by Sandra Brown
"But his death had a lasting impact on you."
"I remember how tough it was on my parents."
So he'd lost two people he loved to an enemy he had failed to defeat, Tiel thought. "You were powerless to save your brother or your wife," she observed aloud. "Is that why you quit?"
"You were there," he said curtly. "You know why I quit."
"I know only what you were willing to impart to journalists, which was precious little."
"It still is precious little."
"You were bitter."
"I was pissed." He raised his voice to the level of a stage whisper, but it was loud enough to cause Katherine to flinch in her mother's arms.
"At whom were you pissed?" She knew she was pressing her luck. If she probed too hard, too fast, he might clam up altogether. But she was willing to take the chance.
"Were you angry at your in-laws for making an unfounded allegation? Or at your associates for withdrawing their support?"
"I was angry at everybody. At everything. Goddamn cancer.
My own inadequacy."
"So you just threw in the towel."
"That's right, thinking 'What's the fucking use?' "
"I see, so you banished yourself to this no-man's-land where you could really be useful."
Her sarcasm wasn't lost on him. His features tightened with mounting annoyance. "Look, I don't need you or anybody else analyzing my decision. Or questioning it. Or judging it. If I decided to become a rancher, or a ballet dancer, or a bum, it's no one else's business."
"You're right. It's not."
"And while we're on the topic of business," he added in the same biting tone, "this videotape idea of yours…"
"What about it?"
"Is it strictly for Ronnie and Sabra's benefit?"
"Of course."
He looked at her with blatant mistrust, which stung. He even chuckled skeptically.
"I think anything we can do to sway Dendy will help defuse this situation." Even to her own ears she sounded self-defensive, but she continued anyway. "I don't get the impression that Agent Galloway is enjoying this standoff.
Regardless of what Cain says, Galloway sounds like a de cent man who's doing his job but doesn't relish the thought of blazing guns and bloodshed. I think he's willing to try and negotiate a peaceful settlement. I merely offered my services, which I believe will facilitate a peaceful resolution."
"But it'll also make one hell of a story for you."
His soft and intuitive voice, along with his piercing eyes, made her guiltily aware of the audio recorder in her pants pocket. "Okay, yes," she admitted uneasily, "it'll make a great story. But I'm personally involved with these kids. I helped bring their child into the world, so my idea isn't completely selfish.
"You're biased, Doc. You dislike reporters in general, and, given your experience with the media, your aversion is understandable. But I'm not as cold-hearted and unfeeling as you obviously think. I care a great deal what happens to Ronnie and Sabra and Katherine. I care what happens to all of us."
After a significant pause, he said quietly, "I believe that."
His eyes were just as piercing as before, but the substance of this gaze was different. The heat of vexation that had suffused her gradually intensified into heat of another kind.
"You were terrific, you know," he said. "With Sabra. You could've fallen apart on me. Freaked out. Thrown up.
Fainted. Something. Instead you were a calming influence.
A real help. Thanks."
"You're welcome." She laughed softly. "I was awfully nervous."
"So was I."
"No! Honestly?"
He drew an invisible X over his heart.
"You'd never know it."
"Well, I was. I haven't had that much experience with childbirth. I observed a few during med school. Assisted with a couple when I was a resident, but always in a well-equipped, sterile hospital with other doctors and nurses around. I'd forgot most of what I'd learned. This was a scary experience for me."
She stared into near space for a moment before her eyes came back to his. "I was nervous up to the point where I saw the baby crowning. Then the wonder of it all overtook me. It was… tremendous." The word fell short of defining the memorable experience, but she wasn't sure a single word could encompass it or capture its myriad dimensions. "Truly, Doc. Tremendous."
"I know what you mean."
Then for what seemed an endless time, they held each other's stare.
Finally he said, "If I ever find myself in another emergency childbirth situation…"
"You know who to call for backup. Partner."
