“No! No!” The agent waved his arms, pointing the pilot away from the wreckage. He spoke into a radio. “This is a no-fly zone. Get that news whore out of here. That’s all we need. More dust stirred up.”
Cooper watched the man stomp away. The copter veered off, finally settling down several hundred yards away from the wreckage.
Cooper looked at Dryden. “The rest of the idiots should be here shortly, I’m guessing.”
“Can’t wait,” Dryden spit into the sand.
“I guess we’d better go check the perimeters. Gotta keep our journalists properly caged.” Cooper gave Dryden a mock salute.
“Hey, Coop, isn’t that why you left Phoenix for that hermit lifestyle? The constant evil media horde?”
“Just one of the reasons, Ben. Just one of the reasons.”
27
KATE LEFT HER PHOENIX HOME and drove east on Interstate 10. After traveling about twelve miles, she turned right onto Maricopa Road into what was one of the more unattractive areas of the Sonoran Desert. Dry dusty flatlands dominated a landscape where no appreciable rain had fallen in months, leaving the scattered vegetation pale courtesy of a coating of fine desert dust.
Periodically, Kate passed vibrant green fields, owing their effulgence to constant irrigation. She drove through the town of Maricopa, past Aida’s Cafe, and a decaying billboard, announcing Jesus Christ is Lord to All. The truck raced past herds of sheep and Brangus cattle feeding on piles of stacked hay. An ungainly tangle of prickly pear growing out of the ruin of a crumbling stone house caught her attention as she flew by, as did a massive tumbleweed that struggled to free itself from a barbed-wire fence.
As Kate neared Route 8, the view became more picturesque. Thanks to a rise in elevation, giant saguaros now dotted the landscape. Bushy palo verde trees added a fine verdure to the pale hills. A couple of crosses, glowing white against the azure sky, stood boldly atop the mountain near the turnoff. A road sign announced that Kate was 326 miles from San Diego, 34 miles from Gila Bend. Another gave her permission to drive 75 miles-per-hour. Kate mashed the gas pedal settling in at 80.
Spiny ocotillo shot out of the desert floor, their spindly, thorn-covered branches rich with tiny green leaves, but this time of year the plants were free of the oddly-shaped orange blooms for which they were famous. A hawk rested on a scraggly saguaro near the asphalt, the cactus pocked by wrens, and its skin darkened by car exhaust.
The road crossed an almost endless succession of washes with peculiar names like Vekol and Sand Tank. Every so often, a small white cross—some decorated with plastic flowers and religious trinkets—appeared by the roadside, marking the place a motorist had died. Relatives believed these spots indicated the location where the soul of their loved one had officially fled the body, and so honored these places with the same enthusiasm dedicated to the victim’s actual gravesite.
Just as suddenly as the attractive desert greenery appeared, the foliage vanished, leaving Kate again in a flat, desiccated wasteland. She noticed a Sandhill Crane, light gray wings spanning almost eight feet across, as the bird glided effortlessly above a dirt field that stretched into the horizon.
The road sign read Hyder 1 Mile. The exit was for two towns—Sentinel and Hyder—but when she exited the turnoff, Kate found herself facing little evidence of civilization. A dilapidated gas station stood on one corner, a tiny enterprise boasting two gas pumps and a backyard littered with several broken-down shacks and half-a-dozen rusting cars.
Kate quickly encountered another sign informing her she was still seventeen miles from Hyder. She continued, crossing the dry Gila River bed, past a curious field of giant, long-dead palm trees planted in neat lines, and finally to the end of the road marked by the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks.
She checked her watch. It was 11:41 a.m.
28
KATE SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES, skidded to a stop, and jumped from the truck without bothering to lock the door. She noted that all the local media outlets were clustered a good distance away from the frantic activity in the wash below. She could see their live trucks; satellite dishes perched on top, tilted at different angles depending on where their signals were being sent. The radio, TV, and print reporters mingled in a knot south of the trucks.
