“You try explaining this stunt to them.”
“You didn’t file a float plan?”
“Heeelll no. They thought we just were taking the raft somewhere to shoot pictures in an authentic setting.”
It had not occurred to me that the plans to set Ryan adrift were never shared with the Coast Guard, but it made sense, now that she mentioned it. The Coast Guard oversaw huge numbers of drunken, amateur, and ill-equipped boaters out on the water, all emergencies waiting to happen. And then there were the rafters, and sinking sailboats loaded with Haitians. Throw in the smugglers, poachers, and pirates, and they had more than enough to handle. Gretchen’s scheme would have been officially frowned on from the start. The Coast Guard sure as hell would hate it now.
“Eric estimated the raft’s speed at about two-and-a-half knots,” Lottie was saying, “so we went up ahead and anchored, out of sight, to keep it authentic. I checked in on the radio with Ryan every hour. Reception wasn’t too good. Those things always work better when you test them on land. He was drinking beer and slurring his words a little, but he sounded fine.
“I was a little late for the midnight check with Ryan. No answer. We kept trying—nothing. So we pulled up anchor and started circling, with a searchlight. Nothing. I kept trying the radio and we kept looking. The Coast Guard doesn’t search at night, so there was no point in calling then. We thought we could spot him after daylight.”
“Christ, Lottie, you should have called last night. The Coast Guard would have had a chopper in the air at dawn. We’ve lost a lot of time.” I imagined a small raft, circled by sharks.
“We’ve been looking all over hell-and-a-half for hours, but all we found were some Coors bottles floating.”
“That’s his brand. Did you pick them up?”
“This is not the time to worry about the environment, Britt!” She spat the words out furiously.
“No, dammit, maybe there was a message inside,” I said impatiently. “That’s the sort of thing Ryan would do. You know he’s a romantic. He might have left his course, or a message on what went wrong.”
“How the hell would he know his course? He had no idea where he was. Eric thinks he was swept north by the Gulfstream.”
“God,” I said. “Where would that take him?”
“Palm Beach, I guess. New England, Newfoundland eventually.”
“Jesus.” The operator interrupted for coins, and I told her to charge it to my number.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. A headache was beginning to throb behind my eyes. I couldn’t resist being a bitch, though I knew it would piss her off. “You were partying,” I accused.
“What was I supposed to do, sit there and stare at the water? One of the crew plays guitar, so we were singing and had us some wine.”
“Okay, okay. We have to find him. Have you called Gretchen?”
“Heeelll no. Why don’t we just call Fred Douglas? He’s the news editor.”
“This whole fiasco was her idea, she’s Ryan’s editor on the project. Why should we be the only ones in a panic? Call the Coast Guard now,” I said, trying to sound logical and in control. “I’ll call Gretchen in half an hour. If we talk to her first, she might tell us to wait. Once they launch a search, there’s no way to keep this quiet. It could embarrass the paper. But we don’t care, right? Finding him is what counts.”
“Right. I’ll feel like a fool if we spot him five minutes after the Coast Guard launches ships and planes.” Lottie paused. “But I’ll feel worse if we don’t. Damn, Britt, what if we don’t find him at all?”
“Lots of Cubans float around out there for days and make it,” I said unconvincingly.
“Yeah, and a lot of them don’t. And Ryan ain’t Cuban.”
“Ryan is no commando, but he’s smart.” A pang of fear clutched at my gut, and my eyes blurred for a moment. Ryan. Alone at sea. Oh God.
“If he dies, Britt, I’ll feel like shit. Has he got somebody we should call?”
I thought for a moment. “His latest crush is that new intern in the arts department, the pretty one who writes movie reviews. But she didn’t come to see him off, so I guess it’s not serious. His parents live in Ohio someplace. I could get their number, but I think it’s too early to scare them.”
“Well, I’m sure scared. If he’s dead, we’re in trouble.”
I wanted to say “What do you mean, we, kimosabe?” but decided against it. “Think positively. He’ll really have an authentic story now,” I said with a sinking heart.
