by Ron Benrey
Ann suddenly realized she’d met a TV star while wearing an abysmal outfit—an old pair of blue jeans, a scruffy plaid shirt and bright yellow plastic clogs. What little makeup she had put on that morning had certainly worn off. Why not spruce up before Carlo comes back?
Why not, indeed?
“Ms. Trask,” Sean said loudly, “I’m on a tight schedule.”
She tried not to frown at his unpleasant attempt to catch her attention. “Certainly. What do you need from me?”
“I wanted to explain that I intend to park the van in the lee of the church. That way, the building will shield the van from the worst of the winds but our satellite antenna will still have an unobstructed view of the sky.”
“Whatever you decide is fine with me.”
“There’s a small downside to parking so close to the church. You’ll probably hear our generator from time to time.”
“Oh, you have a generator? We have one, too.”
“My condolences.” He shook his head gloomily. “Ours is the thing I hate most in the world. It’s ornery and unreliable—and a pain to start.”
“Unreliable? Is that common for generators?”
“Usually,” Sean said.
“I’m relying on our generator to work if the power quits tonight,” Ann said, trying not to panic.
Sean looked at her closely. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have made an offhand comment. You probably have a heavy-duty commercial model that starts automatically in the event of a power failure.”
“I don’t know what we have, only that there’s a large gray steel cabinet behind the church.”
“Well, I’d better get back to van. I have less than thirty minutes to put Carlo on the air.”
Ann forced her frown into a smile. “I know you’re busy, Sean, but before you go, could you do me a favor?”
He peered at her uncertainly. “If I can.”
“Look, you seem to understand generators. Would you help me make sure that ours is okay?”
He glanced at his watch. “Well, I suppose I can give you two minutes. Take me to the generator control panel.”
“Control panel?” She hoped that she looked less bewildered than she sounded.
“A small metal box with buttons and lights.” He looked at his watch again. “Maybe I should come back later.”
Ann fought back a touch of distress she didn’t want Sean to see.
“No need. I know what you’re talking about. It’s hanging on the wall in the utility room.”
She quickly led Sean to the control panel. He took a moment to examine it. “Who’s Richard Squires?”
“One of our members—why?”
“There’s a note on the wall. ‘In case of a problem with the generator, call Richard Squires.’”
“Is there a problem?”
“We’re about to find out. The generator is set to automatic, but you can test it by pushing the red manual start button.”
Ann pushed the red button. Almost immediately, she heard a growling noise outside, then the reassuring rumble of an engine. Three small indicator lights on the control panel began to glow green.
“The engine’s running fine, there’s plenty of fuel, and the system is producing electricity.”
“Great!” Ann said, full of relief.
“Hit the black button to turn it off,” Sean said.
But before Ann could lift her hand, the middle light began to flash red. A second later, the engine quit.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“According to the indicator light, something in the fuel system.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t even have time to try. We go on the air in a few minutes. Perhaps you should call this Richard Squires guy on the note.”
Ann immediately felt foolish for not thinking of Richard herself. “Good idea. I’ll call Richard. He’s the church volunteer in charge of the generator.”
“I need to get back to our van.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I’ll see myself out.”
“Be careful out there,” she said, reaching for the cell phone in her pocket.
The generator is Richard Squires’s baby. He’ll know what to do.
TWO
Sean studied the pewter-colored but rainless sky. The break between rain bands gave him a small window of time to deploy the lights and camera. Everything should be fine unless there was an unexpected problem with the camera’s focus and color balance.
I could encourage the unlikely to happen and Carlo would never know.
Sean pushed the delightfully evil thought out of his mind. He would do his job properly, even though he ached to make Carlo look like a fuzzy, multicolored blob. Sean finished setting up with four minutes to spare. He found Carlo in the back of the van memorizing a script he’d written on a yellow notepad.
“Everything’s ready for you,” Sean said.
Carlo looked up and smirked. “Kind of like blond little-miss-what’s-her-name.”
“If you’re talking about the woman in the church, her name is Ann Trask.”
“So it is.” He chortled. “She’s not up to my usual standards, of course, but one can’t be choosy during a hurricane.”
“This isn’t spring break, Carlo. You’re in Glory on assignment, remember?”
“An assignment in a hick city is a perfect opportunity for a quick encounter with a local lass.”
“Ann Trask doesn’t seem a ‘quick encounter’ type of woman.”
“Says who? She checked out my ring finger, I checked out hers. Didn’t you spot her come-hither look when she saw me?”
“That’s nonsense!”
“There’s nothing like stormy weather to relax a woman’s inhibitions, if you know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean—and you’re making me angry.”
Carlo snorted. “You sound as if you like her.”
“What if I do?”
“Great! We’ll both court her. Competition increases the joy of victory,” said Carlo.
Sean flinched as a bolt of lightning illuminated the interior of the van. The thunderclap came less than a second later.
“That was close,” Carlo said. “Since when do hurricanes have lightning?”
“Most don’t. Gilda is a special storm.”
“Which means?”
“Her vertical wind flows are creating an electrical field. That’s unusual.”
