Love at 11

Chapter Twelve



FROM: “Richard Clarkson” <[email protected]>

TO: “Madeline Madison” <[email protected]>

SUBJECT: Too Much Terrance



Madeline,



I spoke with Jodi who said you’re out shooting Murderous Mail (sounds like a great topic by the way!!!) but when you return, we need to discuss the “Cosmetics That Kill” piece.



I saw the finished product and I have to tell you, when I said we wanted the “Terrance Tells All” series to feature Terrance, I didn’t mean to imply that Terrance had to physically be in every shot of the piece. Sure, a couple of shots sprinkled here and there would be appropriate—after all, we do want to feature our talent. But to have Terrance appear in 43 out of 47 shots seems like overkill.



Also, shooting the stand-up of Terrance applying the leaded lipstick to his own lips struck me as a bit on the disturbing side.



Please make the appropriate changes (I do not want to see Terrance more than three times total) and bring the new version for me to review.



Thanks for your hard work! Richard



News Director, News 9



The next day at work, I sat down at my desk and clicked open my e-mail. I hadn’t realized I’d been secretly hoping for a note from Jamie until I realized there wasn’t one. Only spam and more work drama, joy to the world.

I wondered if Jamie had gotten in to work yet. I dreaded seeing him, facing him, working side by side with him, but what else could I do? It seemed too immature to ask Richard for a new photographer. He’d want to know why. And then what would I say? Besides, Jamie was a great photographer and I needed his expertise for my big Mexican shoot.

Tonight, fake-purse-seller Miguel had volunteered to lead us to the Mexican entrance of the drug tunnel. He knew a guard, he said, who could give us an inside look. It had the potential to be the smoking gun-type video we needed—the best video in the story. I couldn’t exactly leave my photographer at home just because he didn’t want to be my boyfriend. I needed to grow up. We were both adults, both professionals. We could do this.

The ride home from Calla Verda had been torturous, though. Of course, Jamie was perfectly polite, cordial. Thanked Jodi for giving him a lift and offered her gas money. But he didn’t say a word to me. And when later in the trip I got up the courage to ask him a direct question, he pretended to be asleep. Even though I knew for a fact he couldn’t be, since no one on earth could possibly sleep through the antics of Jodi’s ultra-hyper dogs.

I turned back to my e-mail, trying to put him out of my mind. The first message was from Terrance, talking about how “utterly fabulous” the “Cosmetics That Kill” piece turned out. The second came from Richard, instructing me to make major changes to the aforementioned utterly fabulous piece—namely by taking out the utterly fabulous Terrance. And the third was from poor, tortured editor Mike, who begged me to tell Richard that it wasn’t his fault that the plethora of Terrance shots had made it into the finished product. (Terrance had evidently verbally abused him for a full hour and a half, until he, as a man facing torture is wont to do, crumbled and gave the male diva everything he wanted and then some.)

I groaned. They called me a producer. Peacemaker would have been a more apt term. Or maybe crisis negotiator. I’d be so happy when “Cosmetics That Kill” finally got on the air and I never had to deal with it again.

I gnawed on the end of my pen as I contemplated how to inform Terrance that we needed to “de-Terrance” the piece before it aired. Blame it all on Richard, I thought. Make it seem as if I were as broken up over the whole thing as Terrance must be. You know how news management is, I’d say. They simply don’t have their finger on the pulse of the community. Or some such bullshit like that. Heaven forbid he found out I completely agreed with Richard’s assessment.

Satisfied with my idea, I opened up a blank e-mail, deciding it would be easier to break the news electronically. But before I could so much as type “Dear Terrance,” Jamie waltzed back into my life.

I stared at my computer monitor, not turning around as he made himself at home in David’s chair. I tried silently Jedi-mind-tricking him to go away, but he was either immune to the ways of the Force or I needed more lessons from Master Yoda.

“Hey, Maddy,” he said in a casual tone. “What’s up?” I told myself to stay calm, even as bile churned in my stomach. How dare he say “Hey, Maddy,” as if nothing happened between us? As if we were just casual coworkers? Seriously, I wanted to whirl around in my chair and punch him in the face. That or kiss him senseless. One or the other. That guy who wrote the song, “Love Stinks,” really was on to something.

“Oh, hi there,” I said instead, attempting to mimic his casualness without much luck. Dammit, I didn’t want him to know how far he’d gotten under my skin. It was too embarrassing. Too pathetic. I picked up my phone, pretending I had to make a call. Maybe he’d leave, go bug some other lovelorn producer. But of course, I was the only lovelorn producer in Jamie’s life. “Wait, Maddy. Before you get on the phone … can we talk for a second?”

Oh, no. Stop right there. I was so not going to fall for that one again. I deliberately placed the receiver back into its cradle and turned in my chair to face him. “What?” I demanded, my tone way too venomous for the situation. But really, the nerve of him! To sit down in my cubicle at work and insist on more talking? What, was he going to try to apologize? Say he didn’t mean what he said? Well, I would have none of that.

