Samantha Sanderson at the Movies

by Robin Caroll

  More typing sounded over Sam’s headset as Makayla said, “No worries. Hey, did you hear Nikki’s party next weekend has been cancelled?”

  “No.” Why would she? She hadn’t been invited.

  “Yeah. Heard her parents are separating,” said Makayla.

  “Oh. That’s harsh.” Even though Nikki and Aubrey were best friends, which meant Nikki shunned her, Sam felt bad for her. Nobody should have to deal with something like that.

  “Yeah, we should pray for her family,” Makayla said.

  A car door slammed outside, triggering Chewy’s enthusiastic barking. Sam moved to the window and peered past the blackout curtains. Dad stepped out of the unmarked police car, his hair looking like he’d shoved his hands through it a lot. Mom said that was a sign he’d been doing a lot of thinking. “Dad’s home, so I gotta go. I’ll be praying for Nikki and her parents. Email or text if you find out anything interesting on Bobby Milner.”

  The front door slammed. “Sam?” Dad called out as his keys clattered into the wooden bowl on the entry table.

  “Coming,” Sam yelled, then said, “Gotta go, Mac.”

  She tossed her earpiece onto the desk and hurried to meet her dad. She found him in the kitchen, checking the roast he’d put in the crock pot before they’d left this morning. He’d already secured his gun and badge in his bedroom lockbox.

  Sam’s stomach rumbled as the yummy smell hit her. “Hi, Daddy. How was your day?” She reached for the can of green beans sitting on the counter.

  “Long.” He kissed the top of her head. “Why don’t you start the water to boil for the mashed potatoes while I change?” Without waiting for an answer, he headed down the hall to his and Mom’s bedroom.

  Sam mentally rehearsed her questions as she put the green beans in the pot on the stove and started the water boiling for the potatoes. Mom always made homemade mashed potatoes, but her and Dad? Well, they used the instant ones. If there was enough salt and butter on them, she could barely tell the difference. Not that she’d let Mom know.

  When Dad came back, Sam dumped the salad mix into bowls and set the table. The potatoes were done in a few minutes and they sat across the table, smelling the delicious food. Dad said grace and then started in on the usual conversation. “How was school today?”

  “You won’t believe what we got.” Without waiting for a response, Sam filled him in on the school news blog. “Isn’t that awesome?”

  “That’s very nice,” Dad said, but he seemed distracted. And tired.

  “Anything new on the case?” she asked.

  “We’re waiting for the bomb unit to finish its forensic investigation.”

  What did that mean? “What about the theater? Is it open again?”

  Dad nodded and finished chewing. “We finished processing this morning, so Mr. Hughes opened this afternoon with a couple of discounted showings.” He shook his head as he reached for his glass of milk. “Didn’t look like much of a crowd, though, when I passed by on my way home.”

  “Is that bad?” she asked.

  “Well, I imagine matinees are slower since you kids are back in school, but the place looked emptier than I’ve ever seen.”

  “Because people are scared of another bomb?”

  “Probably.” Dad swallowed. “Sam, you know you can’t share any of this, right?”

  “Dad, I got the assignment! I’m the reporter assigned to the bomb case.” And she needed something for her article. Something juicy, or her career would be over before it even started. “Dad, I need something official for my blog post tomorrow.”

  “I wish you’d let this one go, pumpkin.”

  “Dad! This could kick off my career.”

  “I see.” He let out a sigh and swiped a napkin across his mouth. He smoothed it before setting it back in his lap. “After you finish the dishes, I’ll let you ask a few questions, just enough to get something for your article tomorrow. Okay?”

  She grinned. “Deal.”

  He smiled back. “How was cheerleading practice? When’s the first game?”

  The rest of dinner lagged. She answered Dad’s questions and offered input, trying to be patient. She didn’t want to irritate him by asking questions too early, since he said he would answer them after dinner. Soon enough, though, they were finished and she cleared the table.

