Read Online A Child Is Missing by David Stout - Free Book Online Page B

They’re not being mean. It’s just that technically…”
    â€œI know. Thanks.”
    Will decided to go back to his room. He had nothing better to do now than file his story. Besides, he would be writing it on a portable computer and sending it to the Bessemer Gazette via telephone. Young reporters did that all the time, but Will, while not a total computerphobe, had started his career in the typewriter and pencil era. He thought he had best allow himself extra time.
    Back in the hotel, Will called Tom Ryan at the Gazette and told him he thought a thousand words would be adequate for his story. Ryan sounded nervous and obsequious.
    â€œAny change in Fran’s condition, Will?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œReason I ask, publisher’s been in and out of the newsroom all day. Asking about Fran, mostly. Once or twice, he asked if you’d filed your story yet.”
    Will shook his head in annoyance: Ryan tended to get nervous with big stories. Now Ryan was clearly worried that Will would screw up badly and it would reflect on him somehow. “Ry, don’t worry. If I can’t hack it, it’ll be my ass, okay?”
    â€œHa! Will, you can do this. We have faith.”
    Will sent a test message, heard back a minute later that his computer was sending garble-free copy back to the Gazette. That was a relief, because he thought he heard thunder outside. Electrical storms could play havoc with computers.
    Then, with his homesickness momentarily banished by the butterflies, Will began to write.
    The hunt for Jamie Brokaw and his kidnappers took a new turn today as investigators received an ominous new ransom demand. And the boy’s parents issued emotional pleas for the child’s release before going back to their separate homes to pray and wait.
    Will paused after that first paragraph, read it several times. As an editor, he was constantly preaching clean, terse lead paragraphs with a minimum of cluttering clauses, abbreviations, and proper nouns. Now he dare not violate his own principles, or he would lose face among the people he was supposed to be supervising.
    This isn’t bad at all, he decided finally.
    Will wrote swiftly and smoothly. He had made a list beforehand of the points he wanted to cover, and roughly in what order, and his prose had always been clear, if not always beautiful. The only trouble was deciding how far he could go in reporting some of the things Graham had told him. Well, he knew damn well that journalism courses didn’t cover every situation.
    In about an hour, Will was done, and he pressed the TRANSMIT command. After a minute or so, he got the message that his story had arrived intact and that he would hear in a little while whether there were any questions. As he waited, Will made a note to himself to be more understanding from now on when reporters on the road got irritable.
    The phone rang.
    â€œWill, your story is fine. Just fine,” Ryan said. “Us old guys can show the young squirts how it’s done, huh?”
    â€œYou betcha, Ry.” And that was as far as Will would go with Ryan on the forced camaraderie; even that took some effort.
    â€œCan I ask you a few things?”
    â€œShoot.”
    Ryan’s questions (most likely some had been relayed from other editors) were good, sensible, to the point. Will fielded them all, after which Ryan said, “I mean it, Will. It’ll be good for the staff to see that their boss can do a story like this.”
    â€œThanks.” And because Will wondered whether he’d been too curt before, he said, “I appreciate your help.”
    â€œNow the publisher wants to talk to you, Will.”
    And Will was instantly on his guard.
    â€œWill? Will? Can you hear—?”
    Will recognized Lyle Glanford’s voice, knew that the publisher had become confused, as always, by the phone system. Over the line, Will heard feet scurrying as Ryan tried to prevent the publisher from