“Yesterday, I—”

“Listen, Jamie,” I interrupted. I was going to nip this in the bud. Right now. “I’d prefer if we didn’t rehash this weekend’s conversation all over again, no offense. I think you made yourself pretty clear, and I can accept how you feel. I’m sorry I was angry, but I’ve thought a lot about it and I believe it’s all for the best.”

There. That told him. I was firm. In control. He’d see that I wouldn’t stand for his hot and cold bullshit. That I wasn’t pathetic and desperately in love with him.

He frowned. “Maddy—”

“Oh, and if you’re worried about me telling Jen, don’t be,” I continued with a bitter laugh. “You guys can live happily ever after and I’ll never tell. Okay? As far as I’m concerned, it’s water under the bridge. And anyway, it’s not like I ever had any deep feelings for you.” Okay, now the words were spilling from my lips like a cauldron bubbling over. I knew I should turn down the heat and simmer, but I couldn’t stop. “You were just something to pass the time. A minor amusement.” I paused. “I mean, just so you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess it’s good to know where I stand,” he said in a quiet voice. “But if you’ll let me get a word in …”

I held up my hands. “Go right ahead,” I said. “Say what you came to say. I just wanted to let you know where I was coming from. I am not at all upset about your decision to stay with Jen. I hope you have a long and happy marriage with many babies. And live to a long age and … stuff”

“Uh, right. Okay. Thanks. I appreciate those, um, well wishes. Now, as I was saying …” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and held it out to me. I frowned down at it, not willing to accept whatever peace offering he’d come up with.

“What is that?” I asked with disdain.

“The property record for the oil refinery,” he said simply.

Oh, dear.

My face burned as I stared down at the paper. This is what he was trying to tell me the whole time? And I had gone off and said … Oh, man! I seriously contemplated crawling under my desk and dying on the spot.

Misunderstandings That Murder: Tonight at 11.

I looked up. “Jamie, I—”

He offered a small smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”

I stared back down at the property record. It was so nice of him to have gotten it. For an utter jerk, he sure was thoughtful. Or at the very least, way dedicated to his job.

I, on the other hand, was a major bitch. And a sucky producer to top it off.

“I was going to give it to you in the car yesterday,” he informed me. “But I knew you were keeping the drug tunnel story a secret. Wasn’t sure if Jodi was in on it or not.”

“Thank you for getting this,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I wanted to apologize for my tirade, but wasn’t sure how. “I mean, it was really, really great of you. It would have sucked to have to go all the way back, and, well …”

“No prob,” he said with a shrug, looking a bit embarrassed.

I cleared my throat. “Look, Jamie, I’m—”

“So, uh, it says that the refinery is owned by a company called Reardon Oil,” he interrupted, effectively giving me an invitation to change the subject. I stared at him for a moment, unable to read the emotion behind his beautiful eyes.

At last I gave up, keeping that last shred of dignity intact. I glanced down at the letter, forcing my thoughts to focus on more important matters than my doomed love affair.

“Reardon Oil, huh?” I repeated, giving it the old college try. If Jamie could be professional, so could I. “Never heard of them.”

He shook his head. “Me, neither. But then, I’m not really up on the whole oil industry, obviously.”

“True, true. Let me see what I can find out.”

I turned back to my desk for some computer-assisted reporting. Last year I’d taken a course on how to use online resources to help research stories, but had never gotten a chance to put any of my newfound knowledge to use.

“So, uh,” Jamie said, still awkwardly lingering. “They found my bike.”

“They did?” I exclaimed, turning around again. So much for keeping the conversation professional. “That’s great!”

I wanted to hate him. Wish for his misfortune. But instead, seeing the relief in his eyes, I realized I only felt delight that he’d gotten his precious motorcycle back.

“Yeah,” he said. “Someone evidently took it on a joyride, then dumped it a few miles away. A patrolman spotted it and called it in. Only a few scratches. No major damage.”

“That’s great, Jamie. Really great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic as my heart pounded at the awkwardness between us. It was as if we were strangers now. Next thing you knew he’d be bringing up the nice weather we were having lately. I couldn’t bear it.

“So, um, tonight we’re scheduled to go to Mexico,” I informed him, trying to turn the conversation back to work-related stuff before I broke down. “My whistle-blower, Miguel, is going to take us to the other end of the drug tunnel. You up for it?”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Actually, I could use the overtime.”

There were probably a million reasons he could use the overtime. Rent. Fixing the scratches on his bike. A cool computer he saw advertised on Craigslist. But there was only one reason my brain could latch on to.

Wedding expenses.

Jamie was getting married. To Jen. To have and to hold, ‘til death did they part. I swallowed hard and attempted to will away the ache in my heart. I had to accept this. Start seeing him as just another coworker. A soon-to-be-married coworker. Otherwise I was seriously going to go crazy working with him. I felt my throat constrict as regret threatened to consume me.