Kate approached the throng. A press conference was underway. What she really wanted to do was get closer to the wreck, the investigative reporter in her restless to scope out the situation, but her primary responsibility was to locate the Channel 10 live-truck driver. She checked her watch again. It was eleven forty-four.
Her heart skipped. What if they want a live-shot for the noon news?
“Sorry, only press allowed in this area.” A hand gently grasped Kate’s elbow.
She turned to see a familiar grin. “Fuck you, Coop.”
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Kate Butler.” Jack Cooper smiled. “It’s been a long time.”
“What is it? Two years since you bailed out of the big city and moved here to the hinterlands? Don’t you miss Phoenix?” Kate asked the former Phoenix P.D. detective.
“Not at all. Then again, out here I don’t get to rub shoulders with all you media folks very often.”
“I bet you sure do miss that.” Kate stared at Cooper for a long moment and then looked past him. “I’d love to chat, Coop, but I think there’s a live truck with my name on it in there somewhere.” She nodded toward the mob of reporters and media technicians.
“Got any credentials?”
“Shit, Coop. Craig’s got ’em. I didn’t have time to go into the station.”
“Who are you working for now?”
“Channel 10. Just filling in.” She looked away.
“Where are their regular folks?”
“Sick, honeymooning, dropping babies. All that stuff normal people do.” Kate checked her watch again. It was 11:46. “Give me a break. I’ve gotta find Craig.”
“I’ll have to escort you there myself.” Cooper motioned to a police officer, who waved them through. Kate followed him into the media pen. “I need to make sure you’re really working press.”
“Damn, Cooper. You caught me. Couldn’t think of a better way to spend the day than to drive out to Hyder.” She swept an arm to take in the desert landscape. “You think they could have found an uglier location to derail a train?”
“On the contrary. There are many beautiful places out here, Kate. Allow me to show them to you. At your convenience, of course.” He gazed at her.
“Never stop trying, do ya, Coop?”
“No.”
Kate saw the playfulness was gone, something in his eyes. She opened her mouth to comment but was interrupted by the sound of her name being shouted.
“Kate! Kate!” Craig, the live-truck driver called frantically, waving his arms to get her attention.
The moment was lost.
“I … I’ve gotta go, Coop.” She turned, checked her watch again, and bolted toward the truck.
Fifteen minutes later, Kate adjusted the IFB in her ear, and clipped the coiled tubing to the back collar of her denim shirt. A hand-held microphone with a Channel 10 windscreen was wedged between her thighs. She smeared on lipstick, then smoothed her hair. Kate grabbed the mic, then the slim spiral reporter’s notebook from her back pocket. She looked down at the page. Where were her notes?
The producer back at the station in Phoenix yelled in her ear.
“Craig! He’s killing me,” she said to the live-truck driver. “Turn it down. Jesus, who is this guy?”
But the cameraman didn’t answer. His hand, stretched high above the camera, contracted into a fist, one finger extending. The red tally light atop the camera blinked on. He brought his arm down, and pointed at her.
Kate had neglected to get the names of the anchors in the studio. She had also missed her introduction, and so was unaware of whether they had asked her a question. So much for live television.
“Early this morning on a lonely stretch of Southern Pacific Railroad track �
�”
Kate went on to give the sketchy information she had gathered. The only video available was of Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio surveying the scene. The lawman—a local celebrity—was said to be the toughest sheriff in the country for forcing inmates to wear pink underwear, serve on chain gangs, and eat green bologna. Reporters loved him for the simple fact that he was a living, breathing sound bite twenty-four hours a day. That the train wreck occurred in Yuma County and out of Arpaio’s jurisdiction did not seem to bother the sheriff, who never met a microphone he didn’t like.
“Thirty seconds,” the over-zealous producer yelled into Kate’s ear. She tried not to wince, then glanced at the monitor, and saw the video segment Craig had cut was about to end. At that moment, Arpaio conveniently sauntered within arm’s reach.
