I'll Be Watching You

  or even by the media. But, in my opinion, they originate in the home. No matter how much teenagers deny it—and many will—they ultimately are impacted most by the key adult figures in their lives; specifically, those they live with. It's a delicate balance. But, as you'll read in my book, I believe you rarely find a quote-unquote bad kid, without also finding a worse parent."

  "That's a pretty sweeping statement," Taylor noted. "So just to clarify things for our listening audience, what about those parents with problem kids who try everything they can, from personal intervention to professional counseling, and still can't make things right?"

  "That's a different scenario, and the statistics bear it out." Bernice paused, probably for a drink of water. "In interviewing parents such as those you describe, you'll find that, most times, they characterize their kids as troubled, difficult, or depressed—even overwhelmed by workload and social pressures. They rarely use the word 'bad.'"

  "I see. So you're not lumping all problem kids together."

  "Definitely not. What I'm saying is that there's a tendency for parents who are negative about their teens and who want to absolve themselves of all responsibility in helping them transition from adolescence to adulthood to describe their teenagers as bad. Frankly, it's easier to write them off than it is to admit that it's their own parenting skills that are lacking."

  Taylor murmured a sound of understanding. "Well, Bernice, you've certainly given us a great deal to

  think about tonight. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to us, and I'm looking forward to reading

  the e-mails we receive from our listening audience about this complex issue. Once again, we've been chatting tonight with Bernice Williams, the author of Bad Kids, Worse Parents. You can pick up a copy

  at your local bookstore; it's fascinating, thought-provoking reading, relevant to both parents and teens. Bernice, thank you so much for being with us."

  "My pleasure."

  "This is Teen Talk with Taylor Halstead. Have a great night. Tomorrow, we resume our regular format, and I'll be back here at WVNY at eight p.m., ready to take your calls. Until then, stay warm and stay safe. Good night."

  The WVNY jingle came on, and Jonathan flipped off the radio. He liked it better when Taylor did her show solo. Then he could just focus on her voice, think about the peace and pleasure it brought him.

  As for the author, well, she'd only touched the tip of the iceberg with her concept of bad kids, worse parents. In fact, that phrase was the oversimplification of the century. Try "manipulated kids, depraved parents."

  In the end, it didn't matter. It all came down to survival of the fittest.

  CHAPTER 15

  10:00 P.M.

  WVNY

  The "on the air" light went off, and Kevin signaled Taylor that she and Bernice were free.

  Then he turned to Rick. "You did a great job of holding it together. Now I want you to go home.

  You taught Dennis more than enough for him to manage an hour of taping. You can run through the

  drill with him before you take off, if it makes you feel better. But we're not starting for an hour and a half, when the college kids come alive. So go get some sleep."

  Rick gave a hollow laugh. "Sleep? Where? I've been on the sofa for so many nights I lost count."

  "Go home, Rick."

  "I used to go home for my kids. Now who knows how long I'll have that as an incentive?" Rick rubbed his eyes, realizing he was losing it. "You're right. I'm not much good to anyone tonight. And, yeah, the new guy can handle things. He doesn't need a run-through." He glanced through the glass, saw Taylor

  and Bernice rising, getting ready to exit the booth. "I'm not up for chitchat with our guest."

  "Don't worry about it." Kevin was already picking up the phone. "I'll have Dennis make the backup

  disk. And Taylor will understand. Just go."

  "Yeah, thanks." Unsteadily, Rick stood, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. "It's bourbon

  time," he muttered.

  FEBRUARY 5

  2:15 A.M.

  WEST SEVENTY-SECOND STREET

  Taylor was dead asleep.

  The recording session had taken longer than usual, since it was Dennis's first time at the helm, which prompted him to be very methodical. But he was also very good, so they only lost about ten minutes. Taylor was home by one-fifteen, in her bed by one-thirty, and in dreamland five minutes later.

  The shrill ringing of the phone dragged her awake, cobwebs of exhaustion clouding her mind—although not enough to prevent the knot of apprehension from forming in her gut.

  God, no, not again.

  She groped for the phone, crammed it under her ear. "Hello?" she managed.

  "Taylor, it's me." Rick's voice was slurred, oddly strained, and Taylor sat straight up in bed.

  "Rick? Where are you?"

  "In your lobby. On my cell." A humorless laugh. "Your doorman won't let me up. He thinks I'm a stalker."

  "Put him on."

  There were some fumbling noises, and then George, the nighttime security guard, came on the line.

  "I'm sorry, Ms. Halstead. I didn't think—"

  "It's okay, George. He's a colleague. I understand your concern. It's obvious he's been drinking.

  But I can handle him. So send him up."

  "All right." George didn't sound happy, but an instant later the buzzer announced that he'd admitted

  Rick.

