Hot, Shot, and Bothered

by Nora McFarland

  I took a deep breath. I forced more and more air into my already sore chest. I pushed it to capacity, cringing as the ache spiked and then receded with my exhale.

  A memory surfaced. Floating in an inner tube, just a little buzzed, despite being underage. The smell of barbecue cooking somewhere I couldn’t see. My cutoff jeans and tank top wet with lake water. My peroxide-bleached hair up in a ponytail.

  The start of summer.

  Jessica Egan was standing on the shore of the lake looking at me. “Is your name Lilly?” Her was hair cut short in an uneven way she’d probably done herself. She wore jeans and a PETA T-shirt. She’d just graduated high school, but was still only seventeen.

  One glance at her and I was bored. “Nope.”

  She looked around confused. “I heard that was your name.”

  I didn’t say anything. The current moved my inner tube farther down the shore.

  She hurried along the water’s edge, trying to keep up. “I also heard you’re from Bakersfield and nobody around here really knows you.”

  “That’s nice.” The inner tube spun and I was no longer facing her.

  “I have a business proposition,” she called.

  “I’m not in the business of business.”

  “Could you be in the business of lying to my father?”

  I paddled around until I faced her. She suddenly seemed a lot less boring.

  “My dad doesn’t approve of how I want to spend my time,” she said. “If you tell him we’re friends and hanging out, I’ll pay you.”

  “What makes you think he’ll approve of me?” I took a drink of beer. “Why don’t you get some nice local girl to lie for you?”

  “Nice girls don’t lie.”

  I heard metal hit metal and then a long squeak. I leaned out of the truck in time to see the front gate admitting a KJAY news van. Rod parked the old minivan next to my much larger live truck. He raised a hand in greeting before getting out. He wore a charcoal-colored three-piece suit with a maroon handkerchief peeking from the pocket. His wavy, blond hair was perfectly groomed, and his expensive Italian-leather shoes were shiny and polished.

  Unlike other people, I’ve never been impressed with Rod’s packaging. When he’d first arrived at KJAY, the ladies around the station all swooned over him. I wrongly assumed it meant he was a shallow jerk who just wanted to look good on TV. It had turned out that he was a shy geek, albeit an incredibly well-dressed one.

  He approached carrying a laptop and some other equipment. He made eye contact and smiled. I may be immune to his packaging, but the smile gets me every time. I felt like Superman getting hit with kryptonite.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.

  “Are you kidding? What an opportunity.” His face was lit up and I realized I hadn’t seen him this happy at work in a long time. “Why didn’t you tell me the governor was coming?” When I didn’t say anything he continued, “That’s why you asked me to drive up here, right?”

  “It’s a long story.” I heard a noise and saw Bell coming out of the office. “We can talk about it later.”

  After polite introductions, Rod set the laptop down on a milk crate and waited for it to boot up.

  “You don’t appreciate how bad the smoke is until you’re actually here.” Rod looked at the ground. “And the ash everywhere, it’s surreal.” He raised his arm and examined the fabric of his suit coat. “Will it get on my clothing?” He brushed the sleeve. “Should I be taking precautions?”

  I attached the small camera to my sticks. It wasn’t even as big as the head plate and looked goofy sitting there. “It will get on your clothing. And there are no precautions you can take.”

  Despite my issues with the camera, Rod and I got it prepped and connected to the laptop. After several minutes of tweaking, one reboot, and multiple calls to Callum and the control room, we had a live signal. KJAY used the live image of the airstrip to tease the governor’s impending arrival and ordered a report from Rod for the next segment. They were in breaking-news coverage now and probably wouldn’t go back to regular programming until after the briefing.

  KJAY went to commercial break and I called out the three-minute warning.

  A tremor ran through Rod’s hand as he straightened his tie for the eighth or ninth time. “Lilly, can I have a quick word about the feed.” He pulled me into the live truck. “I can do this, right?”

  “You’re going to be great.” I held his arm. “Piece of cake.”

