The Woman in the News

by K. N. Casper

  Marlee was wearing snug jeans and a long-sleeved red turtleneck that covered all but her hands and face, but it also clung to her body in a way that made the palms of his hands itch. Narrow waist. Nicely rounded hips. Breasts that were full and high…

  “Sit down,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Her expression of concern told him he’d come across more sharply than he’d intended—again. He seemed to do a lot of that lately. He settled on the edge of the his desk, close enough to get a whiff of her delicate scent. The sight of her was as provocative as a red flag waved at a bull. Now she was transmitting pheromones. Could she really be oblivious to the effect she was having on him? Or was it all calculated?

  It wasn’t important, he decided. She was here because he needed to counsel her about her job performance.

  How could he possibly reprimand her when she’d done precisely what he’d advised her to do? Well, not exactly. He hadn’t told her to drag her cameraman into a roomful of naked men, to break conference rules, but… He liked her spunk. She brought the human touch to her work without being a powder puff, yet she still retained her femininity—a delicate balance few women in this hard-edged business achieved. The sweet ones didn’t last; the tough ones often ended up like Faye Warren, corseted in stainless steel—and basically alone, the likes of Tag Taggart notwithstanding.

  “You made quite an impact with your Ty Jameson interview last night. Our e-mails and voice mails have been about nothing else since you ran it.”

  The statement didn’t require a response, and she gave him none, but the tips of her mouth curled slightly.

  “Not all the calls have been complimentary,” he added.

  Her blue eyes were multishaded, with light and dark tones. “Most of them have.”

  So she’d been keeping tabs. Good for her. She wasn’t apologizing, either. He liked that even more.

  “Our vice president isn’t pleased with the bad publicity we’ve gotten in the press.”

  “It’ll pass,” she said philosophically. “Our ratings spiked during my segment.”

  “No argument there,” he agreed. “But there’s also the station’s reputation to consider. Your little escapade caused quite a stir. Coach Dreyfus complained to me last night and Sal Bufano. He demanded that you be fired.”

  Marlee paled. “The GM wants me terminated?”

  Renn was quick to correct his syntactical error. “Not Bufano. Dreyfus. He had some very unkind words to say about you.”

  If the general manager wanted her gone, she would be. Fortunately, Bufano didn’t usually take an active role in the day-to-day operation of the station, certainly not in matters of personnel management.

  Marlee took a deep breath, her color gradually returning. “I stopped by and apologized to Coach this morning. We’re cool.”

  Smart move. “Faye’s willing to be appeased with no less than a written reprimand for your unconscionable behavior.”

  Marlee looked up. She hadn’t missed the jocular tone in his last statement. He could feel her trying to figure out whose side he was on.

  “For unbecoming conduct that reflects poorly on the integrity and wholesome image of KNCS-TV.”

  She continued to stare at him. Petrified. Her guard up.

  “How do you feel about that?”

  She gazed at him warily. A written reprimand in her official jacket would make getting another job difficult, if not impossible, especially at an up-market station. “Does it matter?”

  He stroked his chin. “In the end, probably not, but I’d still like to know.”

  She pursed her lips. He had the impression she was trying to decide whether to bolt or stand and defend herself. “It locks my jaws.”

  Renn had always been an admirer of understatement. It said so much so eloquently. His admiration for her grew. “Mine, too.”

  Then he smiled.

  She studied him, her eyes clouded with uncertainty.

  Gradually, almost by degrees, he saw awareness dawn, as if she’d just recognized a melody. Something communicated itself between them, and she understood for the first time that he was on her side. Relief softened her gaze and at last brought a smile to her lips. Suddenly, she was grinning. To him it was as though she’d opened a window in this sunless room and the clean, scented air of spring had just wafted in on a cool, refreshing breeze.

  “When I told you to be bold, aggressive and dramatic, I didn’t exactly have in mind for you to go barging into the men’s locker room for a reveal-all interview,” he said, trying to revert to a straight face—and failing.

  “You didn’t?” Her brows were raised in a way that suggested she was innocently surprised at the revelation, but the sparkle below them undermined any attempt at seriousness.

  He slouched in his seat, his fingertips resting on the edge of the desk. “Wayne tells me one guy tried to proposition you.”

  “He was just being cute. I cut him down to size, so to speak.”

  Renn laughed. “So I heard. I’m not sure it’s wise baiting seven-foot-tall athletes, Marlee.”

  “A pussycat,” she assured him. “He’ll probably think twice about exposing himself to criticism again.”

  Renn chuckled, as his mind conjured up the image of a strapping buck slinking off red faced with his hands between his legs. “I almost wish I’d been there.”

  “Wayne may still have it on tape.”

  In fact, he’d already viewed it and been impressed by the way she’d handled herself. The situation was decidedly entertaining, but it also alarmed him.

  “Marlee, if those players had been veteran pros ten years older than you instead of college kids, you might not have been treated so generously. I hope you considered that before doing what you did.”

  Her eyes widened and warmed, as if the idea that he might be genuinely concerned about her welfare came as a shock. In fact, his unease ran deeper than a skittering anxiety. They weren’t close friends, just business associates, but he worried about her.