Kate never hesitated. “And now with us live is Sheriff Joe Arpaio.” She grabbed the lawman’s shoulder, gracing him with a brilliant smile.
“Kate. Oh! Sure.” The lawman blinked into the camera from behind thick glasses.
“Anything new on the cause of the wreck of the Sunset Limited, Sheriff?”
“Well, Kate, yes, there is. A letter was found that we believe was written by the person or persons who committed this heinous crime.”
“Can you tell us what it said?”
“No, I’m afraid we’re not prepared to release that information yet. Of course, we are coordinating with the Yuma County Sherriff’s Office and the FBI.”
The cameraman gave the sign to wrap up and toss back to the anchors in the studio.
“Thank you, Sheriff Arpaio.” Kate faced the camera. “We’ll have more on this tragedy, the wreck of the Sunset Limited, later on today. For Channel 10 News, I’m Kate Butler.”
“That was great!” Craig gushed when the live-shot ended, and the sheriff had moved on.
“Got lucky. I had no idea Arpaio had just been briefed on the letter. And here’s to our Sheriff, who never says no to a photo-op.”
An hour later, Kate sat in the live-truck reviewing footage Craig recorded after the live shot, as well as some interviews she’d done. She charted the B-roll—jotting down shot descriptions along with their time code—so when her piece was written and ready to be edited, Craig would have an easy time identifying the proper shots to place over each section of her voice-over.
She called the station and was informed by the young, and very loud producer that they might want her to go live again during the five-o’clock news, but that she’d be free to snoop around for a while. He asked that she contact him every thirty minutes.
After Kate wrote the script for her news package, she cut the audio. She left the audio recording, sound bites, and B-roll information along with a copy of the hand-written script for Craig to edit. Then, in the hope of seeing more of the wreck site, Kate wandered to the edge of the media pen, walking the perimeter. She watched the police come and go down into the wash. Then she saw him.
“Coop!” Kate called, waving her arms.
Cooper walked over. “At your service.”
“I want to see it.”
“But you’re media. I can’t—”
“Bullshit!”
Cooper smiled. Kate was well aware that he’d always liked her brash manner. He also appreciated her honesty. Unlike a lot of younger media-types who would sell their souls for a scoop and screw the source in the process, a confidential comment with Kate stayed off the record.
“Let me see what I can do. But keep it quiet. Can’t have your brethren thinking I’m playing favorites. On top of that, the FBI guys are going to be here in numbers, so bear with me.”
“Thanks, Coop. I appreciate anything you can do.”
“Of course, you will owe me.”
Kate laughed. “Of course.”
29
EARLY THAT EVENING, Kate pulled the IFB from her ear, unclipped the device, and slid the molded earpiece into her pocket. She glanced around and noted that the other TV reporters were also off the air. All the stations did stories pretty much exactly the same way, and even in the same order, give or take the cutesy fluff pieces the stations were using much more frequently these days.
Craig broke down the equipment, coiling the multiple electrical cords in neat rings before storing them in a red plastic crate. “Kate, go ahead and call in,” he said. “See what they want for the ten o’clock.”
Five minutes later, Kate pulled open the side door of the live truck. “Bernie said to send in all of the raw video and any unused sound bites. He’s gonna have Kim cut a package, so he won’t need us tonight.”
“Good.”
“But don’t get too excited. He wants us back here first thing in the morning to do a live shot for Daybreak.”
“Shit! There goes another night’s sleep.”
“Do you think they’ll spring for a hotel room?” Kate dreaded the drive to Phoenix and the quick turnaround.
“Probably not. Anyway, I doubt there’s a room within fifty miles of here. Look at all the people. I guarantee they’ve grabbed up anything even remotely nearby.”
“You’re probably right.”
There was about an hour of daylight remaining. Kate could either get a jump-start on the drive home or try to get a little closer to the wreck. She could also ask about the letter.
After she found Cooper, he stood with his arms folded across his chest. “As far as the letter is concerned, I don’t know any more than you do.”