  Excitement pushed her to put away the leftovers, load the dishwasher, scrub out the crock pot, and wipe down the counters in record time. Her mind kept flipping through the questions she wanted to ask, but she knew Dad wouldn’t talk until everything was spic and span. Had the bomb squad found out anything yet? Maybe there were fingerprints on the actual bomb. That’d be cool.

  Or maybe they had another lead. What if somebody had used a similar bomb to actually blow something up? That’d be a pattern, right?

  Finally done with chores, she grabbed her iPhone and opened the recorder application, sat down on the couch in the living room, and stared at Dad sitting in his recliner with his feet up.

  He let out a sigh and lowered the newspaper he’d been reading. “Go ahead and ask. I can tell you’re about to burst.”

  She let out a slow breath. Calm. Professional. She pressed the record button on the app. “Has any person or group taken credit for the bomb?”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “What? For someone to claim the bomb as theirs?” she asked.

  “No, for you to ask the question.” He gave a small smile. “Well done, Ms. Sanderson.”

  Heat pushed up her neck. “Thanks.”

  The smile slid off his face as he sat up straighter in his recliner. “To answer your question, no. No one person or any group has contacted us to accept responsibility for the bomb.”

  “What kind of bomb was it?”

  “The bomb unit is still analyzing the actual device,” Dad said.

  She glanced at her smartphone to make sure it was recording properly. “Why the theater?”

  “We don’t have any solid leads on why the bomb was left at that particular location at that particular time.”

  Sam remembered what she’d heard Ms. Vanya tell Ms. Kirkpatrick at church yesterday. “Is it true that the bomb was set to go off when the local churches would be having their private showing of Faithfully HIS?” she asked.

  Dad frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

  She shrugged. A reporter never revealed her sources, even if they didn’t know they were sources. “Is it true?”

  “Sam, I need to know where you heard that. The exact time of detonation hasn’t been released to the general public yet.”

  “I can’t tell you, Dad. You know I can’t tell you who my sources are.” Especially when she’d gotten the information by eavesdropping, something Dad was always warning her not to do. But now she wondered: How did Ms. Vanya know?

  He rubbed his chin. “Well, I suppose it’s okay to confirm since it’ll be in tomorrow’s press conference. Yes, the bomb’s timer was set to detonate thirty minutes after the posted start time of the movie.”

  “When will the press conference be tomorrow?”

  “When you’re in school.” Dad still wore the frown.

  “Could I skip — ”

  “No. Don’t even ask. You won’t miss school to attend a press conference.”

  She knew that bulldog look — eyebrows drawn down, lips puckered tight: he wasn’t going to budge on this one. “Will there be a written statement? Something you could bring home to me?”

  “Yes. I’ll bring home the statement that’s released to the press.” He sighed. “Now, go finish up your homework.”

  “Just one more question.” She caught the sag of his eyes. “Please. Just one more.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do the police consider Bobby Milner a suspect in this attempted bombing?” she asked.

  Dad stiffened his spine and kicked down the footrest of his recliner. “What? Why would he be a suspect?”

  What a re
sponse! Sam tingled all over. Mom always said body language answered most questions. “Well, he belongs to the Arkansas Society of Freethinkers and has been pretty outspoken against religion. And he was on the radio today, spouting off about Christians alienating non-believers.”

  “It’s not a crime to go on the radio and state your beliefs.”

  “But I read the transcript, Daddy. And listened to recorded portions up on YouTube. It sounds like if he wasn’t involved, he fully supported the bomb being there.”

  “You can’t make assumptions, Sam. You can’t accuse someone of a crime without proof.” He wore the bulldog look again.

  “Isn’t that what being a suspect is all about? Proof’s not been found but is being looked for?” she asked.

  The little muscles in his jaw jumped. “You want an official statement about suspects?”

  Her heart raced as her mouth went dry. She nodded.

