Track 32

“Under the Milky Way”

Present Day

“Thank you for coming, I know it’s last-minute,” says a floor manager wearing a headset as she ushers me through a set of doors. Security guards check the lanyard around my neck.

“I’m glad I could help,” I say. I refrain from telling her I’d never interpreted live on TV before. My confidence was shaky enough. I didn’t want to rock hers minutes before showtime, either.

My ASL teacher, Betty, called me only an hour ago, saying I was her last hope. A sign language interpreter was needed for an emergency broadcast.

“The important thing is not to panic,” Betty said while I frantically dug up an all-black outfit from my closet. “If you forget or don’t know a sign, fingerspell it.”

“Got it. Fingerspell. Letter by letter,” I replied. But…what if I totally blanked out and didn’t even remember how to do that?

Hayden gave me a pep talk as he drove me up the highway to the State Capitol Building. Said I practiced hard and would do an amazing job. It was sweet of him to say, but he wasn’t standing in my sneakers. People’s lives and properties are on the line. What if my nerves take over and I give the wrong information? The thought of letting down the Deaf community made me dizzy. When I stepped into the Capitol’s grand marble lobby, the frenetic activity amplified my anxiety. Hayden had to stay outside because of strict security measures.

Now, following the floor manager, I try to create a psychological bubble around me, blocking out the sound of people shouting instructions at each other. Try to anyway. The cacophony of ringtones and buzzing from multiple phones makes a blood vessel in my temple throb.

Get a grip, Cassidy.

“Don’t move from this mark,” the floor manager says, pointing to a cross of red tape on the floor a few feet away from Governor Fairbanks. Cables anchored by duct tape snake around a podium. My heart rate spikes even higher with the realization of what I’m about to do. “I’ll count you and the governor down when we’re set to go live, okay?”

A makeup artist touches up shiny spots on the governor’s face. The governor herself simultaneously listens to an adviser while she reads briefing notes.

I slow down my breathing and ignore the bright lights and chatter of several broadcast crews. A meteorologist and the police chief line up behind the lectern. The governor gives her adviser and the floor manager a final grim nod. She glances at me. “Are you ready, miss?”

You can do this, I tell myself, arranging my features into a picture of serenity while feeling sweat trickle down the middle of my back. On the inside, I’m still churning. I draw a breath in and hold for a few seconds before releasing it.

Finally, I sign as well as say out loud, “Ready when you are.”

As soon as the cameras start rolling, I get into the zone.

Don’t. Mess. Up.

“Good afternoon, all.” The governor pauses slightly, and I launch into interpreting. “As has been reported earlier, a bank of storms has been gathering intensity. The storm cell has veered east and is expected to bring damaging hail. Winds of up to sixty miles an hour have been belting residents in the northern parts of Colorado. The bureau has reported 121,000 lightning strikes in the two hours before noon alone. Evacuation centers in Riley and Waterton are now open…”

…

Later that night, rather than bathe in the success of my television debut and subsequent make-out session with Hayden, I get straight back to work. I lie on the floor of my bedroom, assessing my to-do list in the search for Jane Flanagan. Outside my window, lightning flashes beyond Saddleback Ridge.

I’d spent hours scrutinizing fuzzy copies of newspapers published on the day of Jane’s disappearance. Most of the photos accompanying the articles were tight shots of the playground. Of Jane’s dimpled cheeks. Of her parents’ grief-stricken faces. None of them showed pictures of cars, especially not the van Mrs. Parkes described.

Following Hayden’s suggestion, I’d contacted several DC news stations about my “school project” and asked for footage. One station known back in the day as WHMM said they’d get back to me. The others haven’t responded. But they will. Once they get tired of me bugging them.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown: Is this Cassidy Roekiem’s number?

I sit up, my papers, lists, and iPad sliding off my lap. My heart thuds faster in anticipation. Finally a break, though why Anna is coming up as an unknown number is beyond me. She’s in my phone contacts. It’s possible she’s calling from another number. I hesitate for a moment, then tap.

Me: Ms. Kingston?

Unknown: I don’t know who that is?

I groan. Of course it wasn’t Anna Kingston. She’s virtually fallen off the planet. I’ve almost given up on her. Almost.

Unknown: My name is Alondra. Do you remember me?

My face screws up. The name rings absolutely no bells.

Me: Um, not exactly.

Gosh, talk about awkward.

Unknown: Can we meet?

Everything I ever learned about stranger danger and pervs trying to groom unsuspecting kids jumps to the front of my overcrowded brain. Excited as I am about making a possible break in the case, I take the cautious route.

Me: How about we talk on the phone?

Unknown: I can’t do that.

I grimace.

Me: FaceTime?

Unknown: How about face-to-face? Downtown?

Me: I need more information. What do you want to talk about?

“Alondra” waits several beats before replying. After half an eternity, she finally sends me one word. Or, rather, an abbreviation.

Unknown: UFOs.