  “I was so excited to be out in the field with you again, and it’s the governor and everything, but I forgot how scary being on camera is.”

  “You don’t have to worry, Rod. You can do this. I have no doubt at all, and you always know when I’m lying.”

  He relaxed. “Thanks for believing in me.” He swooped down and kissed me. I decided to relax my no-public-displays-of-affection-while-on-the-job rule.

  We were interrupted by Callum calling over my cell phone. “Thirty seconds. Where’s Rod? Why don’t I see Rod?”

  “We’re here,” I yelled back into the phone. We hurried to our places behind and in front of the camera. The live shot was almost flawless. Rod was perfect. I’m ashamed to say my camerawork was the weakest part. Did I mention that I hate that puny camera?

  A few of the officers from the waiting entourage had walked over to watch the live shot. They quickly dispersed when it was over. Only Bell came forward to congratulate Rod. “I’m a public service officer with the L.A. Fire Department, so I’m used to working with some of the best reporters in the country. You’re very, very good. What’re you doing in a backwater market like Bakersfield?”

  I didn’t say anything, but Bell recognized my irritation. “I’m sorry,” she rushed to say. “Nothing against Bakersfield. I’m sure it’s very nice, for a small town.”

  “You’re right,” Rod told her. “It’s both nice and small, and that’s why I like it. I grew up in L.A. and that was the first market I ever worked in. I had my fill of traffic and celebrity car chases.”

  While they chatted about the L.A. media market, I used Rod’s laptop to google Jessica Egan. I found a listing for her on the Green Seed Foundation’s website. This large, national nonprofit promoted environmental and animal-rights causes. Jessica was listed as the executive director of the Southwestern region. Her office address was in Venice, California. The website looked elegant and professional. It did not look as if it represented a bunch of fringe environmentalists living on the beach and doing drugs—as her brother seemed to think.

  Under a tab marked CONSERVATION, I found a page devoted to the Terrill Nature Preserve. The map showed a wide strip of green starting at the top of Mt. Terrill and then running all the way down and into the valley. Unless I was mistaken, the most eastern part of the preserve was currently on fire and the rest of it in danger.

  I clicked through a few more links and found a picture of Jessica at a fund-raiser. Her hair was still cut short, but instead of jeans and a frumpy T-shirt, Jessica wore a strapless, black evening gown. An elegant, older gentleman in a tuxedo had his arm around her back while a second woman stood to the side.

  Despite his posing with Jessica, the man and the second woman were identified as Dr. Sebastian Polignac and Ceasonne Polignac. Ceasonne Polignac wore a striking sarong and had long, gray hair. She was described in the caption as Green Seed’s executive director—the title Jessica now had. I wrote down the woman’s name. Even if she no longer worked for Green Seed, it might be worth trying to contact her.

  Bell and Rod were still trading gossip about the L.A. television market, so I checked the Bakersfield newspaper’s website. Skimming an old article, it appeared that Green Seed had been responsible for the protests in Elizabeth thirteen years ago.

  Green Seed claimed that the McClellans’ land was the only known habitat for the Terrill Mountain slender salamander. Their attempts to stop the McClellans from building housing and retail developments had dragged on for over a year. How Green Seed ended up owning th
e family’s land and turning it into a nature preserve wasn’t explained.

  There was a particularly unattractive photo of the salamander. Its beady eyes and slimy body were made more sinister by its trademark red stripe.

  Bell took a business card out of her pocket and handed it to Rod. “If you ever do come back to L.A., I’d like to keep in contact.”

  Rod took the business card and slipped it in his pocket. “Any chance you might give us a quick interview now?”

  Bell shook her head. “The IO has decided no one is making any statements until after the briefing.”

  “What about the governor?” Rod asked. “He can do whatever he pleases. Any chance he might talk to us after he lands? Even just make a short statement on his way to the car?”

  I laughed. “I think it’s more likely the governor will put the fire out by peeing on it.”