She stuck out her hand, and he took it. But he didn't shake it to confirm the partnership. He held it. Not so tightly that it was uncomfortable, but snugly enough to make it personal, almost intimate.
Except for the time she had taped the gauze to his shoulder wound-and that had been so fleeting it really didn't count-this was the first time they had touched.
The skin-to-skin connection was electric. It created a tingle that made Tiel want to pull her hand back quickly. Or to continue holding on to his forever.
"Do me one favor?" he asked softly.
Mutely, she nodded.
"I don't want to be on camera."
Reluctantly she pulled her hand away. "But you're integral to the story."
"You said the story was secondary to your purpose."
"I also conceded that it's a heck of a story."
"I don't want to be on camera," he repeated. "Keep me out of it."
"I'm sorry, Doc, I can't. You're already in it. You're neck-deep in this story."
"For us in here I am. I had no choice but to get involved.
But I don't owe anybody out there a damn thing, especially entertainment at the expense of my privacy.
Agreed?"
"I'll see what I can do." The secreted tape recorder felt very heavy in the pocket of her slacks. "I can't speak for the cameraman."
He gave her a retiring look that asked her not to insult his intelligence. "Of course you can. You're calling the shots. Keep me out of it." He emphasized each word, so that there would be no misinterpretation of his meaning.
He got up to check on Sabra. As he moved away from her, Tie! wondered if his compliments and hand holding had been calculated to break down her defenses, a handsome man's way of buttering her up. Rather than taking a belligerent stance, had he purposefully shown her his softer side? The honey over vinegar approach, so to speak.
She also wondered what he would do when he learned that the tape about to be recorded wouldn't be the only source of video available to her when she put her story together. He had already been recorded on video and didn't know it.
She would have to worry about that later, though. The telephone was ringing.
Galloway quickly came to his feet when the van's side door opened. Sheriff Montez, whom Galloway had come to respect as a wise, savvy, and intuitive lawman, entered first. He motioned inside a bandy-legged, potbellied, balding man who smelled like the pack of Camels that were visible in the breast pocket of his shirt.
"My name's Gully."
"Special Agent Galloway." As they shook hands, he added, "Maybe we should talk outside. It's becoming crowded in here."
Inside the van now were three FBI agents in addition to Galloway, the FBI psychological profiler, Russell Dendy, Cole Davison, Sheriff Montez, and the newcomer, who said, "Then kick somebody else out, because I'm staying until Tiel is safe and sound."
"You're the news assignments editor, is that correct?"
"Going on half a century. And tonight I left my newsroom in the hands of a wet-behind-the-ears rookie with bleached hair and three silver hoops in his eyebrow, a smart-ass fresh out of UT with a degree in television." He snorted with derision at the presumption that broadcast journalism was something that could be learned at college.
"I rarely leave my post, Mr. Galloway. And never in the hands of incompetents. That I did so tonight should give
you some indication of how much I think of Tiel McCoy.
So, no, sir, Mr. Galloway, my ass is a permanent fixture of this van until this business is over. You're Dendy, right?"
Suddenly he turned to the Fort Worth millionaire.
Dendy didn't deign to reply to so brusque a greeting.
'Just so you know," Gully told him, "if anything happens to Tiel, I'm gonna rip out your goddamn guts. My opinion, you're the cause of all this." Leaving Dendy to smolder in his wrath, Gully turned back to Galloway. "Now, what is it Tiel's after? Whatever it is, she gets."
"I've consented to her request of sending in a video cameraman."
"He's outside, geared up and raring to go."
"First, I need to lay down a few ground rules for this recording."
Gully's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Such as?"
"This tape must serve our purposes too."
Cole Davison stepped forward. "What purposes?"
"I want a view of the store's interior."
"What for?"
"This is a standoff, Mr. Davison. Hostages are being held at gunpoint. I need to know what's going on in there so I can respond accordingly."
"You promised me my son would not be hurt."
