A Hideous Beauty (5 page)

“Actually, I was just in Myles Shepherd's room and—”

“Ah yes! Come in! Come in!”

He took me by the arm and led me through a swinging gate into the restricted area of administration central, presumably so the students in line wouldn't overhear our conversation.

My long-dormant student senses tingled wildly. I'd seen students taken by the arm by the vice principal into the administration inner sanctum. Some of them were never heard from again.

“Several of our teachers are running late,” Benton or Benson said in a hushed tone. “Big accident on I-8. Traffic is backed up for miles.”

As though I needed proof, he led me to a portable TV sitting on top of a row of file cabinets. A square-jawed reporter wearing headphones was describing the situation from high overhead in a news helicopter. At the bottom of the screen a banner announced that this was
BREAKING NEWS.

The reporter was shouting into his microphone in order to be heard over the noise of the helicopter.
“. . . backed up all the way to the Grossmont summit. As you can see, all four lanes are blocked. Eastbound traffic is at a complete standstill.”

While the reporter described every commuter's worst nightmare, the camera panned, providing a jittery view of three long
lines of cars. At the front of the line a lone vehicle was engulfed in flames. The inferno generated a column of black smoke that stretched to the heavens.

“. . . battling the fire. The flames have been so intense, the firefighters have had to back away. All they can do now is let it burn itself out. As you can see, a second crew is just arriving . . .”

A fire truck with flashing red lights could be seen inching its way up the emergency lane, slowed by onlookers who had gotten out of their cars to see what was going on.

“When we first arrived at the scene, we witnessed several bystanders attempting to fight the flames with handheld fire extinguishers in a valiant attempt to rescue the driver. The intense heat drove them back. (Ronny, see if you can zoom in on the men standing beside the truck.)”

The picture on the screen bounced crazily, then zoomed toward three men staring helplessly at the inferno. Their shoulders were hunched.
“As you can see, they're still holding the spent extinguishers in their hands.”

Zooming in closer, the camera swung toward the vehicle. Flames feasted hungrily on the car's interior.

“Poor devil . . . never had a chance,” Benton or Benson commented beside me.

A few feet from us a large woman in a floral print blouse gasped loudly, then again, as though she was trying to catch her breath. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared with disbelief at the television. “Oh . . . oh . . . oh!”

A coworker rushed to her side. “Roberta, what is it?”

Like a fish out of water the distraught woman gasped repeatedly. “The . . . the . . . plates!” she cried. “Look . . . look . . . at the . . . license plates!”

All eyes in the room squinted at the television screen, trying to see what Roberta saw. Gasps and wounded cries exploded across the room.

“One of your teachers?” I asked Benton or Benson.

The vice principal stood motionless. Tears ran down his cheeks, which was just downright scary. Vice principals don't cry, they make people cry.

The woman who had assisted Roberta now turned her attention to him. “Mr. Benson? Maybe you'd better sit down.”

Stone monuments aren't easily moved. It appeared Benson hadn't heard her. He stood with his jaw slightly askew as though its hinge was broken.

I glanced again at the television to see what would have this kind of effect on him. Centered on the screen was the blackened license plate of the burning car. Even though it was charred, the raised letters were readable.

CA TCHR

Benson was weeping openly now and it was painful to watch. “The Kiwanis gave him that license plate when he was voted teacher of the year,” he said to me.

I felt a chill.

“Who?” I asked.

I already knew, but I had to hear it.

“Shepherd,” Benson said. “Myles Shepherd.”

CHAPTER
3

T
he pillar of smoke from the burning car could be seen from the high school parking lot. Myles Shepherd dead. I couldn't believe it.

Usually when people say that, they haven't yet come to terms with reality. I really couldn't believe it. Not after what I'd seen yesterday in his office. I had to see for myself.

I started the car with one hand while the other checked my phone messages.

No messages. No missed calls.

I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. Why wasn't anyone returning my calls? It was as though Washington, D.C., had been wiped off the face of the planet.

Heading west on Madison Avenue, I was in sight of the freeway overpass at Second Street within a few minutes.

I pulled into a gas station convenience store on the opposite side of the street as the off-ramp. Throwing the gearshift lever into park, I took off across the street at a dead run.

On any other day crossing Second Street this way would be
suicide. But with no cars exiting the freeway, the road was so clear of traffic it was spooky.

I sprinted up the deserted exit ramp, drawn toward the black column of smoke. The smell of burned rubber stung my nostrils. I crested the ridge and entered the scene I'd viewed on the television minutes before.

No one paid attention to me. Crowd control focused on the side of the accident with all the cars.

I watched as firemen encircled the burning car frame, hoses shut off, but at the ready. The three would-be heroes stood off to one side holding spent fire extinguishers, their slumped posture unchanged.

Moving in as close as I dared, I did what I came to do. I peered inside the burning car, the driver's side. It took me a moment to sort out all the black-on-black shapes amid the smoke and flames, but eventually I made out the head of the driver. It was featureless and slumped to one side, as though he had nodded off. There was nothing to suggest a desperate attempt to get out of the car.

But was it Shepherd?

The body was burned beyond recognition.

The uncertainty of not knowing gnawed at me. I found it impossible to believe that the blackened corpse in that car was the same man who less than twenty-four hours earlier had burst into Technicolor.

Then again, as the effect of yesterday's fireworks dimmed, I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe it had actually happened.

