Do You Want to Know a Secret? (6 page)

Her pulse quickening, she reached for the receiver with trepidation, uttering a silent prayer that whatever it was wouldn’t be too horrible, too brutal, too ghoulish. She was still reeling from a story she had reported on the previous week about a man who strangled children and ate them. Please, not another nightmare.

She instinctively swiveled her chair around and looked in the direction of the Fishbowl. Range was not looking at her. He was bent over his desk, one arm holding the phone to his ear, the other arm hugging his stomach. She could tell it was bad.

“Range?”

He didn’t answer her. He kept staring down at his desk. Through the glass wall, Eliza could see Yelena Gregory rise from her seat and lean over the table toward Range. Yelena shook his arm.

“Range! What is it?” Eliza demanded in hushed tones, feeling her heart beating through her chest wall and the color rising in her cheeks. In the weeks to come she would remember the fear that she felt in those moments before Range told her, the anguish she felt afterward.

Yelena was still shaking Range’s arm. The executive producer looked up at Yelena and suddenly seemed to snap out of it. He turned in Eliza’s direction and their eyes locked across the studio.

“Eliza . . .” Range Bullock paused.

“Tell me.
Tell me
. What’s happened?” She was trying to stay cool. She knew that whatever Range would tell her, it was going to take all of her professional skills to deal with it live on national television. The sooner she knew what it was, the better.

Range tried again. “Eliza, it’s Bill,” he rasped. “Bill’s been found. Dead.”

“What!” She gripped the phone in her hand.

“He’s dead. That’s all we know. God, he’s my best friend.” The producer’s voice cracked and Eliza watched as his free hand pushed his hair back from his temple. His face was contorted, the face of someone who had taken a body blow.

“Oh, my God. Range, no! This can’t be.” Even as she was uttering her unbelieving response, she knew that, yes, it could happen. Unfathomable things, tragic things, terrible things happened quite often. She had learned that firsthand. You didn’t get used to the big losses in life but, with experience, your brain assimilated them more rapidly and efficiently. And the pain set in quicker.

Even as she took in the enormity of Range’s words, she was aware that the seconds were passing, the commercials were rolling to a close and the camera would be coming back to her. She had frequently marveled that human beings were able to go on a sort of automatic pilot during emergencies, focusing on the immediate task at hand, temporarily pushing aside the magnitude of a giant event in order to deal with what had to be done at that moment. She wanted to cry but she could not allow herself that luxury. Not yet. Everyone there tonight was depending on her to carry this off. Later there would be time, too much time, to take in and feel the pain of what had just happened. Right now, and quickly, there were decisions to be made.

The executive producer knew that, too. Eliza watched and appreciated a real pro as he pulled himself together.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” said Bullock, his words precise, deliberate. “We come out of commercial, you lead to the Democrats today followed by the Republicans. That will give us four minutes to grab some video of Bill that you’ll have to ad-lib over after you make the announcement. We’re sure we’re not competitive on this. We are the only ones who know, so none of the other nets will beat us. We can spare the four minutes to get organized.”

“Fine.” Eliza didn’t say anything else.

“Five seconds,” boomed the stage manager.

Oh God, help me.

Eliza led to the political pieces. When the video package began to run, Bullock came out to her desk. Eliza felt that she was watching the whole scene, not a part of it. Herself sitting there, the monitor showing first the candidate reaction to the primary outcome, next the graphics illustrating the delegate votes garnered, then the citizens making their observations on the presidential hopefuls. The studio was dead silent save for the click of the computer keyboard of the writer who sat on the side and beneath her, quickly typing some copy for the announcement of Bill’s death.

Focus, she thought. Focus.

Eliza heard the executive producer’s voice. “We’ve sent McBride, a crew and a microwave truck over to Bill’s apartment, so we’ll have a live shot for the West Coast update. But as far as this broadcast is concerned, the file tape we’re pulling will be the only visuals we’ve got. In the meantime, read this.”

Bullock pushed a copy of the company biography of Bill Kendall in front of Eliza. She quickly read that the KEY anchorman, the man who lunched with presidents, arrived for dinner in millions of American homes and made more than seven million dollars a year, was born in Omaha and graduated from the University of Nebraska with a double major in journalism and history. His work on the campus radio station led to a first paying job at a Lincoln, Nebraska, station. What the bio failed to mention was that Bill Kendall had done triple duty there as a reporter, weather forecaster and commercial seller. KEY biographies only focused on the appropriate activities of KEY correspondents. Selling commercial time at any journalistic juncture was not a plus. Kendall had mentioned his weather and commercial selling days to Eliza at the correspondents’ Christmas party. She thought of him now, his eyes smiling when he considered how far he had come. She felt her throat tighten. Don’t think about Bill now. Don’t think about how much you cared for him. Don’t think about how wonderful and comforting a friend he was. Don’t think about how he helped you when you most needed it.

