Kate stopped to proofread what shed typed at her desk in the bureau then took a sip of fresh coffee.
It had been fifteen minutes since shed been back from the shelter in Duncanville. It was late in the afternoon and the morning was ancient history. So much had happened on the story: the discovery of the babys clothing, the mystery couple with a baby that appeared to have been Caleb Cooper, and now the FBIs investigation.
During the drive back from Duncanville, her heart raced the way it did whenever she was on to a strong story. Upon returning to the bureau she couldnt find Chuck Laneer or Dorothea Pick, so shed settled in and started writing.
Kate unwrapped the remainder of the turkey sandwich shed brought back from the shelter and bit into it. As she ate, she inserted her earphones to listen to her recorded interviews, checking them against the quotes shed flagged in her notebook from FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan, Jenna and Blake Cooper, Dr. Butler, Frank Rivera. Then she arranged them, enabling her story to flow.
Slug lines! Get me your slug lines, everybody! Tommy Koop called out a looming deadline to get a short description on coming stories to him for the budget list. Tommy would send the Dallas bureaus budget to Newsleads headquarters in New York, who would then distribute a revised, shortened version of top stories to subscribers across the country and around the globe. Tommy always made a show of pacing the bureau, which was now nearly full with reporters working at every desk, to get stories on the budget.
If its not on the budget its not on the wire, folks. Hey there, Kate, didnt see you come in. Can I get your slug line ASAP?
Kate gave hers a last quick read, tweaked it then pressed Send. You got it. Wherere Chuck and Dorothea?
In a meeting about coverage of the Presidents upcoming visit.
Kate finished the last of her sandwich then got back to her item, working from her notes and thoughts of the day. As the minutes swept by, she no longer heard the conversations and other sounds of the newsroom because she was immersed in her writing, pulling things together as fast as she could.
Her line rang.
Kate Page, Newslead.
Its Chuck. Can we see you in my office now?
Chuck was at his desk reading his monitor. Dorothea was on the small sofa looking over a few printed pages. Kate remained standing.
We read your slug line, Chuck said. This missing baby story has taken a helluva twist. Is our stuff exclusive?
Sort of.
What does that mean? Dorothea asked.
No one has the detail we have and the interviews, but I strongly suspect that the FBIs going to issue a news release and a missing-person poster soon.
Hell, thats not exclusive at all, Dorothea said. And your slug line said missing. Is this an abduction or one of the hundreds of tragic missing-person cases arising from the storm?
What does that mean? Dorothea asked.
No one has the detail we have and the interviews, but I strongly suspect that the FBIs going to issue a news release and a missing-person poster soon.
Hell, thats not exclusive at all, Dorothea said. And your slug line said missing. Is this an abduction or one of the hundreds of tragic missing-person cases arising from the storm?
No ones certain. Theres a lot of mystery surrounding the recent developments, Kate said.
Dorothea rolled her eyes. So we dont know what this is, exactly?
No. Its a mystery with a lot of disturbing elements that the FBI is trying to piece together.
Thats what I like about it, Chuck said. Readers love a mystery and this one is charged with anguish and heartbreak. What about the pictures? Where are they?
We have the mom and baby.
Those are old, Dorothea said. You shouldve flagged them as file pix instead of pix in your slug line. Your submission here implies new art.
Im expecting composites of people of interest from the FBI.
Expecting them? Dorotheas eyebrows arched. So they could be issued with the FBI news release? So you really dont have a lock on this story at all, do you? You seem to have oversold it. We should notify New York and remove it from the budget. This whole thing could fall through. Dorothea turned to Chuck for agreement.
He had removed his glasses and was tapping them to his chin.
Chuck, Dorothea continued, this could amount to nothing more than a rewrite of a police news release. Mandy has a story coming. A beautiful story about a kindergarten teacher who saved twenty-five little kids by herding them into the basement-
Fort Worth TV had that late last night, Dorothea. What Mandy has is a follow. What Kate has here is the result of enterprising. New York already said that they love this.
Chuck replaced his glasses, sat up and checked his monitor. Kate, he said, how close are you to being done?
Minutes.
Call your FBI contact. Push them to give us their pictures ASAP and for us to get a thirty-minute jump. Can you do that?
I will.
That way our story will move out to everyone with the FBI sketches before our competition can write a word. That way we can say Newslead broke the story. Agreed?
Fine, if it doesnt fall through, Dorothea said, brushing by Kate as she left.