  “We have no comment on any suspects at this time.” He lifted the newspaper, blocking his face from her view. “This interview is over. Go finish your homework.”

  Sam stopped recording and went to her room, her heart pounding. She called the theater to speak with Mr. Hughes for a possible comment, but all she got was the automatic recording. She checked her email. One from Makayla that read:

  Robert “Bobby” Milner was arrested for domestic abuse last December, but his wife dropped the charges. Couldn’t find anything else interesting. See you in the morning.

  So Mr. Milner had a record of violence? Interesting.

  Sam quickly wrote her article while the ideas were still fresh in her mind. As she neared the end of her piece, she stood and paced. Had Dad really used the no comment thing on her? Seriously? Such a lame avoidance technique.

  She must be onto something.

  Her cell rang, making her jump. She reached for the phone, then smiled wide as she recognized the number on the caller-ID. “Hi, Mom.” She crossed her legs, rocking on her bed to get comfortable for a good talk.

  “Hey there, my girl. How are you?” Mom always sounded like the person she talked to was the only thing she was interested in.

  “Great,” Sam said, then launched into telling her mom all about the bomb and the blog and getting the assignment.

  Mom laughed when Sam paused to take a breath. “Wow, honey, that’s awesome.”

  Sam leaned back against the pillows propped against the headboard. “Thanks, Mom.” Heat spread from her stomach to her toes. Praise from Mom was like . . . well, it was like the best.

  “I’m sure you’re a little worried about Dad, aren’t you?” Mom asked.

  Even miles away, Mom got it. “Yeah. A little,” Sam answered.

  “I understand.”

  “You do?” Sam asked.

  “I do. And I worry about you, too.”

  Sam smiled.

  “Do you know what makes me feel better about both of you, when I’m away?” Mom asked.

  “What?”

  “Every morning, I pray for God to hold you both in His hands. And I mentally picture myself putting you and your dad in God’s hands. It’s a powerful image, and it makes me not worry so much because I know there’s no better place for you to be.”

  Wow. Sam closed her eyes and thought of the same image. It was powerful. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.” A rustling sounded in the background. “Listen, I have to get back to work. I just wanted to talk to you before you went to bed. I love you.”

  “G’night, Mom. I love you, too.”

  Sam stared at her article, then stood and paced again. She needed to make it good . . . strong.

  Something Mom would be proud of her for writing.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE TROUBLE WITH RESEARCH

  . . . but it’s a fact the bomb was set to detonate approximately 30 minutes into the movie showing. Police offer the standard “no comment” when asked about suspects, but no one should ignore the fact that Bobby Milner, member of a local “freethinking” group, went on our local radio station and said, “This should make Frank Hughes think twice about allowing the showing of such religious movies.”

  Frank Hughes is the owner of the theater. He was unavailable for comment.

  Robert “Bobby” Milner was arrested last December for a violent offense.

  What do YOU think? Should Bobby Milner be considered a suspect in the attempted bombing? Sound Off, Senators. Leave a comment with your thoughts. ~ Sam Sanderson, reporting.

  “Your blog post this morning has gotten over a hundred comments already,” Ms. Pape told Sam as soon as she entered the newsroom for last period on Tuesday afternoon.

  Sam stared at her. “Really? Is that good?” She dumped her books onto the desk.

  “It’s a great response,” Ms. Pape said as Aubrey joined her. “Especially for the first day the blog’s been live.” She didn’t smile. “Some of the comments are referring to Mr. Milner’s arrest record. I’m still not sure I should have allowed you to include it in the piece.”

  “It’s a matter of public record, Ms. Pape. Just like Aubrey agreed this morning,” Sam said. She was still impressed that the editor had put the news before her personal dislike of Sam.

  Aubrey faced the teacher, turning her back on Sam. “May I speak with you for a moment, Ms. Pape?” She cut her eyes over her shoulder at Sam. “At your desk?”

