Falling Star (4 page)

It was only a mirage.

But what happened next was very real—a
powerful aftershock that rattled KXLA from studio floor to
satellite dish.

*

"Natalie, we need you on set."

The stage manager caught her by the elbow as
she raced past the tall studio doors on her way to the newsroom. He
was sinewy, outfitted in denim like most techies, his fingers
strong. They dug painfully into her skin. His ice-blue eyes,
circled by fine lines, darted nervously under the bill of his
Dodgers cap.

"That was a big aftershock." He made a move
to pull her inside the studio, where the lights were already on.
The anchor desk stood center stage, awash in the klieg lights like
the star of a Broadway show. "Tony wants us back on the air in two
minutes."

Natalie hesitated. The adrenaline that
usually pumped at the mere mention of going live failed to flow,
stopped up as though dammed. A vision of a smug Tony Scoppio danced
before her eyes.
Maybe you've been at this too long
. She
glanced down at her suit, still streaked with dust from the church.
"I have to clean up."

He shook his head. "No can do."

"I have to go to the newsroom to get wire
copy."

"The intern'll bring it out." The stage
manager made a stronger move to pull her inside the studio and this
time it worked. He propelled her to the anchor desk, even pulling
out her chair and attaching her mike, which normally she did
herself. The studio was a beehive. Crew members raced around
recalibrating the monitors and stage lights that had been thrown
out of whack by the aftershock. Somebody brought her a Styrofoam
cup of lukewarm water.

Natalie fumbled to insert her earpiece. It
took a few tries to plug the endpiece into the correct jack under
the console. Her fingers felt bloated and awkward, like on a hot
day. Even in the studio's frigid air she felt a bead of sweat
shiver down her back.

How can I be so nervous?
She struggled
to slow her breathing.
This is insane! I've done this a million
times!

"Thirty seconds," the stage manager
announced. He stood sentry next to Camera One, talking on his
headset.

Natalie clutched the anchor desk's cool
laminated surface. Her clammy fingers left damp marks, telltale
smudges of panic.

In her mind's eye she saw Tony arch his
brows.
Maybe your judgment isn't what it used to be.
"Ten."

No!
Natalie banished the image. A
female intern, tee-shirted and ponytailed and breathless, ran in to
dump a pile of just-ripped wires on the desk. The girl pulled her
hand back too fast and knocked into the cup of water, sending the
liquid in a fast-moving river across the anchor desk. The girl's
hands flew to her horrified face. "Oh, Miss Daniels, I am so
sorry—"

"Five, four, three—"

Someone grabbed the girl out of the way. Time
tunneled into slow motion. Mesmerized, Natalie watched the stage
manager's fingers count down the seconds to airtime. As though it
were happening to someone else, she saw the water soak the print on
her wires into illegible blobs of bluish ink, then cascade in a
stained rivulet onto her lap.

That was the only information I had
,
she realized, settling into an odd, surreal calm.
I don't know a
damn thing about the aftershock.
Going live without the shred
of a fact to rely on was so catastrophic she'd zoomed right past
fear into a bemused acceptance.

The studio filled with a booming male
announcer's voice. "
This is a
KXLA News
Special Report.
Now from our studios in Hollywood, Natalie Daniels
."

The bright fight above Camera One bloomed
fire-engine red. She was live.

Natalie took a deep breath, her heart
pounding a staccato rhythm. "Good evening. At 2:25 this afternoon
Cal Tech seismologists registered a magnitude 6 point 2 earthquake,
the epicenter in Paramount, twelve miles southeast of downtown Los
Angeles."

She paused. The lens stared back,
all-seeing.

"Just a few minutes ago," she went on, "the
Southland was shaken by a sizable aftershock—"

Was it an aftershock? Maybe it was an
unrelated quake?

"—We do not yet know the magnitude of that
temblor—"

At least I don't. I haven't read the
wires.

"—but it appeared to be considerably weaker
than the initial jolt."

At least to me. But what do I know?

She struggled to remember what she could
about the first quake. Somebody would bring in new wires any
second—they had to. Anxiety congealed into a solid mass in her
stomach. Gooseflesh rose on her thighs from the spilled water,
which had by now soaked not only her legs but her upholstered
anchor chair.

"The earlier temblor brought down a portion
of the 210 freeway at Sierra Madre Boulevard," she added
desperately.

Old news! People want to hear about the
aftershock!

