Seeing Red(38)

She tried to be gracious and get into the festive spirit, but Gracie must have sensed her downcast mood. As soon as the burgers had been demolished, the producer shooed the others out.

“Maybe our celebration was a bit much with you just out of the hospital,” she said, plopping cross-legged in the center of Kerra’s bed with her tablet in her lap. “But we need to go over some particulars about tomorrow.”

“Gracie, if you’re referring to the interview, there may not be a ‘tomorrow.’”

“I’m betting on a thumbs-up. In which case, we have to be ready.”

Kerra had struggled with the decision over whether or not to agree to be interviewed about her private time with The Major. After weighing the pros and cons, she’d decided that Gracie had given her a solid piece of advice. Shouldn’t she take advantage of this tragic, yet exceptional, set of circumstances? She hadn’t worked this hard, gotten this far, to blow it now. The industry was cutthroat and unforgiving. To pass on this opportunity could amount to career suicide.

But, as Trapper had predicted, neither Sheriff Addison, the Rangers, nor anyone involved in the investigation was enthusiastic when she broached the subject at the conclusion of her questioning.

The officers raised a number of objections and concerns. The discussion went back and forth with compromises being granted by both sides. Ultimately, however, Kerra had come away with only their promise to consider it and inform her of their decision in the morning.

But as though it were a done deal, Gracie proceeded to run down her checklist. “His Highness will want to steer the interview because he’s peeved that you got to The Major when he failed to.” She was referring to the network’s venerable anchorman, who would conduct his end of the interview from the studio in New York.

“But don’t give him any wiggle room, Kerra. The nation will be wanting to hear from you. You. Your disbelief, your heartache, your … well, you know. Be human. If you can cry on command, a tear or two would be a great effect.

“I thought we’d do it from the first floor lobby of the hospital,” she rattled on. “Make it feel real. A hero’s life hanging in the balance. Admirers around the world praying for a miracle. So forth.”

She moved from that to wardrobe, which presented a problem because Kerra’s suitcase was locked in the trunk of her car, to which she had no keys, and even if she did, the car was sealed in ice.

“I’ll figure out something,” Gracie said breezily and launched into the issue of Kerra’s bruised face. “I’ll go out first thing in the morning and try to find some good concealer, but, come to think of it, the bruises will—”

“Gracie, please, take a breath,” Kerra cut in. “I know what’s expected, and I’ll deliver. But let’s not lose sight of the fact that a great man is still in critical condition. He may die, and I’ll have been there when he was fatally attacked.” She bent her head over her hand and pressed her fingers to her forehead.

“That’s the kind of emotion I want to see from you tomorrow,” Gracie exclaimed. “Just like that. You’re distressed to the max. Inconsolable.”

Kerra was appalled by her insensitivity.

“Of course I realize that your distress is genuine,” Gracie added hastily. “It’s just that I’m trying to infuse you with some excitement. Where’s the go-getter I’m used to working with? Where’s your usual verve?”

“Sorry. I’m fresh out of verve,” Kerra said. “Besides, this conversation may well be pointless. So I’m running you out. I need to rest.”

Realizing she’d overstepped, Gracie gathered her things and went to the door. “I’m sorry. I get wound up and lose all perspective.”

“It’s okay. I do it myself.” Kerra hoped she never did it to that degree, but she had said it to get rid of Gracie faster.

“Do you need anything? Will you be all right?”

“After a good night’s sleep, I’ll be fine.” Kerra opened the door.

On her way out, Gracie said, “You know I’m up till all hours, so if you need—Who is that?”

Kerra turned to see who had Gracie agape.

He had swapped the leather jacket for a heavier one made of shearling sheepskin. The collar was flipped up against his jaw, which was set as hard as granite.

He was coming toward them from across the parking lot, appearing out of the swirling, freezing mist like an avenger in an apocalyptic movie, impervious to the precipitation, sure-footed in spite of the icy pavement, so purposeful in bearing and stride it seemed that no power could have stopped him unless it was divine. Or demonic.

“That’s John Trapper.”

Gracie’s eyes bulged behind her orange glasses. “The son?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve met him?”

Kerra swallowed. “Briefly.”

He almost had to duck to clear the low overhang. Ignoring Gracie as though she were invisible, he placed his two forefingers against Kerra’s sternum and pushed her back across the threshold, then slammed the door behind them.



Trapper stormed past her and took a look around. “Does that beer belong to anybody?” Without waiting for her to answer, he yanked a can from the plastic webbing and opened it.

“Help yourself.”