“Let’s pray he’s alive to write it.”
I needed something strong, so I filled my two-cup Cuban coffeepot with water and took a can of Bustelo and a jar of sugar from a cabinet shelf. Maybe he drank too much, rolled off the raft, and the sharks got him, I thought, spooning coffee into the pot. The strong aroma of the boiling brew soon enveloped my small kitchen. I drank half a glass of cold water first, then filled my pint-sized coffee cup, savoring its rich, black contents as I tried to scan the morning paper. How long before you die of exposure? I wondered. The coffee cleared my head. My heart beat faster as I reached for the phone to call Gretchen at home. I wasn’t sure if it was the caffeine rush or my fears for Ryan.
Gretchen sounded perky and in command, even before reaching the office. I hate consistently cheerful, perky people. People who are bouncy and perky all the time obviously don’t have the faintest idea what is really going on.
“There’s a problem,” I told her.
She sounded patronizing and pleased, as though I was calling to say I was in jail. “What’s wrong now, Britt?”
“Ryan’s lost at sea.”
She sounded less pleased on hearing that her front page weekend project might be sleeping with the fishes.
“What went wrong? Have Lottie call me, at once!”
“She’s too busy with the Coast Guard search.”
“The Coast Guard has been informed? What the hell did you do that for?”
“That’s what you do when someone is lost at sea and in life-threatening danger.” I emphasized the last three words.
“Of course,” she said, most of the perk gone out of her voice. “I just thought that it might be premature to call them in at this point.”
“It’s too dangerous not to,” I said, then tried to sound breezy. “Just thought I’d let you know since you are his editor and this is your project.” She didn’t sound worried enough. What was Ryan to her? Just another reporter to step on as she clawed her way up the ladder.
“I just hope the Coast Guard doesn’t file charges,” I added.
“Charges against whom?” Gretchen said warily.
“The paper, I guess, and the person responsible for sending him out there. I think there are both civil and criminal penalties, and if the captain loses his charter license—he’ll surely sue us because we hired him.”
“Penalties?” Her voice faltered for the first time.
“Sure, as well as assessing us the cost of the Coast Guard search, tens of thousands of dollars a day. You know what it costs to operate a helicopter? The search planes, cutters, rescue boats and their crews? It’s against federal law to deliberately endanger a life on the high seas. The searchers themselves could wind up in jeopardy out there. Anything can happen. You better get on the horn with Holland, Douglas, and the paper’s attorneys.”
I hate lying, but when I do it, I am creative. All that kept me from loving this was that Ryan was really missing.
For a day I took part in the search, flying with a photographer in a Chalk’s seaplane, skimming in ever-widening circles over the Great Bahama Bank, eyes straining, squinting into blinding sunlight reflected off the sea, scanning green water and the Gulfstream, that swift blue river that flows through it. Under other circumstances, I would have thrilled to the endless rhythm of the ocean and the beauty of the limitless horizon, but not when searching for a tiny speck it seemed to have swallowed up.
No luck. Ryan
was gone.
I was ordered back to the newsroom the next day. Stories still had to be written and deadlines met. Lottie stayed out with the Vagabond, an assignment I did not envy. Over ship-to-shore radio I discerned that although she and the skipper had been hitting it off until Ryan vanished, now they were furious at each other. Only Ryan’s speedy return in good health and good spirits could save that foundered flirtation.
An endless parade of gray suits marched somberly through the newsroom; Miami Daily News executives and lawyers, gathering for meetings in the big glass-enclosed office of managing editor John Murphy. The Coast Guard district commander arrived for some sessions. Gretchen, attired in a navy blue power suit with a little tie, sat in on all of them, trying hard to look innocent, her darting eyes giving her away.
Fred Douglas, the news editor, stopped and parked his lanky body on the corner of my desk for small talk and a few questions. He was casual, but I sensed that my answers would go directly back to a meeting.
He wondered aloud if Ryan had volunteered, and if the rafting story was his idea.