If only I had left him alone to begin with. Not allowed myself to start something I knew in my head could only lead to disaster and heartbreak. But, no. I’d pursued a man who was unavailable. I deserved this misery.

“Um, right now, though, I have nothing for you to do,” I said hastily. I could feel the tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. I needed him to leave. Fast. Before he saw the hurt. Before he saw how much he meant to me. “You should go check in with News. They probably have some fires for you to chase or something.”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No!” I retorted, throwing him a glare. A glare to hide my embarrassment at being called onto the carpet. “It’s just that … Richard … um, told me if I didn’t have anything for you to do, I should give you to News. They can always use an extra photographer.”

“Fair enough.” Jamie rose from his seat and headed out of the cubicle. “Have a good day, Maddy.”

I waited for a moment, until I heard his footsteps fade away, then put my face in my hands. I rubbed my eyes in frustration, probably ruining my eye makeup. Why did this have to be so hard?

“Madeline!”

What now? I looked up, surprised, as Terrance entered the cubicle. He sat down in David’s chair. Oh great. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. The last thing I wanted was for Terrance to see me crying. He was the biggest gossip on the planet.

“Did you see the piece?” he asked, his eyes shining his enthusiasm. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

“I haven’t seen it yet,” I told him. “And I’m sure it is wonderful—Mike’s a great editor. But—”

Terrance huffed. “Mike is a pain in the ass, if you ask me. I had to sit in there the whole afternoon, telling him how to do his job. If it weren’t for me, that piece would look completely different.”

I was pretty sure he was right about that one. But perhaps not in the way he meant.

“Anyway, Madeline, you were so lucky I had some time to spare to teach Mike how to do his job. I mean, did you really plan to simply leave him alone to edit without any guidance? What would you have done if I hadn’t stepped in? Though, I have to say, my efforts paid off handsomely. The piece looks—”

“Fabulous. I get it.” I sighed. “But, Terrance, do you think maybe that you might have just perhaps possibly added one too many, um, shots of a certain kind?”

Terrance scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. Obviously I couldn’t be subtle here.

I swallowed. “What I’m trying to say is, we need to take out some of the shots of you.”

“Some of the Terrance shots? You can’t take out the Terrance shots,” the anchor exclaimed, shocked. “A Terrance piece must have Terrance in it! The audience expects it. The fans demand it.”

I didn’t know what I found more disturbing—seeing Terrance so upset about being taken out of the piece or him referring to himself in a Bob Dole–like third person.

I shrugged, taking the coward’s way out. “I know you what you mean. But Richard insisted. You know how management is. I’m just a lowly producer. What can I do?”

“Well, to start, you can tell him that a Terrance piece needs Terrance. Why would I bother to do a segment if I wasn’t going to be in it? The segment is called ‘Terrance Tells All.’ How can Terrance tell all if the audience does not see Terrance doing any of the telling? Is Terrance some sort of invisible superhero? No, I think he is not.” He stamped his foot in emphasis, and I had to bite my tongue to stifle a giggle. He looked so wide-eyed and anxious. Horrified, even. An expression you might see on a man who’d been told dingos had eaten his baby.

“I’m sorry, Terrance,” I managed to say, straight-faced. “I don’t know what to tell you. Why don’t you go talk some sense into Richard? I’m sure he’ll listen to you.” I wasn’t at all sure of this, but at least that would take the pressure off me.

Nodding, Terrance rose from his seat and patted his anchor-perfect hair. “Yes. I will do that. Good day, Madeline.” And with that he stormed off.

I sighed. If this place were filmed for a reality show, everyone would think it had been exaggerated for television.

I turned back to my computer-assisted reporting project. Who was Reardon Oil? I hit LexisNexis first, this great subscription-based web service, which archived newspaper and magazine articles. You could type in a key word and BAM! Out popped hundreds of articles. If anything had ever been written about Reardon Oil, Lexis would find it.

Only one article popped up. A story about a fundraiser for Senator Gorman, held back during his first election bid. Reardon Oil evidently gave quite the campaign contribution to our favorite Republican. Could it have been a bribe of some sort?

As if he read my mind, David picked that moment to waltz into our cubicle and sit down.

“Hey, Maddy, did you know Senator Gorman blinks twice as many times per minute than Democratic challenger Bill Barnum?” he asked with a completely straight face. “They did a study. And we’re live at five with the exclusive results.”

“Fascinating.” I chuckled. “And this should change my vote, why?”

“Well, according to the taxpayer funded study, more blinking means you’re more likely to be lying.” David blinked a few times himself, in illustration.

“I see. In case anyone wasn’t completely convinced of Gorman’s truth-telling after his lower gas price promise last election?”

“Oh, Maddy! Our viewers can’t be expected to remember something as tedious as campaign promises,” David said. “They need something simple to focus on.” I laughed. “So true. And what is the promo department calling this story? Blinking Bad Guys?”

“Oh no, much better than that. They’re calling it ‘Lying Through Your Lids.’”