"He won't be. Nor will anyone else. Not if I can help it."
"Might freak out the boy if he thinks you're concentrating on the lay of the land instead of his message," Gully remarked.
"I want to know who is where inside that store." Galloway spoke with authority, quelling any further discussion on the matter. He didn't care who disliked it; that was a non-negotiable condition.
"That it?" Gully asked impatiently.
"That's it. I'll call Ms. McCoy now."
Gully motioned Galloway toward the telephone. "Get after it. If you're waiting on me, you're backing up."
Under other circumstances, Galloway would have laughed at the man's brazenness. But his voice was all business when he got through to Ronnie. "This is Agent Galloway. Let me speak to Ms. McCoy."
"Are you going to let us do the video?"
"That's what I need to talk to her about. Put her on, please." Within a second, the newswoman was on the line.
"Ms. McCoy, your cameraman…"
"Kip," Gully supplied.
"Kip is standing by."
"Thank you, Mr. Galloway."
"We're not filming a documentary. I'm limiting this taping to five minutes. The clock starts as soon as the cameraman clears the door of the store. He will be so instructed."
"I think that will be agreeable. Ronnie and Sabra should be able to get their message across in that amount of time."
"I'm going to tell Kip to pan-"
"No, no," she interrupted quickly. "The baby's doing fine. I'll see to it that Kip gets close-ups of her."
"You're saying not to tape the interior of the store?"
"That's right. She's beautiful. Sleeping just now."
"I'm… uh…" Galloway wasn't sure what she was trying to communicate to him. After the Cain debacle, he couldn't afford any more mistakes.
"What's she saying?" Gully wanted to know.
"She doesn't want us to video the store's interior."
Then: "Ms. McCoy, I'm going to put you on speaker." He depressed the button.
"Tiel, it's Gully. How're you doing, kid?"
"Gully! You're here?"
"Can you believe it? Me, who never gets more than ten miles from the TV station, out here in jackrabbit country.
Mode of transportation was a helicopter. Noisiest goddamn contraption I've ever had the misfortune to fly in.
Wouldn't let me smoke during the flight. This entire day has sucked. How're you?"
"I'm all right."
"Soon as you're out of there, the margaritas are on me."
"I'll take you up on that."
"Galloway's confused. You don't want Kip to pan the store's interior?"
"That's right."
"Freak everybody out?"
"Possibly."
"Okay. How about a wide shot?"
"That's very important, yes."
"Got it. Wide shot, but nobody's aware of it. Pretend they're close-ups. Is that what you're saying?"
"I can always count on you, Gully. We'll be watching for Kip." She hung up.
"You heard her," Gully said, heading for the door of the van to instruct the photographer waiting outside. "You'll get your interior shot, Mr. Galloway, but for whatever reason, Tiel doesn't want everyone to know they're on camera."
chapter 11
Tiel consulted her compact mirror, but she snapped it shut without primping.
She reasoned that the more disheveled she looked, the more impact the video would have. Swapping her stained blouse for the T-shirt was the only concession she made. If viewers saw her as they usually did-well coiffed, well dressed, and cosmetically enhanced-the video would lose some of its punch.
She wanted it to pack a wallop. Not only with home viewers, but with the TV station's powers-that-be. This opportunity had been handed to her, and she intended to capitalize on it. While she already had a wonderful job and was highly respected for her journalistic instincts and know-how, her career would take a dramatic upward turn if she got the coveted hostess spot on Nine Live.
The daily news-magazine show had been in the planning stages for months. At first it was thought to be only a rumor, the pipe dream of station management, something on their wish list for the unspecified future.
But it now appeared that it was actually going to come about. The half-hour program was scheduled to air between Jeopardy! and the fist edition of the evening news.
Set designers were submitting drawings for review. Brainstorming sessions had been convened to discuss the show's concept, thrust, and focus. The promotions department was working on a distinctive, readily identifiable logo. A full-scale, saturating advertising campaign had been budgeted. Nine Live was soon to become a reality.