“No way,” I said. “Like any good reporter he followed orders when Gretchen gave him the assignment, but he dreaded it. He wanted to stay here and work on his conservation series.” Douglas looked thoughtful, his eyes serious. God knows what Gretchen was saying in there, trying to cover her ass.
By day three, updated notices were still being posted on the newsroom bulletin board every few hours. They detailed the progress of the search—basically, none. There were a few flurries of excitement; the Coast Guard and the brothers spotted two Cuban rafts and a Haitian boat—but no trace of Ryan. The Cubans were rescued and greeted like heroes. The Haitians, poor souls, were interdicted and sent back to Port au Prince, and who knows what fate.
I was troubled by thoughts of more than Ryan and D. Wayne Hudson during my first full day back at work. Something drew me back to the house at NW Twentieth Street and Seventh Avenue. With its peeling green paint and sagging porch, it looked different, more innocent, by day. Darryl was playing out front.
He looked up as I approached, his mouth dropped open, and he scrambled to his feet. He wore brown shorts, sandals, and a yellow T-shirt with turtles on it.
“Remember me?” I didn’t want to mention the night that must have traumatized his little heart. He nodded shyly and ran inside, then stood behind the screen door holding it open. I knocked, then followed him into the room. The furniture looked scarred, as though from more than one all-out family brawl, and was covered with a pale powdery dust, which I realized came from the bullet holes in the ceiling plaster.
Darryl’s dad, cousin, and uncles, one of whom had landed the bone-crunching blow to Dan Flood’s jaw, were still in jail, charged with resisting arrest and aggravated assault on police officers. His mama, Onnie Gilmore, had been released by a judge at a bond hearing. She was in the kitchen, a tall, angular woman, all cheekbones, sharp elbows, knobby knees, and collarbones like bird wings. She looked to be in her late thirties, though the arrest reports I had seen revealed her age as twenty-nine. Seated on the only undamaged chair, she regarded me with suspicion.
“I was worried about Darryl,” I said lamely.
She tossed her head back, barely moving the tight cornrows in her hair, and scrutinized me, her dark arms crossed protectively across her small bosom.
“You the newspaper lady who gave Darryl over to Miz Lucille the other night?” She spoke slowly, her voice weary. When she got to her feet it was slowly and stiffly, as though both body and spirit were bruised.
I nodded.
She carried what must have been Darryl’s lunch plate to the sink and rinsed off the sticky residue from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “I saw you,” she said, “at the funeral.”
“The funeral?”
“For Mr. D. Wayne Hudson.” She nodded, her eyes empty.
“You knew him?”
“No one but God knows what that man did for my boy…” her voice trailed off.
“Darryl?”
“No. Darryl’s brother, Randolph. He’s still in Youth Hall.” Something sharp came back into her eyes. “What were you doing out here the other night?”
“I just happened to be an observer with some police officers.”
“You observe what they did? You saw how they beat up on his daddy?” she said, jerking her head toward the room Darryl had disappeared into, “and all of us? Then they arrested everybody, even me, and I was the one who called ‘em. I called ‘em for help, and they busted in here like wild men, smashing furniture, beating on everybody.”
“It sounds like things got out of hand,” I said. I meant it, but still felt defensive. “I don’t know what happened before we got here, but the detectives I was with came to help, and now one of them is in the hospital. They had to wire his jaw together.”
Her eyes showed no response.
Darryl marched out of the bedroom as though on an important mission, carrying something to show me. She started to wave him away, but I said I’d like to see it.
He had crayoned drawings on both sides of a brown paper grocery sack. I was no judge, but I thought they were excellent, considering that the artist was not quite five years old. I said so, exclaiming over the composition and color. A leafy green tree dominated one picture, with an abundant crop of round red fruit hanging from the branches. Darryl watched expectantly as I studied it. “Are those apples or cherries?” I asked.
He pressed in eagerly at my elbow, scrutinizing his own handiwork before committing himself. He regarded it intently, lips pressed together. Then he looked up with his answer, big eyes serious. “They are whatever you want them to be,” he said, melting my heart.
