Читать книгу Grits And Glory - Ron Benrey - Страница 10

Sean studied the pewter-colored but rainless sky. The break between rain bands gave him a small window of time to deploy the lights and camera. Everything should be fine unless there was an unexpected problem with the camera’s focus and color balance.

I could encourage the unlikely to happen and Carlo would never know.

Sean pushed the delightfully evil thought out of his mind. He would do his job properly, even though he ached to make Carlo look like a fuzzy, multicolored blob. Sean finished setting up with four minutes to spare. He found Carlo in the back of the van memorizing a script he’d written on a yellow notepad.

“Everything’s ready for you,” Sean said.

Carlo looked up and smirked. “Kind of like blond little-miss-what’s-her-name.”

“If you’re talking about the woman in the church, her name is Ann Trask.”

“So it is.” He chortled. “She’s not up to my usual standards, of course, but one can’t be choosy during a hurricane.”

“This isn’t spring break, Carlo. You’re in Glory on assignment, remember?”

“An assignment in a hick city is a perfect opportunity for a quick encounter with a local lass.”

“Ann Trask doesn’t seem a ‘quick encounter’ type of woman.”

“Says who? She checked out my ring finger, I checked out hers. Didn’t you spot her come-hither look when she saw me?”

“That’s nonsense!”

“There’s nothing like stormy weather to relax a woman’s inhibitions, if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean—and you’re making me angry.”

Carlo snorted. “You sound as if you like her.”

“What if I do?”

“Great! We’ll both court her. Competition increases the joy of victory,” said Carlo.

Sean flinched as a bolt of lightning illuminated the interior of the van. The thunderclap came less than a second later.

“That was close,” Carlo said. “Since when do hurricanes have lightning?”

“Most don’t. Gilda is a special storm.”

“Which means?”

“Her vertical wind flows are creating an electrical field. That’s unusual.”

“Unusual bad? Or unusual good?” Carlo’s normally melodious voice had become a little shrill.

“I don’t know.”

“You have to know. You’re the expert. You actually have a degree in meteorology.”

“Don’t get your rain pants in a twist. Lightning doesn’t make a hurricane more powerful.”

“But it definitely increases the danger to reporters broadcasting from parking lots. I’m not in the mood to get struck by lightning this afternoon.”

“We’re parked next to a tall aluminum light pole. If lightning hits anything around here, it will be that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.” He pointed toward the door. “Now get out there. We go live in two minutes.”

Sean sat down at his workstation and manipulated the joysticks that controlled the TV camera and the lights. He slipped his headset over his ears, pushed the attached microphone close to his mouth, and spoke to Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel’s broadcast headquarters on Long Island.

“Hi, Cathy. We’re ready in Glory.”

“Glad to hear it,” she replied. “How’s Gilda so far?”

“Wet, windy and electric. Mr. Magnificent is worried about being zapped by lightning.”

“Get a picture if it happens. I know a dozen women who’d want copies.” Cathy’s voice became cool and businesslike. “Switching to Carlo in twenty seconds.”

Sean pushed the button that connected his microphone to Carlo’s earpiece. “Cue in fifteen seconds.”

Sean heard Carlo clear his throat. “Four…three…two…” Sean counted softly.

A red light lit on his console, confirming that an identical light on the camera had signaled Carlo to begin. Sean studied the monitor screen as Carlo spoke into his handheld microphone. As usual, the camera loved Carlo. He looked artlessly elegant even though his jacket’s tunnel-like hood was fully extended to keep his face dry.

“This is Carlo Vaughn reporting from Glory, North Carolina. It is only four in the afternoon, but the sky is dark in this pretty waterfront town on the Albemarle Sound, an ominous sign of things to come. Another of Gilda’s outer rain bands is dumping precipitation on Glory.”

A gust of wind suddenly tugged at Carlo’s hood and he grabbed at it with his free hand.

“Most of Glory’s six thousand residents have moved to higher ground, leaving a handful of emergency personnel to deal with the approaching hurricane. They’ve been told to prepare for major damage.

“Gilda is the most powerful hurricane to threaten the Albemarle region in more than a decade. The current forecast predicts steady winds exceeding one hundred miles per hour when Gilda arrives in Glory less than an hour from now.”

