A Reason to Stay (3 page)

Strangely, her senses went on high alert. The smell of freshly mown grass, the warm air, the droning sound of a plane overhead all sharpened in her mind.

She felt a figure blocking the sun. Heard a loud click.

And she knew then . . . she was next.

T
hick black receded, leaving behind a foggy gravy of muted charcoal pierced with shards of light.

Faith shifted her chin uncomfortably, wincing at the thunder in her head. She was soaked in sweat, helpless.

A siren wailed, the amplified sound so near she might reach out and touch it—if her hands weren't made of stone.

“Faith—honey, you back with us? Don't leave us now.”

A needle of light scraped across her blurred line of vision.

Why couldn't she breathe? What was that weight on her chest? Each heartbeat exploded inside her rib cage.

Where was she?

Panicked, she tried to bolt. Restraints thwarted the attempt.

She tried again.

“Whoa, honey.”

She felt a hand on her shoulder—heard a woman's voice. “Shhh . . . calm down. You're going to be all right.”

A man's voice shouted, “Get the ketamine from the RSI kit—
stat
.”

Her vision turned red—the top of her skull seemed on fire.

She moaned.

In the background, yet another voice. “We're en route with a twenty-eight-year-old victim from the shooting at JSC. Patient has
sustained gunshot fragments to the abdomen and a perforating injury to the upper left quadrant of the cranium with resulting TBI. BP is one eighty over ninety, pulse fifty. Respirations ten and irregular. Open head wound with profuse bleeding—”

“Honey, stay with us now. C'mon, look at me.”

Faith tried to turn toward the voice. The sirens screamed in protest.

Was the man talking about her? Was she dying?

An image of Geary formed in her terrified mind, followed by a rush of regret. Tears welled.

She wouldn't get to say goodbye.

“Okay, sweet thing—hold on, here we go.”

A sharp prick pierced her arm. The air instantly grew heavier, darkened—she thought of Geary, how they'd met—until the commotion was sweetly snuffed by a thick dreamy blanket of black.

As the news van pulled to a stop in the parking lot, Faith nervously glanced back at the producer's notes in her hand.

On the northern outskirts of Houston, Lake Conroe was home to some of the biggest largemouth bass in the nation, or so the notes claimed. Once a year, the small bedroom community of Conroe ballooned to accommodate fifty skilled bass fishermen and a mass of spectators for the Toyota Texas Bass Championship, a three-day event filled with competition, headliner entertainment, and a party like none other.

“Hurry, let's go!” Chuck Howell hollered as they both climbed from the van. Her cameraman hoisted the equipment bag onto his shoulder and maneuvered across the lot tangled with boat trailers. He waved for Faith to follow, which she tried but found difficult to do in her Cole Haan platform pumps she'd bought special for the occasion, spending nearly her entire monthly grocery budget. Her first official camera appearance at KIAM-TV, and she needed to look great.

Covering the story this year was Faith Bierman's first solo foray into field reporting. Fresh on the job and loaded with a can-do attitude, she scrambled toward the docks in the early morning hour, ready to show the world her rising star was about to shoot into news broadcasting space and make its mark.

Traffic had been a bear, even at dawn, with people gathering to watch the big launch from Waterpoint Marina, an area filled with restaurants and tourist shops. Past the slips, boats were already lining up.

They had less than fifteen minutes to set up in order to shoot footage of the anglers taking off. In minutes, contestants in shiny bass boats with brand names like Skeeter or Tritan would scream across the lake into their prime fishing spots, trying to beat out dozens of others with the same idea in mind.

Chuck paused and turned back in her direction. “Are you coming?”

She nodded and scrambled to keep up, well aware her auburn curls were beginning to droop in the humidity.

At the entrance, they flashed their media badges at the officials taking tickets and hurried past brand-new pickup trucks to be awarded as prizes to tournament winners along with huge amounts of cash. Until she'd studied up on the bass tournament circuit, she had no idea how lucrative the profession could be for the lucky ones who pulled monster lunkers from the depths of the murky water.

She'd also studied big mouth bass habitats and lures and water temps, all in hopes of being ready to ace her interviews today. A bass tournament might not be equal with, say, an exclusive with the mayor of Houston revealing the first glimpse of a new tax measure, but she was determined to bloom where planted. Today she was planted at Lake Conroe and fully intended to burst onto the television scene and make a good impression.

That attitude was what spawned her next idea.

“Hey, Chuck.” She watched the cameraman bend down to unzip
the oversized black bag of equipment. “Let's move a little closer to the action.”

He didn't bother to look up. “What action?”

“C'mon—follow me.” Without waiting, she pushed her way forward through a small group of onlookers, past the media center, where she recognized a reporter from their competitor station drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Ignoring the way he stared, she headed for the docks. Without stopping to engage the tournament official standing guard at the launch area, she simply flashed her badge. The generously built man, with eyes that reminded her of raisins in dough that had risen around them, pulled his cap from his balding head and swiped his forearm across his brow before holding up his palm. “Whoa, where y'all heading, little lady?”

She ignored his grating salutation and mustered a calculated smile, not needing to check her watch to know she had very little time left. “Any way I can film my report from over there?” She pointed to a boat tethered a short distance from where they stood.

He looked in that direction. “Uh, I'm not supposed to allow anyone to interfere with the launch. We're asking everyone to—”

“Ah, c'mon,” she pleaded in her sweetest voice, well aware his raisin eyes were now pointed in the direction of her legs. “Cut a girl a break, huh? I promise we'll stay right there and not go any closer.” She lifted her brows. “Please?”