Eliza forced herself to focus on the outline of Bill Kendall’s life. It listed a succession of radio jobs, each time in a larger market, bringing him to Chicago. It was during the coverage of a mass murder case there, a case that permeated his life and the news for months, that Kendall made his break into television. The Chicago station’s television news reporter assigned to the story had suffered a heart attack twenty minutes before air. Kendall was called from the radio department to fill the local anchorman in on what had happened, and a quick decision was made to have Kendall tell the audience the developments in the case himself. Kendall performed admirably and an offer on the television side presented itself soon thereafter.

Kendall developed star quality. He was observant, a quick study. His looks were of the basic, clean-cut, all-American sort common to most of the TV reporters of that time. But Bill Kendall’s best physical quality was his eyes. As the directors were fond of saying, Kendall’s eyes held on and didn’t let go. They connected through the television screen and grabbed the audience. They were eyes that could be trusted.

The networks took note. Within a few years, Kendall received offers from all of the networks’ news organizations. He had chosen KEY.

Range Bullock and Mary Cate Ryan, one of the show’s brightest producers, stood before Eliza, their faces gray and strained. Range was twisting the red hair on his right eyebrow.

“Tell Eliza what you’ve got,” Range said tersely.

“Thank God for Jean,” Mary Cate began nervously. “She’s been gathering video for a surprise reel for Bill’s fiftieth birthday this summer. We’ve got Bill reporting from all over the world, Bill at the fall of the Berlin Wall, Bill riding into Kuwait City during Desert Storm, Bill in Russia, in China, in Somalia, in Haiti, in Israel, in Egypt, in Bosnia, Bill holding a retarded baby in a Romanian orphanage. We’ve got some stuff from the early Chicago days, Bill at every major natural disaster this country has seen over the last dozen years, Bill standing chest high in flood waters, Bill picking his way through earthquake devastation. We’ve got Bill interviewing President Grayson and each of his two predecessors, video of Bill at a White House dinner last year honoring the Special Olympics—”

Range broke in. “There’s more, but let’s save it for the special report tonight. When you close, Eliza, tease to the special following local news. Good luck.”

Eliza heard the correspondent of the Republican report closing as Range and Mary Cate stepped back, just out of the camera’s view. The stage manager signaled for her to begin. She opened her mouth. No sound came out.

Eliza cleared her throat and swallowed, trying to start. Usually so erect, she looked almost shrunken in the chair. She could feel the eyes in the studio, along with those of millions of Americans, watching her. She pushed back her shoulders, straightening her spine.

When her voice finally came, it quivered. “It is with shock and great sadness that we report that Bill Kendall, anchorman and managing editor of the
KEY Evening Headlines
was found dead in his New York City apartment early this evening. The cause of death is unknown.”

Eliza looked at the monitor and concentrated on what she and the audience were seeing, and pulling from her memory bank the montage of clips from Bill Kendall’s life. Eliza watched and identified, where appropriate, what the viewers at home were watching. She recounted the biography information. Just as important, she paused instinctively and let the video carry itself at the correct times.

Eliza was back on camera. She felt her eyes fill and her usually direct gaze into the camera was diverted as she stared off toward the back of the studio and tried to collect her thoughts. She stumbled again as she began to ad-lib.

“We here at
KEY News
are stunned. Bill Kendall was a valued colleague, a beloved friend and a fine and generous human being. It’s impossible at this point even to begin to imagine life around here without him.” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard. Eliza took a deep breath attempting frantically to compose herself. The image of Bill smiling suddenly filled her head. She tried to sit up taller in her chair, but her body felt leaden.

“Police have been called to the scene.
KEY News
will air a special report on Bill Kendall tonight at eleven-thirty eastern, ten-thirty central, following your local news. I’m Eliza Blake. For all of us at
KEY News
, good night.”

There were tears in Eliza’s eyes and on her face as the director faded to black.

Chapter 9

In Washington, Pete
Carlson watched excitedly as Eliza Blake signed off.

“Get a driver to take me to National. Now,” he barked to the desk assistant stationed outside his office door.

He marveled at how quickly things could change in his life. A half hour ago, he was smoldering with anger, jealous that Eliza Blake was filling in for Bill Kendall when it should have been him substituting in the anchor chair.

Now he, Pete Carlson, was the next anchorman of the
KEY Evening Headlines
.

He pulled his cellular phone from his briefcase, not wanting to use an office line, yet knowing that the portable phone could be easily tapped. He’d be careful with his wording.

“It’s finally happened. I’m getting the big job. But remember, I don’t want to be in New York forever, Washington is my home.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be taken care of,” came the grunted response.

When the earnest young desk assistant went in to tell Pete Carlson that the driver was ready to take the anchorman to the airport, he swore he heard Carlson humming.

Chapter 10