Kate? Chuck looked at her.
Yes?
Dont mind her. The storms taking a toll on all of us.
I understand. Kate turned to leave.
One more thing.
Yes?
Good work.
32
Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas
All day long, after leaving Remy and the screaming brat at the motel, Mason Varno drove.
Rubbing his lips, he battled his craving, which got worse with every mile of the LBJ. Remys reluctance to cash in on the kid and his mounting parole issues, like missing his meeting for random drug-and-alcohol testing, didnt help. His dream was slipping through his fingers. He was coming to the edge of a black hole. He pounded his palms on the dash and cursed.
No damned way was he was giving up without a fight.
Ive got to come up with a way to get through this! Think!
He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.
Step one: Dont let the dream die.
He got off the expressway, pulled into a drugstore, bought a disposable phone and used it to call Garza.
After five rings it went to voice mail.
Its Varno. I got a new number. Youre the only one who has it. Call me so we can talk about my buy in.
Mason then sat in his truck in the parking lot. He grabbed the small pouch with the remainder of their cash. He fanned it with his thumb. Just under nine thousand left from the original fifteen the agency had paid Remy. Shed trusted him to manage the money, believing that hed saved it. She had no clue that hed used up much of it to buy dope. What they had left would not last, especially since he hadnt been working these past few weeks.
Mason tried to think, but his craving evolved into an aching. He used one hand to grip his temples, squeezing hard to keep his skull from splitting open. The tires squealed as he got back onto the freeway and headed to a place he knew at the western fringes of downtown Dallas.
It was a menacing stretch of run-down houses, condemned buildings, fortress liquor stores, hookers and the walking dead. He cruised the area for any police units, marked or unmarked, like the telltale electricians van they used for busts.
It looked good.
He wheeled up to the rusted newspaper boxes in front of Bills Second Chance Pawnshop. A kid wearing a Mavericks T-shirt, sideways ball cap and saggy pants hanging low to reveal his underwear, leaned into Masons window.
Yo, how you doin today, sir? the kid asked.
I need a blast.
The kids eyes took in Masons prison tattoos. Dealing on the street made him fast and smart. Everything was cool.
Got nothing but the finest quality. How much you down for?
Mason rubbed his chin hard; he needed something to sustain him and backup for later.
Fourteen grams.
WE-EE!
That a problem?
I can do that, I can do that. Itll cost you one point five large.
Mason reached into his pocket, counted fifteen hundred dollars and held it out for the kid, letting him see the grip of his gun.
Dont think of fucking with me, got that?
Nu-uhh. I know where you comin from. This a straight-up deal. A good deal for you and a good deal for me.
The kid passed him a tea-bag-sized pillow of foil. Mason opened it to inspect the crystals, touched a tiny one to his tongue. Satisfied, he drove off for several blocks, stopping at a shaded corner of a vacant parking lot.
Less than ten minutes later, he was riding a cloud of bliss and watching his troubles float around him like helium-filled balloons. He shut his eyes and smiled at the sky.
Now I can think. Review and assess.
Masons chief obstacle to achieving his objective was Remy.
He was convinced she was stalling on closing her deal with the surrogacy agency because she was all messed up. It started when shed lost the baby. The doctor used all that mumbo jumbo about postpartum psychosis, hallucinations and delusions to tell Mason that she could get messed up. Well, she did get messed up, with her headaches, her crying and her spells.
Then she grabbed the new baby.
She was whacked, all right.
Yet Mason started to believe-needed to believe-that Remys twisted idea would work. It was the only way they would see the payoff. But now, he was convinced that she didnt want to give up the baby, that she was forming some kind of attachment to it. He saw it in the way she was holding him, looking at him, the way she was caring for him.
Mothering him.
It was all messed up.
He had to fix it.
That baby was his forty-five-thousand-dollar ticket to the sweet life.
Masons new phone rang.
Startled, he tried to figure how much time had passed. Had he fallen asleep? The phone rang again and he answered.
You called me? It was Garza.
I still want in.
You got the money?
Im working on it.
Im working on it.
Goodbye.
Hold it, hold it. Ill get the money.
All you give me is talk. Theres an expiry date on this deal. People sponsored you, said you were solid.
Ill get it. I just need more time.
The buy-in number goes up. Now its thirty-five.
What? Thats too high.
Thats the number. The clock is ticking. The line went dead.
Mason ran his hands over his face.
He would work this out. He had no choice.