“Beautiful. Congrats on getting to be a part of such an election-changing story.” I patted him on the back.

“Indeed, I cherish these moments and think how lucky I am to be a part of democracy in action.”

“Not to change the subject,” I said, “but have you ever heard of a company called Reardon Oil? Big contributor during Gorman’s first bid for senator?”

David narrowed his eyes in thought. Then he shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Though it’d make sense since it’s an oil company. Before he was elected senator, Gorman worked for the California Environmental Protection Agency. He would have had to sign off on any oil drilling applications. Make sure they’re not damaging the environment, that sort of thing.”

“So whoever owns Reardon Oil could have promised him a big bribe if Gorman would sign on the dotted line for something not on the up and up?”

“Why, Maddy, It’s not bribery! It’s called lobbying. And what are you implying about our illustrious senator?” David asked in feigned horror. Then he laughed. “Sounds like the Gorman I know and love.”

“Interesting,” I mused.

“Let me ask Brock though. He may know more.”

I grinned knowingly. “Ooh, things still hot and heavy with the senator’s son?”

“Hell yeah, sister. He is the cat’s meow.” David beamed.

“Does his dad know you two are an item?”

“Uh, that would be a negative. Brock’s still technically in the closet. But he has one toe out. And I’m confident by the end of the month he’ll manage a whole foot. Maybe even a kneecap.”

I chuckled. “Okay, my patient little lover boy. Let me know what you find out.”

I turned back to my computer. Now done with my LexisNexis search, I decided to try top-secret investigative reporter tool number two:

Google.

I wondered what reporters had done before the Internet. They must have actually had to use the phone. Called people and asked them stuff. But then, that was before voice mail hell. These days getting through the navigation maze of “Press one if you want …” and actually getting a live person (who then probably got paid two dollars an hour from his outsourced office in India and didn’t know anything anyway) was next to impossible.

I typed Reardon Oil, but all I got back was some kind of comic book reference and a rather disturbing site about horsetail art.

I hit the “back” button to return to the search field. This time, I selected the “images” tag. Maybe I could get a photo.

However, unlike when one typed “Ewan McGregor” into Google and got 8,680 photos to gaze dreamily upon (NOT that I’d ever done that!) Reardon Oil only brought up one: a photo of an extremely heavyset man, squeezed into a tuxedo, shaking Senator Gorman’s hand. Was this the owner of Reardon Oil? Unfortunately there was no caption on the photograph so I still didn’t have a name. I hit “print” anyway.

Grabbing the desert undercover videotape off my desk, I headed to the viewing station to reexamine it. I didn’t think Tuxedo Man was the same one out in the desert, but I had to be sure. I fast-forwarded to the spot where the Mercedes pulled in. Nice car. Drug dealers were so lucky to afford such sweet rides. The man in question opened the door and stepped out.

Disappointment washed over me. Definitely a different guy. The man in the desert was thinner and had a full head of curly black hair, unlike the balding old guy in the penguin suit. I guessed that would have been too easy. Even if Mr. Reardon Oil did own the property, it was highly unlikely that he’d come pick up the drugs himself.

“Who are you?” I asked quietly, more determined than ever to find out.

I was about to eject the tape when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. The Mercedes’s license plate. Unfortunately in California, after some actress got stalked and killed, the DMV no longer gave out any personal info if you had a license number. But what I did notice might be equally valuable.

The car had dealer plates.

“David?” I called. “Come here a sec, will you?” David popped out of the cubicle and came up behind me. “What’s up?” he asked.

I pressed a finger against the monitor. “See that? The car has dealer plates. Can you ask Brock if his dad had any campaign contributors who are involved in car dealerships as well as oil refineries?” It was a long shot, but I couldn’t rule anything out.

“What are you working on?” David asked curiously. “It looks way too interesting to be a News Nine report.”

“Well, it may be something and it may not be,” I said. “So for now, can you keep it all on the down-low?”

“Sure thing, sistah. On one condition. You let me borrow your spangly tank top for Saturday night. Brock and I are going dancing.”

“No problem. Just don’t stretch it out with those broad shoulders of yours. And wear plenty of deodorant. I don’t want sweat stains.” After David swore up and down that he’d dowse with Degree before setting foot on the dance floor, I walked over to the printer and grabbed the photo with Tux Man and Gorman. I handed it him. “This is our Reardon Oil guy. If you can find out who he is, you can keep the shirt. I’ll even let you have the matching skirt.”

“Ooh, you know how to strike a hard bargain.” David grinned. “Consider it done.”



*



I always loved the look of Armani, but this dress had to be Giorgio’s pièce de résistance. The black silk hugs my body in all the right places. As I sit down at the banquet table, I can hear the other guests murmuring their approval.

“You look beautiful,” Jamie whispers. I glance to my right, where he sits, dressed in a sexy tux. He reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Like a winner.”

I smile and return the squeeze. “So do you, my darling. As always.”

“So, what do you think our chances are tonight?”

