toward Kelly’s room.

  He paused before opening the door, struggling to enter. Staring at her weak body in a tangled mess of tubes and wires, Cal stopped. He knew he did this to her. Technically, it was Charles Robinson. But in reality, Cal had dragged her into one of his foolhardy investigations and she was the one who got hurt, not him. He vowed not to do this to her again. At least not as his girlfriend.