I stared again at the blackened human form, almost daring it to prove me wrong, to do something unexpected, unexplainable, something supernatural like turning into a raven and flying away.

The blast of a horn nearly brought me out of my skin.
Behind me a white news van was rumbling up the exit ramp. As I stepped aside bold letters scrolled in front of me—KTSD Channel 2
Today's News When You Need It Most.
It rocked to a stop. The front cab doors flew wide and the side door slid open as the van disgorged its human contents.

A thin man in khaki shorts scurried up a ladder to the roof, where he began preparing a satellite dish for transmission.

A husky, red-bearded lumberjack of a man tumbled out swinging a video camera onto his shoulder like it was some sort of weapon. He began shooting as he advanced on the burning wreck.

From inside the van a foot appeared wearing stylish leather sling-back pumps. It was an attractive foot attached to an attractive leg. And then another.

I recognized them both. I used to date them.

Microphone in hand, Jana Torres stepped from the van. She hit the ground running, her luscious brown curls cascading over the padded shoulders of a tan suit coat. Like the cameraman before her, the instant she emerged from the van her attention was on the burning vehicle. She didn't see me.

I watched with swelling pride as she took control of the broadcast, pointing and directing her team. She approached a fireman who directed her to the chief in a white helmet. When the chief saw Jana coming, his eyes lit with recognition. He smiled and met her halfway.

With a pair of news helicopters circling overhead and the constant roar of pumper trucks, I couldn't hear what Jana said to the chief, but in short order she motioned to the cameraman and the head fireman squared his shoulders for an interview. The stalled lines of traffic formed a backdrop.

Jana donned an earpiece, looked into the camera's eye, and composed herself. She stood motionless for a few moments, presumably waiting for a signal from the studio. The delay was
long enough for me to be conquered once again by her stunning good looks.

Gone was the girlish cheerleader I remembered from high school. This Jana was comfortable with her womanhood. Her brown eyes flashed intelligence and personality and confidence.

She came to life and the interview began. The fire chief was stiff next to her. The only thing animated about him was a bottle-brush gray mustache that did a little dance when he talked.

A horrifying thought struck me. Jana didn't know the burning car belonged to Myles Shepherd! She didn't know the corpse a short distance from where she was standing might be that of a high school classmate and college boyfriend. How horrible it would be for her if she found out while on camera.

My first thought was the license plate. That's how the administration staff learned it was Shepherd's car. It was curled and completely blacked out now. Unreadable.

But what about the chief? What if he said something in the interview? He wouldn't do that, would he? Weren't they always withholding that information pending notification of relatives?

I watched the interview with increasing nervousness. I readied myself to . . . to what? Swoop in and rescue her?

Mercifully the interview concluded with Jana showing no sign of shock or surprise. I breathed easier.

After thanking the chief on camera, she proceeded to do her wrap-up. The chief didn't wander far. He took a single step back and watched her. He clearly had eyes for her.

That didn't sit well with me. Old feelings stirred, poked alive like embers that were buried in ashes.

For some reason Jana chose that moment to glance in my direction. Though she was still on camera, our gazes met and held, long enough to distract her. She stumbled in her delivery.

I wish I was secure enough to tell you that I was sorry to
have messed up her broadcast. But I'm not, and I wasn't. It gave me pleasure. The chief noticed the stumble too. He scowled at me for causing it. That made me feel even better.

Jana recovered, regaining her focus even though she was no longer talking. It took me a moment to realize the station must be asking her a follow-up question. She gave a brief answer and then it was over. The cameraman lowered the camera. Jana pulled the earpiece free, handing it and her microphone to the cameraman.

She gave the chief's hand a single pump of thanks. He tried to engage her in further conversation. She excused herself.

With a flip of her hair, Jana strode confidently toward me, her eyes and smile sparkling in glorious harmony. She had such an overpowering sense of femininity about her. It stunned me.

The whoop of a police siren startled me to my senses. They were opening a single lane of traffic.

Jana greeted me with a hug.

She smelled . . . she smelled great. Her breath was warm against my neck as she said, “Oh Grant . . . the Pulitzer! I'm so proud of you!”

Sense of duty wrung my heart like a dishrag. I hated that what I had to say next would spoil our reunion.

“Jana . . . I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

She took it hard. She turned to look at the car. By now the blaze was extinguished. Three streams of water hit it from three different angles. All that was left was the frame.

I told Jana how the high school staff had recognized the license plates. The next thing I knew, she was pressed against my chest sobbing.

We held each other in the number three lane of eastbound
Interstate 8 while a long line of rubbernecking commuters stared first at the burned car, then at us. I didn't care. I was content to hold Jana for as long as she needed me. It felt right. I began to wonder why we had ever split up in the first place. Then I remembered. We split up because of Myles.

I rested my chin against her head. It was hot with emotion. Neither of us spoke.

Firemen mopped up. The three would-be heroes climbed into trucks and drove away. The camera crew loaded the van. A man in a stylish pin-striped suit stood beside the fire truck, his arms folded. Ignoring all the other activity, he watched Jana and me.

It was Myles Shepherd.

I must have started, or gasped, or flinched, or all three because Jana looked at me with alarm.

“What's wrong?”

“Myles . . .” I muttered.

I glanced down at her, and when I looked up again, Myles Shepherd was gone.