But Davis Tate knew better, and he was very, very frightened. He hadn’t signed up to murder. All he wanted was for one beating to be avenged with another. On the night that the bodies were pulled from Calaveras Lake he got shitfaced drunk and made a call to Barbara Kelly, in the course of which he complained that he had not wanted the men who attacked him to be killed, merely taught a lesson, and Kelly had replied that they had been taught a lesson, and Tate had begun shouting, and making threats, and talking about his conscience. He’d hung up, and opened another bottle, and somehow he must have fallen asleep on the floor because he wasn’t sure that he was even awake when he opened his eyes and saw the beautiful, dark-haired woman looking down at him.
‘My name is Darina Flores,’ she said. ‘Barbara Kelly sent me.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to warn you about the importance of remaining faithful to the cause. I want to make sure that you understand the seriousness of the document that you signed.’
She knelt beside him and clutched his hair in her left hand, while her right fixed itself on his throat. She was very, very strong.
‘And I want to tell you about the Backers, and more.’
She whispered in his ear, and her words became images, and something inside Davis Tate died that night.
That memory came back to him now as Becky spoke. She wasn’t on his side. He’d guessed that a long time ago. She represented the interests of the Backers, and those who used them in turn.
‘What should I do?’ he said. ‘How do I get these ratings back up?’
‘It has been suggested that you’re too subtle, that you’re not being radical enough. You need to stir up some controversy.’
‘How?’
‘Tomorrow you’re going to hear about the disappearance of a teenage girl from upstate New York. Her name is Penny Moss, and she’s fifteen years old. You’ll be given an exclusive: when Penny Moss’s remains are discovered, you’ll be supplied with proof that her killer is a Muslim convert who decided to make an example of her for wearing inappropriate dress. Even the cops won’t know before you do. The material will be sent to you anonymously. We’ll have speakers ready to comment. You’re about to become the eye of the storm.’
Tate almost vomited up his beer. He didn’t mind tearing meat from the bones of liberals because, say what you liked about liberals – and Tate did, more than most – they didn’t tend to voice their objections by pointing a gun at someone, just as they didn’t blow up federal buildings in Oklahoma. Muslims were another matter: he was happy to bait them from the safety of his radio station as long as he was just one voice among many, but he didn’t want to become a figurehead for anti-Islamic feeling. He owned a nice apartment in Murray Hill, and parts of Marray Hill were becoming like Karachi or Kabul. He preferred being able to walk the streets there without endangering his life, and he certainly didn’t want to have to move because of a radio show.
‘But how do I know that it’s true?’
‘Because we’ll make it true.’
All of his taste for beer had left him. If this went down the way Becky was suggesting it would, he was going to need a clear head. Only one further detail bothered him.
‘This girl, this Penny Moss, I haven’t heard anything about her. When did she go missing?’
Later, just as he was about to die, he would realize that he had known the answer already, had guessed it before Becky even opened her lips and began to speak, and he could almost have mouthed the words along with her if he chose.
‘Tonight,’ said Becky. ‘She goes missing tonight.’