“Oh, we’re a shoo-in,” I say with a grin. “Our Newsline investigative pieces have won National Emmys six years in a row. What’s to stop us from taking number seven?”

“You’re amazing,” Jamie says, looking adoringly into my eyes. “And to think I almost lost you due to my stupidity.”

“Yes. You could have married that awful bitch Jennifer. I can’t believe you were once engaged to the waitress at Deb’s Diner.”

“Back then she thought she’d be an actress.”

“Yeah, right. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“I’m so glad I fell in love with you. You are the sunshine of my existence. My perfect rose. My amazing, talented, Newsline producer. I love you, Mrs. Hayes.”

“I love you, too, Mr. Hayes. Now, shush, while they announce the winner.”

The orchestra picks up, a vibrant tune as the head of the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences steps up to the podium.

“And the winner of this year’s National Emmy for Outstanding Investigative Work goes to …”

I hold my breath. Will it be me? Will he say my name? The envelope rustles….

“Sleeping Beauty!”

Huh? Sleeping Beauty? What the …?

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, you ready to go?”

I lifted my head from my desk, groggily recognizing the Sleeping Beauty comment to be coming from Jamie. And not gorgeous tux-clad husband at the Emmy awards ceremony Jamie, but jeans and T-shirted, engaged to another woman Jamie.

Real-life Jamie.

Thanks a lot, subconscious. We were supposed to be forgetting the fantasy, remember? Not rehashing it in our dreams.

I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep. After David had left the cubicle earlier, I’d decided a quick eye-shutting was in order. After all, I was still exhausted from the Calla Verda adventure. But I’d only wanted to close my eyes for one second. Evidently my brain had other ideas. How long had I been out for?

“What time is it?” I asked, yawning. Hopefully no one walked by and caught me napping. Well, except Jamie, of course. I wondered if I looked cute and sleep-tousled or disgustingly disheveled. More likely the latter. At least he couldn’t tell what I had been dreaming. That would be super embarrassing.

Jamie glanced at his watch. “Six. You said we were supposed to meet Miguel, right? We’d better get a move on.”

“Okay.” I stretched my arms over my head, trying to wake up. I’d never fallen asleep on the job before. “But I need major coffee first.”

“I think that can be arranged,” he said with a grin. I smiled back, unable to help myself.

I could do this. I could work with him without wanting to jump his bones. We didn’t have to simply be coworkers. We could be friends. Just not lovers. Definitely not lovers.

I got up from my chair and followed him through the hallways, trying not to stare at his perfect butt. Friends did not stare at each other’s butts, after all.

We hit Starbucks and grabbed ice Americanos with four shots of espresso. So strong they were barely drinkable, but I definitely wouldn’t fall asleep on the job.

Now armed with caffeine, we hopped back in the SUV and drove down to Mexico. In order to not arouse suspicion, we had decided to park at the border and walk over. Then, Miguel would drive us in his car to the tunnel opening. On the way down, Jamie hooked up his iPod and blasted ‘80s music, eliminating the need for much conversation. It was just as well.

Getting out of the SUV, we walked through the clanging metal one-way revolving doors that led to the Central American country. Going into Mexico always reminded me of one of those Chinese finger traps: Anyone could go in—they never even checked IDs at this border. But you had to have major documentation to get out.

As we headed to the main square, delicious meaty smells wafted from nearby taco stands, tempting us to stray from our destination. But there would be no margaritas or food that evening. No fake-purse shopping. We had a more important mission. A dangerous undercover mission. I felt a little like James Bond—except, without the cool car, gadgets, and license to kill, of course.

“Hi, Miguel,” I greeted as we approached his stand. He grinned back his own semi toothless greeting.

“Maddy!” he exclaimed. “Welcome back to Tijuana.”

“Thanks,” I said, my eyes unwillingly drawn to his wares. Wow. It looked like he’d gotten in a brand new stock of purses! Wait ‘til I told Jodi. Wait—was that a Kate Spade with a sewn on label?

Maddy, stop it. You’re on an important undercover mission, not a shopping trip.

I willed myself to stop looking; I could always come back another day with Jodi. Tomorrow after work. Surely no one would buy the Kate Spade purse before I could return, would they? Then again, it was pretty rare to find a counterfeit Kate Spade with a sewn on label. Most were glued. What if someone came by tomorrow while I was at work and realized what a find it was? What if they bought it before I had a chance to—

“How much for the Kate Spade?” I blurted. I could feel Jamie’s disapproving gaze settle on me.

“Maddy, I thought you said we had to resist our shopping urges,” he reminded me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but do you know how rare it is to find a good Kate Spade knockoff with a sewn on label?”

He raised an eyebrow. “In fact, I believe you specifically told me that I needed to stop you if you suddenly had an overwhelming urge to buy a purse.”

I groaned. “I meant an everyday purse. Not a Kate Spade with a sewn on label. You don’t understand—these purses come around once in a blue moon.”

“You also said to remind you that you already had nine Kate Spade knockoffs already.” He shook his head. “What do you do with nine purses?”

