The Weatherman (8 page)

“So this is a good place to work?” Jeff asked.

“Yes, it’s really good now. Our ratings are way up. We’re fighting to be number one.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it.”

“Later I’ll show you how to do a stand-up. In this business that’s the most important thing.”

“I want to learn as much as I can. Is it okay if I sit in the anchor chair for a minute?”

Andrea Labore smiled that winning smile viewers always fall in love with. The young man took a seat in the anchor chair that belonged to Ron Shea. The empty chair next to him belonged to Charleen Barington. Everybody who goes into television news wants eventually to sit in the anchor chair and read the news; those who say they don’t are lying through their glistening white teeth. But that electrifying chair is reserved for those special few with just the right combination of arrogance, killer communication skills, and dumb luck. Andrea was well aware of what was required, and she was up for the challenge. She knew in her heart that anchor chair would one day belong to her.

The welcome warmth of June became the sweltering heat of July. The weather topped 90° every day. Rick Beanblossom stood on the high bluff of Pioneer Park overlooking his hometown of Stillwater. The vista seemed straight out of a Rockwell painting, a Tom Sawyer village on the St. Croix River. An old lift bridge was strung like an iron necklace across the heart of this scenic valley. But the view was deceptive: nineteenth-century charm with twenty-first-century problems.

There is a point where growth and development become blight and destruction. Stillwater was a village split in two. What was once a river town taken to sleep after the lumber barons packed up and left was now, a century later, waking up a tony eastern suburb where people from St. Paul and Minneapolis tried to escape the incipient descent into urban hell. The tornado had spared the town, but progress was not so generous. A heated debate developed between those who demanded growth and those who cried enough. It was one of the few stories Rick had been able to capture for television with the same impact as in print.

You can’t go home again … or so they say. Rick Beanblossom knew that all too well. He didn’t live here anymore. Too many ghosts resided in Stillwater. And he was the biggest spook of them all, haunting up and down steep streets behind a mask hiding hideous burn scars unmatched in any horror movie. He was once handsome, popular, and fleet of foot. He rode in a convertible during the homecoming parade, and the town cheered for him as he ran for touchdowns that night. Because of the luck of the draw, he went over there while others stayed home enjoying the best years of their lives… college, sex, marriage, and children with incredibly beautiful young women … high-school sweethearts whose names he could still rattle off.

But over the years their names had changed, and now he wouldn’t recognize their faces any more than they would recognize his. On storefronts below, flags still fluttered in the valley wind for the Fourth of July celebrations. “Take the American flag, old hometown, and shove it up your ass.”

The year before, there was another news story in this storybook town. A nightmare. Though it never became part of the big-city-versus-small-town debate, it was always there, just beneath the surface. It was the kidnapping of Harlan Wakefield.

Twelve-year-old Harlan Wakefield and his identical twin brother, Keenan, were popular town boys with a paper route. Much of their popularity stemmed from their freakish intellect. Driven to academic perfection by forceful parents, they were already testing out of high school and preparing for college. Their remarkable talents had been displayed on local TV news and talk shows. The last leg of their paper route was on a road that took them a mile out of town, north into the country. Even in the winter, despite the weather, they rode their mountain bikes. They loved their paper route. These were the only hours of the day when they were freed from learning, freed from mother and father and allowed to be normal boys. One morning in late spring Keenan Wakefield rode home from the paper route alone. He was scratched and filthy. He was in shock. Through fright and tears he told his mother and father a tale as frightening as any story coming out of the worst cities.

They were heading home after delivering their last paper. A big man, as Keenan described him, stepped out of the woods with a handgun. He was wearing a ski mask. He ordered Harlan off his bike and took him by the arm. He ordered Keenan to go. The boy started to ride away, but he looked back at his brother. The man saw him and fired a shot into the air. Keenan rode home for help.