  I’d shot the governor twice before—with my camera, not an assassination attempt. The first, when he made a campaign stop in Bakersfield, and the second, when he toured one of the oil fields in Taft. Each time I was kept at least twenty yards back.

  Bell chuckled and pointed to the building behind us. “One of his aides is working in a back office, but I doubt he’ll help you get an interview. All he seems to care about is keeping the governor on schedule.”

  “I might as well introduce myself.” Rod stood. “As gets go, the governor has to be tops.”

  The get is the one interview that everyone wants for a certain story. For instance, if a UFO landed in someone’s backyard, you’d want to interview the homeowner who met the aliens, not someone who lived two blocks away and had seen some strange lights. At KJAY, someone had turned the idea of the get into a game, and the shooters had been playing with one another for years.

  I perked up. “Are we playing Who’s the Get?”

  Bell looked from me to Rod. “What’s Who’s the Get?”

  “Nothing,” Rod said. “Something Lilly does with the other shooters. Very boring stuff.”

  In my enthusiasm for the game, I missed Rod’s attempt to change the subject. “It’s a great way to kill time. You make up breaking news and then argue over who’s the most important interview to land.”

  “In that case, I agree with Rod.” Bell momentarily paused as the pilot entered the building carrying a package of coffee beans and a grinder. “The governor will always be the get, even if he doesn’t have the most useful or up-to-date information.”

  “Not true,” I said. “Right off the top of my head, I can think of a scenario where the governor is a distant second place.”

  Bell raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who trumps the governor?”

  “I have a better idea.” Rod took a step toward the building. “Why don’t we go talk to the aide?”

  “Come on. I want to hear this.” Bell looked at me. “Who’s better than the governor?”

  “If someone tried to kill the governor,” I started—Rod probably tried to give me a warning look, but I didn’t see—“and a little girl bravely jumped in front of the bullet and saved his life . . . and the little girl was an orphan because her mother had just died fighting in Afghanistan.” I nodded in satisfaction. “In that situation, the little girl is the get, and the governor becomes the guy standing behind the brave orphan.”

  “But Lilly isn’t hoping for any of that to happen.” Rod looked at me in a panic. “Are you, Lilly?”

  “Of course I’m not hoping for that to happen.” I tried to think of the right words to explain. “But if it did happen, I’d want to be the one to cover it.”

  Rod opened his mouth to try to do more damage control, but Bell cut him off, “It’s okay. I get it.”

  The pilot exited the building, now without the coffee and the grinder. Bell nodded to him and then turned back to us. “I haven’t always worked public relations. Back when I was on an engine crew, I developed a pretty thick skin too. In these kinds of jobs you have to, or else you go crazy. Cops are the same. When you see terrible things every day, you have to depersonalize it.” She rubbed the knee on her bad leg. “The aide is inside if you want to speak with him. I’m going to see if the coffee’s ready.”

  After she was gone, I stood from the milk crate I was sitting on. “I don’t know if I explained that right.”

  “It probably would be best, going forward, not to tell people about Who’s the Get.” Rod smiled. “Sometimes you get a little too enthusiastic when you play. Not everyone would understand.”

  I nodded.

  We covered some of the equipment so ash wouldn’t get on it, then followed Bell inside. A small counter sat on the right with pamphlets and brochures. A large topographic map of the Sequoia National Forest covered the back wall. The two rangers were running a small grinder next to a coffeemaker in the rear. Bell had commandeered one of the four desks and was working at a laptop.

  “Don’t let us interrupt you,” Rod told her. “We’re going to give the aide a try.

  “You’re not interrupting.” She used the laptop’s mouse to click something. “While we wait for coffee, I was going to watch this clip again that’s going viral. I escorted the shooter on the ride-along and feel responsible.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The blond girl in the tank top who said the firefighters had to save her?”

  Bell nodded.