  Taylor climbed out of bed, grabbed her fleece robe, and yanked it on, belting it at the waist. Rick

  sounded like he was at the breaking point. She wasn't sure if anything she said would help, but she

  had to try.

  Running her fingers through her hair, she went to the front door and waited for the knock, checking through the peephole to make sure it was Rick before she unbolted and opened the door. "Hi."

  He was leaning against the door frame, his overcoat hanging open, his eyes glassy and half shut, his

  face flushed. The stench of booze was so strong, Taylor nearly gagged. He reeked.

  "I'm sorry about b'fore," he announced, taking an unsteady step into the foyer. "I didn't mean to tear

  into you. It just hurts so goddamned much."

  "Come in and sit down. I'll brew some coffee."

  "No coffee." Rick waved it away. "I just wanted to ... I don't know what I wanted. For you to wave

  a wand and make it go away. You have that effect on people." He stared at her through tortured, bloodshot eyes. "It's over, Taylor. Everything's over. Marilyn, the kids, ev'rything."

  "Rick, please." She led him inside and urged him onto a kitchen stool. "Let me make you some coffee."

  "I'm not thirsty. Not unless you have Jack Daniel's."

  Taylor propped her elbows on the counter and faced him. "I don't know where things stand with

  Marilyn. But it'll never be over with the kids. They're your children. And they're crazy about you."

  "Marilyn will get full custody." Tears filled his eyes. "She said so and she's right. I've been a mess.

  I drink. I'm depressed. I sleep all weekend. Sometimes I'm so out of it, I can't focus on what the kids

  are saying. I've become a lousy father. Marilyn's lawyer will tell that to the judge. And he'll take them away from me. I can't survive that."

  "You're getting way ahead of yourself. You're a fantastic father. You just happen to be going through

  a rough patch. Depression requires treatment. You'll see someone and get that treatment. It'll change everyone's perspective—yours, your family's, and the judge's."

  "What I need is to crawl into a bottle and never come out."

  "That's the last thing you need."

  Rick rubbed his temples. "And the last thing you need is for me to dump on you like this." Abruptly,

  his head came up, a flicker of rational awareness crossing his face. "I'm a jerk. You must've jumped

  outta your skin when your phone rang at this time of night."
/>
  "It's all right," Taylor said simply. "It was you."

  "Yeah, but it could have been that crank caller. Has he called back?"

  "Thankfully, no."

  "Good." Rick frowned, verbalizing his thoughts as they tumbled into his head. "Kevin's checking out Romeo. That lawyer you're falling for is teaching you self-defense. It's gonna be okay. You've got a

  lot of people looking out for you."

  "So do you."

  For a moment Rick didn't answer. He just stared at the floor. When he looked up, there was such futility in his eyes that Taylor wanted to call Marilyn herself, shake some sense into her. "I'm tired, Taylor," he said quietly, shoving himself to his feet. "Tired of fighting. Tired of trying to keep it together." He made an attempt to button his coat, then abandoned it. "I'm gonna get going. I need sleep."

  "Yes, you do." Taylor frowned, uneasy about Rick's state of mind. "Do you want me to call Marilyn?

  I could tell her you're crashing on my sofa tonight."

  A hollow laugh. "Right. She'd probably use that against me, too. She'd twist the story and tell her

  lawyer I'm screwing another woman."

  "She knows better than that."

  "What she knows and what she does are two different things." Rick reached over, squeezed Taylor's

  arm. "Thanks for listening." He headed for the door.

  "Rick." She followed him, taking hold of his sleeve. "You've had too much to drink."

  "Then it's good I'm not driving." He saw her concern and forced a smile. "Hey, I won't even walk. I'll catch the subway to Times Square. The number seven leaves there for Flushing every twenty minutes.

  I'll be home in less than an hour. See? I'm more than sober enough to get where I need to go." He

  patted her cheek. "Go back to bed. Things'll be better tomorrow."

  3:25 A.M.

  TIMES SQUARE SUBWAY STATION, NEW YORK CITY

  The damned subway train was taking forever.

  Rick paced around on the platform, rubbing his arms and trying to stave off the cold. The walk from Taylor's apartment to the subway entrance had left his body with a chill that wouldn't go away.

  He barely remembered the ride from Seventy-second Street to Times Square, or the walk downstairs

  to the lower level. But here he was.

  The platform was practically deserted, courtesy of the hour and the subzero temperatures. Normal

  people were home in their beds when it was 3 a.m. and minus seven degrees. The only other gluttons

  for punishment around him—not counting the poor vagrants who'd come in to avoid dying of frostbite—were four or five stoned teenagers and some guy in a hooded parka, sitting on a bench

  with his face buried in a book.

  How anyone could have the wherewithal to read under these conditions was beyond Rick.