She glanced down at the sodden wires, trying
to pull one off the top without looking obvious. She was still on a
tight shot. Why didn't the director go to video? Why didn't
somebody bring in new wire copy?

Then she broke one of her cardinal rules, one
she hadn't broken in almost two decades of television news. She
simply stopped speaking and looked down from the lens. In the odd
silence that gripped the studio, her eyes flew across the blurred
wires, searching frenziedly for anything faintly legible.

Then to her immense relief she saw a number
she could make out. Immediately she began speaking. "Seismologists
report the aftershock to have registered 8 point 3 on the Richter
scale," she reported, then stopped.

8 point 3?
She became aware of the
sudden puzzled stillness of the stage manager, of the hot glare of
the klieg lights, of the oversize red numbers relentlessly reading
out the time on the digital clock below Camera One. Desperately,
she looked back down at the wire. Was that number an 8 or a 3?

"I'm sorry," she said, thinking fast, and
managed a weak smile. "That was a 3 point 3. The aftershock that
struck only minutes ago was a 3 point 3 on the Richter scale."

"Natalie." The director's urgent voice filled
her ear. "It was a 4 point 3! 4 point 3!"

"I'm sorry," she repeated. She could feel her
cheeks begin to burn. "That was a 4 point 3 on the Richter scale. I
apologize for the confusion."

"Toss to break!" the director yelled in her
ear.

She managed a smile. "We'll be back in just a
moment." She forced herself to stare at the lens until she saw an
SUV commercial roll. Never in her entire career had she been forced
to toss to commercial to save her ass. It was something other
anchors did. Never her.

It hit her full force, like a bomb detonating
mere feet away.

That was the worst on-air mistake she'd ever
made. In eighteen years. This throbbing humiliation racking her
body was the aftershock of screwing up, badly, on air.

She looked at the stage manager, but he was
fiddling with the bill of his Dodgers cap and didn't meet her eyes.
No one did. No one spoke. In the silent studio, a cocky male voice
pounded in her ears.

Maybe you've been at this too
long
.

*

Three hours later, Harry stood outside the
ENG truck's open sliding door, hands on denimed hips, staring
inside at Kelly. "You gonna call the hospital again?"

Kelly threw down her compact and swiveled on
the rotating chair to glare at her cameraman. "I already
called."

"That was a while ago. And the guy's in
critical condition, right?" Harry jutted out his chin. "Don't you
think you should—"

"Lay off!" Kelly launched out of the truck,
landing on Harry's cowboy boot. He winced. "What do you know about
anything editorial? Don't bug me! You're ruining my concentration
before I have to go live again." She grabbed her compact, earpiece,
and script and headed back across Pico Boulevard, kicking at a
squished beer can. Forget the hospital! Who had time for that? She
should probably be nicer to her cameraman, if only for PR reasons,
but Harry was an idiot if he thought TV news was about checking
every last detail. She knew it was about looks and sass and
determination.

Kelly arranged herself in front of the camera
and pulled out her script, scrawled in her reporter's notebook in a
large girlish hand. She'd written a live toss and tag and about a
minute ten of pure drama in between. It might be for local news but
it was good enough for a national tabloid like
Hard
Line
.

DARRYL MANN WAS ALMOST HOME FROM A LONG
WEEKEND PLAYING THE CRAP TABLES IN VEGAS, BUT HE SURE DIDN'T BET ON
THIS! POLICE SAY MANN WAS DRIVING THESE RESIDENTIAL STREETS AT
FIFTY LIGHTNING MILES AN HOUR WHEN THE QUAKE STRUCK. HE LOST
CONTROL OF HIS HONDA CIVIC AND SLAMMED INTO THIS LIGHT POLE AT
FOURTH AND PICO, NEARLY GOING THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD. YOU CAN BE
SURE NO VEGAS GAMBLER WOULD LAY ODDS ON HIS CHANCES OF
RECOVERY!

Kelly giggled. She loved that line! She
hadn't sent in her script for approval, which she was supposed to
do, because no way would stick-up-her-butt Ruth let her get away
with saying what she wanted. Not to mention airing the video of the
victim she'd made Harry shoot.

Kelly plumped her hair, grinning to herself.
Getting those shots before the ambulance came had been a
brainstorm. Ruth would freak but so what? Tony was the real boss
and Kelly bet he'd like it. Realistic video was hot these days.
Tony liked hot. And she liked giving the news director what he
wanted.