He smiled back and slowly nodded. “Oh, all right. But stay where I can see you and don't get too close.” He nodded in the direction of the big tent that served as tournament headquarters. “Or I'll take some heat.”

She thanked him profusely and breezed past with Chuck now following close behind.

“Why are we filming from clear down here?” he asked as he set down the equipment bag.

Faith sighed, knowing it was those attitudes that differentiated
future Emmy Award–winning journalists from the small town variety who never progressed into major markets. “Because this will work much better, you'll see,” she assured him. “Just set up so you can capture a clear shot.”

In yesterday's production meeting, she hadn't gotten far with the assignment editor when she'd argued for live coverage. But as she suspected, a bass tournament, even one with national fame among fishing enthusiasts, didn't warrant a lead. Even so, she intended to deliver a compelling stand-up.

She climbed onto the boat and headed for the bow.

Chuck glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “Faith, are you kidding? Do you even know who owns that boat?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't know and I'm not kidding. And I'll want wide shots of the lake in the background of the boats as they launch, then zoom in for a tight shot when I start talking about what's at stake here for today's challengers.”

“But you can't even see the leaderboard from here,” he argued.

“We'll get that shot later. I want to humanize the story first, start with a little background and get the viewers invested before we move to tournament positions.”

Chuck looked at her like she'd lost her mind.

Never mind his small thinking. Going with the flow was no way to stand out in this business.

Moisture formed on the back of her neck. Hopefully, they could wrap this footage before the sun rudely peeked its irascible head over the horizon, making the heavy air even more miserable.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a boat with a red sparkly finish slowly making its way to the adjacent dock. Inside, a man with dark hair seemed to be eyeing her and the situation. As the boat crept closer, she could see the guy was affiliated with the tournament in some manner, based on the bright yellow plastic vest he wore with the word V
OLUNTEER
emblazoned across the chest.

She held her breath, hoping for the best. They wouldn't have time to set up again somewhere else and get as good a shot.

Chuck likely thought the same. “Oh, here we go.”

The man in the boat gave them a polite nod, and she bobbed her chin in acknowledgment before quickly turning back to Chuck and his camera.

The motor shut down as she began her mike check. “Uh, excuse me, miss?” the guy said, threatening to interrupt her plans.

She pointed to the camera. “Sorry, I'm about to go live.”

“But you might not want to stand there when—”

She cupped her ear with her free hand, feigning not to have heard him. They had a show to do, and she couldn't risk him telling them to move along. Not now. The better way was to just go for it and pay the consequences later.

Suddenly, a boat engine started from several yards down shore. Then another. Before the entire line of boats followed suit, completely drowning out her voice, she gave a quick nod to Chuck. He positioned the camera on his shoulder and held up three fingers, doing a silent countdown. She pasted on a wide smile.

“Good morning, everyone. We're broadcasting at this early hour here in Texas from the shores of Lake Conroe, where in just moments some of the best bass fishermen in our nation will launch across this lake in hopes of landing bass that will win hundreds of thousands in prizes and the distinction of being named the Toyota Texas Bass first-place champion.”

She let the moment wash over her, basking in the thrill of being in front of the camera. She had trained for this. Broadcast journalism was her destiny—her ticket to having her life matter. She felt it inside her soul.

Taking a deep breath, she told viewers what to expect on the final day of the Texas Bass Classic. Fifteen anglers remained. Each would spend the next hours on the lake trying to pull in an accumulated weight that would put them at the top of the leaderboard at the
end of the day. Fans were already gathering along the shoreline and on the decks of nearby restaurants, hoping for a record-breaking performance from their personal favorite.

She shifted slightly closer to the camera to create a sense of urgency, as she'd been trained. “In moments, officials will give the signal and these boats positioned along the shoreline will launch three at a time.”

Chuck turned the camera to catch a shot of the launch.

As if on cue, idling engines roared to life. The first three boats in the lineup inched forward. Applause drifted from across the inlet where a crowd of onlookers gathered on a deck outside Wolfies, a popular local restaurant.

At the signal, the low-profiled boats heavily festooned with sponsorship decals simultaneously screamed into action, speeding across the lake and leaving enormous plumes of water jetting from the rear motors. Three more bass boats immediately followed. Then another group.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man in the yellow jacket edge his boat closer. He watched her now from only a yard or so away. Continuing to ignore him, she recorded her voice-over, using enough volume to be heard over the distant engines. “And there they go, folks,” she said with bright enthusiasm. “The final day of the Texas Bass Classic has officially begun.”

The boat she stood on wiggled slightly, causing her feet to become unsteady in her heels. Suddenly, the wake from the launched boats landed against the side of the boat she stood on, knocking her off-kilter. She scrambled a bit, tried to catch her equilibrium.

Oh no!
she thought, feeling her body shift recklessly. She moved her left foot to catch herself. Then her right.

Too late.

A second and much more forceful wake hit. This time the increased impact caused the boat to pitch in a way she didn't expect.

Frantic to catch her balance, she reached for something to hang
on to, her eyes wide. She heard Chuck curse. At the same time he jumped back onto the dock, her fingers loosened and she dropped the microphone.

Her ankle gave way, her pretty pump slipped from her foot.

“H-help!” she screamed.

She tumbled, barely having time to hold her breath as she listed over the side, arms flailing.

Splash
!

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut just before hitting the water's surface. Sound muffled and she sank into the depths of the murky green lake, her arms wildly pummeling against the water.