“You know in the time it took to have this discussion I could have bought the purse,” I whined.

Miguel placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I put a purse aside for you, chica,” he consoled. “But really, we must get moving to our destination. The guard who knew my brother, he is off duty at midnight. After that, it will be too dangerous to take you inside.”

I reluctantly acquiesced, sure that the purse was going to be long gone by the time I got back. But what could I do?

Miguel pulled down a metal barrier over the shop window and locked it at the bottom with a padlock. Then, he motioned for us to follow him. We walked behind the store to a tiny, beat up car. We clambered inside. Jamie allowed me shotgun, and he took the rear. Miguel turned the key in the ignition, and off we went.

Two hours later, I was ready to throw up. The Mexican roads were windy and bumpy, and Miguel’s car had very little shock absorption. Not to mention it had no AC and the radio blared gay Spanish tunes that only added to my nausea. To make matters worse, Miguel felt prompted to sing along. And let’s just say, American Idol finalist he was not. The things I did to get a good story …

Finally, when I thought we would literally die from heat (and ear) exhaustion, Miguel pulled over to the side of the road and killed the engine. “Here we are,” he said. “It’s right over that ridge.”

His statement made my pulse kick up about ten notches, drum with both anticipation and fear. This was not standing on a cliff, looking down at a distant building that we wouldn’t be going near. This was actually penetrating a drug cartel facility in a foreign country where we could be shot and killed and no one would even know where to look for us. In fact, come to think of it, we hadn’t even told anyone where we had gone. Pretty dumb.

When we didn’t come back, there’d probably be a nationwide search. Dogs, flashlights, dredging rivers. Our faces would forever be enshrined on milk cartons. But no one would ever discover the truth—that we were complete morons who’d decided busting a drug cartel on our night off would be a positive career move.

Coyotes howled in the distance as we exited the car. Miguel pulled out a flashlight from behind the driver’s-side seat, turning it on and flicking the light into the sky three times. “I am announcing that we are here to my amigo,” he informed us. “Since the tunnel is only operational during the day, there is just one guard on duty at night. His job is to pay off the police if they come snooping.” He laughed. “But in Mexico, they come for the money only. They do not care what goes on behind closed doors.”

“So, your friend’s going to give us a tour?” Jamie asked Miguel. “And he’ll let us videotape it all?”

“Si.” Miguel nodded. “Alejandro will let you get all the video you need. To avenge his friend, my brother, God have mercy on his soul.” Miguel crossed himself. “Now, let us go.”

Nice. The murdered-brother story. Just the reminder I needed to get my heart rate skyrocketing again. I reminded myself that the people who did that job were not there. They were in their beds, sleeping soundly with no idea there was an American news crew invading their drug tunnel.

Jamie reached into the backseat and pulled out his camera. He’d brought the smaller, digital DVC-Pro—better quality than the hidden camera but less bulky than the full-sized beta cam. Easier to run with if we we’re chased, he had said, and suddenly stories about killer household products that didn’t really kill didn’t really seem all that bad.

We walked about fifty yards down the rocky dirt road to a large dig site. The moon hung full and large in the desert sky, illuminating the landscape with a burnt yellow glow.

There was no oil refinery pretense on this side of the border. Just a bunch of rusty old digging equipment and a large ramshackle warehouse standing tall in the center. Miguel motioned for us to follow him to the building. Once at the door, he knocked three times.

The door opened and a skinny man with a straggly black mustache, dressed in a guard uniform, greeted Miguel with a big bear hug. Mexican men, unlike their homophobic American counterparts, I’d learned, were not afraid of hugging each other.

“Hola, Miguel. Coma estas?”

“Ah, muy bueno, Alejandro. Habla Englais? Para los Americanos, por favor.” He gestured to Jamie and me.

Alejandro turned to greet us. “How are you doing?” he asked, switching to accented English.

“Not bad,” I said. Yup, seeing as I was still conscious and not passed out from fear, I considered myself doing all right. I shook his hand. “I’m Maddy Madison, the producer. This is my photographer Jamie. Thanks for doing this.”

“You are welcomed. Peter, he was like a brother. When they murdered him, I longed for my revenge,” he explained. “This way I can have it, but keep my own head on my shoulders. Sure, I will lose my job if they shut down the tunnel, but there are other jobs. Jobs that will allow me to work with a clean conscience. Perhaps Miguel here will hire me to run his shop.” He slapped Miguel on the back, then motioned for us to step inside. We entered a dark building with only a few lanterns scattered for light. Luckily the camera had a night-vision option or else we’d be in trouble.

“There is no electricity,” Alejandro explained. “Only a generator, which makes such a noise I dare not turn it on at night.”

He shone a flashlight into the darkness, revealing a large tunnel cut into the ground, angled in such a way that a truck could drive through. I drew in a deep breath. This was it.

“Follow me,” Alejandro said.