“That’s great,” I said, hugging him. “That’s what all the famous modern artists say about their work.”
He ran for his crayons, to produce more. What chance, I wondered, does a darling child like this have? I turned to his mother, who stood at the sink, watching. “He’s really good, so smart,” I said.
“I know,” she said quietly, fingering a bruise above her left eyebrow.
“If you and Darryl need a place to go, there is a shelter for battered women.” I looked around the room with an appraising eye. What was worth taking would probably fit in the back of my car or in a small U-Haul trailer.
Her eyes showed a faint flicker of interest, but she shook her head without explanation. She didn’t know me. I knew little about her life, and was certainly in no position to push. I just wanted her to know that she had options. I scribbled the referral number for the shelter on the back of one of my cards and handed it to her.
“My number is on the front. Please call me if I can help you or Darryl.”
She took the card and studied it without a word. Before leaving, I fished a fresh notebook from my purse and gave it to Darryl to draw in, along with one of those cheap red pens issued us at the office. I hate taking notes in red ballpoint, anyway. The newspaper’s bean counters probably buy them by the gross because reporters are less likely to glom them for use at home. Who wants to balance their checkbook in red ink?
Darryl watched from behind the screen door, one hand shading his eyes, as I got into my car and drove away. Talk about a Prozac moment. I wanted to cry—for Ryan, for Darryl and his mother, for the late D. Wayne Hudson, his widow and children. I almost never weep; I guess it was for the little kid and all little kids like him. And Ryan. On this job, I make new acquaintances every day but have only a few real friends and can’t afford to lose any of them. Guilt settled behind my breastbone like a bad case of heartburn for telling Ryan that it would be an adventure, instead of helping him find a way out of the assignment.
The longer he was missing, the less chance we had of finding him. The paper had notified Ryan’s parents, and they were on their way. All that TV had reported so far was that a search was underway for a News reporter who had become separated from a charter boat while working on a story about rafters.
The newspaper constantly accused others of cover-ups and withholding information, yet our brief stories, put together by editorial committee and overseen by lawyers, were deliberately vague. A short on page two of the local section identified Ryan’s raft as a “small craft.” No other news agency so far had had the smarts to ask specific questions about the craft or the precise purpose of his story.
My mailbox contained a half-dozen letters, including two thick ones from Pete Zalewski, and an assignment from Gretchen. She wanted me to take over Ryan’s conservation series, a suggestion I found both rude and insensitive. I found her at the city desk and said that though I was all for conservation, it was not my beat.
“The change of pace will do you good,” she said flatly, turning away as if to dismiss me, shiny gold earrings catching the light.
I might enjoy a change of pace some other time; not now. “I need time to work on the Hudson case.”
“What for?” she turned brusquely toward me, frowning as though my continued presence was annoying.
“He may have died of injuries inflicted by the police.”
She looked at me skeptically, her pink tongue flicking across her creamy cotton-candy-colored upper lip. “Can you prove that? Are you sure you can pin it down?”
“Not yet. I’ll have to talk to a lot of cops, but there does seem to be a pattern of brutal behavior on the midnight shift…”
“How much time would this take?” she snapped.
“No way to tell, but I’d like a few days to work exclusively on the story.”
She shook her head, her perfectly cut hair swinging gracefully with the movement. “We’re shorthanded. We need you to cover the daily stories on your beat while you finish the conservation series.” She opened a desk drawer and withdrew a press release from a tickler file of upcoming events. “There is also a town meeting I want you to cover in Miami Beach tonight, on the anti-noise ordinance.” She smiled archly, flashing her even teeth. That would teach me to give her an argument.
If Ryan’s disappearance had raised her sensitivity toward reporters, I sure as hell could not discern it. There was no point in arguing. I didn’t even return to my long printout of phone messages. Instead, I retreated to the library, hoping that the Vu/Text, a database from newspapers all over the country, was not in use.
Contents Under Pressure Page 14
