want facts, you just want drama, you want blood and thunder, you want
people to bare their souls to you, then you edit what they say, change
it, misreport it, get it all wrong most of the time, and that’s a kind
of rape, damn it.”
She realized that she was in the grip of the same rage she had
experienced at the crash site, and that she was not half as angry at
Anlock as she was at God, futile as that might be. The reporter was
just a more convenient target than the Almighty, who could stay hidden
in some shadowy corner of His heaven. She’d thought her anger had
subsided; she was disconcerted to find that same black fury welling high
within her again.
She was over the top, out of control, and she didn’t care-until she
realized CNN was on the air live. A predatory glint in Anlock’s eyes
and a twist of irony in his expression alerted her that he was not
entirely dismayed by her outburst. She was giving him good color,
first-rate drama, and he could not resist using it even if he was the
object of her abuse.
Later, of course, he would magnanimously excuse her behavior to viewer,
insincerely sympathizing with the emotional trauma she had endured, thus
coming off as a fearless reporter and a compassionate guy.
Furious with herself for playing into his game when she should have
known that only the reporter ever wins, Holly turned from the camera men
as she walked away, she heard Anlock saying, “. . . quite
understandable, of course, given what the poor woman has just been
through. . .”
She wanted to go back and smash him in the face. And wouldn’t that
please him!
What’s wrong with you, Thorne? she demanded of herself You never lose
it. Not like this. You never lose it, but now you’re definitely,
absolutely losing it.
Trying to ignore the reporters and suppress her sudden interest in s
analysis, she went looking for Jim Ironheart again but still had no luck
locating him. He was not among the latest group arriving from the crash
site. None of the United employees could find his name on the passenger
roster, which did not exactly surprise Holly.
She figured he was still in the field, assisting the search-and-rescue
team in whatever way he could. She was eager to speak with him, but she
would have to be patient.
Although some of the reporters were wary of her after the way she
verbally assaulted Anlock, she knew how to manipulate her own kind.
Sipping from a Styrofoam cup of bitter black coffee-as if she needed
caffeine to improve her edge–she drifted around the room and into the
hall outside, pumping them without revealing that she was one of them,
and she was able to obtain bits of interesting information.
Among other things, she discovered that two hundred survivors were
already accounted for, and that the death toll was unlikely to exceed
fifty, a miraculously loa number of fatalities, considering the breakup
of the plane and the subsequent fire. She should have been exhilarated
by that good news, for it meant Jim’s intervention had permitted the
captain to save many more lives than fate had intended; but instead of
rejoicing, she brooded about those who, in spite of everything, had been
lost.
She also learned that members of the flight crew, all of whom survived,
were hoping to find a passenger who had been a great help to them, a man
described as “Jim Something, sort-of a-Kevin-Costner-lookalike with very
blue eyes.” Because the first federal officials to arrive on the scene
were also eager to talk to Jim Something, the media began looking for
him as well.
Gradually Holly realized that Jim would not be putting in an appearance.
He would fade, just as he always did after one of his exploits, moving
quickly beyond the reach of reporters and officialdom of all stripes.
Jim was the only name for him that they would ever have.
Holly was the first person, at the site of one of his rescues, to whom
he had given his full name. She frowned, wondering why he had chosen to