“Christ, I hoped you'd get here, Mel.”

“I practically ran all the way from Bloomingdale's.” At least she felt like she had, and she would have if she'd had to. She knew that the one place she had to be was here.

“Ί want to put you on with special bulletins right away.” He looked at what she was wearing and she looked fine, but he wouldn't have given a damn if she'd been stark naked. “Get some makeup on. And can you close your jacket a little? The dress is too white for the camera.”

“Sure. What's new now?”

“Nothing yet. He's in surgery, and it looks bad, Mel.”

“Shit.” She ran to her office and where she kept her makeup, and five minutes later she was back, hair combed, face on, jacket buttoned, ready to go on the air. The producer followed her into the studio, and handed her a stack of papers for her to read quickly. She looked at him a moment later, with grim eyes. “It doesn't look good, does it?” The President had been hit in the chest three times, and his spine seemed to have been affected, from the early reports. Even if he lived, he could be paralyzed or worse yet, a complete vegetable. He was in Center City, undergoing surgery right then. And Mel suddenly wondered what Peter Hallam knew about it that the press didn't, but she didn't have time to call before she went on the air.

She went quickly to her desk then, and began ad-libbing soberly into the camera as she went on beneath the hot lights and she delivered the news bulletins as they came on. All normal programming had been stopped to give the public the news as it came, but there wasn't a great deal to say yet. She had to wing it for most of the afternoon, and she didn't get a break for three hours, when she was relieved by one of the other anchors, the man who did the weekend news. They had all been called in, and there was endless discussion and surmising on the air between reports from the West Coast, and moments when they switched to the reporters in L.A., standing in the lobby of Center City, so familiar now to Mel. She wished only that she were there, as she listened to the news. But by six o'clock there was still no news, except that he was still alive and had survived surgery. They would have to play a waiting game, as would the First Lady, who was in the air on her way to L.A. now, and due to arrive at LAX within the hour.

Mel did her usual show at six o'clock, and of course covered almost exclusively the news from L.A. and when she came off the air, the producer was waiting to confer with her.

“Mel.” He looked at her somberly and handed her another sheaf of papers. “I want you out there.” For a moment, she was stunned. “Go home, get your stuff, come back and do the eleven o'clock, and we'll run you out to the airport. They're going to hold a flight for you, and you can start reporting from out there first thing tomorrow morning. By then, God only knows what will have happened.” The man who had shot the President was already in custody, and lengthy profiles of his checkered past were on the air constantly, interspersed with interviews with major surgeons giving their opinions of the President's chances. “Can you do it?” They both knew it was a rhetorical question. She had no choice. This was what they paid her for, and the coverage of national emergencies was part of it. She mentally ran over the list of what she had to do. She knew from experience that Raquel would take care of the girls, and she would see them when she went home between shows to pack.

At home, she found the twins and Raquel in tears in front of the TV, and Jessica was the first to approach her. “What's going to happen, Mom?” Raquel loudly blew her nose.

“We don't know yet.” And then she told them the news. “I have to go to California tonight. Will you guys be okay?” She turned to Raquel, knowing her answer would be yes.

“Of course.” She almost looked insulted.

“I'll be back as soon as all of this is over.”

She kissed them all and left for the network to do the late news, and as soon as she came off the air, she left in the wake of two cops who had been waiting to escort her to their car downstairs. They all listened intently to the radio as they sped to the airport with the sirens shrieking. It was a favor the police occasionally did for the station. They made it to JFK by twelve fifteen and the plane took off ten minutes after she boarded. Several times the stewardesses came to give her bulletins transmitted by the pilots, as they got the news from towers and air controllers as they crossed the country. The President was still alive, but there was no way of telling for how long. It seemed an endless night as they flew to L.A. and Mel finally disembarked in Los Angeles feeling truly exhausted. She was met again by a police escort there, and she decided to go to Center City before going to her hotel and sleeping for a few hours. She would have to go to work at seven o'clock the next morning, and it was already four o'clock in the morning in L.A. But when she reached Center City, there was no further news, and she got to her hotel just before five A.M. She figured that she could sleep for an hour or so before reporting for work. She was just going to have to drink a lot of black coffee, and she requested a wake-up from the hotel operator so she wouldn't oversleep. They had booked her into a hotel where she had never stayed, but it was close to Center City. And suddenly she realized how strange it was that she was back in L.A. again so soon, and wondered if she would have time to see Peter. Maybe when it was all over. Unless, of course, the President died. She might have to fly back simultaneously with Air Force One to attend the funeral in Washington, in which case she would never see him. But she hoped for the President's sake that wouldn't happen. And she desperately wanted to see Peter in the next few days. She wondered if he'd known she was there.

