Good Sam

by Dete Meserve

  “Live in Malibu Canyon, Channel Eleven’s Kate Bradley is on the scene of the dramatic rescue of a young boy,” Mark announced.

  I don’t remember exactly what I said after that. All I know was that the words came out effortlessly. While the station rolled the dramatic footage, I stepped away from reciting the facts and told viewers about the awe all of us on the Channel Eleven crew felt as this heroic firefighter plunged in the rushing water to rescue the young boy, about the rescuer’s unwavering courage and determination to find the boy even as the storm worsened and his own life was at risk, and about the daring maneuver and swift action that defied the odds and brought the young boy to safety.

  “You didn’t look so great when we first got there, Kate, but you nailed that live report,” Josh said as we sped toward the hospital to see whether we could nab an interview with someone from the fire department or the victim’s family.

  “Thanks,” I managed.

  Two cups of the rocket fuel sludge he’d brought in his thermos was enough to keep me humming for days. Even so, I couldn’t get warm. I shivered into the fleece blanket we had borrowed from the station’s emergency survival kit. It could’ve been a hundred degrees in the news van, and I still would have been cold. But it wasn’t just the downpour that had done me in. It was the memory of the water closing in on me, squeezing the life out of me.

  After my near drowning, I’d considering moving someplace where there was no water. Like the Sahara Desert—three and a half million square miles without water. Or maybe Arica, in northern Chile, which has the lowest rainfall in the world. Unfortunately, those places don’t employ very many TV news reporters.

  A three-car pileup on the 10 freeway had traffic backed up for miles, but that didn’t slow us down. Josh zipped down narrow side streets, drove the wrong way down several one-way alleys, and piloted the vehicle through a mini-mall parking lot as though he were driving a Porsche Boxster, not a Ford panel van loaded down with remote broadcast equipment.

  “I’m from Channel Eleven,” I said to the emergency room technician at UCLA Medical Center. “What can you tell us about the condition of the boy caught in Malibu Canyon?”

  “I can’t release any information,” she said with robotic efficiency.

  A man with a gash on his forehead shifted impatiently in the line behind me.

  “Has he regained consciousness?”

  Her eyes didn’t leave her computer screen. “I don’t have that information.”

  “Are any of the rescue personnel from the scene still here?” I pressed.

  “You’ll have to check outside. I can’t help you.”

  The security guard, built like a linebacker for the New England Patriots, shot me a look that was supposed to persuade me to move on. It wasn’t working. “Is there a doctor—anyone—who can tell me about the boy’s condition?”

  “Not at this time. Now please step aside.”

  I checked the sidewalks in front of the ER entranceway, but there was no sign of the fire department—just a gaggle of TV cameramen, field producers, and reporters trying to nab the same story.

  “There he is,” one of the reporters said, pointing toward the parking lot. “That’s the guy who pulled the boy out.”

  I hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with the rescuer. I would have settled for an emergency room doctor or a firefighter on the scene. But interviewing the actual rescuer would be a big coup. I raced with the pack of reporters toward the figure in the parking lot. At first his back was to us, but the clamor from the reporters must have caught his attention, and he turned around.

  It was Eric Hayes. His hair was wet and tousled, and he was still wearing the black and yellow dry suit I had seen in the water. His eyes looked tired, but there was another emotion that registered across his face. Relief perhaps. Satisfaction.

  Anna Hernandez, the guerilla reporter from Channel Four, shoved a microphone in his face. “Are you the firefighter who rescued the boy in Malibu Canyon?”

  He nodded.

  “What can you tell us about the boy’s condition?”

  “He’s in critical but stable condition.”

  “Tell us about the rescue operation.”

  Eric took a step back. “I’m sorry, everyone, but I’m not doing interviews.”

  Jennifer Hastings, the breaking-news reporter from Channel Two, tried a different tactic. “Viewers really should hear your story. They need to understand what went through your mind during this dramatic rescue.”

  I detected a hint of fear in Eric’s eyes. Whitewater rapids clearly didn’t faze him, but the idea of a TV interview seemed to be getting under his skin. “Our communications officer will be out here shortly to take your questions.”

  He turned and headed toward the fire truck in the back of the parking lot. A few of the reporters were frowning, but most were already on their cell phones, trying to get more information.

  “Eric?” I called out to him.

  Anna whirled around to look at me, clearly eager to swoop in if I was able to get the rescuer to turn around.

  Eric turned, and when he saw me, he smiled. “Kate.”

  I didn’t hide my admiration. “All my years covering this beat, and I’ve never seen anything like what you did today,” I said, walking toward him.

  He looked away, as though he was uncomfortable with my compliment. “It’s what we train for.”

  “Is the boy okay?” I asked.

  “You know what?” he said, his eyes brightening. “They think he’s going to be all right.” I was surprised when he casually slung his arm around my shoulder. “We’d better keep walking toward the truck, acting like we’re having a private conversation,” he said conspiratorially. “Or your reporter friends are going to accost me again.”

  “They’re not very strong. I think you could fight them off,” I said. Could he tell how much I liked the feel of his arm around my shoulder?