Sean adjusted the image when a lightning flash illuminated the sky behind Carlo’s head. A moment later, the rumble of thunder shook the van. Carlo took the interruption in stride. “As you’ve just seen and heard, Gilda is also an electrical storm, which is unusual for a hurricane.”

“Off in thirty seconds,” Sean informed Carlo softly.

Carlo unexpectedly took a sideways step. He gazed at the sky to his left and his right, as if he were an expert meteorologist studying the storm. Sean worked the joystick to move the lens to keep Carlo’s face framed in the image. But then, without warning, Carlo stepped closer to the camera, his expression full of compassion and concern. Sean suddenly realized that Carlo was trying to impress Ann Trask.

Cathy’s voice filled Sean’s headphone. “What’s your boy doing? It looks like he’s trying to climb into the viewers’ laps.”

“You don’t want to know,” Sean said grimly.

Carlo began to speak. “The small cadre of people who chose to remain in Glory will soon be tested by Gilda’s fury. I call them the courageous few.

“We’re broadcasting from the parking lot of a church that may provide emergency shelter when the storm hits. The person on duty inside—a young woman named Ann Trask—is willing to brave the danger, not for personal gain, but in the spirit of public service. Stay tuned—we’ll hear Ms. Trask’s observations about Gilda during our next broadcast.

“Glory—we’re with you. This is Carlo Vaughn signing off for now.”

Sean killed the connection to the TV camera.

Blast the man! He put a phony quiver in his voice and his eyes looked weepy.

Sean poked angrily at more buttons on his control console. It wouldn’t matter to Ann that Carlo knew next to nothing about the weather. She wouldn’t care that he was merely imitating a knowledgeable meteorologist. Nope! Like every other female with a pulse, she’d be dazzled by his smarmy good looks. Sean sighed as he zipped up his jacket and prepared to go outside to retrieve the camera and tripod.

Ann Trask is a grown woman. She’ll have to fend for herself in Carlo-land.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,” Ann said, “but I’m delighted you stayed in town this evening.” She positioned a golf umbrella to shield Richard Squires’s back from driving rain, fighting against the wind. His big-brimmed baseball cap seemed to be doing a good job keeping rain off his face.

“They won’t let me leave Glory,” he said with a laugh. “I manage the crew that keeps the rest of the emergency personnel well fed. More light on the right side of the engine, please.”

Ann shifted the powerful utility light she held in her other hand and wished she could do more to help Richard. He was a self-taught expert on engine maintenance and a restorer of vintage cars when he wasn’t managing Squires’ Place, one of Glory’s best restaurants. He also sang tenor in Glory Community’s choir.

He picked up a wrench. “One of these days, we’ll have to buy a replacement fuel pump, but this fix will keep the engine running throughout Gilda’s visit.”

“Amen!” Ann murmured.

He went on, “I’m glad that TV fellow tested the generator—I should have done it this morning.”

“You’re one of our most valuable volunteers, Richard. I thank you for all you do for the church.”

She watched Richard stretch to work on the back of the engine. “This is one of those times I wish I was taller,” he said. Even standing on a step stool, Richard, who was only an inch or two taller than Ann, had difficulty reaching deep into the generator’s cabinet.

Her cell phone rang.

“Give me the utility light,” Richard said. “That’ll free up your right hand.”

Ann managed to flip her phone open and was surprised to find her brother calling.

“Alan! Everything all right with Mom?” she asked.

“Mom’s fine—and proud as punch.”

“About?”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“You’re famous! Carlo Vaughn talked about you on the Storm Channel.”

“Oh, no! What did he say?” Ann laughed.

“He called you one of the ‘courageous few.’ Even better—he’s going to put you on the air later today.”

“I’ve never been on TV before.” Ann saw Richard struggling with the utility light and the wrench. “I have to run, Alan. Thanks for the news! I’ll call you later. Love to Mom.”

Richard extracted himself from the generator box. “I only heard one side of your conversation, but it seems to me that you should find yourself a TV set. The Storm Channel often repeats Carlo Vaughn’s broadcasts.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m nearly done. I can replace the generator cover by myself.”