  With a rumble, the train finally pulled into the station and stopped. Rick got on. The car he'd chosen

  was empty. He dropped into a seat and folded his arms across his chest to stay warm. The guy with

  the parka got on behind him. He made his way to the rear, stopping near the door leading to the next

  car, then slumped into the seat. His head was still shoved in that book.

  The amount of booze Rick had consumed was getting to him. He was starting to develop a massive headache and a lurching stomach. He sat very still, staring straight out the window across from him.

  That worked until the train left the station. Then his stomach began pitching along with the motion of

  the subway car, more so as they picked up speed. Okay, watching the underground world go whizzing

  by was a definite no-no. He felt like he was about to puke.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  It didn't help.

  Gagging, he shifted forward in his seat, fighting his body's untimely protest. He was not going to vomit

  on the subway floor.

  Apparently, the guy in the parka wasn't so sure.

  He jumped to his feet, shutting his book and making a beeline for the connecting door. He pulled on the handle a couple of times, then started cursing under his breath when the door wouldn't budge. He yanked again, becoming visibly agitated when it didn't give, like he was frantic to get out of there. Not that Rick could blame him. The poor jerk was alone in a subway car with a gagging drunk, whom he probably expected to barf any minute.

  Rick took pity on him. Besides, a short walk might help the nausea more than a long sit. Gritting his

  teeth, he grabbed onto the nearest pole and pulled himself up. Then he weaved his way down to the

  door. The guy's hooded back was to him, and the parka was so big and bulky that it was impossible to make out anything beneath it. Still, Rick could sense the guy tense up as he approached.

  "Don't worry, I'm not gonna mug you," Rick muttered. "I'm just gonna help you get away from me."

  He wedged himself around front, reaching for the door and giving the handle a good hard pull.

  To his surprise, he met with no resistance at all. The door just slid open.

  "It must've been stuck," he murmured, half to himself. He started to backtrack, maneuvering himself

  so the other guy could pass. "Go ahead. Problem solved."

  The guy in the parka blocked his retreat. "You're right. It is."

  He shoved Rick through the doorway and, with both hands, propelled him over the safety gate that

  linked the cars, sending him plunging to the tracks below.

  Rick's scream was swallowed up by the roar of the train as it continued on its undisturbed path to Flushing.

  CHAPTER 16

  FEBRUARY 5

  2:30 P.M.

  The message from Jack. Taylor knew there was something wrong the minute she saw the pink note.

  He never called her at school. If there was something he wanted to speak privately with her about, he

  left her a voice mail at home, asking her to come in early or stay late.

  The message was short and terse: come directly to WVNY when school is out.

  She arrived in record time. A knot had formed in the pit of her stomach.

  She took one look at Jack's ashen expression when she walked into his office, and knew the knot

  was only going to worsen.

  "Taylor, sit down." Jack gestured toward the upholstered settee. He waited for her to perch at the

  edge of the cushion, then came around to stand beside her. "There's something I need to tell you.

  It's about Rick."

  Oh, no. No.

  "What is it?" she asked in a wooden tone, certain it was a nightmarish replay of the tragic news about Steph.

  "There was an accident on the number seven train in the middle of the night. A man who'd had too

  much to drink lost his balance when he was walking between cars." A hard swallow. "He fell onto the tracks, and under the train. He was killed instantly. It was Rick."

  Taylor's throat was working, and her hands were clasped so tightly together she could scarcely feel

  them. "Are they sure?"

  This wasn't easy on Jack. He was trying to spare her the gory details. He looked violently ill. "Even though the body was mangled, the description, the bits and pieces of ID from his wallet, the clothing samples, and, most of all, the wedding ring—they were Rick's. They'll run a DNA test to confirm, but they're sure."

  She bowed her head, everything inside her going cold and still. "Tell me everything."

  "Rick never came home last night. Marilyn waited until the kids left for school, then started making calls. No one had seen him. She called here around eight. She was pretty freaked out. I told her that Rick left the station right after your show last night. Kevin was in my office when I took the call. He added that Rick had been in bad shape when he left, and was probably heading for a bar, not home. Marilyn

  jumped on that. She called some local bars, even a few hotels. We did the same. One bar owner remembered seeing him in
there around one. Nothing after that."

  "I can fill in the blanks," Taylor managed. "Rick came to my apartment a little after two. He stayed

  about a half hour. He'd been drinking— a lot. He was an emotional wreck. He felt as if his entire world was falling apart."

  "Yeah, Marilyn told me. But, divorce or not, she still cared about the guy. She was frantic. When she

  got nowhere, she called the police and reported Rick missing. The precinct checked it out. Marilyn's description matched that of an accident victim they'd located around four a.m. She went down to the police station and identified the personal articles I mentioned. She called me from there. She was obviously in shock. I don't even remember what I said to her—" Jack's voice broke. "Anyway, that's