“But you’ve seen it, haven’t you?” Kate asked.
“Them.”
“Them?”
“There were four copies found. I can only assume they all say the same thing, but I haven’t read them. The Feds have the letters in their white tent over there.” He pointed to a large structure that had mushroomed out of the desert earlier in the day.
“They gave us a few highlights,” he continued. “But, generally, peons like us local boys are welcome only if invited. And, so far, nobody’s begging me to drop by for tea.”
“Take me over there.” Kate nodded toward the tent. “Let me see if I can finagle my way in.”
“No.”
She frowned, furrowing her brow like a disgruntled ten-year-old.
“But how about we take a little walk? Maybe get you just a little closer to the wreck.”
Kate beamed her best smile.
“Don’t get too excited. You aren’t gonna be climbing on any wreckage, or touching any maimed, broken bodies, no matter how much you beg.”
Kate frowned again.
“You will only go where I tell you to go. And don’t talk to anyone. I know it’s against your nature, but don’t ask any questions. And for God’s sake, take off your media credentials.”
“Yes, sir.” Kate slipped the cord holding her plastic credentials packet over her head and stowed the papers in her jean-jacket pocket.
“Good.” Cooper walked toward the wash and Kate followed. “And, may I say, you are much more attractive as a normal person.”
Kate couldn’t help but smile. She’d always had a serious soft spot for Cooper and had missed him.
The broken train looked like a toy a baby giant tossed aside.
“It’s gonna be a real pain getting that thing back on the track.” Cooper stared at the train that remained basically intact, though some of the windows had been blown out.
“How are they going to do it?” Kate squinted at the wreckage from behind dark sunglasses.
“The heavy equipment is on the way. Though I’m not sure where they’ll be able to set up the crane. It’ll have to be a monster to lift those cars.”
Kate itched to go down and examine the wreckage. She wanted to see inside the train, but not because she was ghoulish or sadistic, as Cooper sometimes accused her of being. She simply wanted to get a better feel for what happened, for what the victims had gone through. Kate often used small, seemingly unimportant details to color her stories, scenes that often made her pieces more poignant than those of her peers. She’d insist the v
ideographer shoot the stuffed animal, the single shoe, the book with the interesting title, then she’d write the shot into her piece. The technique worked well, as the six Emmys for reporting that sat dust-covered on her mantel attested.
Kate unconsciously took a few steps toward the edge of the wash. She felt Cooper’s hand on her shoulder.
“Oops! Sorry, Coop. Just habit. Can’t help myself.”
“Cooper!” They both turned to see the red-haired diver, Ben Dryden, bounding toward them.
“Hey, Kate,” Ben said genuinely glad to see the reporter. Then he narrowed his eyes. “Hey, wait a minute. What are you doing out of your pen?”
“Coop deputized me.”
“Oh, really?” Dryden stared at Cooper who offered a guilty shrug in return.
“Well then, Deputy Butler. Are we now off the record?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Got a new wrinkle, kids. Seems we’ve got a kidnapping on our hands. A woman was taken to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix with head injuries. She woke up a few hours ago and kept asking where her daughter was.”
“And,” Kate leaned forward, impatient to get the whole story.
“And, no one seems to know where the kid is. Though the mother insists the child would be hard to miss. She’s sixteen and has some kind of facial birth defect.”
“You don’t think she’s still on the train? Under something maybe?” Cooper scanned the wreck site.
“Nope. The train’s been searched in and out. The girl’s not here. And to make matters a bit more urgent, the kid is a little over eight months pregnant.”
Kate mulled the facts. “All right. Where do I stand with this, Ben? Can I use anything?”
“The FBI wants to keep this quiet for now. They’ve begun a search, but they don’t want to give the kidnapper, if there is one, any ammunition. They’re waiting for him to make contact. So, for now, it’s all completely off the record. I’m sorry, Kate.”
Cooper wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Sometimes, it’s tough having ethics.”
“Sometimes, it just plain sucks,” she said.
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