“Unusual bad? Or unusual good?” Carlo’s normally melodious voice had become a little shrill.
“I don’t know.”
“You have to know. You’re the expert. You actually have a degree in meteorology.”
“Don’t get your rain pants in a twist. Lightning doesn’t make a hurricane more powerful.”
“But it definitely increases the danger to reporters broadcasting from parking lots. I’m not in the mood to get struck by lightning this afternoon.”
“We’re parked next to a tall aluminum light pole. If lightning hits anything around here, it will be that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Completely.” He pointed toward the door. “Now get out there. We go live in two minutes.”
Sean sat down at his workstation and manipulated the joysticks that controlled the TV camera and the lights. He slipped his headset over his ears, pushed the attached microphone close to his mouth, and spoke to Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel’s broadcast headquarters on Long Island.
“Hi, Cathy. We’re ready in Glory.”
“Glad to hear it,” she replied. “How’s Gilda so far?”
“Wet, windy and electric. Mr. Magnificent is worried about being zapped by lightning.”
“Get a picture if it happens. I know a dozen women who’d want copies.” Cathy’s voice became cool and businesslike. “Switching to Carlo in twenty seconds.”
Sean pushed the button that connected his microphone to Carlo’s earpiece. “Cue in fifteen seconds.”
/> Sean heard Carlo clear his throat. “Four…three…two…” Sean counted softly.
A red light lit on his console, confirming that an identical light on the camera had signaled Carlo to begin. Sean studied the monitor screen as Carlo spoke into his handheld microphone. As usual, the camera loved Carlo. He looked artlessly elegant even though his jacket’s tunnel-like hood was fully extended to keep his face dry.
“This is Carlo Vaughn reporting from Glory, North Carolina. It is only four in the afternoon, but the sky is dark in this pretty waterfront town on the Albemarle Sound, an ominous sign of things to come. Another of Gilda’s outer rain bands is dumping precipitation on Glory.”
A gust of wind suddenly tugged at Carlo’s hood and he grabbed at it with his free hand.
“Most of Glory’s six thousand residents have moved to higher ground, leaving a handful of emergency personnel to deal with the approaching hurricane. They’ve been told to prepare for major damage.
“Gilda is the most powerful hurricane to threaten the Albemarle region in more than a decade. The current forecast predicts steady winds exceeding one hundred miles per hour when Gilda arrives in Glory less than an hour from now.”
Sean adjusted the image when a lightning flash illuminated the sky behind Carlo’s head. A moment later, the rumble of thunder shook the van. Carlo took the interruption in stride. “As you’ve just seen and heard, Gilda is also an electrical storm, which is unusual for a hurricane.”
“Off in thirty seconds,” Sean informed Carlo softly.
Carlo unexpectedly took a sideways step. He gazed at the sky to his left and his right, as if he were an expert meteorologist studying the storm. Sean worked the joystick to move the lens to keep Carlo’s face framed in the image. But then, without warning, Carlo stepped closer to the camera, his expression full of compassion and concern. Sean suddenly realized that Carlo was trying to impress Ann Trask.
Cathy’s voice filled Sean’s headphone. “What’s your boy doing? It looks like he’s trying to climb into the viewers’ laps.”
“You don’t want to know,” Sean said grimly.
Carlo began to speak. “The small cadre of people who chose to remain in Glory will soon be tested by Gilda’s fury. I call them the courageous few.
“We’re broadcasting from the parking lot of a church that may provide emergency shelter when the storm hits. The person on duty inside—a young woman named Ann Trask—is willing to brave the danger, not for personal gain, but in the spirit of public service. Stay tuned—we’ll hear Ms. Trask’s observations about Gilda during our next broadcast.
“Glory—we’re with you. This is Carlo Vaughn signing off for now.”
Sean killed the connection to the TV camera.
Blast the man! He put a phony quiver in his voice and his eyes looked weepy.
Sean poked angrily at more buttons on his control console. It wouldn’t matter to Ann that Carlo knew next to nothing about the weather. She wouldn’t care that he was merely imitating a knowledgeable meteorologist. Nope! Like every other female with a pulse, she’d be dazzled by his smarmy good looks. Sean sighed as he zipped up his jacket and prepared to go outside to retrieve the camera and tripod.
Ann Trask is a grown woman. She’ll have to fend for herself in Carlo-land.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,” Ann said, “but I’m delighted you stayed in town this evening.” She positioned a golf umbrella to shield Richard Squires’s back from driving rain, fighting against the wind. His big-brimmed baseball cap seemed to be doing a good job keeping rain off his face.
“They won’t let me leave Glory,” he said with a laugh. “I manage the crew that keeps the rest of the emergency personnel well fed. More light on the right side of the engine, please.”
Ann shifted the powerful utility light she held in her other hand and wished she could do more to help Richard. He was a self-taught expert on engine maintenance and a restorer of vintage cars when he wasn’t managing Squires’ Place, one of Glory’s best restaurants. He also sang tenor in Glory Community’s choir.
He picked up a wrench. “One of these days, we’ll have to buy a replacement fuel pump, but this fix will keep the engine running throughout Gilda’s visit.”
