Authors: Jan Hudson
She thought she heard a snort
behind her, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to let some sourpuss cynic
rain on her parade, even if he was a high-profile muckety-muck with the
network. He simply didn’t know how determined she was to reach the goals she’d
set for herself.
In the entry hall, she headed
for the table Ravinia had acquired the year before. The table, standing in the
center of the impressive foyer, was big and circular with a mosaic top of
polished malachite and a base formed by three large elephants intricately
carved from some sort of exotic wood.
Sunny picked up her shoulder bag
from the table and searched for her keys. They were missing. She knelt on the
floor and peered amid the legs. “Dumbo, did you eat my keys?”
“Who’s Dumbo?” Kale asked from
behind her.
She stroked the tummy of one of
the elephants. “This fellow. Estella and I dubbed this piece ‘Dumbo and
Friends,’ but Ravinia thought the table was divine, a true work of art. I
suppose it is. I understand that a couple of museums bid against her. Some guy
on a mountain somewhere spent his entire life creating this thing.” She
shrugged. “To each his own, I suppose.” She patted around under the table.
“Looking for these?” Kale
jingled a set of keys in front of him.
Sunny jumped up and grabbed
them. “Where did you find them?”
“In the refrigerator beside the
strawberries.”
“I wonder how they got there.”
She shrugged. “Oh, well. I’m off to work. See you later.” She waved as she
hurried out.
Kale followed her to the
driveway. “Mind if I ride along?”
“I’m not going directly to the
station. I brought home one of the KRIP vans, and I’m meeting Carlos at the
heritage society do.”
“Who’s Carlos?”
“Carlos Mondragon. He’s my crew.”
“A one-person crew?”
Sunny laughed. “Foster put us on
a strict budget. I can drop you off at the station if you’d like. Or you can
drive Ravinia’s car. It’s in the garage.”
“I think I’ll tag along with you.
I can’t remember when I’ve been to a heritage society do.” He looked down at
his clothes. “Think I’m dressed appropriately?”
Was he actually joking with her?
She scanned his face for any sign of a smile, but there was none. She glanced
at the pink shirt and chinos he wore. They were considerably cleaner and
slightly less rumpled than the clothes he’d had on the day before. “I think you’ll
pass. Corpus is a pretty informal place.”
“Want me to drive?” he asked.
“Nope. It’ll do you good to
relinquish control for a few minutes. Climb in.”
After they had pulled away, Kale
scowled at her. “What did you mean by that ‘control’ remark?”
“Sorry, boss, but you strike me
as the type who likes to be in charge. If I’m wrong, accept my apology.”
“Apology accepted. And cut out
that ‘boss’ stuff. You make me feel ancient.”
“Right, boss—I mean, Kale. And I
haven’t worn training bras since I was twelve. That’s fourteen years ago. By
the way, since we have plenty of time, I hope you don’t mind that I need to run
a couple of errands on the way.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Personal
business on company time?”
Was he teasing her? Who could
tell with his perpetually grim expression? “The company van needs gas,” she
shot back. “And,” she added with a saucy grin, “since I have only two dollars
and six cents in my purse, I have to stop by the ATM at the bank. You gonna
fire me, boss?”
“Not unless you rear-end that
Buick.”
She slammed on her brakes. “I
saw it.”
“Ummm.”
After they stopped for gas,
which Kale insisted on pumping and paying for himself, they drove to the small
branch bank where Sunny kept her account. As they pulled into the parking lot,
she had an eerie feeling—not a weather feeling, but a general, more pervasive
sensation, a news feeling that twitched her nose and put her on guard.
“Were you serious about a change
in the news policy at KRIP?” she asked.
“Very.”
“Then grab the camera from the
back.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a funny—” A commotion
erupted in front of the bank. “Robbery in progress!” she shouted.
As Kale reached for the video-cam,
two men with paper bags ran from the bank. A guard at the door leveled his gun
and fired as they scrambled for the backseat of a waiting car. A third robber,
a watch cap pulled low over his eyes, stumbled, dropped his bag, then lifted
his gun and fired at the guard. Two shots pinged off the archway pier the guard
used for cover.
When the robber reached for the
paper bag, Sunny floorboarded the van. “Hang on,” she yelled at Kale, who was
halfway out the window shooting the scene. She rammed the getaway car from the
rear.
The robber squeezed off a shot
toward her, and a spiderweb cracked across the passenger side of the
windshield. The holdup man threw himself in the front seat of the old Chevy,
and the car burned rubber, with the door still hanging open.
Sunny tore out behind him,
shouting to Kale, “You okay?”
“I’m okay. Stop the van.”
“Not on your life.” She gripped
the wheel and stomped the accelerator harder.
“Dammit! I said stop the van!
You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Forget it, Hoaglin. This is the
lead story on KRIP tonight. Keep filming.” She heard the distant whine of
sirens and grabbed her phone, punching in 911.
She stayed on the robbers’ tail,
squealing around corners, until another shot rang out. She dropped back but
kept the car in sight until she could describe its route to the police. “It’s
an old maroon Chevy. We’re on
Gollihar
Road
just past the
Parkdale
Plaza
. Wait!
They’ve just turned left on McGregor.” She hung a left behind them.
Two white Corpus Christi Police
Department cars—sirens screaming, lights flashing—roared out from a side street
and passed the van. Sunny could see another police car approaching from the
street ahead of them as residents of the neighborhood stood on their porches,
craning their necks to watch the ruckus.
Trying to avoid the inevitable,
the maroon car whipped around a corner and crashed into the rear of a garbage
truck parked at the curb. A screaming mother yanked her child from his tricycle
on the sidewalk and ran in the opposite direction. Three patrol cars, in a
chaos of whipping red and blue lights and a cacophony of wailing sirens,
converged on the smashed car, which spewed steam from the crumpled hood.