The sheriff’s department found Harlan’s bicycle on the side of the road. They also found a spent bullet that had recently been fired. A farmer along die route reported a

gun stolen from his car. Within hours a massive search was launched. The
FBI
was called in. Helicopters were put into the air. An all-points bulletin was issued for a “big man with a ski mask.” In the days to come even the National Guard was called out to sweep miles of woodland in the St. Croix Valley. It became the largest manhunt in state history.

Dramatic headlines were splashed across the front pages of every daily newspaper in the state. Live television reports from Stillwater dominated the news at five, six, and ten p.m. Harlan Wakefield’s parents were as smart as their children. They were not about to become victims of the press, so they took control. They said they wanted their son back, or at least found, and they would use the media to get it done. In the days and weeks that followed they became totally accessible. Any reporter from anywhere was given almost anything he or she wanted. They endured a total lack of privacy and tolerated the most personal questions imaginable to keep their son’s name in the news. One reporter even asked them if they or any other family member had kidnapped Harlan. They kept their poise and answered no.

Rick Beanblossom was one of the people the family befriended. His initial conversations with them were done over the phone. Because he was a Stillwater boy himself, they took to him, and time after time reporters at Channel 7 News, via the new masked producer, came up with fresh angles. The Wakefields visited the station one day. He had warned them about his mask. He joked how since the kidnapping he’d been stopped and questioned four different times. He soon felt comfortable enough to visit them at their home.

One person Rick Beanblossom was never allowed to talk with was Keenan Wakefield, Harlan’s twin. He too had become a victim of the crime. The morning after the abduction Keenan was missing from his bed. The nightmare seemed endless. Now Keenan’s name was added to the search. But this search lasted only a couple of hours. Keenan was found crawling out of the woods down by the river, still in shock. Channel 7 news photographer Dave Cadieux was with the search party that found him. He recorded on videotape the frantic crying and stammering of a lost boy who had been wandering through the woods in the dark looking for his twin brother. It was the most gut-wrenching video shown on television during the entire ordeal. After that his parents put Keenan off limits even to police.

The
FBI
put together a task force of local, state, and federal officials that at one time numbered more than a hundred full-time investigators. For months bogus sight-ings of Harlan Wakefield were reported throughout the Midwest. But the boy genius was never found, and nobody was ever arrested.

The Wakefield family kept their boy’s name in the news almost daily for six months. In manipulating the media they became as proficient as the best public relations firms. They went on talk shows. They threw benefits against scenic backdrops to attract television. It seemed they announced an anniversary of the kidnapping every thirty days. People kept sending them money, so a trust fund was established for Keenan. Thousands of dollars in donations poured in. But as the months dragged by and Harlan remained missing, the task force dwindled and the press moved on. In local newsrooms the Wakefields became a pain in the ass. Cruel jokes were made about the next Harlan Wakefield staged media event: “Will Elvis be there?”

Rick Beanblossom moved on to other stories too, but he kept his Wakefield file close at hand. He still called on the family every now and then. It had been over a year since the kidnapping. Most of his visits, like the one today, were spent listening to complaints about the media and their lack of coverage and concern. He told the family a fat man arrested in Racine, Wisconsin, was no longer a suspect in their son’s disappearance. They were not surprised. Rick wrote them another check for Keenan’s trust fund and then left.

A squad car pulled into the parking lot at Pioneer Park. The officer stared long and hard at the man in the mask. He shut off the engine and radioed in.

Rick Beanblossom shook his head and sighed. He hated hot weather. The sweat glands in his head were destroyed by the napalm. This made him acutely aware of changes in the weather. His long-sleeve shirt was sticking to his back. He seldom wore short sleeves.

The cop removed his sunglasses and sauntered down

the lawn, thumbs under his gun belt. Rick slowly reached for his wallet. Years of experience had established a procedure.