Kelly ran her eyes down her live tag.

AS DARRYL MANN LIES IN A SANTA MONICA
HOSPITAL FIGHTING FOR HIS LIFE, HE MUST BE WONDERING WHY A FREAK
ACCIDENT WOULD DEAL HIM SUCH A CRUEL HAND. WE CAN ONLY HOPE HE HAD
BETTER LUCK AT VEGAS'S GAMING TABLES. KEN AND NATALIE, BACK TO
YOU.

Silently, over and over, Kelly mouthed her
toss and tag, memorizing them so she wouldn't have to look at her
notes. She needed to make love to the lens.

"Here's the—"

"I told you not to interrupt." Kelly grabbed
the mike from Harry's hand. "I'm memorizing."

Harry shook his head and loped back to the
camera. "A minute back," he reported "Give me a level."

Kelly counted to ten and Harry tweaked the
volume. "Thirty."

Her heart started really pumping. She did
live shots all the time but for some reason it felt like this one
really counted.

"Ten."

Kelly launched into her breathing exercises
and checked the monitor that Harry had put left of his tripod. It
was set to KXLA, the volume muted. But she could hear the audio in
her earpiece.

On came the open for
The KXLA Primetime
News
, over it Natalie's voice:

"TONIGHT, OUR FIRST COMPLETE LOOK AT THE
DAMAGE SUFFERED ACROSS THE SOUTHLAND FROM TODAY'S QUAKE. KELLY
DEVLIN IS LIVE IN SANTA MONICA WITH A FULL REPORT. ALSO COMJNG
UP—"

Kelly closed her eyes, her heart racing. Her
damp palm slipped on the mic. Keep it punchy! Work the lens! Again
she glanced at her notes.

Out of one eye she saw Natalie and Ken appear
on the monitor. Natalie looked even tighter than usual. Kelly
forced herself to focus. Showtime.

Then, as if by magic, she saw herself
materialize on screen.
Damn, I look hot!
Then Natalie's
voice.

"KELLY DEVLIN IS LIVE WITH THE DETAILS.
KELLY?"

Kelly took a deep breath.

"NATALIE, I MUST WARN OUR VIEWERS THAT THIS
VIDEO IS GRAPHIC. DARRYL MANN WAS ALMOST—"

Perfect! Kelly got through her live toss and
watched on the monitor as her package rolled. She wiped her palms
on her skirt. It looked good! Quickly she reviewed her tag. The
second before she came back Kelly dropped her chin and lifted her
eyes, which the
Playboy
photog said made her look even more
dramatic.

"AS DARRYL MANN LIES IN A SANTA MONICA
HOSPITAL—"

She kept a serious expression on her face and
her eyes trained on the lens until Ken started to intro the next
story.

"That was a real piece of work, Kelly," she
heard Ruth snarl in her earpiece. "That video of the victim was
completely unacceptable. I notice you didn't bother to get script
approval. Did you bother to check with the hospital?"

That fat bitch. Kelly pretended she hadn't
heard and sashayed out of frame, pulling out her earpiece.

Whew! She threw back her head and grinned at
the sky, bright with stars. She'd done it! That was a kick-ass live
shot and she had a strong instinct it had been noticed

"Break down fast, Harry." Kelly tossed the
mike in his general direction. It scraped hard on the asphalt.
"Let's blow this pop stand." It would take half an hour minimum to
get back to the station and then she'd have to cut at least one
piece for the morning shows. She should do two. After all, what had
Natalie taught her, back when Kelly was playing eager beaver? Get
airtime. Period.

Kelly grinned. Thanks for sharing!

Harry unplugged cords and stowed gear,
grunting all the while. Restlessly Kelly paced, her heels clicking
on the pavement.

They were just back in the ENG truck's cab
when its phone rang. Harry answered, then after a second raised his
eyebrows and wordlessly handed the receiver to Kelly.

She frowned. Why would anybody at the station
be calling? They knew she'd be back. "This is Kelly."

"And this is Ruth. You've got a serious
problem this time, missy."

Kelly tensed.

"I just got a call from the hospital where
Darryl Mann is being cared for. Or was being cared for, more to the
point."

"What?" Kelly clutched the phone.

"Suffice it to say everyone there was very
upset. Not only because of the video of him, Kelly, which was
appalling and goes expressly against policy—"