Jamie lifted the camera to his shoulder and flicked on the night-vision option. Now, looking through the viewfinder had the same effect as night-vision goggles—which would give the video he shot a crystal clear, though greenish glow.

We descended into the tunnel. It was just tall enough for a van to drive through without the roof scraping the dirt ceiling. Every few feet wooden beams and wire mesh supported the infrastructure, much like a mineshaft. The tunnel descended for about a hundred feet, then flattened out.

“The tunnel is nearly a mile long,” Alejandro told me, stopping and leaning against one of the dirt walls. “There have been other border tunnels built in the past. Very primitive—carved out with hand tools. Only one person could crawl through to the other side and they were so close to the border that they were easy targets for border guards to spot. Many have been busted.” He gestured to the tunnel before us. “No one has ever created a tunnel this big before. Now they can import more, crossing with trucks instead of on foot. They smuggle Ecstasy, pot, and cocaine. You name it, they will smuggle it.”

“The tunnels are also used to smuggle human cargo,” Miguel added. “Those willing to pay a price to go to America.”

It made sense. Every day there were news stories about illegal immigrants risking life and limb to cross through the desert to get to the promised land of America. But the harsh, arid climate made the trip nearly impossible and many died. A tunnel such as this where you could ride instead of walk would seem a first-class ticket to freedom.

After Jamie got enough video of the tunnel, Alejandro suggested we go back above ground. There was an office, he said, where they kept the master plans. He could do an interview explaining what he knew about the cartel’s actions, as long as we didn’t shoot his face and digitally disguised his voice on the finished product.

We went into the small office and Alejandro unrolled a map. Jamie videotaped while he explained. “This is where the drugs enter,” he said for the camera, “and the trucks come out here, on the American side. There, they will be transferred to other vehicles and distributed for American sale.”

“And who’s behind this?” I asked.

“The cartel operating out of this tunnel is run by the infamous Lopez family,” Alejandro explained.

I scratched my head. “I thought Ronaldo Lopez was busted a few years ago. Isn’t he still in jail or something?” I remembered the News 9 report. “They said the cartel had been broken up.”

“Si, you are right, senorita.” Alejandro nodded. “Ronaldo Lopez is serving twenty years. But his son Felix has taken over the business. And he has even higher ambitions than his padre.”

“In that packet of documents I sent you,” Miguel interrupted, “from my brother. There are pictures of Felix on the scene the day the tunnel first opened. They told him he should never come to the actual site—to be implicated like that—but he is bold and likes to take risks. On that day my brother took secret photos of Felix with his camera phone.”

“Yes, I saw those pictures,” I said, wondering if Miguel’s brother had remembered to turn off the clicking sound on his camera phone before he took them. Maybe not, considering how he’d ended up.

“He took the photos thinking he could bribe the Lopez family and get a share of the business. Instead of accepting his proposal, they simply killed him.” Miguel shook his head. “He was young and foolish, my brother.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, bowing my head in respect. I’d have to go back through those documents now that I knew what they were photos of. I’d had no idea the guy in them was head of the infamous Lopez Cartel. How perfect for the story. The smoking gun, so to speak.

“Does the Lopez family own the property?” Jamie asked.

“Oh, no. They do not own anything,” said Alejandro. “If they did, the policía would be on them immediately. They lease the land from a third party and pay them off in a combination of drugs and cash in exchange for the use of the land.”

“Do you know who they lease it from?” I asked, getting excited. That transaction we saw in the desert—that must have been the guy they were leasing it off of. It made finding out who owned Reardon Oil even more important.

He shook his head. “I do not know for certain. I would assume someone from the American side. Someone with a clean record that the Feds would not suspect. A business leader, perhaps. A—how do you say it?—pillar of the community.”

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice in Wonderland would say. It all starting making perfect sense. Reardon Oil paid of Senator Gorman to approve their digging for oil on that property. With government approval, no one would suspect anything illicit going on. And since it was so far out in the desert, most likely it didn’t get inspected on a regular basis. Then, Reardon Oil leased the land to the Lopez family to transport their drugs. They made a huge profit for doing absolutely nothing.

Only one question remained. Who owned Reardon Oil?

Before I could ask any more questions, voices, speaking in Spanish, suddenly echoed through the warehouse. Someone had arrived.

All four of us froze. Alejandro glanced at Miguel, a scared expression on his face.

“Eduardo,” he said in a whisper. “The other guard. I do not know why he is here. He is not on duty for another hour.”

Jamie and I exchanged horrified looks. This was exactly the nightmare situation we’d feared. To be caught by drug lords! Tortured. Killed. Buried in the desert. Our lives could be over in a matter of minutes! I felt like I was going to puke. Why had I thought this was a good story?

“Quickly. Through the window!” Miguel pointed to a small, dingy window on one wall. Could we even fit through that? The voices were coming closer. We’d sure as hell have to try. Alejandro ran to the door and locked it.

“This will not buy us much time,” he said. “Please leave. I mourn the loss of your brother, Miguel. But I do not wish to join him in hell.”

