Authors: Rick Mofina
8
Wildhorse Heights, Texas
K
ate painstakingly picked her way through the debris to the Saddle Up Center.
It had been more than fifteen minutes since she’d left the news truck and the curt email from Dorothea.
Her criticism still burned.
You should’ve tried to reach us sooner.
How? Cell phones aren’t working here and no one at the bureau was handing out satellite phones.
Can you find anything stronger?
What the hell does that mean? Chuck wanted
the facts, the heartbreak and the heroes,
and that’s what Kate got. She could only interpret Dorothea’s comments to mean the people in her story were “not suffering enough.”
In her years as a reporter, Kate had encountered hard-case editors and unbalanced fools for editors, but Dorothea was in a class of her own. What is it with that woman, making those brainless comments on her work from her downtown office on the twenty-second floor of Bryan Tower? No doubt she was watching TV-news footage and convinced she was tuned in to reality while Kate was here, on the ground, stepping through it.
Feeling the crunch of debris under her boots, Kate looked at the wasteland around her; the air was filled with cries for help, the chaos of rescues, radios and helicopters; the smells of upturned earth, broken timbers and small fires.
As she got closer to the Saddle Up Center it became clear to Kate that for some unknown reason Dorothea did not like her. But Kate would be damned if she’d let that slow her down. If anything, she thought, tapping her notebook to her leg, taking in the destruction, it made her stronger.
“CALEB!!!”
A child’s voice cut through the clamor, yanking Kate’s attention to the scene ahead: a little girl, no older than five or six, with a woman in her twenties, presumably her mother. An empty, twisted stroller stood near them, the mother savagely tearing away debris, tossing pieces as she and the child repeatedly called out:
“CALEB!!!”
Even the little girl was lifting smaller pieces and peering under them. Two aid workers in orange fluorescent vests appeared to be helping on the opposite side of the debris pile. The woman was contending with a large section of plywood by herself when she saw Kate at the end of it.
“Please help me move this!”
The panic in the woman’s eyes telegraphed her agony—she was in the fight of her life.
“Please!”
Once more, Kate was being asked to cross a journalistic line. She was well aware that her job was to observe the news, not take part in it, but her conscience would not allow her to ignore another plea for help. She gripped her side of the wood, heaved and helped toss it aside.
“CALEB!”
The woman got on her knees, her hands and fingers were laced with blood as she tugged at scraps and hunks of metal, glass and wood while combing every opening in the ruins.
“Is Caleb your child?” Kate asked.
“He’s my baby boy.”
The woman pulled at a large chunk of wood causing the entire heap to shift precariously toward her daughter. Kate reached to steady it.
“Stop, miss!” A relief worker shouted at Jenna. “Get back! It’s not safe!”
“My baby could be in there!”
“Yes, we’ve got help coming!”
“Hurry, please hurry!”
As Jenna continued searching the debris without touching it, Kate acted.
“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead. Would you tell me what happened to you when the storm hit?”
Without taking her eyes from the debris to look at Kate, the woman quickly related her story. She held nothing back. “It’s my fault. I should’ve held him to me. I had him, but I let him go. Oh God, it’s my fault!”
I had him, but I let him go.
The words detonated an emotional charge within Kate.
An image flashed.
A tiny hand slipping away from hers in the icy river...
It’s my fault.
Jenna’s words jolted Kate because they were words she’d lived with. She’d known this anguish in her own life long ago. It was why she’d become a reporter. She was haunted.
“I understand,” she said.
Suddenly Jenna met Kate’s eyes and something between the two women fused. In that intense emotional instant Jenna searched Kate’s face for deception. Finding none, she started nodding with the belief that Kate did understand, just as they were overtaken by the arrival of rescuers.
For the next twenty minutes the team worked in the area, searching and moving wreckage with great care, but found no trace of the baby, or anyone else. They were still searching when two TV-news crews hurried by them. An anxious cameraman was saying that a helicopter ambulance had just crashed nearby.
“I have to go,” Kate told Jenna, quickly exchanging contact info with her. “I promise I’ll follow up with you. Where will you be later?”
“An emergency shelter, where they have phones. I need to reach my husband.”
Jenna sobbed as she stood there watching the search team, while holding her daughter and the bent and twisted stroller, struggling not to lose hope of finding her baby.
A portrait of heartbreak.