She woke up instantly when the operator called, all her senses alert, although her limbs ached and she felt as though she hadn't slept at all. But she would have to operate on black coffee and nervous energy and stay on her feet somehow. She had done it before, and she knew she could do it this time. Dressing quickly in a dark gray dress, and high-heeled black shoes, she was out of the hotel and in the police car at six thirty and at the hospital ten minutes later, to get the latest details and go on the air. It was already almost ten o'clock in New York by then and the eastern portion of the country had been hungry for news for hours.

She saw the camera crew she had used before in the fray along with at least fifty other cameramen and two dozen reporters. They were camping out in the lobby and a hospital spokesman was giving them bulletins every half hour. And finally at eight o'clock, an hour after Mel went on the air, looking grave and impressive, the first bit of good news reached them. The President was conscious, and his spinal cord had been neither damaged nor severed. If he survived he would not be paralyzed, and there had been no brain damage from what they could tell so far. But he was still critically ill and hovering between life and death. His survival was not yet assured, and three hours later the First Lady joined them and spoke a few words to the nation. Mel was able to get three minutes of her time, and the poor woman looked grief-stricken and exhausted, but she stood speaking to Mel with dignity and a firm voice. One's heart went out to her as tears filled her eyes, but her voice never wavered. Mel let her speak, asked only a few questions, and assured her of the nation's prayers, and then miraculously was able to get a few moments later on with the President's surgeon. By six o'clock that night there was no additional news, and Mel was relieved by a local anchor, going on for the network. She was given five hours to go to her hotel and sleep, if she could. But by then she was so wound up, she couldn't sleep when she reached her room. She lay in the dark, thinking of a thousand things, and suddenly she reached for the phone, and dialed a local number.

Mrs. Hahn answered the phone, and without friendly preamble Mel asked for Peter, and he was on the line a moment later.

“Mel?”

“Hi. I don't even know if I make sense, I'm so cross-eyed, but I just wanted to call and tell you I was here.”

He smiled gently then. She sounded exhausted. “Remember me? I work at Center City too. Not to mention the fact that we do have a television set here. I saw you twice today, but you didn't see me. Are you holding up all right?”

“I'll do. I'm used to this. After a while, you just have to put your body on automatic pilot, and hope that you don't crash into a wall somewhere looking for a bathroom.”

“Where are you now?” She gave him the name of her hotel, and it struck him as remarkable that she was so near again. He had to admit that in spite of the horrendous circumstances, he liked it, although he wondered if he'd be able to see her. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Not right now. But if there is, I'll let you know.”

He felt like a complete ass asking her the next question, but he had to. “Is there any chance that … I can see you sometime? I mean other than across a crowded lobby full of reporters?”

“I don't know yet.” She was honest with him. “It depends on what happens.” And then she sighed. “What do you think will happen, Peter? What are his chances really?” She should have asked him before, but she was so tired she didn't think of it till just now.

“Fair. Depends on what kind of shape he's in. His heart's not involved or they would have called me in. I was in the operating room when they operated, just in case. But they didn't need me.” She hadn't known that from the reports, but she suspected that there was a lot of information held back. The only thing they knew everything about was the assailant, a twenty-three-year-old man who had spent the last five years in a mental hospital and had told his sister two months before that he was going to kill the President. No one took him seriously since he thought that his roommate at the hospital was God and the head nurse was Marilyn Monroe. No one even thought he knew who the President was, but he did. He knew well enough to almost kill him, and maybe succeed after all. “We'll know a lot more tomorrow, Mel.”