In the first months, following his medical release and honorable discharge, he wore a clear plastic mask, much like a hockey goalie. It was more to protect him from infection and to stem the scarring than to hide his face. He seldom ventured out then, mostly down to the burn center at Ramsey Medical Center in St. Paul. Winter wasn’t bad. He read and slept. He watched a lot of television. But after a year in a hospital and another year hiding indoors a decision had to be made with the advent of spring-go out and rejoin the world or live life as a mole. The clear plastic mask was traded in for the blue cotton pullover, the most attractive, least offensive mask he could find. A comic book hero. He swore off television. Books would be his entertainment, newspapers and news magazines his diversions. His spring, summer, and fall would be spent enjoying the great outdoors he loved as a boy. But on his first day out alone he ran into the face of reality.

It was at a park in St. Paul up the bluff from the medical center. The view over the city was incredible-Stillwater times ten. On one hill stood the magnificent Cathedral of St. Paul with its huge green dome holding a cross to heaven. Another hill supported the elegant State Capital Building, resplendent in white Georgia marble. The sun was shining bright over this proud little city. First spring-day-without-a-jacket weather. The Mississippi River was raging with snow melt. The breeze was so fresh and cool it was hard for Rick to remember the hellish heat of Vietnam. He stood on a retaining wall, hands in pockets, forgetting for the moment there was anything different about him. He got as caught up in the optimism of spring as anybody that day.

There were two of them. They came up behind him. They shouted not to move and he almost fell off the wall. One big cop kept his palm on his gun. The other cop told him to put his hands in the air. His stuttering rendered him speechless. His eyes washed over with unexplained guilt. They ordered him down from the wall and up against it. “Feet spread!” He mumbled and stammered but the words would not come. Despite the uncommon valor of war he was now a cruelly deformed puppy. Their questions went unanswered. He clung, shaking, to his new mask. The park, which at first seemed deserted, now was filled with people stopping to watch. A woman’s nasty little dog was barking at him. The cops handcuffed him and led him to the squad car. A man on the sidewalk remarked about the burglaries.

At the booking center they pulled the mask from his head. He avoided their eyes. They gasped in horror. He tried to bury his head between his knees. He was three hours in the county jail before the incident was resolved. An old detective with a nasty smoker’s cough came into his cell, apologized profusely. Gave him a ride home. He was another year in his house before he again ventured out alone.

“What are we doing today, fella?” the Stillwater cop asked.

“My name is Rick Beanblossom, Officer. I’m a burn victim. Vietnam.” He handed the young cop his calling cards, one at a time. “Here’s my driver’s license.” After months of hassle and legal threats he’d been allowed to be photographed wearing his mask. The code number under Restrictions labeled him handicapped. “I work at Channel 7 News. Here’s my press card. I’m also a volunteer at the Ramsey Burn Center. Here’s my hospital pass.” His speech was flawless. Plain, but firm.

“Sounds like you’ve been through this before.”

“Often.”

“Then you understand why I have to ask. We got a call.”

“I understand.”

“My oldest brother played football with a Beanblossom. I remember watching him when I was a kid. Was that you?”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“His name was John Curran.”

“Was?”

“He was killed in a car accident. It’s been ten years now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I do remember him. Nice guy.”

“Yes, he was. Do you still follow Pony football?”

“I glance at the scores. I live in Minneapolis now. Don’t get down here much.”

The young cop returned Rick’s plastic identity. “Listen,

Rick, I’m sorry about this. I’m off duty in an hour. Do you want to grab a cold one down at Cat Ballou’s?” “I’m going to start back, but thanks anyway.” “Sure. Maybe some other time.” He put his sunglasses back on and looked down at the village with a pride unique to smalltown policemen. Then he gazed into the blazing sky. “It’s going to be another scorcher, Rick. No sleep tonight.”

“No, it’s going to rain tonight,” Rick told him. “Don’t you watch Channel 7? Heavy rains. Four inches or more. The Weatherman said so.”

It had just begun to rain when Sky High News signed off that night at ten-thirty. Andrea Labore threw it to the new sportscaster, who reminded viewers the Twins were in extra innings. Anchorman Ron Shea tossed it over to Dixon Bell in the weather center.