already been through so much and this won’t be easy. Would you be willing to look?”
“What is this? Is this your way of telling me my son’s among the dead?”
“No.”
“You tell me right now if he is because I want to see him. I have a right to see him!”
“No, we’re sorry...we don’t know,” Denton said. “Police made the video. They’re updating it as they recover more fatalities, and they’re requesting we show it to people who’re reporting missing persons. It’s a first step before allowing people into the area where the deceased are before they’re moved. It’s nearby.”
Belle placed her hand on Jenna’s.
Jenna took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’ll look at it.”
Jenna glanced protectively at Cassie. She couldn’t see Denton’s screen. He made a few keystrokes and a video played. The camera showed bodies arranged on the ground in a neat line, maybe twenty corpses. They were not covered and had varying degrees of damage.
Jenna held her breath and covered her mouth with her hand as her focus went to the smallest victims, seven little children. None looked any younger than two or three. No babies.
Oh God, it’s real! Those dead children! Their poor parents! Please, please don’t take Caleb from me! Please!
As the camera tightened and panned over each one, Jenna looked for any women with red hair, gasping when the camera found one. Instantly she thought of the spiky-haired stranger who’d complimented her on Caleb and Cassie at the clothing table; her smile and how she’d led them to safety in the center, holding Caleb’s stroller.
A kind woman who tried to help me.
But the dead red-haired woman, whose bruised face filled the screen, appeared larger and older. She couldn’t be the woman who’d helped her.
The camera continued its grisly display, evocative of documentary and news footage Jenna had seen of concentration camp and earthquake victims. In this one, many of the bodies looked as if they’d been broken and awkwardly reassembled. Her eyes blurred with tears. Not long ago, these people were living their lives, shopping, just shopping like me, but now—now...
“Oh, no!”
Jenna saw one dead older woman, her neck and face bloodied, still wearing a Dallas Cowboys ball cap and a T-shirt with the words: Verna’s Clothes for Kids.
“That’s the woman I bought my children’s clothes from just before the storm hit.”
“She’s been identified by a relative,” Belle said. “She’s a vendor.”
Jenna was overcome.
As the video played out to the end, the image flowed into Denton’s screen saver: a mountain vista with snowcapped peaks. Jenna stared at it then at the devastation around them, aching for her baby.
I should’ve been holding him. I’m his mother.
Jenna needed Blake, needed his arms around her, to hold her together because she was coming apart. It started with a small cry in a far corner of her mind and grew to a keening as the blood rush hammered in her ears—“Jenna, are you all right?” Bella asked—creating a deafening roar, and the beginning of a colossal scream rose from deep in her stomach when—
Cassie suddenly got up from her chair and stepped away from the table. Her eyes sharpened on heaps of debris in the distance. Clutching her teddy bear with one hand, she raised the other, extending a little finger to point.
“Mommy, I can see Caleb’s stroller!”
8
Wildhorse Heights, Texas
Kate 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.