  As soon as they moved to Ms. Pape’s desk, Celeste and Lana surrounded Sam. Lana slid on top of the desk. “You are rockin’ it, girl. Good going.”

  “Did the other posts get comments, too?” Sam gnawed at the corner of her nail.

  Celeste grinned. “Sports got four, student corner got two, and teacher tips got one. Yours has one hundred and four, as of last hour.” Her smile spread even wider, the freckles across the bridge of her nose seeming to dance.

  Sam resisted the urge to jump into a toe-touch right there in the classroom. With a student body of about eight hundred, having over a hundred comments seemed pretty good to her.

  “And the comments are great. They aren’t just lame posts. People are talking about Mr. Milner and the bomb. I spent all last period in computer lab, and Mrs. Forge let us check out the blog.” Lana swung her legs back and forth, her jewel-studded boots rubbing against the leg of the desk with every pass, making a scritch-scratch noise.

  Sam’s throat got a little tight. Dad had told her not to accuse someone without proof.

  Scritch-scratch . . . scritch-scratch.

  But she wasn’t really accusing Mr. Milner of anything. She just wrote what was already up on the radio station’s website.

  Scritch-scratch . . . scritch-scratch.

  That wasn’t really accusing him, right?

  “Good work, Sam.” The voice behind her made her mouth go dry.

  She turned, forcing her smile to hold in place. “T-Thanks, Luke.” Heat filled her cheeks and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

  Ohmygummybears! Ohmygummybears!

  Luke Jensen, the cutest boy in seventh grade. Well, at least to Sam. He had sandy blond, wavy hair and eyes that reminded her of dark chocolate. They’d gone to school together since kindergarten, but lately, every time she got near him, Sam’s mind refused to remember how to speak. As if the English language wasn’t her native tongue.

  “You’re a good reporter,” he said.

  Her head shot up. His face was a little red, too. She didn’t even bother answering, just smiled.

  Luke flashed a dimpled grin, then headed off to join the other guys who circled in the back corner and talked sports.

  Sam sat with her tongue still tied into a knot as Aubrey stalked to the front of the room. “Okay, people, listen up.”

  Lana slipped off the desk and into a chair beside Celeste and Sam. Everybody took a seat and focused on the editor-in-chief.

  “While Ms. Pape and I go through the comments and respond as we see fit, those of you who have blog posts due in the morning can do research in the media center. For those of y
ou who don’t, we still have the bi-monthly paper to put out, so you can help Kevin and Nikki with the layouts,” Aubrey said.

  What, nothing else? Sam felt more than a little disappointed that Aubrey didn’t even bother to mention her post. Everybody in school was talking about her blog post. Ms. Pape had seemed impressed with the number of comments, even if she had been a bit nervous. No wonder — Sam had had to argue with her about leaving in the part about Mr. Milner’s past record. They’d gone round and round before school this morning until finally, and surprisingly, Aubrey had pointed out that an arrest record was a matter of public record, and as long as Sam didn’t stray from the facts of the record readily available to the public, it could be included. Ms. Pape had reluctantly agreed.

  “Come on, let’s go to the media center.” Celeste grabbed Sam’s arm. “I have the student corner tomorrow and need to find some stuff on Charlie Lacey. Do you know him?” She waited while Sam scooped up her books before she led the way out of the newsroom and down the breezeway toward the media center.

  “Doesn’t he play basketball or something? He’s in eighth grade, I think.” Sam’s mind was already on her next blog post. At least Makayla had study hall this period, so she would be in the media center. She could help.

  Sam and Celeste quietly entered the oversized room. No way did they want to make noise and bring the wrath of Mrs. Forge. She had short gray hair that stuck out all over her head and glasses that made her eyes look bigger than a frog’s.

  Celeste headed to the corner where some of her friends sat around one of the round tables. Sam scanned the tables for Makayla, and finally she spied her in the back corner, her eyes glued to a monitor. Sam made her way over and eased into the seat beside Makayla.