were a highlight of every newscast. She was witty and incisive without being scathing or vicious. The viewers adored her.
Now Kari went into the editing room and closed the door behind her. She dropped into the chair and fished a cartridge of videotape from her oversized bag, which served as both purse and carryall. Pushing back a mass of untamed blond hair from her cheek, she inserted the cartridge into the computerized editing console and began watching the interview she had conducted barely an hour before.
She picked up the telephone and dialed an extension. “Sam, hi, Kari. Can you bring that tape you shot last night of the rehearsal to editing room three, please? Thanks.”
A few moments later the door opened behind her and she said, “Just set it down, Sam. Thanks. I'm using that for B-roll. I'll be ready for it in a minute.”
She was capably punching buttons while scanning the two monitors, one with the unedited tape playing, the other with the edited version she was electronically compiling. She was so engrossed that she didn't notice that the door didn't close.
“Kari.”
Pinkie's voice and the unfamiliar tone of it brought her head around. She had seen him in moods ranging from elation when they had scooped all their competitors on a story, to drunken melancholia over a bad ratings report. She had never seen him as he was now: deflated, sagging, abject, and most uncharacteristic of all, pale.
She half rose out of her chair. “Pinkie? What is it?” He laid a hand on her shoulder and eased her gently back into the chair.
“An accident report came in over the police radio a few minutes ago.”
“And?” A cold fist of dread began squeezing her heart. “What kind of accident?”
He ran his hand over his head, then dragged it down his face, distorting the features. “Auto/pedestrian. Just a few blocks from here, right downtown. I sent a cameraman over there. He just called in.”
She did stand now, fighting off his hands as he tried to restrain her. “Thomas? Something's happened to Thomas?” There was no one else in her life. Pinkie wouldn't be acting like this if it weren't Thomas.
She made a mad dash for the door, but Pinkie caught her. “It is Thomas, Kari.”
“He's hurt? What happened? What?”
“A truck hit him.”
“Oh, my God.”
Pinkie dropped his eyes to the middle of her chest, which was just about eye level for him. “It was… fatal. He died at the scene. I'm sorry, sweetheart.”
Several ponderous seconds ticked by. She remained motionless, speechless. Disbelief paralyzed her. Then quietly she said, “You're telling me Thomas is dead?” Her hands gripped Pinkie's shirtfront like claws and she shook him. “A truck hit him?! Killed him?!” she screamed. Several of the station's employees were now crowded into the doorway of the editing room. The women were weeping. The men looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Kari, Kari,” Pinkie crooned. He patted her back.
“There's a mistake. It couldn't be—”
“I made the reporter confirm it a dozen times before I came to tell you.” Her eyes were wild in her pallid face. Her lips worked, but no sound came out. “Come on,” Pinkie said gently. “They've taken him to Denver General. I'll drive you.”
It was the cold that struck her first. She had never been in a room this cold. The dual swinging doors closed silently behind her and Pinkie as they entered. She shrank against him, hating this stark, clinical place instantly.
The fluorescent lights hurt her eyes. The brightness offended her. Shouldn't this room be dark and serene, lending death some dignity and reverence? But here death was considered only a physical phenomenon. This place was so very sterile. And so very cold.
She felt like turning to run, but Pinkie urged her forward. A man in a white lab coat looked up from his desk. He stood up immediately “Mrs. Wynne?”
“Yes.”
He led them to a large table draped with a white sheet. Beneath the sheet lay the still form of a man. Kari began to whimper involuntarily and mashed her lips flat with her fingers.
How could she bear to see Thomas's body mangled and bloodied? Would she disgrace him and herself by her actions? Would she scream? Faint? Dissolve into hysterics?
The pathologist pulled back the sheet.
At first she thought it must all be a tasteless joke someone was playing on her. Or some outlandish mistake. Her eyes flew up to the man holding the sheet. He read the unspoken question in them; saw her incredulity.
“He was killed by the impact,” he said softly. “The truck struck him from behind. The trauma traveled up his spine into his brain. There is a bruise on his back. Otherwise…”