  The next moments of silence lingered into discomfort.

  “You’re in the doghouse at the moment,” he finally said, attempting to reestablish a businesslike tone. “You brought our ratings up for a short time, but you also put yourself in the position of getting the wrong kind of reputation and giving Taggart ammunition to use against you.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  He rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward, inexplicably unsettled by her nearness, by the delicate floral scent that was uniquely her.

  “My advice the other day still holds, Marlee. I don’t think I have to remind you Taggart has certain advantages in his bid for the anchor slot. You need to demonstrate unequivocally that you’re better qualified to be sports director than he is. Do you suppose you can do that—” he couldn’t help but smile again “—without alienating half the community or putting your personal safety and reputation at risk?”

  She rubbed her chin, her blue eyes twinkling above her slender fingers. “Watch me.”

  Saturday, March 15

  “COACH HILLMAN, thank you for agreeing to this interview. I know this has been a very difficult time for you and for the members of the team, their friends and families. You have my deepest sympathy and condolences.”

  The fifty-year-old high school basketball coach had aged ten years in the five weeks since the bus carrying his team had been swept into the Devil’s River. The teenagers had won a stunning victory against a formidable rival, which qualified them for the state playoffs and were undoubtedly euphoric on their way back from Del Rio when the tragedy struck. At the championship game the following weekend, they’d done respectably well, losing by less than ten points. Inevitably, people speculated whether they might have won if they hadn’t lost two of their players. In a larger sense it was a no-win situation. Had they actually come out on top, their victory would have somehow felt disrespectful.

  Marlee and the coach had agreed to meet this Saturday afternoon at his home. He’d gre
eted her and her photographer cordially and led them to his den, a large room that had been converted from a two-car garage. The dark wood-paneled walls were crowded with framed pictures of teams going back a quarter of a century. Awards and accolades lined shelves and bookcases. It was a pride-filled room, except that the man sitting behind the old wooden school desk had lines of defeat bracketing his thin mouth. The sadness radiating from him tore at Marlee, reminding her of the loss she, too, had suffered.

  As Wayne Prentice set up his gear, she attempted to put their host at ease by asking questions and offering comments about some of the older memorabilia. When the room was artificially brightened by the halogen floodlight, she did a sound check and began her interview.

  Over the next hour, she elicited information about his career. Coyote High had been only his second coaching position. In those twenty-five years, many of the young men he’d trained had gone on to play college basketball. Five had advanced into the pros, one playing for the L.A. Lakers, another for the Dallas Mavericks.

  At last Marlee brought him to the fateful night. Hillman’s proud mood sobered and the relaxed atmosphere she’d so carefully nurtured melted away.

  “It’d been drizzling on and off for several hours,” he said. “I’d checked with the highway patrol. They assured me all the roads were clear. No reports of flooding.”

  A few people in the community had accused him of negligence in attempting to return home in a winter rainstorm. His defenders, who included the parents of one of the dead players, far outnumbered them, however, but the damage had been done. Hillman had offered his resignation. It was declined.

  “At the point where the highway parallels the Devil’s River,” he went on, “it started raining pretty hard, but we’d seen worse. This is West Texas, after all. When it rains, it pours, usually for only a few minutes, then it stops as quickly as it starts. We saw some standing water, and the normally dry fork was running, but the river was still within its banks.”

  “Did you consider turning back?”

  He nodded. “Clark, Mel, the driver, and I discussed it, but the highway along that stretch was only two lanes, not wide enough for that big, long bus to do a simple U-turn. We would have had to go off the blacktop, and Mel was afraid we might get stuck. We would have been in real trouble then—and a danger to anyone else on the road. Plus, the storm was moving in behind us, which meant we were already cut off in that direction. Our only option was to keep going.”

  “How were the boys handling it?” Marlee asked.

  “A few were antsy. Clark moved to the middle of the bus to keep them company.” Hillman grinned sadly, as if recalling a fond memory. “Those kids ate up his insider stories about all the famous people he’d met. He was a combination of big brother and wise grandfather, the kind of man they could look up to.” Hillman’s voice wobbled. He stalled. He and Clark had been good friends for many years.

  “Mel started across the low-water crossing at the dry fork. Water was up to the edges of the pavement but not over it. He drove nice and easy, and—” he inhaled deeply “—that’s when we stalled. Suddenly, everyone became quiet. Mel’s hands shook as he turned the key, trying to get the engine started again. It almost caught a couple of times. Then someone noticed water coming in under the door.”

  He bowed his head despondently. “I couldn’t believe the river had risen that fast. I looked through the windshield. The roadway had disappeared. Then a big tree limb slammed into the right side of the bus, and we began to slip sideways. Seconds later we were tossed on our side. That’s when pandemonium broke out.”

  Marlee tried to imagine the scene. The sheer terror. The sense of complete helplessness in the face of such power and violence. Her heart beat faster. Hillman’s breathing was audibly labored.

  “Coach, would you like to take a break?”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t going to get any easier—for either of us,” he added with a wan smile. “Might as well get it over with.”

