ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (3 page)

Lifting his tripod and camera from the back of
the station jeep, Jackson set up as close to the scene as the cops allowed. He
leveled his lens and hit the “record” button. It was obvious something had died
and not recently either. The area stank like rotting meat and spoiled eggs. He
had to cover his nose and mouth to keep from gagging.

He tuned back in to hear Izzie report the corpse
was a female, who apparently died from a gunshot wound to the head. The body
was partially decomposed and bloated. A faded yellow blouse, shredded plaid
skirt and some underclothes were the only evidence police reported. The victim
had a tattoo behind her right earlobe, but they didn’t know what, if any,
significance it carried.

Izzie concluded with a plea to the public to
contact police if anyone knew the identity of the victim or the circumstances
surrounding her death.

On the way back to the station Jackson tried to
shrug off the tragic story, but a voice inside his head wouldn’t let it go.
A
woman was dead—and no one missed her? How could that be?
His thoughts went
back to that girl on the balcony.
What if?
No, don’t go there.
 

For a change, Izzie was quiet, for which Jackson
was grateful. His mind wandered back to stories he’d covered in the past few
weeks: A triple-fatal—three people dead at the scene of an accident; a beauty
pageant with the typical gorgeous girls vying for a crown of fake diamonds; a
bank robber threatening to kill hostages and the discovery of a dead body—like
today.

Similar to first responders, news crews often
developed their own cryptic language and gallows’ humor to help them cope with
the mayhem they saw all too often. Jackson hadn’t been working long enough to
develop an indifference to the tragic stories he covered, but, if only to
preserve his own sanity, he was getting there.

Operating the live truck was a part of the job
Jackson both liked and feared. A remote studio utilized by TV stations to
broadcast stories at the scene, the live truck was a two-edged sword providing
a jump on the competition, but also presenting a danger to those involved.

When the truck’s fifty-foot microwave mast was
extended, if lightning was in the area or the operator got distracted, the
results could be fatal. Not long before Jackson was hired, an inexperienced
photographer drove off with the boom raised. It collided with high tension
wires sending 8000 volts of electricity through his reporter’s body. The woman
died instantly.

Leon waited for the microwave to
signal that his frozen spaghetti and meatball dinner was ready. With two
minutes to go, he walked into the adjoining family room, found the TV remote
and pushed the power button. Then he pressed thirty-nine. For some reason, he
preferred watching that station’s newscast, he really didn’t know why. Maybe
the reporters were prettier or the weather reports shorter, who knew?

Hearing the oven beep, he went back
to the kitchen and retrieved his supper. He sprinkled it with salt and pepper,
snagged a can of beer and a fork, then returned to the family room and settled
into his aging rocker-recliner to eat and watch the day’s news.

He was swallowing his last bite
when a story came that nearly caused him to choke. It was a piece covering the
burial of the body found at the beach. A woman was making a speech over the
coffin. And she was crying, for God’s sake.

“I never met you,” she began, “but
I just know you were awesome. Growing up you must have had such promise. I’m
positive your mom and dad were crazy about you and I know if they were here
now, they’d tell you how much they love and miss you. Your passing has created
an enormous hole in their hearts that never will be filled. They long for the
day when they will be with you again. God bless you, little darling, may you
rest in peace.”

When she finished, the camera
panned the cemetery. The woman stood alone at the gravesite.

 “What the hell’s she doing?”
Leon startled Tiny, who lay on the floor next to the recliner.

His alarm made its way from the pit
of his stomach through his chest and up to his throat, where it parked itself
in a knot, making it difficult to swallow.

Leon leaned forward, spilling the
last ounce of beer down the front of his pants
. Damn it all.
He stood up
to retrieve a cloth from the kitchen.
Who the hell was that?

His question was answered a few
seconds later as a pretty reporter began the interview.

The lady’s name was Martha Simpson
from Lutz, a city about sixteen miles north of Tampa. She’d come to experience
Gasparilla and visit her son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren. When she heard
about the unidentified woman found off Clearwater Beach, it touched her heart
and she couldn’t bear the thought of someone going to their grave
unmourned
. So she appointed herself the unofficial
representative of the girl’s family and attended the burial on their behalf. It
was as simple as that.