“Amen!” Ann murmured.
He went on, “I’m glad that TV fellow tested the generator—I should have done it this morning.”
“You’re one of our most valuable volunteers, Richard. I thank you for all you do for the church.”
She watched Richard stretch to work on the back of the engine. “This is one of those times I wish I was taller,” he said. Even standing on a step stool, Richard, who was only an inch or two taller than Ann, had difficulty reaching deep into the generator’s cabinet.
Her cell phone rang.
“Give me the utility light,” Richard said. “That’ll free up your right hand.”
Ann managed to flip her phone open and was surprised to find her brother calling.
“Alan! Everything all right with Mom?” she asked.
“Mom’s fine—and proud as punch.”
“About?”
“You didn’t hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“You’re famous! Carlo Vaughn talked about you on the Storm Channel.”
“Oh, no! What did he say?” Ann laughed.
“He called you one of the ‘courageous few.’ Even better—he’s going to put you on the air later today.”
“I’ve never been on TV before.” Ann saw Richard struggling with the utility light and the wrench. “I have to run, Alan. Thanks for the news! I’ll call you later. Love to Mom.”
Richard extracted himself from the generator box. “I only heard one side of your conversation, but it seems to me that you should find yourself a TV set. The Storm Channel often repeats Carlo Vaughn’s broadcasts.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all. I’m nearly done. I can replace the generator cover by myself.”
“Then what will you do, Richard? The storm’s getting worse,” Ann said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.
“It’s a short drive to the emergency command center. I’ll be there long before Gilda arrives for real.”
Ann thanked Richard and headed for the Chapman Lounge, the location of the church’s only TV set. As she walked down the hallway, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass-paneled door. Nothing about her face appearance had improved during the past hour. I’d better freshen up if Carlo is going to stand me in front of a TV camera and ask questions. She made a detour to her office and retrieved the duffel bag she’d packed that morning.
The Chapman Lounge was a comfortable room next to the pastor’s office that had a small sofa, two armchairs, and a big-screen TV set. Ann had to wait less than ten minutes for the rerun of Carlo’s report.
She felt somewhat eccentric laughing out loud in an empty church, but she couldn’t stop herself. Hearing herself praised by Carlo cracked her up. He’d made a grim day more cheery by pushing Gilda to the back of her mind.
She unzipped the duffel bag and surveyed her meager wardrobe. Everything fell into the “working clothing” category—clothes suitable for working in the kitchen, working in the basement, working on the church grounds. Nothing was really appropriate for a TV interview. She finally decided on a pair of tan chinos (clean but threadbare) and a dark blue cotton sweater (originally part of her mother’s wardrobe and at least fifteen years old). The bright blue tactical police radio hanging from the lanyard around her neck would spruce up her outfit with an extra touch of color. It was the best she could do on short notice, she decided.
Ann hadn’t meant to stay in the lounge for long, but she got caught up in the Storm Channel’s coverage of Gilda provided by other weather reporters who were based closer to North Carolina’s Atlantic Coast. The slowly changing satellite images showed the revolving hurricane approaching the shoreline like a huge Frisbee.
Suddenly, the lights flickered. Not the electricit
y. Not yet. They flickered again, then died, leaving the lounge in complete darkness.
Ann fumbled for the flashlight on her lanyard. The lounge, now illuminated by a single beam, seemed bleak and forbidding, a sensation made even worse by the roar of the wind and the pelting of rain against the wooden shutters, sounds previously covered by the TV. Gilda had arrived.
She soon began to hear the reassuring chug of the church’s generator. The lights blinked back on.
Please, God, keep the engine going.
Ann decided to move to the narthex, to be closer to the front door. As she walked down the hallway, strange creaks from above added to the cacophony of sound. A few seconds later, a loud tearing noise made her flinch, followed quickly by a loud crash outside. It took her a moment to put the sounds together.
Gilda ripped our steeple off the roof.
Sean stumbled against the wind and managed to grab the handle of Glory Community’s door with his good left hand. He used his aching right hand to wipe rain-diluted blood off his face, then gingerly placed his thumb on the doorbell. He pulled again and again, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the haze that seemed to saturate his mind.
He saw the door begin to open and pulled even harder. “It’ll take both of us to hold it against the wind,” he shouted.
“Okay,” Ann shouted back. “You pull, I’ll push.”
The force of the wind against the heavy steel door was even greater than he’d anticipated. It shoved him a step backward and simultaneously tugged Ann beyond the sill, exposing her to the curtain of rain whirling beneath the narrow overhanging portico. He managed to stay on his feet and, with Ann’s help, held the door half-open against a sudden gust.
“Goodness!” she said. “Your head is bleeding.”
“The church’s steeple fell on our truck when it blew off the roof.”
“Where’s Carlo?”
“Still in the truck. He’s unconscious.”
He heard her gasp.
“Let’s get inside,” he said. “Then I’ll call for help.”
Sean maneuvered around Ann and grabbed the inside handle. Slowly…slowly, they dragged the door shut. Sean felt muzzy headed. He sagged against the wall.