We didn’t wait for a second invitation. Propping a chair against the wall, I stood on it and pushed up the window. It opened with a resounding squeak that I was sure would give us away. Any second the door could open. We could be caught.

Focus, Maddy!

“Alejandro?” a male voice called. “¿Dónde está usted?” I nearly fell off the chair as the doorknob rattled. Thank God Alejandro had locked the door. That would have been it.

“Un momento, Eduardo. Ha, ha. Usted me ha cogido que tomaba una siesta,” Alejandro said, motioning for us to hurry.

“What did he say?” I hissed to Miguel, praying it wasn’t Spanish for selling us down the river.

“He says they caught him taking a nap.”

Phew. With great effort and much adrenaline, I pulled myself through the window. For a moment, my child-bearing hips stuck against the sides of the small frame, but I managed to wiggle my way out and jump to the ground. Short, skinny Miguel came next, slipping through easily.

My breath caught in my throat. Jamie. He was a much broader build than either of us. Would he be able to fit?

His head poked through the window and I could see that he was struggling. He was just too big for the narrow frame. Terror choked me. He would get caught. They’d kill him. KILL him! I couldn’t let it happen. Not to Jamie. Well, not to anyone, if it came to that. But especially not to Jamie.

I raced back to the window and grabbed his hand. “Let me help you,” I cried. “I’ll pull you through.”

“I don’t think I’m going to fit,” he said hoarsely, out of breath from his struggle and fear. “You should go on without me.”

“No!” I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I’m not leaving you here.” Inside we could hear banging on the door.

“Alejandro?” the voice demanded, not so amused this time. “Abra la puerta inmediatamente!”

“Maddy, it’ll do no good to have both of us caught,” he scolded me. “Go. Now!”

“No!” I upped my grip to his arms and yanked as hard as I could. “I’m not going to leave you!” I tugged again, using my full weight for leverage.

It was amazing what someone under a severe adrenaline rush can do strength-wise. The last pull prompted the window frame to crack and give way. Jamie came crashing through, I fell backward and he landed on top of me, his weight crushing my rib cage.

I looked up. His face was inches from mine, his expression, a mixture of shock and relief. Then he leaned in closer—giving me a quick kiss on my surprised mouth.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and then just as quickly rolled off of me.

We scrambled to our feet; there was no time to think, to feel. We dove into the darkness.

“Hurry,” Miguel hissed from a distance, his voice guiding us as we ran through the desert to the car. A few moments later, a light flashed from the window into the darkness and we ducked to avoid catching its glare. My knee slammed into a sharp rock and I bit my tongue to keep from crying out as hot blood flowed from my kneecap.

“Stay down,” Miguel commanded.

Crawling on hands and knees, it took next to forever to reach the car. I prayed over and over that they hadn’t left anyone as a guard waiting with an AK-47 to blow away whoever came to claim it. This sure seemed a lot more glamorous when it happened to James Bond. Of course, he had an Aston Martin as a getaway car. I wasn’t too sure Miguel’s subcompact hatchback would have much of a chance if it came down to a car chase.

Jamie and I hopped into the back of the car and Miguel pulled the gearshift into neutral. Then he got out and pushed the vehicle down the hill until we picked up speed. He jumped into the car as we rolled silently down the desert road. Once we were a distance away and the hill flattened out, he turned the key in the ignition and shut the door.

“We should be safe now,” he said.

I let out the breath I’d been holding for God knew how long. I turned to Jamie, panting for air, still not able to speak. He grabbed me and forcefully pulled me into a crushing hug that said more than words ever could. I clung to him, burying my face in his shoulder, sobbing with relief. Miguel stepped on the gas and we sped off into the night.

“Quite the adventure, no?” he asked, turning to look at us.

Jamie released me from his embrace and nodded. “Quite,” he said, his voice still unsteady.

I leaned back in my seat and shut my eyes. I didn’t want to talk. To think. Emotions ran too fast, too hard. I felt a hand squeeze my own and I opened my eyes and looked beside me. Jamie gave me a sad smile that spoke a thousand words.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For what?”

He paused for a moment. Then answered: “For just being you.”



Normal Heights

Community High School

10777 Alta Vista Road

San Diego, CA 92116



Dear Ms. Madison,



By law, every child at Normal Heights Community High School must attend an average of 180 days per fiscal school year. We do allow for occasional absences due to illness, family emergencies, even an occasional vacation.



However, Lulu’s extended leave has become unacceptable. She has fallen behind in her studies and is in danger of flunking out.



While I am sorry to hear of your recent bout with SARS from your visit to China and understand Lulu’s fervent desire to be with her sister in her time of need, as Lulu’s new legal guardian you must agree that her studies should come first.



I hate giving ultimatums, but if your sister does not start attending school immediately, she will be expelled.

Sincerely, Walter Sott

Principal



PS. I’m also sorry to hear about your parents’ tragic death by car accident. It’s odd, I must have missed their obituaries in the paper.