Leon was dismayed. The woman had
succeeded in making an obscure girl’s death into a tearjerker.

“Make me cry why don’t
ya
,” Leon muttered, disgusted. “Just my luck the
network’ll
notice and run the story on national television.
All’s I need is for Seymour to see it. Or worse, for the parents to find out
what happened to their precious daughter. They’ll put pressure on the cops for
sure, then here we go.
Seymour’ll
go ape-shit and who
knows what’ll happen. Why the hell don’t people mind their own business?” 

To be on the safe side, he jotted
her name and city down in his ledger next to the information on I-3. Now if
things got out of hand, he’d know where to find her.

Tiny stood in front of him, whining
and trying to make eye contact. The dog was hungry and he hadn’t fed I-4 yet
either.
Chores, chores, where does the time go?
  He also had to get
the girl ready for viewing by a customer coming later. Leon hoped the buyer
liked I-4. Hanging onto the merchandise too long was risky. Not only that, but
he was getting used to having her around. No, better to keep the product
moving.

On their lunch break, which was
neither really lunch nor a break, Izzie and Jackson sat by the side of the road
in the news van inhaling pizza they’d been able to grab at a local convenience
store. With nothing else to talk about, Jackson raised the issue of the girl on
the balcony.

“You still obsessing over that?”
Izzie snorted.

Izzie’s lack of interest annoyed
Jackson, who usually managed to keep his opinion to himself. This time the
words popped out before his self-censoring mechanism kicked in. “I guess if
it’s not about you, then it’s not important.”

“Excuse me?” Izzie’s eyebrows shot
up along with the tone in her voice.

Jackson felt his ears heat up as
blood rushed to his face. “It’s just that you don’t seem to give a lick about
anybody but yourself, let alone those young girls. One either committed suicide
or was murdered and the other has some kind of issue going on with that man who
yanked her off the balcony. Couldn’t you at least pretend to give a flying
fig?”

He hadn’t meant to go on like that,
but the door was open and he’d gone through it. He knew there’d be a price to
pay, but it was too late to back out.

Izzie threw him a look that said it
all: He was a stupid jerk not worth a response. She looked at her watch and
said, “We’d better get going or we’ll be late.”

Those were the last words she said
to him for the rest of the day.

It was Friday night and Jackson had
trouble sleeping. Throbbing pain from balancing the camera on his shoulder was
more intense than usual. It was his constant companion these days.
If that
was the price he had to pay for pursuing his dream job, then so be it.
To
Jackson, a little discomfort was more than worth it.

He got up, took two
Advils
and then switched his laptop on. After making silly
comments to a high school buddy on Facebook and watching some videos on
YouTube, he checked his email. That was a big mistake. Izzie had posted a
message that sent shivers down his spine:

Okay, Mr. Hotshot Cameraman. U
think you
no
me? Like, what U no don’t scratch the
surface. Just
’cause
I’m a reporter and have looks,
don’t mean I don’t care ’bout people. That girl they buried other day? The one
nobody but that woman cared enough to stand at her grave? For your information,
Smarty-pants, I felt real bad
bout
her. She made me
think about the girl on the balcony UR so worried bout. I been going over there
to see if I can find out what’s going on. Been back several times. That guy in
the video started to notice. The last time he waved and asked me to go for a
drink. I said no, but if he does it again, I’ll take him up on it. If I can get
him to invite me in, I’ll check on that girl. So, see, Jackson, UR not the only
one with a heart. I have one too, even if I don’t wear it on my sleeve like U
do. See you at work.  Izzie

Jackson’s heart pounded as he
typed, his fingers moving furiously over the keyboard:

No, no, Izzie, don’t do that.
As you said it was probably only a father disciplining his daughter. If
something’s going on, you could end up in the middle of it. Please, leave it
alone.
DON’T GO BACK THERE!!!!
I’m sorry for the rude comment. I didn’t
mean it. My shoulder was hurting and I overreacted. Let’s talk about it Monday
and see what we can come up with. In the meantime, I’m begging you—don’t go
anywhere near that guy!!!  Jackson

The next morning, Jackson couldn’t
shake an uneasy feeling. Izzie’s email stayed with him.
What if she’d gone
back there?
What if the man was a trafficker, had noticed her hanging
around and grabbed her? Where was she now?