  “I saw it on the feeds.” Rod looked from me to her. “You could tell it was going to upset people, and even more so because those two firefighters died on Monday.”

  Bell’ expression hovered between sadness and anger. “The Twitter response is vile—really inappropriate things being said about the poor girl.”

  I remembered watching as Slim had fed his video back to L.A. “I saw some of the raw material. I’m surprised the ranting mad scientist hasn’t gone viral too.”

  Bell nodded. “He’s getting some play on television, but crazy, middle-aged men will never be as popular as a blond girl in a tank top.”

  The female ranger had been eyeing us from the back of the room. She came forward now. “Are you Rod Strong?”

  Rod hesitated. “Yes.”

  The woman reached us and stopped. Her short haircut accentuated pretty, brown eyes and perfect skin. “I used to watch you on TV all the time.”

  “Thank you.” Rod’s embarrassed smile made him look even dreamier—in a completely involuntary kind of way. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  Her face melted into a love-struck gaze. “You were wonderful. Why don’t you do it anymore?”

  “I’m a producer now.”

  “But your fans miss you.”

  Bell made eye contact with me, and we each smiled at Rod’s obvious discomfort. A lot of men would love this kind of attention, but not Rod. Even when he’d been single, he hated it. The women who were attracted to his good looks and investigative-journalist persona would always dump him once they discovered his secret life writing Star Trek fan fiction, or that he was a level six mage in Dungeons & Dragons.

  “My wife’s a huge fan too.” The other ranger joined us. He’d brought me the Internet connection earlier, but I hadn’t noticed that his brown mustache had gray roots. He probably hadn’t had time to dye it since the fire started. “She’s not going to believe it when I tell her Rod Strong was here.”

  The door opened and one of the waiting officers poked his head in. “Please tell me it’s ready.”

  The male ranger returned to the coffeemaker. “We’re just about to start a pot. We’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.” The officer turned his tired eyes to the female ranger. “Would you mind calling on your landline and letting headquarters know we’re still waiting on the governor? Orders are to stay off the radio and cell lines as much as possible.”

  “No problem.” The ranger pulled herself away from Rod and walked to her desk. “We’re on speed dial with you guys at this point.”

  The officer thanked her and left.

  Bell gestured down a short hallway. “The aide is in the
back office if you want to give him a try.”

  On our way to find the aide, I heard the female ranger speaking into her phone. “That’s right. It’s me again.” She laughed. “I guess the police would have caller ID. Just to let you know the governor still hasn’t landed.”

  I had an idea. It was impetuous, dangerous, reckless. So much for personal growth.

  EIGHT

  Thursday, 11:49 p.m.

  I glanced inside a second door off the hallway. I was hoping to see an empty office with a phone, but saw a toilet and sink instead.

  We reached the only other door. It was ajar so we entered. A desk was pushed up against one of two windows. A man sat at a small, round conference table working at a laptop. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his suit jacket hung from the back of the chair. He faced the wall, giving us an excellent view down on his bald spot.

  “Pardon me,” Rod said loudly, trying to be heard over the blasting air conditioner.

  The aide didn’t respond, so Rod tapped him on the shoulder.

  The aide jumped, then turned. He removed one of two earbuds connected to the laptop. “No interviews.”

  Rod laughed. “Let us introduce ourselves. We’re—”

  The aide turned back to the monitor and started typing again. “No interviews. Now or later. We’re already behind schedule.”

  I looked around the room and spotted a phone on the empty desk by the window.

  Rod refused to let the aide’s rudeness dim his enthusiasm. “Let me give you my card. You can call me on my cell if things change.”

  The aide exhaled loudly, then turned away from his computer. “My job is to keep the schedule. I’m a schedule Nazi. I don’t write speeches. I don’t schmooze for legislation. I don’t even care about reelection. I’m a schedule Nazi. My only ambition is to keep the governor on schedule. There will be no interviews.” The aide turned back to the computer and put the earbuds back in.

  After an uncomfortable silence we left and returned to the main office.