But it had taken all his skill to sound sincere when he’d read that item about the damned cat. The next time the producer wanted a cute story, Brent promised himself he’d make Sharon read all of it.
“Want to go out for a drink?” he asked her.
“Brent, how many times do I need to tell you I’m dating someone?”
“Hey, it never hurts to ask. If you’re serious about this guy, why don’t you bring him around sometime so we can see what he looks like?”
“He?” She looked at him strangely.
“Very funny,” Brent said.
“You’ve been working here three months, and no one told you I was gay?”
“Yeah, right. Quit kidding around.”
“What makes you think I’m kidding?”
“Okay, okay, I can take a joke.” At that moment, the producer entered the studio, rescuing him from Sharon’s ridiculous act.
“Brent, I need to talk to you.”
Brent didn’t like his tone. Something’s going to hit the fan, he predicted.
He had risen through the broadcast markets from a small television station in Oklahoma to a modest-sized one in Kansas to this bigger one in El Paso. Every newscaster’s goal was to work for the premium cable news channels-like CNN or Fox-or the network stations in Los Angeles, Chicago, Washington, and New York. Better yet, at the top-to go national on the evening news at ABC, NBC, or CBS.
Brent had rocketed through the lower-level stations, but he was forced to admit that he hadn’t gained the momentum he needed to get out of El Paso a year from now, as he’d planned. For one thing, he hadn’t managed to bond with the rest of the news team. Perhaps they sensed his determination not to stay in the area any longer than necessary. As a consequence, he hadn’t been given any career-advancing stories. Also, he had the sense that the news director regretted hiring him. Presumably he’d decided that Brent looked a little too white- bread for this market.
Shit, he’ll probably come down on me for the way I read that piece about the damned cat.
“Sharon, I need to see you, also,” the producer said. A somber expression on his face, he looked down at his tennis shoes as if he wanted to avoid eye contact.
“Listen, I can explain about the cat story…” Brent said.
The producer peered up, looking distracted. “What are you talking about?”
Sharon padded across the concrete floor on her thick socks. “Has something happened?”
“There’s been a mass shooting.” The producer’s somber expression was replaced with a look of grim resolve.
“What?”
“Outside a town called Rostov. That’s about two hundred miles southeast of here. Our contact with the Highway Patrol says as many as twenty people were hit, most of them fatally. It happened at some kind of roadside tourist attraction they have down there.”
Brent stepped closer. Even in today’s weird world, a mass shooting with five or six victims was news. But twenty?
“Who did it?” Sharon asked.
“The gunman hasn’t been identified. Apparently a woman on the scene shot and killed him.”
“A woman?” The story’s sounding better by the minute, Brent thought.
“The details are still coming in, but I don’t want our viewers to get all their information about it from CNN or Fox. This is a west Texas story. We call ourselves ‘First-on-the-Scene,’ and by God, we’ll prove it. Sharon, go back on the air for ‘breaking news.’ Our contact with the Highway Patrol agreed to an on-air telephone interview. Brent, the chopper’s waiting for you. Fly to Rostov immediately. Find out what’s happening. Hopefully you’ll be up to speed when Sharon and the broadcast truck reach there in the morning.”
As Sharon hurried toward the news desk, the producer called after her, “Sharon, at Rostov you’ll give live updates throughout the day. Tomorrow evening, you’ll anchor the show with a view of the place where the shootings occurred. This’ll be a special broadcast, and we’ll make a big deal about it. Squeeze in as much rest as you can. I don’t want you looking tired.”
“So Sharon and I will be coanchoring there?” Brent asked, already imagining how impressive that would look on his resume.
“No, Sharon’s the anchor. You’ll contribute background. If you do research all night and all day tomorrow, by the time the broadcast starts tomorrow evening, you’ll look like something the cat dragged in.” The producer seemed to emphasize the word “cat,” but Brent hoped it was just his imagination. “Now, hurry out to the chopper.”
“But I need to go home and get some fresh clothes,” Brent said. “This suit’ll be a mess by tomorrow.”
“You don’t have time. I want you on the ground before those damned CNN reporters show up.” With that, the producer turned to- ward the three camera operators. “Who wants some serious overtime?”
“I do,” a woman said. “The brakes on my car need replacing.”
When she stepped from behind the equipment, Brent recognized the cute Hispanic camerawoman who’d recently joined the staff. Her name was Anita something. In her early twenties, she was short and trim, with shiny dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore hiking boots and pants that had twice the usual number of pockets. Her shirt had ample pockets as well.
“Grab a camera and take one of the vans,” the producer responded. “Start for Rostov right away. This time of night, you can probably reach there in two and a half hours.”
“Less,” Anita said confidently.
“Whatever-I don’t care how many speeding tickets you get. Just don’t crash the van. By the time Brent’s done getting overhead shots of the crime scene and providing commentary, you’ll need to be close to the area.”
“Wait,” Brent said, “you want me to operate the chopper’s camera, too?”
The producer ignored him and kept talking to Anita.
“There’s a good possibility the bodies won’t have been removed yet. After the chopper sets Brent down, you and he will start interviewing the police and any witnesses you can find. Brent, I told you to get moving. If we cover this from enough angles, maybe CNN won’t bother sending their people. Maybe they’ll pay to have Sharon supply live updates. Our competition won’t stand a chance in the ratings.”
22
The eerie music drifted and dipped, hovered and sailed. Coming from instruments Halloway still couldn’t identify, the languid, sensuous melody settled into a lower register. He imagined that he was slow dancing with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. He smelled cinnamon in her hair and tasted orange juice and vodka.
By now there were seven people in the room: Halloway and his partner, Taggard, another pair of guards who’d kept leaving the surveilance room to listen to the music, and the researcher-Gordon- who’d been joined by two others.
Transported by the sounds, no one spoke. Halloway imagined the woman he danced with pressing against him. She breathed softly into his ear.
Abruptly the music became silent. The woman disappeared.
“Hey, what happened?” Halloway demanded.
Static came from the speakers: harsh, crackly, loud, and aggravating.
“Gordon, what did you do?” he exclaimed. “Where’s the music?”
But Gordon looked as surprised-and annoyed-as everyone else.
“I didn’t do anything,” he protested, holding up his hands as if that would prove it.
“Then what happened? Why did the music stop?”
A researcher pressed buttons and twisted knobs on several of the consoles. “Maybe we have a phasing problem,” he offered.