  She liked this man, his honesty, his humility and compassion. Asking him to repeat the events that followed made her feel cruel. If at that moment he’d refused to proceed, she would have accepted it. But she sensed he needed to tell this story. He’d find a way to get on with his life, but the memories would never completely leave him.

  “The lights in the bus had gone out. I’d banged my head against something and was stunned for a few seconds. The next thing I was aware of was Clark telling everyone to stay calm. He ordered the boys to open the windows on the topside and crawl out, to help their buddies and to hang on to the bus as long as it remained stable. From the lightning flashing around us, we were able to make out a high spot about twenty-five feet away. Clark had us hold hands and form a human chain to it. The rain was a torrent now. We were all soaked to the skin. The heat had been on in the bus, so we’d taken off our jackets. Most of us were wearing only T-shirts and were shivering from the cold. As soon as we reached solid ground, I took a head count. Three guys were missing. Brookshire, Stone and Tremont.” He paused. “This had been Tremont’s first game and he was jazzed. Stone was, too, because he’d been high scorer. I didn’t think we’d ever get the grin off his face.”

  Hillman cringed at his poor choice of phrases. He took a deep breath and went on, his voice husky. “Brookshire played nearly a perfect defensive game. No one could get over, under or around him. They were all fine young men.”

  “What happened after that?” Marlee prompted.

  “Someone said they’d fallen asleep in the rear of the bus with the gear. Clark and I started back. The water was chest high by this time. He climbed through a window and got Dante Tremont out. The kid was dazed, his right arm broken. The other two guys were still inside. They must have been knocked unconscious when the bus rolled. The river was raging now, and the bus was beginning to shift. I threw Tremont over my shoulder and carried him to high ground.”

  His eyes glistening, he said nothing for a minute.

  “I turned back to help Clark with the other two. The bus was practically filled with water by then. I expected to see him pulling someone out. What I saw was a huge wave rise out of the blackness, a wall of water and debris. All of a sudden, the big yellow bus capsized, trapping Clark and the two boys inside. I tried to go after them, but Mel and the others held me back.” Hillman’s whole body seemed to deflate. “It was hopeless. Between lightning flashes, the night was pitch-dark, and the rushing river… We stood there and watched the bus tumble steadily away. There was no way to get to it, nothing we could do, no way to save them. No way.”

  He fell silent. Marlee’s eyes were moist. The camera rolled as they both fought to regain composure. After what seemed a very long interval, she found her voice.

  “You saved twenty-seven lives that night, Coach.”

  Marlee ended the interview on a positive note. “Coach Hillman has established an athletic scholarship endowment fund in Clark Van Pelt’s name,” she said into the camera. “Anyone wishing to contribute should call the numbers on the screen or KNCS-TV.”

  Monday, March 17

  RENN WAS BOTH pleased and moved as he watched the interview in the editing room. Marlee had handled an emotionally charged situation with sensitivity and compassion, revealing the coach’s strength of character, yet offering the audience a glimpse of his vulnerability without in any way compromising his dignity. Not a small feat.

  Discussing the last moments of Clark’s life couldn’t have been easy for her, either. That she was personally affected by the account of his heroism was unmistakable, but it didn’t keep her from following through with gentle prompts and insightful questions.

  “Outstanding, Marlee. I don’t know of anyone who could have done it better. In fact, I’m going to nominate you for the Affiliated Press Award.” In prestige it ranked close to a Pulitzer.

  A self-conscious smile brightened her face. “Really?” she asked, almost breathlessly.

  He grinned. “Really. A truly first-rate job. Clark
would be very proud of you.”

  Her smile faltered and she bit her lip. When she looked at him again, tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. She tried to blink them away. “That means a lot to me, Renn. Thank you.”

  Their locked gazes lingered. The air between them grew charged. He had a sudden urge to wrap her in his arms, but touching wouldn’t be appropriate, safe or wise. Probably not welcome, either. Besides, Wayne Prentice was sitting next to her, watching them.

  “How would you present it?”

  She’d shown it uncut, with only the long pauses removed. Even after final editing there’d be too much material for a single nightly seven-minute sports segment.

  “We could do it in installments,” Prentice suggested, although the question hadn’t been directed at him. “Show a segment every night for a week.”

  Renn rubbed his jaw and concentrated on Marlee. He wanted to know her ideas.

  “I think it would be better,” she said, “to present it complete, as a special.”

  Renn nodded. “It’d lose its impact otherwise.”

  “Getting sponsors for it shouldn’t be a problem,” Prentice offered, as if he knew all about the subject. He’d been at the station for almost two years and was a good cameraman. His next goal was to get on the air as a reporter.

  On this subject of sponsors, he happened to be correct. Clark had been popular enough that selling airtime for a special would not only be easy but would probably have companies competing for the privilege.

  “Get it down to twenty-two minutes,” he said. That was the actual amount of airtime for a half-hour program. “We’ll put it on next Sunday evening—in place of Taggart’s weekly analysis.”

  Even as he said it, Renn knew he was in for a fight.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wednesday, March 13