With Jenna’s permission, Kate used her phone to take a picture before she rushed off after the TV news crews.
Cutting across the market took time. When Kate’s group arrived they found that the helicopter was upright in the temporary medical landing zone. The chopper showed no obvious signs of damage. Kate spotted Barry Lopez, the Newslead photographer, among a knot of journalists. They’d encircled an EMS official, who someone called Dave Wills and who was facing questions under the glare of lights. Some of the arriving TV crews wanted him to “start over.”
“Look, this was not a crash,” Wills said. “It was a hard landing due to a mechanical issue. No one was hurt.”
Wills took questions for another fifteen minutes before wrapping up. News crews dispersed and disappeared into the chaos. Kate hooked up with Lopez. They picked their way back toward the Saddle Up Center but were unable to find Jenna Cooper.
For the rest of the day Kate went flat out, writing the stories of the victims and getting updates on the toll. Heartbreak after heartbreak, there seemed to be no end to the tragedies emerging from the flea market. Fitch at the WFGG satellite truck helped her free of charge when he had time.
At one point in the day, Kate realized that she’d not eaten for at least eight hours. She accepted an egg salad sandwich and cup of water from a church group that had set up a table, “for anyone who needs it,” one of the white-haired ladies said with a smile.
By late afternoon, Kate had lost count of how many times she’d filed to the bureau but the last one ended with a new order from Chuck.
We need you at the bureau to help with the day’s wrap-up piece. Come in now, Kate.
9
T
he bureau’s staff had doubled by the time Kate returned.
People she didn’t recognize were working side by side at every desk, including hers. Others were sitting on the floor, typing on phones, laptops, tablets, consulting notes, or talking to Dorothea.
One wall was papered with a massive map showing the paths of the tornadoes. Twenty had touched down in the Metroplex. They were confirmed for Arlington, Mesquite, Irving, Kennedale, Wildhorse Heights, Grand Prairie, Lancaster and several other locations. Each one was numbered on the map with notes on their length, width and ratings. The tracks they left looked like a huge claw had gouged the metro area.
Another wall showed dozens of photos, twisted cars in trees, destroyed homes, a roof on a highway, and there was Kate’s photo of Jenna Cooper, searching for her baby while holding his warped stroller and her daughter.
Every TV in the bureau was locked on live storm coverage. The coffee table from reception was brought in and buried with take-out pizza, salads, wings, chips and sodas.
Phones were ringing.
Roy Webster and Mandy Lee, who’d returned from Arlington and Irving, left a huddle at Dorothea’s desk and turned to Kate. Mandy’s eyes went to Kate’s hiking boots.
“Where did you get those?”
“I had them in my trunk.”
“Well, aren’t you prepared?”
“I saw what you filed from the flea market,” Roy said. “Not bad, Kate.”
Chuck, who’d been moving from desk to desk, guiding the bureau’s coverage, spotted Kate.
“Get yourself some food. It might be hard finding a place to work. We’ve brought in help from our other bureaus.” He stared over his bifocals. “You’ve got thirty minutes to give Dorothea and me whatever unused stuff you still have from today, then we’re meeting on next steps for coverage.”
Kate found a clear spot on the floor against a far wall. She passed on food. Her insides were still churning. She zoned out the activity as she wrote amid the room’s tension. When she finished, she glanced at the skyline, glittering in the early evening. She got a soda, kept an eye on the TVs and read Newslead’s wire stories online to get the full picture and the latest developments.
Today, several tornadoes had ripped through Texas, Alabama, Arkansas and Mississippi. So far the death toll was estimated at two hundred, with most in Texas around the Dallas area. Counting all the states that were hit, more than three thousand people were believed to be injured. Some six hundred were listed as missing, most around Dallas. At least twelve thousand homes, businesses and properties were destroyed. Power outages were widespread. Damage was pegged to surpass three billion dollars. All numbers were expected to climb in what was one of the worst storms on record.
The Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex was hardest hit, particularly in Arlington, Lancaster, Wildhorse Heights, Irving and several other communities. The bureau’s phones continued ringing. In the worst areas roads were torn up, cell towers were down. People needed specific information but couldn’t get through to the
Dallas Morning News,
or the local TV and radio stations, so they called news bureaus in Dallas.
As reporters worked, Kate overheard snatches of conversations.
“My cousin in Irving lost his house.”
