Private Scandals (5 page)

“I’ve got one more call waiting.”

“Take your time. Want anything?”

“I could use a cold drink. My vocal cords are raw.”

Deanna cleared her mental decks and punched in the next button. “Mr. Van Damme, I’m terribly sorry for the interruption. There seems to be a mix-up with Miss Perkins’s wine order for tomorrow night. She’ll need three cases of Taittinger’s, not two. Yes, that’s right. And the white wine?” Deanna checked off her list as the caterer
recited from his. “Yes, that’s right. And can I ease her mind about the ice sculpture?” She sent Marshall another smile when he returned with a cold can of 7-Up. “That’s wonderful, Mr. Van Damme. And you do have the change from tarts to petits fours? Terrific. I think we’ve got it under control. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. ’Bye.”

With a long exhale, Deanna dropped the phone on its hook. “Done,” she told Marshall. “I hope.”

“Long day for you?”

“Long, and productive.” Automatically she began to tidy her desk. “I appreciate your meeting me here, Marshall.”

“My schedule was lighter than yours.”

“Mmm.” She took a deep drink, then set the can aside before shutting down her workstation. “And I owe you one for changing plans for tomorrow to accommodate Angela.”

“A good psychologist should be flexible.” He watched her as she straightened papers and organized notes. “Besides, it sounds like a hell of a party.”

“It’s turning out that way. She’s not a woman to do anything halfway.”

“And you admire that.”

“Absolutely. Give me five minutes to freshen up, then I promise to focus all my energy on relaxing with you over dinner.”

When she stood, he shifted so that his body just brushed hers. It was a subtle move, a subtle suggestion. “You look very fresh to me.”

She felt the trickle of excitement run down her spine, the warmth of awareness bloom in her stomach. Tilting her head to meet his eyes, she saw the desire, the need and the patience, a combination that sent her pulse skipping.

She had only to say yes, she knew, and they would forget all about dinner, and all about relaxing. And for one moment, one very long, very quiet moment, she wished it could be that simple.

“I won’t be long,” she murmured.

“I’ll wait.”

He would, she thought when he moved aside to let her by. And she would have to make up her mind, soon, whether she wanted to continue along the comfortable, companionable road of this relationship, or shift gears.

“Having your head shrunk, Dee?”

She spotted the cameraman by the door, biting into a Milky Way. “That’s so lame, Joe.”

“I know.” He grinned around the chocolate. There was a button that said AVAILABLE pinned to his tattered denim vest. He had holes in the knees of his jeans. Techs didn’t have to worry about appearance. That was just the way Joe liked it. “But somebody’s got to say it. Did you set up those two interviews for the morning? The tulip wars?”

“Yeah. Sure you don’t mind giving up your Saturday morning?”

“Not for overtime pay.”

“Good. Delaney’s still at the desk, isn’t he?”

“I’m waiting for him.” Joe bit off more candy. “We’ve got a poker game tonight. I’m going to hose him for the double shift he stuck me with last week.”

“Do me a favor, then, and tell him we’re set, both women, ten o’clock.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” Deanna hurried away to do quick repairs on her hair and makeup. She was applying fresh lipstick when Joe burst into the ladies’ room. The door slammed back against the wall, echoing as he lunged at her.

“Jesus, Joe, are you nuts?”

“Get your butt in gear, Dee. We’ve got an assignment, and we’ve got to move fast.” He grabbed her purse from the sink with one hand and her arm with the other.

“What, for God’s sake?” She tripped over the threshold as he hauled her out the door. “Did somebody start a war?”

“Almost as hot. We’ve got to get out to O’Hare.”

“O’Hare? Damn it, Marshall’s waiting.”

Fighting impatience, Joe let Deanna tug her arm free. If he had any complaints about her, it was that her vision wasn’t
quite narrow enough. She always saw the peripheral when the camera needed a tight shot.

“Go tell the boyfriend you’ve got to go be a reporter. Delaney just got word there’s a plane coming in, and it’s in trouble. Big time.”

“Oh, God.” She made the dash back into the newsroom with Joe on her heels. Bursting through the pandemonium, she snatched a fresh notebook from her desk. “Marshall, I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“I’ve already gathered that. Do you want me to wait?”

“No.” She dragged a hand through her hair, grabbed her jacket. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll call you. Delaney!” she called out.

The stout assignment editor waved the stub of his unlit cigar in her direction. “Take off, Reynolds. Keep in touch on the two-way. We’ll be patching you in live. Get me a goddamn scoop.”