  He turned to look at me. “Aren’t you going to ask me for an interview?”

  “I think I heard you say back there that you don’t do interviews.”

  “And you accepted that? Funny. I’ve seen you on the news, Kate. I don’t think you accept no from anyone.”

  His smile deepened, and I felt genuine warmth coming from him. We were getting close to the fire truck, and I had the feeling he was going to drop his arm at any moment.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Any chance of an interview, Captain Hayes? Two minutes tops. Completely pain-free.”

  I touched my hand to his arm. It was a reflex action, something I often did to anchor nervous interviewees in the midst of all the lights and cameras and commotion. Eric glanced at my hand on his arm and then back at me. I took a deep, steadying breath. I was here to get a story, remember? Not fall for a brave rescuer.

  “Okay,” he said. “But can we do the interview at the fire station? I have something for you there.”

  “You have something for me there?” I asked. “What is it?”

  He dropped his arm from my shoulders and hopped into the passenger seat of the idling fire truck. “Guess you’ll have to go there and find out.”

  I sat in the car for five minutes after I reached the fire station in West Los Angeles. Josh had been called to cover a show-and-tell—brief footage of a three-car pileup on the rain-slicked Pacific Coast Highway. Meanwhile another news photographer was on his way for my interview with Eric and was supposed to get here within five minutes.

  In TV news time, five minutes can be an eternity. Someone else can scoop us on the story in that time frame, which means we can’t promote “exclusive” or “for the first time” coverage.

  I checked my makeup in the mirror, rubbed my sweaty palms together until they were bone dry, brushed the lint off my lavender cardigan, and checked my makeup again. My still damp hair was a little flatter than usual but looked surprisingly okay for having been stuck in a rainstorm.

  Three Altoids later, I finally mustered the nerve to get out of the car and wal
k to the front door of Los Angeles County Fire Department Station Eight. I’d been less nervous interviewing the governor of California.

  My breath hitched when Eric opened the door. He was dressed now in a pair of faded blue jeans and a white cotton shirt, open at the neck. His easy, confident stance was distracting me from my mission.

  “Come on in,” he said, ushering me into the building. “Where would you like to do the interview?”

  “In the garage with the fire truck as a backdrop would be good. Thanks for agreeing to do this.”

  I followed him down a long corridor toward the garage. Before opening the door, he paused and looked at me. “What would you say if I told you that agreeing to the interview was just a convenient excuse to see you again?”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot. I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t want him to know how glad I was to see him again too. I tried not to let on what I was thinking. “You say that now,” I said lightly, “but you might regret it after I’m done interviewing you.”

  “I doubt that,” he said.

  As he pushed open a large door that led to the vehicle holding area, I noticed the faint scar that ran the length of his right forearm.

  “How did you get that?” I asked, pointing to the scar.

  He glanced at his arm and shrugged. “Hazards of the search-and-rescue business. We all have them. This one isn’t that bad, considering.”

  We stepped into the cool garage, where one of the freshly washed fire trucks stood. “Considering what?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” he said with an appreciative grin.

  I met his smile with one of my own. “What makes you say that?”

  “Did you know that in Russia they actually have a word for a person who asks too many questions? I think they call them pochemuchka. I learned that from a Russian crewmember.”

  “I may be a pochemuchka, but if you think that little factoid is going to distract me from my question, it won’t work,” I said. “Now, will you tell me how you got that scar?”

  He stretched the stiffness from his body. “A couple of years ago a boy and his father were rappelling down a shaft at Black Jack Mine. The boy was able to get out, but his father fell and got wedged in a narrow part of the shaft about two hundred feet down. By the time we arrived, the man was slipping in and out of consciousness, so they lowered me down on a rope headfirst to pull him out. When I went to tie a rope around him, my arm scraped across a metal pin that was sticking out the side of the shaft. It sliced my arm almost to the bone.”

  I winced. “That had to hurt.”

  “I didn’t feel any pain until I got out of the mineshaft much later. I was focused only on getting him out of there. Once you see the person and talk to them, you realize the gravity of the situation and nothing—not even mind-numbing pain—stops you from getting them to safety.”

  “Did you get him out?”

  Eric let out a long breath. “I didn’t think I could because he was heavy—close to three hundred pounds—and the way he was positioned, it would take the strength of at least two men to unwedge him. But there was no way two of us would fit in that narrow shaft, so we were beginning to run out of options. Then he opened his eyes and said, ‘I’m not going to make it, am I?’ I told him everything would be okay and gave him a flashlight to hold, and then I got him out of there.” He said it plainly, as though it was commonplace to be in such a situation. But his was the face many saw when they thought they were going to die. It was his comforting words, his gestures of caring and feats of courage that would carry them from the brink of death. Didn’t he see he was extraordinary?

  “But your arm was cut to the bone and bleeding. Why didn’t they put someone else in your place?”

  “My crew wanted to take me out because I’d been hanging upside down for so long. They didn’t even know I was injured. But I wasn’t ready to let this one go, so I asked for another five minutes. And somehow—I don’t know how exactly—I managed to unwedge him and pull him out.”