Whoa, man, get hold of yourself.
You’re always letting your imagination get the best of you.
There is no
trafficker—
just a guy who noticed a pretty girl and invited her out for a
drink. That’s all there was to it. Who was he to interfere? Besides, he’d
emailed Izzie and told her to stay out of it. She might be a bit stuck on
herself and think she knows it all, but she’s not stupid. She’ll be all right.
We’ll talk about it Monday. There’s no need to get all crazy over this.

Jackson had to fight the urge to
call Izzie and make sure she was all right. She’d gotten his email, he told
himself. The woman was all but surgically attached to her computer. There was
no way she didn’t get that message. He’d made it clear she’d be putting herself
at risk if she went back there. Besides, she was an adult, more than capable of
making her own decisions.

Jackson touched the tender spot on his shoulder
and glanced around the apartment: The fridge was almost empty. Dirty dishes
filled the sink, an empty pizza box peeked from the overflowing garbage can and
a basket burdened with a profusion of smelly clothes begged to be laundered.
Collecting empty beer cans that populated his living room like unwanted guests,
he decided he’d gotten worked up over nothing. Taking another look at the
disaster his living space had become, he headed out the door to buy groceries.
The dishes and laundry could wait.

The weekend went by too fast for Jackson’s taste.
Seemed like he’d barely got caught up with his chores when it was Monday and
time to start the routine all over again. He wasn’t looking forward to another
week with Izzie. She knew exactly which buttons to push to aggravate him. Well,
not today. He’d do his assignments and keep his mouth shut. If she wanted to
bitch about people or her personal life, she’d have to find another shoulder to
cry on. Speaking of shoulders, he rubbed his. It was still sore.

After picking up his equipment and checking to
make sure everything was working, Jackson glanced around, absently listening to
the ebb and flow of newsroom activity. Fingers clicked across computer
keyboards reflecting the typists’ urgency. Reporters and photographers headed
out to cover assigned stories. One of the newer photogs gleefully proclaimed
he’d gotten a “shot of the blood stains…”

Jackson didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t have to.
Those first days on the job were one big adrenaline rush. He sighed. Was the
honeymoon over? He still liked the work, but somehow the excitement was
beginning to slip away. It had become something of a grind. Well, what did he
expect? Life wasn’t one big thrill ride, no matter how much he wished it was.

He checked the time again. It was well after
eight.
Where the hell was that woman?
They’d have to get a move on if
they were going to make it to the news conference. It was true they had plenty
of time, since it was only a few miles away, but Jackson liked to arrive early
to get a good spot. Izzie didn’t seem to understand his part of the job.

Yes, she had to stand in front of the camera,
look good, write the stories and report them without getting her words garbled.
Jackson knew that wasn’t easy. He’d seen plenty of reporters crack up, then
have to repeat it over and over before they nailed it.

But if he understood how difficult reporters’
jobs were, why couldn’t they understand that photographers worked equally hard?
He’d personally taken a workshop on lighting at his own expense to improve the
quality of his work. Instead of appreciating it, people like Izzie got annoyed
because, in her words, “he’s too fussy and should just point, shoot and get it
over with.”

He’d even overheard her call him a prima donna.
Well, maybe he was, who knew? He rubbed his shoulder again and looked at his
watch.
Where was that girl?
He’d lost his lead time and would be lucky
to even get set up before the news conference began.

Glancing around the room again, he headed over to
the assignment editor’s desk.

“Why’re you still here? Aren’t you supposed to be
at the convention center by now?” Morris Stone, the chief photographer, had
just joined them. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I know,” Jackson said, “but Izzie’s not here
yet. She call in sick or something?”

“If she had, you would’ve been told. Right?” The
assignment editor was clearly flustered. “Go on over there and get set up. When
she shows up, I’ll tell her where to go—literally.”

They guffawed at the reference to what happens
when someone let the team down.

Jackson headed out the door toward the news van.
Now he’d really have to hustle. He didn’t have time to worry about a truant
reporter.