'Remember our terms.'
'Sometimes an interview takes its own shape, and past events become relevant-'
'We know how this is played. I give to get. Respect the balance. If you don't…'
Yueh cocked her head at an angle generally reserved for spaniels and Playmates, as if debating whether to call his bluff.
A producer shouted, 'Live in four, three, two-'
Tim said, 'I'll make sure all future exclusives from the Marshal's office go to Fox.'
Yueh's expression of dismay clicked into a perfect mask of welcome. 'Tim Rackley, known as the Troubleshooter due to his high-profile antics-'
Tim gave her a bland look.
'— is joining us. And tonight he'd like to deliver a message to the prison escapee who's been terrorizing the Los Angeles community.'
In the darkness of a vacant office, with the bustle of ceaseless KCOM staff and equipment thumping past in the hall beyond the drawn blinds, Tim and Bear reviewed the spoils of Tim's encounter-the B-roll. They'd suffered through ten minutes of establishing shots of Tess's house and on-site pickups, Yueh jabbering between takes about lighting and flattering angles. A pewter Mercedes Gelaendewagen rolled up to the curb, seemingly impervious to the dust. Dolan stepped out and headed toward Yueh in greeting before the take ended. The next resumed with them waiting, now impatiently, at the curb. An assistant clicked a light meter around Yueh's face until she knocked it away.
'Where the hell is this woman?'
'We're twenty minutes early, Melissa,' an off-screen producer said. 'Keep your pantsuit on.'
Bear leaned forward, excitedly jabbing a finger in the corner of the screen at what Tim had already noted: Chase Kagan. Leaning against the G-Wagen, he regarded the run-down neighborhood with something like delight. The aired segment had shown only Dolan at the house, but clearly Chase, as the more polished Vector mouthpiece, had accompanied his brother to oversee him. Chase's temporary amnesia when presented with Tess's name now seemed even more likely feigned.
The take ended. The next began with Yueh practicing her lead-ins, variations on a theme: 'A young boy stricken with a disorder…' 'A boy stricken with a disorder in his youth…' 'A young boy courageously fighting a genetic disorder…'
In the background Chase sat on the tailgate of the G-Wagen, guitar across his seersucker shorts, playing 'Dueling Banjos'-a joke no one registered.
A prolonged blackness. A shot of asphalt as someone adjusted the camera. Then Dolan's voice: 'Here she is. Here she is.'
'Finally.'
A beat-up Mazda clattered up into the driveway, Sam waving from the backseat. When Tess climbed out and shook her blond hair loose from a pink Dodgers cap, Chase lowered his guitar. His gaze stayed fixed on her as she unbuckled Sam from the back.
'You guys got here early.' Tess hefted a grocery bag from the trunk. 'I wanted to have some things to welcome you.'
'Let's get the crew set,' Yueh said.
The next shot was in the kitchen. Tess had unpacked some clear plastic wineglasses from the bag and arranged them on the chipped kitchen table. Chase popped the bottom off one and held the top like a cup; Dolan's fell apart in his hand. She was setting up dip and generic-brand crackers when Chase said, in a surprisingly charitable tone, 'You know what? Let's clear this. We don't want it to look like a celebration or anything.'
Tess dipped her chin. 'Okay, right.' She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled with a hint of embarrassment.
A few outtakes followed of Yueh teaching Sam some basics about being on air. She dealt with him sweetly; when he didn't smile on cue, she set her fists on her hips in mock anger to make him laugh. Tess looked on with beaming maternal pride, Chase at her side, taking in her profile.
'Don't worry, sweetie,' Yueh said, 'we'll shoot some footage of you, and you can watch it right here in this screen till you're comfortable. Okay?'
Some takes ensued-Sam hooking fingers into his mouth to pull his cheeks wide; Sam pretending to descend stairs, lowering his torso by increments from the lens's view; Sam hamming it up with a ballplayer's 'hey momz.'
Back to static, then an establishing shot as two PAs arranged pillows on the couch and the sound engineer fussed with a boom mike. To the side, only half in the frame, Tess finally turned and met Chase's stare.
Her voice, far from the mike, was barely audible. 'Help you?'
Chase manufactured a blush. 'Your husband must adore you.'
'He kept the TV. I kept the ring.'
The exchange was tough to make out over the foreground noise. Bear raised the volume in time to catch Chase's reply: 'Why do you wear it?'
'It keeps jerks from bothering me.'
'Am I bothering you?'
'Not yet.'
Tim and Bear watched the rest of the B-roll for more of this daytime drama, but other than Yueh's further warming to Sam and Tess, it depicted little of value.
Bear popped the tape and thrust it into an immense jacket pocket. 'You know who we gotta talk to now.'
Chapter 43
Sam ground a stick into the top of the anthill, leaving it protruding like a flag. He squatted, fists in the dirt, elbows bracing his knees. Tiny red motion set the stick alive. A neighbor kid about two years younger aped Sam's stance, casting sideways glances and making minute corrections to his foot position. The sun had dropped from view behind the roof, bathing the front yard in a gray swath, a precursor to shadow. When the wind shifted, it brought laughter from the children in the park at the street's end.
Sam reached tentatively for the stick, finally snatching it and shaking off the ants while his little friend watched with wonderment. Pulled to the opposing curb, waiting for Bear to finish his check-in with the LAPD homicide detective working the Ted Sands murder, Tim watched Sam play.
Ginny came to mind, sitting on a park bench regarding her nemesis, the monkey bars, her swinging legs too short for her sneakers to scrape tanbark. No concern greater than if she was at last going to make her way across the metal bars. No knowledge of what was in store for her at the end of her brief life. No premonition of Roger Kindell. Kindell of the tall forehead, the sloppy mouth, the uncomprehending gaze.
Roger Kindell of the garage shack and the hacksaw.
The pain came, but it was duller these days. Maybe after a time, some of the nerves in a well-pried wound finally burned out. Or maybe a part of Tim had capitulated, had gratefully traded a memory sensation or two for numbness. Either way, Sam at the anthill brought Tim back over familiar terrain. Another seven-year-old on the brink of death. The difference was, Sam knew it.
Despite the fate hanging over him, he seemed like any other boy. Tim didn't know what he expected- someone more maudlin, more tragic, more precocious-but Sam was just a kid poking at insects. Tim couldn't help but reflect on his own trivial parental concerns. Someday while he worried about Tyler choking on a cashew or slipping on just-washed tile, one of the billion parts that made up his son's tiny, splendid body could malfunction, and then Tim or Dray would be the one wearing a pager. With all the resources and love that get poured into a child, year after year, there were no guarantees. A weakened artery wall. A renegade mole. A malfunctioning gene. Watching Sam issue bossy directives to his sidekick, Tim mulled over what he'd learned about Sam's stage of illness. He was a sweet kid on a slow-motion descent, a little worse every day. And there was not a thing anyone could do for him. Except Vector, and Chase had made clear the clinical trials were closed.