“Then what will you do, Richard? The storm’s getting worse,” Ann said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

“It’s a short drive to the emergency command center. I’ll be there long before Gilda arrives for real.”

Ann thanked Richard and headed for the Chapman Lounge, the location of the church’s only TV set. As she walked down the hallway, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass-paneled door. Nothing about her face appearance had improved during the past hour. I’d better freshen up if Carlo is going to stand me in front of a TV camera and ask questions. She made a detour to her office and retrieved the duffel bag she’d packed that morning.

The Chapman Lounge was a comfortable room next to the pastor’s office that had a small sofa, two armchairs, and a big-screen TV set. Ann had to wait less than ten minutes for the rerun of Carlo’s report.

She felt somewhat eccentric laughing out loud in an empty church, but she couldn’t stop herself. Hearing herself praised by Carlo cracked her up. He’d made a grim day more cheery by pushing Gilda to the back of her mind.

She unzipped the duffel bag and surveyed her meager wardrobe. Everything fell into the “working clothing” category—clothes suitable for working in the kitchen, working in the basement, working on the church grounds. Nothing was really appropriate for a TV interview. She finally decided on a pair of tan chinos (clean but threadbare) and a dark blue cotton sweater (originally part of her mother’s wardrobe and at least fifteen years old). The bright blue tactical police radio hanging from the lanyard around her neck would spruce up her outfit with an extra touch of color. It was the best she could do on short notice, she decided.

Ann hadn’t meant to stay in the lounge for long, but she got caught up in the Storm Channel’s coverage of Gilda provided by other weather reporters who were based closer to North Carolina’s Atlantic Coast. The slowly changing satellite images showed the revolving hurricane approaching the shoreline like a huge Frisbee.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Not the electricity. Not yet. They flickered again, then died, leaving the lounge in complete darkness.

Ann fumbled for the flashlight on her lanyard. The lounge, now illuminated by a single beam, seemed bleak and forbidding, a sensation made even worse by the roar of the wind and the pelting of rain against the wooden shutters, sounds previously covered by the TV. Gilda had arrived.

She soon began to hear the reassuring chug of the church’s generator. The lights blinked back on.

Please, God, keep the engine going.

Ann decided to move to the narthex, to be closer to the front door. As she walked down the hallway, strange creaks from above added to the cacophony of sound. A few seconds later, a loud tearing noise made her flinch, followed quickly by a loud crash outside. It took her a moment to put the sounds together.

Gilda ripped our steeple off the roof.

Sean stumbled against the wind and managed to grab the handle of Glory Community’s door with his good left hand. He used his aching right hand to wipe rain-diluted blood off his face, then gingerly placed his thumb on the doorbell. He pulled again and again, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the haze that seemed to saturate his mind.

He saw the door begin to open and pulled even harder. “It’ll take both of us to hold it against the wind,” he shouted.

“Okay,” Ann shouted back. “You pull, I’ll push.”

The force of the wind against the heavy steel door was even greater than he’d anticipated. It shoved him a step backward and simultaneously tugged Ann beyond the sill, exposing her to the curtain of rain whirling beneath the narrow overhanging portico. He managed to stay on his feet and, with Ann’s help, held the door half-open against a sudden gust.

“Goodness!” she said. “Your head is bleeding.”

“The church’s steeple fell on our truck when it blew off the roof.”

“Where’s Carlo?”

“Still in the truck. He’s unconscious.”

He heard her gasp.

“Let’s get inside,” he said. “Then I’ll call for help.”

Sean maneuvered around Ann and grabbed the inside handle. Slowly…slowly, they dragged the door shut. Sean felt muzzy headed. He sagged against the wall.

“You need a doctor,” she said.

“Probably—but not as much as Carlo.”

Ann guided him toward a chair in the small lobby. “You rest. I’ll radio the emergency command center.”

“I don’t want to drip blood on your upholstery.”

“That chair has survived a dozen Vacation Bible Schools. It’s seen far worse than a few drops of blood.”

Sean sat down. He heard the radio crackle, heard Ann say something, but couldn’t make out what she said.

He felt Ann shake his shoulder. “Huh?”

“They told me to keep you awake,” she said.

He pushed himself to his feet. “I’d better look after Carlo.”