Sunny screeched to a stop at the
corner, and Kale, the camera on his shoulder, jumped out and ran toward the
cluster of vehicles. Snatching a mike and a battery pack from the back of the
van, she strapped the pack around her waist as she ran behind him.
Another patrol car roared to a
stop, blocking their path as five officers, guns drawn, spilled from the three
other police units and took positions of cover.
“Throw down your weapons,” one
of the cops called, “and come out with your hands in the air.”
For a moment everything was so
quiet that the only thing Sunny heard was the hiss of the damaged radiator, the
rattle of dried palm fronds, and her own ragged breathing.
First one, then the other door
opened slowly. Three men emerged, hands atop their heads. The fourth stumbled
out, whining, “Hey, man, I’m hurt. My leg is bleeding.”
“Well, well,” one of the older
cops said, “if it isn’t Amos. Got shot up some, did you? You and your friends
are in bad trouble again, buddy. Hands on the top of the car.”
While the group of robbers was
searched and handcuffed, Kale kept filming and asked, “Can you identify these
men, officer?”
“Later,” the cop said gruffly,
scowling at the camera. “Check with the station.”
Sunny hurriedly hooked up her
mike and stepped forward, smiling. “Sergeant”—she glanced at his name tag-—”Murdock,
I’m Sunny Larkin, KRIP News. Could I ask you a few questions, please?”
The cop’s scowl changed to a
grin. “Sunny! Was that you chasing these hombres? Hey, I watch you on TV all
the time. What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow? I promised to take my
boy fishing.”
“It’s going to be perfect fishing
weather until about mid-afternoon. I hope you catch a big one.” She gave him a
dazzling, dimpled smile. “Now, Sergeant Murdock, if I could ask you a few
questions . . .”
Kale watched in amazement as
Sunny charmed the socks off the seasoned veteran and got a damned good
interview. He could hardly blame the cop; Kale probably would have told her
everything down to the size of his shorts, if she’d fluttered those long,
feathery eyelashes up at him.
When Murdock identified at least
two of the robbers as hard-core offenders with long rap sheets, Kale shuddered.
The reality of the danger Sunny had been in slammed into his gut. By the time
the interview wound down and his adrenaline began to dissipate, he had to
struggle to keep the camera steady. He was actually trembling. He hadn’t been
afraid for himself—hell, he’d dodged bullets dozens of times to get a story—but
the thought of this little slip of a girl getting one between her big blue eyes
unnerved him.
When the interview was wrapped
up and they’d promised to come to the station later with their statements, Kale
strode to the van. The sight of the shattered windshield and the wrinkled front
bumper shook him even more. It was a wonder she hadn’t been badly injured. He
stowed the camera and waited, hands on his hips, as she bounded up, grinning
and juiced up like some fool on high-grade coke, oblivious to the danger she’d
been in. He wanted to throttle her.
“Wasn’t that fantastic?” she
asked, beaming. “What a story! I could fly!”
She whirled around twice before
he grabbed her by the shoulders. “I ought to beat your butt!” he yelled in her
face.
Her smile died and her eyes
flashed blue sparks. “I’d like to see you try it! What’s the matter with you?
Did the sun in
Bangladesh
fry your brains?”
“My brains? Hell, at least I’ve
got brains! Don’t you realize the danger you put yourself in? Don’t you
understand that you could have been killed? Do you have some kind of death
wish?”
“And I suppose the great Kale Hoaglin
has never braved a few tight situations for a story.”
“That’s different.”
She gave a disdainful snort. “Because
you’re a man?”
“Yes. No. It’s not because you’re
a girl—”
“
Woman
.”
“—woman. It’s a matter of
experience. Don’t ever try a damned fool stunt like that again.”
“Oh, chill out, Hoaglin.” She
shook off his hands. “Didn’t you hear Sergeant Murdock? We’re heroes. And we
scooped a story that’s going to bring KRIP back to credibility. Maybe that will
soothe Foster’s feathers when he sees the van.” She fluttered her hand toward
the damaged vehicle.
“Forget the damned van.”
She grinned. “Whatever you say,
boss. We need to pick up some more footage at the bank and do a couple of
interviews there. Do you think we should call the station and have them send
someone else to cover the heritage society do?”
As she talked he watched the
animated bobble of her head, the bright sparkle of her eyes, the enticing
movement of her lips. Her skin seemed to glow. Its texture fascinated him. He
ached to touch it, to feel its softness against the rough pads of his
fingertips.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?”
“What do you want to do?”
What did he want to do? Hell, he
wanted to kiss her until she turned boneless. He wanted to hold her against him
and mold her body against his and savor every sweet curve. He wanted to bury
his face between her breasts and inhale the smell of her. He wanted to do
things to her that would shock her bouncy little cheerleader sensibilities into
the next state.
“Boss?”
“Don’t call me that,” he
growled.
“Yes, sir,” she snapped with
that saucy grin that seemed to goad him into wanting to kiss her all the more.
Dammit, he reminded himself, she
was just a kid, a green, fresh-faced kid. The ten years that separated them
were ten years of hard living, a chasm of ugliness and abhorrent experiences
that had sucked the gentleness from his soul long ago. He didn’t have any
business messing with someone like her. He almost had the feeling that the
heinousness of life that had rubbed off on him over the past several years
would defile her if he touched her.
“I suppose,” she said, “we could
have someone from the station pick up our robbery tape for editing, and we
could still make it to the heritage society function in time to catch the tail
end of it.”
“Rule number one, kid,” he said,
allowing himself to touch the tip of her nose, “is never, never let somebody
else edit your big story.”