John walked back into the living room to turn off the TV but was brought up short by what was on the screen. It was a photograph of a full orange moon that shone like a gold coin in a deep purple sky. The weatherman appeared to be waxing eloquent about it. At the bottom of the screen was superimposed: A blood moon.
Beth’s phone call was answered with a grunt of displeasure. “It’s an hour later here, you know.”
“Oh, sorry, Max. I didn’t think.”
“It’s okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.” There was more grunting, what sounded like the rustle of bed linens, and the unmistakable snick of a cigarette lighter.
“You’re smoking? You promised, Max.”
“With my fingers crossed.”
Arguing wouldn’t make a dent with him, so she moved past his unhealthy habit to address his mood, which was more irascible than usual. “Bad day?”
“They’re throwing me a retirement party.”
“They? The network?”
He muttered several curses. “Black tie affair. Waldorf Astoria. They’re inviting every living president, a British royal or two, and A-list movie stars.”
Knowing how he would feel about that, she winced, but said, “Wow. How nice.”
“Nice? No. Gratuitous. I’d rather die than be there.” After a puff of breath, no doubt creating a cloud of smoke, he said, “It’s late there, too. Why are you still up?”
“I’ve been putting off calling you.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to hear ‘I told you so.’”
“Ah. You’ve met with Bowie and struck out.”
Max Longren, who was four decades her senior, was her boss. Also, in truth, her best friend. Until recently he’d been executive producer of Crisis Point.
But since last year when the network had been bought by an international media conglomerate, the corporate shift had been seismic, and the infrastructure of Crisis Point hadn’t been immune to changes in management. Max had been replaced by a much younger corporate animal named Winston Brady.
Max wasn’t taking his forced exit well. His career had been his lifeblood. He was a living legend, known throughout the industry for his talent, grit, caginess, and often tyrannical tactics.
Beth had been with the show for only two years when, to her dismay and delight, Max had handpicked her to be his personal assistant producer. Under his tutelage, she’d received the best education she could have wished for. She’d been taught by the headmaster himself, the developer of techniques that told true stories in a manner that made them as exciting and compelling as fiction. His innovations had been replicated by just about every other successful documentary series.
Through all the years they’d worked together, naturally they’d had disagreements, but nothing compared to the explosive quarrel they’d had when she’d approached him with her reservations about the accuracy of the soon-to-air Crissy Mellin episode. He’d frowned and reminded her that it was a done deal, that Brady had signed off on it.
“I know that, Max. But recently something’s come to my attention. We might have missed a vital element of that story. The impact could be major, and we’d be derelict to leave it out.”
“Are you saying we’d go back in and change it?”
“Let me explain and then you decide.”
So he’d listened, but by the time she’d finished, he was bristling.
“A blood moon?” he asked with incredulity. “That’s your vital element? What the hell is that, anyway? Have you gone loopy? Are you eating those funny gummy bears?”
“Max, please don’t dismiss—”
“Around here, you and I are considered a unit, Beth. Everyone regards me as your Merlin. If you start spouting this moon cycle crap, they’ll think it originated with me, that I thought up something outlandish just to get under Brady’s skin.”
“Don’t you think it warrants deeper digging?”
“It no longer matters what I think. Professionally, I’ve been castrated. I’m surprised they haven’t confiscated my executive men’s room key. Now, forget about it, and let that episode air as is.”
She’d dropped the matter that day, but, on the next, she’d informed him of her intention to take a few vacation days. He’d eyed her with the daunting shrewdness that a New York Times columnist had accurately described as “withering.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Destination Louisiana.”
“Even you don’t have authority over my vacation plans, Max.”
“Vacation, my ass. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. There’s no time for delay.”
He’d shot up from his massive chair and stabbed his desktop with his index finger. “You have no authority to go nosing around the police department down there. It’s Louisiana, for crissake! They feed people they don’t like to the alligators. They’ll have a voodoo doll of you in no time. But never mind the danger to yourself.”
Here, he’d gotten really wound up. “I created Crisis Point. I nursed it through infancy, whipped it through puberty, and eventually placed it in the top five of ratings, where it has remained for years. Your amateur sleuthing will put the show, my baby, at risk.
“In addition to the smudge on my hard-won reputation, the egomaniac who’s taken my place will shit bricks if you go behind his back. This obsession of yours could get your butt fired.”
Quietly, she’d said, “Not if I return with an Emmy-winning story for us to work on together before your retirement.”