“Sorry,” she called to Marshall. “Where’s the plane coming in from?” she shouted to Joe as they raced up the stairs. His motorcycle boots clattered on the metal like gunfire.

“London. They’ll be feeding us the rest of the information as we go.” He shoved open the outside door and then plunged out into a torrent of rain. His Chicago Bulls sweatshirt was immediately plastered to his chest. He shouted over the storm while he unlocked the van. “It’s a 747. More than two hundred passengers. Left engine failure, some problem with the radar. Might have taken a hit of lightning.” To punctuate his words, a spear of lightning cracked the black sky, shattering the dark.

Already drenched, Deanna climbed into the van. “What’s the ETA?” Out of habit, she switched on the police scanner under the dash.

“Don’t know. Let’s just hope we get there before they do.” He’d hate to miss getting a shot of the crash. He gunned the engine, glanced at her. The gleam in his eyes promised a wild ride. “Here’s the kicker, Dee. Finn Riley’s on board. The crazy son of a bitch called in the story himself.”

S
itting in the forward cabin of the beleaguered 747 was like riding in the belly of a dyspeptic bronco. The plane bucked, kicked, shuddered and shook as if it were struggling mightily to disgorge its complement of passengers. Some of the people on board were praying, some were weeping, still others had their faces buried in air-sickness bags, too weak to do anything but moan.

Finn Riley didn’t give much thought to prayer. In his own way he was religious. He could, if the need arose in him, recite the Act of Contrition just as he had through all those shadowy sessions in the confessional as a child. At the moment, atonement wasn’t on the top of his list.

Time was running out—on his battery pack on his laptop computer. He’d have to switch to his tape recorder soon. Finn much preferred writing copy as the words flowed from his mind to his fingers.

He glanced out the window. The black sky exploded again and again with spears of lightning. Like lances of the gods—nope, he decided, deleting the phrase. Too corny. A battleground, nature against man’s technology. The sounds were definitely warlike, he mused. The prayers, the weeping, the groans, the occasionally hysterical laugh. He’d heard them
in trenches before. And the echoing boom of thunder that shook the plane like a toy.

He used the last moments of his dying battery playing that angle.

Once he’d shut down, he secured the disk and the computer in his heavy metal case. He’d have to hope for the best there, Finn mused, as he slipped his mini-recorder from his briefcase. He’d seen the aftermath of plane crashes often enough to know what survived was pure luck.

“It’s May fifth, seven-oh-two Central time,” Finn recited into the recorder. “We’re aboard flight 1129 approaching O’Hare, though it’s impossible to see any lights through the storm. Lightning struck the port engine about twenty minutes ago. And from what I could squeeze out of the first-class flight attendant, there’s some problem with the radar, possibly storm-related. There are two hundred and fifty-two passengers on board, and twelve crew.”

“You’re crazy.” The man sitting next to Finn finally lifted his head from between his knees. His face, under its sheen of sweat, was pale green. His upper-class British voice was slurred more than a little with a combination of scotch and terror. “We could be dead in a few minutes and you’re talking into some bloody machine.”

“We could be alive in a few minutes, too. Either way, it’s news.” Sympathetic, Finn dragged a handkerchief out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Mumbling, the man dabbed at his face. As the plane shuddered again, he laid his head weakly against the seat and closed his eyes. “You must have ice water for blood.”

Finn only smiled. His blood wasn’t icy, it was hot, pumping hot, but there was no use in trying to explain that to a layman. It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid, or that he was particularly fatalistic. But he did have the reporter’s unique sense of tunnel vision. He had his recorder, his notebook, his laptop. These were shields that gave the illusion of indestructibility.

Why else did a cameraman continue to roll tape when bullets were flying? Why did a reporter jab a mike into the
face of a psychopath, or run in instead of out of a building during a bomb threat? Because he was blinded by the shields of the Fourth Estate.

Or maybe, Finn mused with a grin, they were just crazy.

“Hey.” He shifted in his seat and aimed the recorder. “Want to be my last interview?”

His companion opened red-rimmed eyes. What he saw was a man only a few years younger than himself, with clear, pale skin shadowed by a hint of a beard shades darker than the tousled mane of wavy bronze hair that swept the collar of a leather bomber’s jacket. Sharp, angular features were softened by a mouth spread in an engaging grin that featured a crooked eyetooth. The grin brought out dimples that should have softened the face, yet only made it tougher. Like dents in rock.

But it was the eyes that held the onlooker’s attention. Just now they were a deep, misty blue, like a lake dappled in fog, and they were filled with amusement, self-deprecation and recklessness.