Tiel wanted it to be her reality, her future.
This story would be a boon to her chances of landing that job. This standoff would be a huge story tomorrow and probably for several days to come. Follow-up reports on the people involved could be produced indefinitely and the possibilities were endless: How Katherine was faring;
Ronnie's trial and sentencing; the Davison-Dendy Standoff-a retrospective one year later.
She could do interviews with Special Agent Galloway, the Dendys, Ronnie's father, and Sheriff Montez. And the elusive Dr. Bradley Stanwick.
Of course it remained to be seen if Doc would agree to an interview, but anything was possible, and Tiel was an optimist.
For the next few days and weeks, she would be in the glare of the broadcast media spotlight. No doubt she would get a lot of ink, too, in newspapers and periodicals.
The TV station would benefit hugely from her national exposure. Ratings would soar. She would be the darling of the newsroom, and her popularity would extend to the carpeted offices upstairs.
Eat your heart out, Linda Harper.
Ronnie interrupted her reverie. "Ms. McCoy? Is this him?"
The videographer materialized out of the shadows be yond the gasoline pumps. The camera weighted down his right arm, but it was also like an extension of it. He was rarely seen without it. "Yes, that's Kip."
Mentally she rehearsed what she was going to say as an open. This is Tiel McCoy, speaking to you from inside a convenience store in Rojo Flats, Texas, where a drama involving two Fort Worth teenagers has been unfolding for the last several hours. As already reported, earlier today Ronnie Davison and Sabra Dendy…
What was that? A twinge of conscience? She ignored it.
This was her job. This is what she did. Just as Dr. Stanwick had applied his skill to the emergency birth, she was now applying her particular skill to the situation. What was wrong with that? It wasn't exploitation.
It wasn't!
If Sam Donaldson found himself on a hijacked airliner and had an opportunity to feed a story to his network, woul
d he decline to do so just because the lives of other people were in jeopardy? Hell, no. Would he tell the head honcho at his network that he didn't want to do the story at the risk of invading the privacy of his fellow hostages?
Don't make me laugh.
People made news. The most compelling stories were about people whose lives were in peril. The more immediate the danger, the more gripping the story. She hadn't created this situation to further her career. She was merely reporting on it. Sure, her career would benefit, but still, she was only doing her job.
Earlier today Ronnie Davison and Sabra Dendy fled their high school in defiance of parental authority-and ultimately in defiance of the law. These two young people are now engaged in a standoff with the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. I am one of their hostages.
Kip was at the door.
"How do I know he hasn't got a gun?" Ronnie asked nervously.
"He's a genius with a video camera, but I doubt he would know which end of a gun to point." It was true. Kip looked about as menacing as a marshmallow. Through a viewfinder, he saw the lighting and angles that would produce beautiful moving pictures. But he was woefully myopic when it came to seeing himself in a mirror. Or so it seemed. He was endearingly sloppy and ill-groomed.
Ronnie signaled Donna to activate the electronic lock.
Kip pushed his way inside. The door was relocked behind him. He jumped nervously when he heard the metallic click.
"Hi, Kip."
"Tiel. You okay? Gully's wound up tighter than an eight-day clock."
"As you can see, I'm fine. Let's not waste time. This is Ronnie Davison."
Obviously Kip had expected a rough-looking thug, not the clean-cut, all-American boy Ronnie personified.
"Hey."
"Hi."
"Where's the girl?" Kip asked.
"Lying down over there."
He looked in Sabra's direction and hitched his chin in greeting. "Hey."
Katherine was asleep in her mother's arms. Tiel noted that Doc was still sitting on the floor with his back to the freezer, where he could easily monitor Sabra but remain concealed by a revolving rack of snack food.
"Better get started," Kip said. "That Galloway was hyper about this taking no more than five minutes."
