Kitty Takes a Holiday

Epilogue

I had to admit, being back at a radio station felt like com­ing home again. Like meeting a long-lost friend. I thought I'd be scared. I thought I'd dread the moment when that on air sign lit. I discovered, though, that I couldn't wait. I had so much to talk about.

We'd set up the show in Pueblo, as far north as I dared to go. I'd packed up the house in Clay and left for good. It was time to head back to civilization. I had a lot of work to catch up on. Even Thoreau hadn't stayed at Walden Pond forever.

I held the phone to my ear but had stopped paying attention to the voice on the line. I was too busy enjoying the dimly lit studio, taking it all in, the sights and smells, the hum of jazz playing on the current music program.

"… don't take too many this time, let yourself get back into practice." Matt, the show's original sound guy from back in Denver, was talking at me over the phone. Giving me a pep talk or something.

"Yeah, okay," I rambled.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes." I was unconvincing.

Matt sighed dramatically. "I was saying you shouldn't take too many calls. Don't overwhelm yourself. You should spend most of the time on your interview."

For tonight's show I had scheduled a phone interview with Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher, the new head of the Cen­ter for the Study of Paranatural Biology, now organized under the auspices of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases. I liked her a lot—she was smart, articulate, and much more forthcoming than the Center's previous director.

Next week was going to be even better: I'd convinced Tony and Alice to come in to talk about what had hap­pened in Clay. They'd talk about where each of them learned their particular brands of spellcraft, and I'd get to tell my own personal ghost stories.

I hadn't yet found anyone willing to come on the air to talk about skinwalkers. I planned on running my mouth about it and hoped someone called in with a good story.

Yeah, The Midnight Hour was back, just like the old days.

Matt was still talking. I should have been more responsive.

I interrupted. "How about I take a lot of calls, but let Dr. Shumacher deal with them? I'll just referee."

He paused for a beat, then said, "I'm not sure that's such a great idea."

"Stop worrying, Matt. I'll be fine. You know if it gets really bad I'll break for station ID anyway."

"I just keep thinking that one of these days you'll break for station ID and not come back."

"Come on, I always come back."

"Then if you're all set, I'll hand it over to the local crew."

"We'll be fine."

Ben came into the room then. I beamed at him and waved. He smiled tiredly and sat in a chair by the wall.

"I can stay on the line to help out if you think—"

"Matt—we're fine. If we need you we'll call."

"Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure. Thank you, Matt."

"I'll talk to you later."

We hung up, and I turned my attention to Ben.

He'd just come from Canon City where he'd checked on Cormac, who now and for the next four years resided at the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility. The very thought of it was gut-wrenching. But it could have been so much worse. That was what we'd all ended up telling each other. It could have been worse. This way, he'd be out in no time. We'd see him again soon.

I'd just have to make sure I kept out of trouble until then.

Ben looked exhausted. His hair had that sweaty, spiky look that meant he'd been messing it up for hours. A ner­vous habit. Then I noticed he carried a thick stack of paper, bound together by a rubber band, under his arm. It was the manuscript for a book. My book.

I'd finished it. I'd given it to him to read. Now, I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to him. I didn't want to know.

Yes, I did.

"Well?"

"Well, he's doing okay. Says the food stinks, but what do you expect? Says he's catching up on his reading." In fact, Cormac—the bastard—had asked me for a reading list, since I was always saying nobody read anymore. "I'm wondering if maybe the time off will do him some good. Does that sound weird?"

I felt bad that I'd really been asking about the book. I gave him a sympathetic smile. "No, it doesn't. You want him to find something else to do with himself. Give up the hunting."

"This all does seem kind of like a sign in that direction, doesn't it?"

"What would he do if he didn't do the bounty-hunting thing?"

"I don't know. He grew up on a ranch, like me. His dad was an outfitter, guided hunting expeditions and that sort of thing. Cormac used to work with him. Yeah, I guess I'm thinking that spending some time without a gun in his hand will give him the idea that he can do something else."

I was torn between agreeing with him, and writing the whole idea off as silver lining bullshit. I wanted Cormac out. I wanted him free.

Even with Ben here, even with everything that had hap­pened to build the bond that now existed between us, part of me still asked, What if. What if Cormac hadn't run off, what if we'd managed to make a connection—

"I already miss him," Ben said. "My phone rings and I keep hoping it's his number on the caller ID. Even though I know better."

"Yeah," I said. "You know what he said, at the end of that last meeting in Walsenburg?" Ben raised a question­ing brow, and I answered, "He asked me to take care of you. To keep you out of trouble."

"Did he, now?" Ben said, smiling. "He said the same thing to me about you."

I might have blushed. I did look away. It was almost like Cormac was giving us each a mission, to keep our minds off him.

I said, "Does he have so little faith in our ability to take care of ourselves?"

"Can you blame him?"

No, I couldn't. "Is he going to be the same when he gets out?"

"I don't know. He's been through worse than this. But who knows? Am I the same? Are you the same? I wonder sometimes what you were like before the lycanthropy, if we would have had the time of day for each other. I guess—some of him'll be the same, some'll be different. We'll just have to see what stays and what doesn't."

Like peeling back the bandages after surgery, hoping it worked. Praying it isn't worse. It made me feel so out of control.

"How did you do?" What I meant was: how did his wolf do.

"I kept it together. But I hate how that place smells."

I bet he did. I didn't want to think about how it smelled. "So. What did you think of it?" I gestured to the manu­script in his lap.

Idly, he flipped through the top half of the pages, around the rubber band, wearing a studious expres­sion. He made some noncommittal noises that might have expressed a positive or negative opinion. My anxi­ety increased. If the whole thing was crap, I wasn't sure I could start over.

"I have to admit, I especially like the chapter called 'Ten Ways to Defeat Macho Dickheadism.'" I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Or if the joke was at my expense.

I felt like I was eight years old and begging. "But what about the whole thing? Did you like it? Is it any good? Should I just give it all up and go into accounting?"

He chuckled and shook his head. Then, he set his joking manner aside. "It's good. It's not what I was expecting… but it's good. I think it'll go over like gangbusters."

It hadn't turned out the way I was expecting either. The publisher came to me wanting a memoir, a look back at my past experiences. It had ended up being more about the present, and a little about the future.

"Thanks—I mean, thanks for reading it. I really needed you to read it since you and Cormac ended up in it, at least a little bit."

"Yeah, that's what I wasn't expecting. But it's subtle. You don't use our names, but it's all there. I don't know how you got some kind of message, some kind of optimism out of that mess."

"Don't you know I'm an idealist?"

"God help us all."

The producer from the station, a young woman, the usual public radio night owl staff, leaned in the doorway and said, "Kitty, you've got one minute. We have Dr. Shu­macher on the line."

"Thanks," I said to her, and she ducked back out. To Ben I said, "You going to stay and watch?"

"Sure, if you don't mind."

I didn't. I was glad to have him around. I found the headphones, adjusted the mike, checked the monitor, found my cue sheet. I didn't think I'd listen to Matt; I'd take as many calls as I wanted. Because when I got right down to it, everybody was right: I loved this. I'd missed it.

The on air sign lit, and the music cued up, guitar chords strumming the opening bars of CCR's "Bad Moon Rising." Sounded like angels. And there I was, just me and the microphone. Together again. Here we go—

"Good evening, one and all. I'm Kitty Norville, bring­ing you an all-new episode of The Midnight Hour, the show that isn't afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there…"