First Victim

CHAPTER 56

tevie McNeal sat up straight in her anchor chair facing the three robotic cameras, a barrage of lights pouring color and heat down onto her.

At Boldt’s request, she prepared herself to lie, to use her anchor chair for her own good, to willfully manipulate her trusting public in an effort to rescue her Little Sister. It was professional suicide if it ever came out, but she felt bound to pursue anything that increased Melissa’s chances. Anything.

She would break from the prepared text of the news hour and read from her own cards. There would be hell to pay, especially if the station managers ever found out she had known in advance that the information was inaccurate, a construct of a police department desperate for a break. In the next few seconds she was going to put her entire career on the line. She wouldn’t find work in a fourth-tier city if this ever came out.

Her director’s voice came through the earpiece she wore. ‘‘You okay, Stevie?’’

She raised her hand to signal him, though she did not open her eyes, her full concentration on Melissa and putting her needs first.

Surprisingly, she thought of her father, alone and unloved in some veteran’s hospital, courtesy of the federal government. Melissa had mentioned his poor health. Stevie blamed her father for her years in New York, for feeding her to a skirt-chasing producer whose idea of educating the fresh recruits was getting their clothes off. She hadn’t spoken to her father since her departure from New York—her ending the affair had also ended her network career. But faced with compromising her career, she suddenly thought of him and how she would be letting him down, would be damaging the McNeal name, and she realized he still held power over her, even off wherever he was, battling whatever it was. She could break the communication but not the connection.

Five . .. four. .. three.. .two .. . She opened her eyes. The floor director’s finger pointed ominously at her. She felt cold despite the glare of lights.

Good evening. You’re live, with

News Four at Five

. I’m Stevie McNeal.

She broke from the prepared text.

Local health authorities announced just moments ago that the flu-like virus that may have been responsible for the deaths of several illegal aliens including three found dead in a shipping container last month is a far more serious threat to local health than previously imagined.

Corwin stood up from behind the console in the soundproofed booth and waved frantically at her, pointing to the thin pink sheet of text he held in his hand, the yellow copy of which lay before her on the anchor desk, and the text to which scrolled on the prompting screen below the camera lens. She saw him only peripherally, her attention primarily directed to the cards but divided between the cards and the camera with the red light, his angry voice carrying through her flesh-colored earpiece and attempting to distract her as she continued to read her cards. But Stevie McNeal was a pro: She never broke her cadence.

News Four at Five

has learned that this contagion, which produces flu-like symptoms of high fever, congestion and can result in bronchial infection, stomach cramps and diarrhea, is also believed responsible for the deaths of the Jane Doe and three other corpses found improperly buried at Hilltop Cemetery in the past week. There are unconfirmed rumors that the virus is spreading rapidly through the detainee population at the INS facility at Fort Nolan.

Health officials, responding to the public’s needs, have established a free inoculation program at New Care Health Clinic across from Harborview Medical Center. Any persons having confirmed direct contact with anyone known to be carrying this virus are strongly encouraged to seek immunization and/or a series of specially created antibiotics at New Care between the hours of twelve and one P.M. and eight and ten P.M, daily, until further notice or the limited supply runs out. Health care officials stress the severity of the problem, the systemic nature of the contagion and the importance of this preventive treatment program. For further information, interested viewers can call this toll-free number twenty-four hours a day.

She read the 888 number that Boldt had provided her, a number that ran directly to the fifth floor of the Public Safety building and had both caller-ID and trap-and-trace functions enabled.

‘‘In other news . . .’’ She returned to the top of the prepared broadcast. As she read from her sheet the TelePrompTer scrolled backward and caught up with her. Corwin would have to edit during the first break and cut a story or shorten weather or sports to accommodate Stevie’s unexpected announcement. He would never drop an ad—the station had its priorities set.

An amazing sense of relief pulsed through her. Any effort to save Melissa was worth the price. Boldt’s trap was properly set. She had joined forces with the police and they with her, and she thought that if anything, this was a lesson for both sides. She wondered if she had a year to keep her anchor chair, or a week, or a day. Truthfully, she didn’t care. If Melissa came home because of this one sixty-second manipulation of the truth . . .

Then, in what she considered a moment of brilliance, as she finished reading the lead story and the camera bearing the red light switched to Billy-Bob Cutler, she stood from her anchor chair, stripped off the microphone and earpiece, distracting but not interrupting her co-anchor, and marched off the set. When she turned not toward her dressing room and the bathroom there but toward the studio exit, the floor director rushed away from the set and caught up.

‘‘Ms. McNeal?’’ she hissed, stopping Stevie and turning her. ‘‘Anything wrong?’’

Jimmy Corwin’s lean frame appeared through the door to the control booth and froze, understanding her intentions from the expression on her face. Surprisingly, he spoke calmly. ‘‘If this story is sound, then why not include it in the script?’’ Corwin was a newsman. Corwin knew before making a single phone call. ‘‘Who’s your contact on this?’’

Stevie met eyes with him. ‘‘Billy-Bob will have to take my remaining segments. He’ll do fine.’’

‘‘Mr. Cutler? The whole broadcast?’’ the floor director inquired.

Corwin said, ‘‘Tell me this story is going to check out. What the hell is going on here?’’

She liked Corwin. She hated to do this to him—to the station. She took a deep breath and said, ‘‘I have a bus to catch.’’