“You did that by walking from the parking lot to the church.” She pushed him back down. “When you rang the bell, I was already at the side door. I heard the steeple fall and I wanted to see what happened.”

“What happened is that it hit our van, and some big pieces of wood plowed through our windshield.” Sean recalled the noise of glass breaking…

“Don’t fall asleep,” Ann said. “Keep talking.”

“Carlo and I were sitting up front, watching the storm. I’d lowered the outriggers, so the wind wouldn’t tip the van…”

“And?”

“There were two strong gusts. The first one knocked out the electricity. The second made a big ‘boom,’ glass and wood flying everywhere. Carlo got the worst of it. He was in the passenger seat.”

Ann said something into her radio, but he only caught one word: paramedic.

“You’re drifting,” Ann said. “Stay with me.”

“I want apologize on behalf of the Storm Channel.”

“Apologize for what?”

“You won’t be on television tonight. Our satellite antenna is smashed. No more live broadcasts from Glory.”

“And here I went to all the trouble of acquiring this soaking wet look.”

Sean gazed at Ann. Her hair was drenched and makeup had run down her cheeks.

“You’re pretty.”

“Now I’m sure that you need medical attention.”

Sean knew he had chuckled, but he couldn’t remember what was funny.

He felt another shake. “Talk some more. Tell me about Gilda.”

“There’s not much to tell. She zigged to the east.”

“What does that mean?”

Sean couldn’t remember. He told himself to focus. His thoughts abruptly sharpened. “Gilda’s track shifted, so Glory’s out of the bull’s-eye. The storm’s weaker southwestern quadrant is blowing through town. The last time I checked, the wind speed was down to eighty-five miles per hour.”

“Glory won’t be flattened?”

“Nope. There’ll be less wind damage and a much smaller storm surge.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Ann said.

“We weather forecasters try to please.”

He watched Ann step away from him when a man dressed in yellow magically appeared at his side.

“This must be our patient,” the man said.

Ann nodded. “Sean, meet Dave. He’s an emergency medical technician.”

Sean tried to look at Dave, but all he could see was a bright light shining in his right eye.

“He might have a concussion,” Dave said. “I’ll transport him to the hospital, too. Trouble is I can’t use a gurney right now because the rest of the team is working on Carlo Vaughn.” The light blinked off. “Sean, do you think you can walk to the ambulance?”

“Absolutely!” Sean began to stand—and staggered into Ann.

“Not so fast,” Dave said. “I’ll support your right side. Ann, you grab his left arm.” He continued, “Sean, take a step at a time. Tell us if you feel faint.”

“How’s Carlo?” Ann asked.

“Yeah,” Sean muttered. “How is Carlo?”

“He’s conscious, but barely.”

“Oh, my!” Ann said.

“Oh, my,” Sean echoed, and then he said, “I feel dizzy.”

“That’s what happens when you get whacked in the head.” Dave spoke to Ann. “I’ll handle the door, you prop up Sean.”

“Yummy!” Sean said when he felt the rain against his face. He lifted his head. The light poles were dark but three powerful floodlights on the ambulance provided enough illumination to see most of the parking lot. The ambulance was positioned on the left side of the van—the side away from the fallen steeple. The wind was still roaring, but less loudly than before.

“Sheesh!” Sean said to Ann. “Your steeple looks like a stack of firewood.” He tried to move toward the pile of rubble.

“Slow down,” Dave said. “Take one step at a time.”

“I must be seeing things in the dark,” Ann said. “Don’t those look like red boots sticking out from beneath the white boards?”

“Yep,” Sean said. “They look exactly like fake boots.”

“Except…” Ann began, then went silent.

Dave took over. “Except those are real boots, attached to real legs. Someone else was hit by the falling steeple.”

Sean felt uneasy when Ann left his side, ran toward the mound of shattered wood and began to yank the boards away.

“Be careful!” Dave shouted. “Those boards are studded with nails.”

“Shouldn’t you help her?” Sean said to Dave.

“I will—after I get you to the ambulance.”

They’d reached the back of the broadcast van when Ann screamed, loudly enough for Sean to hear her over the wind.

“Dave! It’s Richard Squires!”

Sean remembered. The man who fixes generators…

And then everything went black.