  “And he ended up okay?”

  “You really do ask a lot of questions.”

  I smiled. “We journalists have to take everything apart and dissect it in order to understand it. We can’t all be superheroes like you.”

  His eyes drifted to a spot over my shoulder. “I’m no superhero. I’m just a guy doing a job.”

  “A job where you put your life in danger for people you don’t know.”

  “A lot of things must seem dangerous to someone who makes her living talking to a camera,” he teased.

  I plastered a mock frown on my face. “You make me sound like I’m some kind of bubblehead reporter.”

  Eric raised his eyes to meet mine. “I think you’re anything but.”

  I was aware of how close we were standing, the way his body angled toward mine, the curve of his jaw as he smiled at me. I noticed the playful glint in his eyes and wondered whether he had any idea what I was thinking. I had the feeling he did, which made me nervous.

  “Have your eyes always been green?” I asked, hoping my question would cover my nervousness.

  “Now that’s a line no one’s ever used on me before,” he said, still smiling.

  “Really,” I protested, and felt my cheeks flush red. Why isn’t there a cure for blushing? “When I looked at them before, I thought they were brown.”

  “They’re gray. They look different depending on the light.”

  He was right, of course. They were gray with flecks of brown and green.

  He leaned closer to me, and the space between us vibrated with tension and possibility.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Drake, the Channel Eleven news photographer, said, interrupting the moment as he lumbered in with the camera and sound equipment.

  Eric was a natural in front of the camera. His voice shook a little at first, but as the seconds ticked by, he seemed to forget the camera and relaxed into his answers.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t get used to looking at him. For all his good looks, he had a commanding authority and a genuine, no-nonsense way of speaking.

  “That part of Malibu Canyon is brimming with sharp rocks and debris,” I said. “How did you find the boy in all that?”

  “I concentrated on the water, not the boy,” he said. “If you want to defeat the water, you have to think like it—how it’s flowing, where its hiding places are, what its weaknesses are. Once I got a feel for what the water was doing, I found the boy wedged between a rock and a tree, about four feet beneath the surface.”

  “You put yourself in extraordinary jeopardy,” I said. “You disconnected from the tether and jumped thirty feet into rapid water, a maneuver some would say was risky and dangerous. Why?”

  He shrugged as if what he had done was completely ordinary. “It’s part of the job. But what looks daring and reckless really is a carefully thought-out plan that we’ve trained for before. I knew what I was risking and what I had to do to save the boy. And I knew that if we did it right, he’d still be walking around tomorrow.”

  Minutes later Drake was rushing back to the truck to edit the interview and send it to the station. I lingered a moment, unsure of what to say to Eric. Had I only imagined what had passed between us earlier?

  “Hold on a sec,” Eric said, then disappeared into another room. A minute later he was back, holding a small box. He handed it to me. “This is the gift I was talking about.” His smile didn’t give me any hint as to what it was. I lifted the lid and couldn’t believe what I saw inside.

  Swimming goggles.

  Don’t get me wrong—they were smart-looking eyewear. Electric blue with charcoal eyecups. But they were still swimming goggles.

  “I was thinking about what happened to you in Mexico and how you didn’t really learn to swim. I want to teach you,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “Instead of running around Lake Hollywood Reservoir, why don’t you to come twice a week with me to the swimming pool where I train?”


  I shook my head. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s something I’m ready to do right now.”

  A hot-looking guy like him certainly didn’t have to offer to teach swimming to get a date. So what was in it for him?

  He grinned. “I’ll make it fun. You’ll see.” He stopped speaking and looked at me as though he were seeing me for the very first time. Then he reached out his hand to touch my hair, his touch almost unbearable in its tenderness. “It’ll be fun. Promise.”

  He leaned in until his lips were a fraction of an inch from mine then touched his mouth to mine in the gentlest caress. His lips surprised me, soft and pliant when the rest of him was sturdy and strong. And his kiss was unhurried, patient. I closed my eyes and willed this moment to go on forever.

  His lips dropped to mine again, more demanding this time, sending a shock wave rocketing through my body. Gone was the dreamy intimacy of our first kiss, and in its place was a newfound urgency.

  Heat burst through me at the speed of light. I placed my hand on his chest and felt the muscles contract underneath it, and then I knew I was in too deep. Far too deep. Every cell in my body was aching for me to let it run its natural course, let it play out. From the way Eric’s body arched against mine, the heat of his hands on my neck, I knew he was heading the same way too.

  The walkie-talkie on his belt squawked a sequence of tones. “Duty calls,” he said, reluctantly breaking the kiss. “We can pick this up tomorrow morning—when you go swimming with me.”

  I shook my head. “Tomorrow is too soon.”

  “Chickening out already?”

  “I need time to get used to the idea of voluntarily submerging myself in water.”

  “Tomorrow morning,” he said, brushing one last lazy kiss across my lips. “Promise we’ll go swimming.”

  In that moment I would’ve promised almost anything.