The man heard a sound bubble in his own throat and was stunned to realize it was a laugh. “Fuck you,” he said, grinning back.

“Even if we buy it on this run, I don’t think they’ll air that. Network standards. Is this your first trip to the States?”

“Jesus, you are crazy.” But some of his fear was ebbing. “No, I make the trip about twice a year.”

“What’s the first thing you want to do if we land in one piece?”

“Call my wife. We had a row before I left. Silly business.” He mopped his clammy face again. “I want to talk to my wife and kids.”

The plane lost altitude. The PA crackled under the sounds of screams and sobs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats, with your seat belts fastened. We will be landing momentarily. For your own safety, please put your head between your knees, grasp your ankles firmly. Once we land, we’ll begin emergency evacuation procedures.”

Or they’ll scrape us up with shovels, Finn mused. The vision of the wreck of Pan Am flight 103 spread over Scotland played uneasily in his mind. He remembered too well what he’d seen, what he’d smelled, what he’d felt when he’d broadcast that report.

He wondered, fatalistically, who would stand in front of twisted, smoking metal and tell the world about the fate of flight 1129.

“What’s your wife’s name?” Finn asked as he leaned forward.

“Anna.”

“Kids?”

“Brad and Susan. Oh God, oh God, I don’t want to die.”

“Think about Anna and Brad and Susan,” Finn told him. “Pull them right into your head. It’ll help.” Cool-eyed, he studied the Celtic cross that had worked its way out from under his sweater to dangle on its chain. He had people to think about, as well. He closed his hand over the cross, held it warm in his hand.

“It’s seven-oh-nine, Central time. The pilot’s taking us in.”

“Can you see it yet? Joe, can you see it?”

“Can’t see a goddamn thing through this goddamn rain.” He squinted, hefting his camera. Rain ran off the bill of his fielder’s cap and waterfalled in front of his face. “Can’t believe there’s no other crews here yet. It’s just like Finn to call the son-of-a-bitching story in so we’d get an exclusive.”

“They’ll have heard about it by now.” Straining to see through the gloom, Deanna shoved sopping hair from her eyes. In the lights of the runway, the rain looked like a hail of silver bullets. “We won’t be alone out here for long. I hope we’re right about them using this runway.”

“We’re right. Wait. Did you hear that? I don’t think that was thunder.”

“No, it sounded like—there!” She stabbed a finger toward the sky. “Look. That’s got to be it.”

The lights were barely visible through the slashing rain. Faintly, she heard the mutter of an engine, then the answering wail of emergency vehicles. Her stomach flipped over.

“Benny? Are you copying this?” She lifted her voice over the storm, satisfied when she heard her producer’s voice come through her earpiece. “It’s coming down now. Yes?” She nodded to Joe. “We’re set. We’re going live,” she told Joe, and stood with her back to the runway. “Go from me, then follow the plane in. Keep on the plane. They’ve got us,” she murmured, listening to the madhouse of the control room through her earpiece. “In five, Joe.”

She listened to the lead-in from the anchor, and her cue. “We’ve just spotted the lights from flight 1129. As you can see, the storm has become very violent, rain is washing over the runways in sheets. Airport officials have refused to comment on the exact nature of the problem with flight 1129, but emergency vehicles are standing ready.”

“What can you see, Deanna?” This from the anchor desk back in the studio.

“The lights, and we can hear the engine as the plane descends.” She turned as Joe angled the camera skyward. “There!” In the lightning flash, the plane was visible, a bright silver missile hurtling groundward. “There are two-hundred and sixty-four passengers and crew aboard flight 1129.” She shouted over the scream of storm, engines and sirens. “Including Finn Riley, CBC’s foreign correspondent returning to Chicago from his post in London. Please God,” she murmured, then fell silent, letting the pictures tell the story as the plane came into clear view.

It was laboring. She imagined herself inside as the pilot fought to keep the nose up and level. The sound must have been deafening.

“Almost,” she whispered, forgetting the camera, the mike, the viewers as she kept her gaze riveted on the plane. She saw the landing gear, then the bright red, white and blue logo of the airline slashed on the side of the plane. There was only static in her earpiece.

“I can’t hear you, Martin. Stand by.”

She held her breath as the wheels hit, skidded, bounced off the tarmac. Held it still as the plane slid and swayed, chased down the runway by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles.

“It’s skidding,” she called out. “There’s smoke. I can see what looks like smoke under the left wing. I can hear the brakes screaming, and it’s slowing. It’s definitely slowing, but there’s a problem with control.”

