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call.”

CHAPTER NINE
    I stare at the two rows of lights in front of me. Each row has eight lights— one for each phone line. The bottom light goes solid when Nova answers it. When she puts up the line for me to take the call on air, the top light goes solid. When we’re going full tilt that means sixteen greenish-yellow lights are blinking at me. Tonight there’s nothing. The lines are dead. The lights are dark.
    Nova sends the intro for the next tune. I open my mike and announce the title on air.
    â€œHere’s Madonna with ‘Papa Don’t Preach.’ If any of you out there can weave a connection between what our troubled friend is going through and ‘Papa Don’t Preach,’ you can have my job.”
    Through my earphones, Madonna sings of an unmarried girl pleading with her father to accept her decision to keep her baby. I stare at the phone lines. The first three lines are for local callers. If 1121’s call comes in on one of those lines, we might be able to get to him in time.
    But the lines stay dark. Madonna’s nearing the end of her song. I glance at the control room. It would be reassuring to make eye contact with Nova, but this isn’t my night. And there’s a new and unwelcome development. Howard Dowhanuik has come into the control room. My father has always dominated every room he enters, and the control room is no exception. He has the body of an aging linebacker—tall, somewhat stooped but still powerful. Suddenly even the cops seem small and vulnerable. My father says a few words to them, bends to speak to Nova and then bingo, he walks through the door to my studio.
    I’m not in the mood for company. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    He doesn’t answer. He just moves toward my desk and stands there, towering over me.
    â€œGet out,” I say.
    He locks eyes with me.
    â€œNot until you hear what I have to say.” His voice is deep, gruff and commanding— a good voice for a politician.
    â€œMake it fast,” I say. “I’m back on the air in fifteen seconds.”
    â€œI was listening to your show when I was at Nighthawks. I’m pretty sure I know who loser1121 is.”
    I open my talkback.
    â€œNova, Howard thinks he can identify…”
    Nova is curt.
    â€œHe told us. I’ll keep playing music till you’re ready to go back on air.” She pauses. When she speaks again, I can feel her anxiety. “Charlie, don’t let your feelings about Howard get in the way. He’s all we’ve got.”
    I turn to my father.
    â€œOkay. Shoot.”
    Without being asked, Howard takes the chair we use for guest experts.
    â€œIs there any information you’re not making public?” he asks.
    I open the email note from 1121. After my father reads it, I open the attachments— the picture of the carving knife and finally the blueprint with 1121’s route marked out. I turn to Howard.
    â€œDoes this fit what you know?”
    â€œIt fits.” My father picks up the newspaper I bought at the drugstore, folds it so he’s looking at the photo of the political Rising Star and his family. Howard’s hands are rough—the hands of a man who still likes to chop his own wood and maintain his own vehicles. His forefinger taps the picture of the boy staring down at the picnic table. “That’s 1121,” he says . “Josh James Kirkwood. I don’t know the girls’ names, but the mother’s name is Marion.” Howard moves his forefinger to the image of the Rising Star. “You’ll recognize this prick. He’s the man destiny has sent to save my party from itself—Josh Kirkwood.”
    I take the newspaper from him and stare at the picture.
    â€œHow did you make the connection?”
    My father massages the back of his neck. It’s the same thing I do when I’m tense.
    â€œThere was a meeting at Kirkwood’s house a couple of