Part 4 (1/2)

I recognized them both. I used to date them.

Microphone in hand, Jana Torres stepped from the van. She hit the ground running, her luscious brown curls cascading over the padded shoulders of a tan suit coat. Like the cameraman before her, the instant she emerged from the van her attention was on the burning vehicle. She didn't see me.

I watched with swelling pride as she took control of the broadcast, pointing and directing her team. She approached a fireman who directed her to the chief in a white helmet. When the chief saw Jana coming, his eyes lit with recognition. He smiled and met her halfway.

With a pair of news helicopters circling overhead and the constant roar of pumper trucks, I couldn't hear what Jana said to the chief, but in short order she motioned to the cameraman and the head fireman squared his shoulders for an interview. The stalled lines of traffic formed a backdrop.

Jana donned an earpiece, looked into the camera's eye, and composed herself. She stood motionless for a few moments, presumably waiting for a signal from the studio. The delay was long enough for me to be conquered once again by her stunning good looks.

Gone was the girlish cheerleader I remembered from high school. This Jana was comfortable with her womanhood. Her brown eyes flashed intelligence and personality and confidence.

She came to life and the interview began. The fire chief was stiff next to her. The only thing animated about him was a bottle-brush gray mustache that did a little dance when he talked.

A horrifying thought struck me. Jana didn't know the burning car belonged to Myles Shepherd! She didn't know the corpse a short distance from where she was standing might be that of a high school cla.s.smate and college boyfriend. How horrible it would be for her if she found out while on camera.

My first thought was the license plate. That's how the administration staff learned it was Shepherd's car. It was curled and completely blacked out now. Unreadable.

But what about the chief? What if he said something in the interview? He wouldn't do that, would he? Weren't they always withholding that information pending notification of relatives?

I watched the interview with increasing nervousness. I readied myself to . . . to what? Swoop in and rescue her?

Mercifully the interview concluded with Jana showing no sign of shock or surprise. I breathed easier.

After thanking the chief on camera, she proceeded to do her wrap-up. The chief didn't wander far. He took a single step back and watched her. He clearly had eyes for her.

That didn't sit well with me. Old feelings stirred, poked alive like embers that were buried in ashes.

For some reason Jana chose that moment to glance in my direction. Though she was still on camera, our gazes met and held, long enough to distract her. She stumbled in her delivery.

I wish I was secure enough to tell you that I was sorry to have messed up her broadcast. But I'm not, and I wasn't. It gave me pleasure. The chief noticed the stumble too. He scowled at me for causing it. That made me feel even better.

Jana recovered, regaining her focus even though she was no longer talking. It took me a moment to realize the station must be asking her a follow-up question. She gave a brief answer and then it was over. The cameraman lowered the camera. Jana pulled the earpiece free, handing it and her microphone to the cameraman.

She gave the chief's hand a single pump of thanks. He tried to engage her in further conversation. She excused herself.

With a flip of her hair, Jana strode confidently toward me, her eyes and smile sparkling in glorious harmony. She had such an overpowering sense of femininity about her. It stunned me.

The whoop of a police siren startled me to my senses. They were opening a single lane of traffic.

Jana greeted me with a hug.

She smelled . . . she smelled great. Her breath was warm against my neck as she said, ”Oh Grant . . . the Pulitzer! I'm so proud of you!”

Sense of duty wrung my heart like a dishrag. I hated that what I had to say next would spoil our reunion.

”Jana . . . I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

She took it hard. She turned to look at the car. By now the blaze was extinguished. Three streams of water hit it from three different angles. All that was left was the frame.

I told Jana how the high school staff had recognized the license plates. The next thing I knew, she was pressed against my chest sobbing.

We held each other in the number three lane of eastbound Interstate 8 while a long line of rubbernecking commuters stared first at the burned car, then at us. I didn't care. I was content to hold Jana for as long as she needed me. It felt right. I began to wonder why we had ever split up in the first place. Then I remembered. We split up because of Myles.

I rested my chin against her head. It was hot with emotion. Neither of us spoke.

Firemen mopped up. The three would-be heroes climbed into trucks and drove away. The camera crew loaded the van. A man in a stylish pin-striped suit stood beside the fire truck, his arms folded. Ignoring all the other activity, he watched Jana and me.

It was Myles Shepherd.

I must have started, or gasped, or flinched, or all three because Jana looked at me with alarm.

”What's wrong?”

”Myles . . .” I muttered.

I glanced down at her, and when I looked up again, Myles Shepherd was gone.

”I know,” she said, comforting me. ”I can't bring myself to believe he's dead either.”

”No, you don't understand . . .”

My cell phone rang. It was Christina. I'd programmed the tone so that I'd know whenever she was calling. Instinctively, I reached to answer it, then stopped myself.

Looking up at me with wet eyes, Jana said, ”Do you need to get that?”

I couldn't bring myself to answer the phone. You just don't take phone calls when you're holding a crying woman. But this wasn't an ordinary phone call.

The tone persisted.

I imagined Christina on the other end of the line getting angrier by the ring, wondering why I wasn't picking up after I had dogged her all morning with messages about the urgency of reaching her.

Jana tried to pull away. ”Answer your phone,” she said.

I couldn't. It felt wrong to let her go.

”They can leave a message,” I said, trying to sound gallant. I held her tight.

The tone played repeatedly.

Jana chuckled. ” 'Hail to the Chief'?”

I forced a laugh. ”A private joke.”

After six cycles of ”Hail to the Chief” the phone fell silent.

Jana nestled against my chest.