“You were in your bedroom when the entire wall disappeared?”
“But they found your dog, and he’s okay? That’s a miracle.”
Then someone shouted, “Here we go!” All eyes went to the TVs and live coverage of the President at a microphone in Ottawa, Canada, where he was at a global summit. He was making a live statement on the storm.
“We send our profound condolences to the loved ones of those who lost their lives today in the tornadoes and severe weather that struck the Dallas–Fort Worth area and communities in Alabama, Arkansas and Mississippi. We commend all the people who are helping their friends and neighbors during this terrible time. I have spoken with the governors of the affected states and have directed all available federal resources to respond. The nation stands ready to help our fellow Americans in this time of need. You are all in our thoughts and prayers.”
The networks then showed a moving montage of the devastation, giving pause to the bureau reporters who lived there. Most knew someone who’d been hit, underscoring to Kate that she was an outsider. In that moment she ached to be back in Canton, holding Grace.
But she had a job to do, with a lot riding on it.
“Okay, people, meeting time. Squeeze in here.” Chuck and Dorothea herded the staff into the bureau’s boardroom. Seats around the table filled and others stood against the wall.
“First, thanks, everyone, all of you from our other bureaus,” Chuck said. “Thanks for making the long drives from Oklahoma City, Houston, Austin and San Antonio. We appreciate the help.”
“And, if I may, Chuck,” Dorothea said, “I want to applaud our bureau, Moe, Harley, Tilda, Annalee, Tommy, Eduardo, Maria and Sue for outstanding work on the breaking coverage. So far, with updates, we filed more than one hundred stories, and two hundred photos. Some of our bureau people are still out in the field. One way or another, most us at the bureau are connected to the storm. I also want to thank our interns, Roy Webster and Mandy Lee, for their fine work.” Dorothea nodded to both of them just as a ringing cell phone interrupted her.
The reporter with the phone took the call while leaving the room.
The meeting resumed without mention of Kate.
She swallowed the slight of being overlooked.
Other people were facing worse, she thought, like the young mother she’d found searching for her missing baby.
Chuck flipped pages of his notebook as he gave an overview of coverage requirements for the next morning, ticking off search and rescue of the missing, updating the lists of the dead, injured and missing; relief and recovery. Coverage had to include the economic and psychological toll. He said the governor would be visiting the worst areas.
“Our Washington bureau confirms that the White House is arranging for the President to visit.”
Chuck noted that he had people on overnight shifts covering rescue efforts. Then he began assigning reporters from the other bureaus to specific tasks for the next day and then advised his people to return to the same areas early in the morning and continue covering the storm.
“Headquarters in New York is telling us what we already know. This is the top story in the country and a lead story around the world. Our copy is in demand. You’re all pros—you all know what to do,” he said. “Give us the facts and the human drama, the heartbreak and the heroes.”
The meeting broke up with people leaving, or wrapping up work, making calls, or talking with Dorothea or Chuck.
When Chuck was clear, Kate approached him.
“I think I’ve got a strong dramatic story coming out of the flea market. I’d like to follow it tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
Kate’s glance shifted to Dorothea, who’d overheard and joined them.
“A young mother, Jenna Cooper,” Kate said. “She’s searching for her five-month-old son, Caleb. She lost him when the tornado hit the Saddle Up Center. He vanished.”
“Right, she was in the copy you filed today,” Chuck said. “Sounds like a good one to follow. But first check with Dorothea on what she’ll need from you tomorrow.”
Chuck checked his phone for messages then left to talk to another reporter.
“Yes, that’s a sad one,” Dorothea said, “but there are a hundred others like it out there. I’ve got something else in mind for you tomorrow, Kate.”
“But I’d really like to follow up on Jenna Cooper. My gut tells me this story could be strong. A stranger was helping with the baby and the stranger’s missing, too. It’s very tragic and I think—”
Kate was now staring at Dorothea’s forefinger, held up to silence her.
“Roy and Mandy will go back out to cover the flea market. I need you here for an evening shift starting at three tomorrow afternoon. Please and thank you.” Dorothea’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” She turned away.
Kate stood there dumbfounded for several moments. Then she collected her things.
Before leaving, she glanced at the wall of photos, returning to the image of Jenna Cooper, holding her daughter and her baby’s contorted stroller, and gazing into the end of the world.