The wing dipped, skimming the tarmac and shooting up a shower of sparks. Deanna watched them sizzle and die in the wet as the plane swerved. Then, with a shuddering bump, it stopped, diagonally across the runway.

“It’s down. Flight 1129 is on the ground.”

“Deanna, is it possible for you to assess the damage?”

“Not from here. Just the smoke I spotted at the left wing, which corroborates our unofficial reports of left-engine failure. Emergency crews are soaking down the area with foam. Ambulances are standing by. The door’s opening, Martin. The chute’s coming out. I can see—yes, the first passengers being evacuated.”

“Get closer,” the producer ordered. “We’re cutting back to Martin to give you time to get closer.”

“We’ll move closer to the scene, and bring you more on flight 1129, which has just landed at O’Hare. This is Deanna Reynolds for CBC.”

“You’re clear,” her producer shouted. “Go.”

“Goddamn!” Excitement pitched Joe’s voice up an octave. “What pictures. What pictures. It’s fucking Emmy time.”

She shot him a look, but was too used to the cameraman’s style to comment. “Come on, Joe. Let’s see if we can get some interviews.”

They dashed toward the runway as more passengers slid down the emergency chute into the arms of waiting rescue workers. By the time they reached the huddle of vehicles, and reset for broadcast, there were half a dozen people safely out. One woman sat on the ground, weeping into her folded arms. With the singlemindedness of a newsman, Joe rolled tape.

“Benny, we’re at the scene. Are you getting this?”

“Absolutely. It’s good film. We’ll be putting you back live. Get me one of the passengers. Get me—”

“Riley,” Joe shouted. “Hey, Finn Riley.”

Deanna glanced back toward the chute in time to see Finn make his slide to earth. On hearing his name called, he turned his head. Eyes narrowed against the driving rain, he focused on the camera. And grinned.

He landed easily, despite the metal case he clutched. Rain dripped from his hair, skimmed down his leather jacket and soaked his boots.

In an easy lope he covered the ground from chute to camera.

“You lucky son of a bitch.” Joe beamed and punched Finn on the shoulder.

“Good to see you, Joe. Excuse me a minute.” Without warning, he grabbed Deanna and planted a hard kiss on her mouth. She had time to feel the heat radiating from his body, to register the shock of electricity from his mouth to hers, a quick burst of power, before he released her.

“Hope you don’t mind.” He gave her a charming smile. “I thought about kissing the ground, but you look a hell of a lot better. Can I borrow these a minute?”

He was already tugging her earpiece free. “Hey.”

“Who’s producing?”

“Benny. And I—”

“Benny?” He snagged her mike. “Yeah, it’s me. So, you got my call.” He chuckled. “My pleasure. Anything I can do for the news department.” He listened a moment, nodded. “No problem. We’re going live in ten,” he told Joe. “Keep an eye on that for me,” he asked Deanna, and set his case down at her feet. He dragged the hair out of his face and looked into the camera.

“This is Finn Riley, reporting live from O’Hare. At six thirty-two this evening, flight 1129 from London was struck by lightning.”

Deanna wondered why the rain running off her clothes didn’t sizzle as she watched Finn make his report.
Her
report,
she corrected. Two minutes after hitting the ground and the sneaky bastard had usurped her, stolen her piece and delegated her to gofer.

So he was good, Deanna fumed as she watched him leading the viewers on the odyssey of flight 1129 from London. That was no surprise. She’d seen his reports before—from London, yes, and from Haiti, Central America, the Middle East.

She’d even intro’d a few of them.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that he’d snatched her piece away from her. Well, Deanna decided, he might have upstaged her, but he was going to discover that stealing her newspiece wasn’t a snap.

Interviews were her strong point, she reminded herself. That was her job, she told herself, struggling to cool off. And that’s what she would do. Brilliantly.

Turning her back on Finn, she hunched her shoulders against the downpour and went to look for passengers.

Moments later, there was a tap on her back. She turned, lifted a brow. “Did you need something?”

“Brandy and a roaring fire.” Finn wiped rain from his face. He was in gear, fueled by the chaos and the immediacy of the report. And the simple fact that he wasn’t a dead man. “Meantime, I figured we’d round out the piece with some interviews. Some passengers, a few of the emergency crew—some of the flight crew, if we’re lucky. We should be able to get it in for a special report before the late news.”

“I’ve already lined up a couple of passengers who are willing to talk to me on air.”

“Good. Take Joe and do it, while I see if I can finagle an interview with the pilot.”