All right, he was out of contact for the first time in years, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour. He needed to pick up his new Jeep. On Monday, they would outfit it with all the radios and scanners, but he wanted it home this weekend. He liked driving it, nodding to the people who recognized him and waved. The open Jeep gave him that rugged, in-charge look.
Then, he gets home and turns on the news and look who’s there, that dumb bitch practically bawling on the air. She actually had a piece of Kleenex in her hand when the newscast opened. He saw that, that quick wipe at her eyes one second before she was full on camera. Like she didn’t know she was on camera. Right. That bitch.
Almost as bad was that son of a bitch Reynolds right next to her. Couldn’t wait to get his job. What the hell was going on?
“I should have been called!” he shouted at Jim Brown. “Why the hell wasn’t I called?” He waved an accusing finger in Brown’s face.
Brown waited until the finger and the hand rested flat on the desk.
“We tried calling you, Tom, every way possible. We tried every five minutes.”
“Yeah, I just bet.”
“We thought it was important that one of you be in-set so we called Jean Ann,” Brown said, his voice calm.
“Oh, yeah, I saw her weeping and crying. I saw that,” Carter spat back.
“We’re all broken up about this, Tom. We had to think about getting the story on the air. That was our first concern, Tom,” Brown reminded him.
“You should have gotten to me no matter what you had to do. I’m the one you call first, and don’t you forget it.” The finger was back up again and pointing.
*
On Sunday police climbers confirmed that from what they could see, and it wasn’t much, Debbie Hanson fell.
They saw no signs of a struggle. Nobody was reporting any problems, no note or a goodbye phonecall. Anyway, she wasn’t wearing the right shoes for hiking. Sneakers, come on. She slipped, fell, hit her head, and died. People did. All the time. If there was anything else going on, the ME would figure it out.
“Why did they even send us out here?” one of them asked, kicking a piece of broken glass off the trail.
“You know, television reporter. They want to make sure they close it down nice and clean.”
As they hiked back down the mountain, an old blue and white Volkswagen van with Indian print curtains on the windows was being towed from the parking lot.
*
On Monday morning a call from a Dr. Stanley Waddell was transferred to Jim Brown’s phone. Mary took the message and left the pink slip on his desk. It was only a name, a date, and a phone number. Jim Brown did not return the call that day but he did plan to get to it, and all the others, when he had the time.
51
She stood in the doorway staring at him, arms folded across her chest. He couldn’t read any emotion on her face, only eyes staring, a slight downward turn to the mouth. He wondered about that short hair of hers. Why didn’t she let it grow? It had been long when he hired her.
“Come on in,” he said.
He smiled and nodded as she sat. He felt good about her. She may not have been there for the nightmare of the past few days, but he knew that she too had suffered. Of course, she had.
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. He waited for her. She seemed to be searching for a comfortable position in the chair. Finally, she leaned forward, resting her arms on his desk, hands folded, and he saw the beginnings of a smile.
“Tell me,” she said. “What happened?” It was a gentle question, friendly.
“With Debbie?”
She nodded.
She got the news Monday night. She had only been home a few minutes and had reached for the phone to call Debbie. This was a night when she wanted to talk to her. She wanted to tell her about the decision she made. She wanted to tell her that as much as she loved New Mexico, and she did love it, she wasn’t going back. She was going to make the phone calls to those big cities of Joan McBain’s. Debbie would be happy for her. Yes, she would.
The call to Debbie went unanswered. Ten minutes later her own phone rang. It was Chuck Farrell.
“She must have been hiking or something,” he told her. “She fell about forty or fifty feet. They say it was a head injury. Must have been immediate. At least, I think so. I hope so.”
So did she.
Brown’s deep sigh brought her back to her question.
“Yes, Jim, what happened to Debbie.”
“Gosh,” he shook his head, “it’s been rough. I wish you’d been here. We needed you. I didn’t know where you were, nobody did. Not until Monday, anyway.” He paused.
“She was quite a gal, quite a gal,” he said and rubbed at the corner of one eye.
She nodded pleasantly.
“Have you had a chance to see the stories we did? We did our best.” He raised his gaze above her head.
What was it she wanted? She did want something.
“So?” He opened his own hands wide and shrugged.
She shook her head, making a tisking sound with her tongue.
“Hey, you know, we want to make some sense out of this, make some good come out of it. And, you can help us.” He could see the interest in her eyes.
“What we need to do is some sort of series on the dangers of living here. But,” he stopped, searching for the right idea, “but not everyday dangers. We’ll do it on the dangers of things that seem like fun, recreation.”
He nodded sagely. This was a good idea.
Her slight smile and nod signaled her agreement.
“You know, the dangers of swimming pools and going out on the lakes.”
“Exploring,” she added. “Camping.”
“Right, right, you’ve got
