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Over the past year her popular true-crime specials were legend, and her stories of hope and survival—from sinking a minivan into a pool in order to demonstrate how to escape, to jumping from an airplane to reveal the best way to recover from a failed parachute—drew viewers from all walks of life. Simply put, Avery Mason was redefining newsmagazine television and others were scrambling to keep up.
Her first contract with HAP News was a modest two-year deal that named her as a contributor to American Events. It allowed Avery to host several segments each season and occasionally fill in for Mack Carter when he took vacation time. Avery used those introductory years to get her feet wet and learn the business. Her rising popularity soon brought a more substantial contract that named her co-host of American Events. Mack Carter was the star, but Avery was earning a name for herself and finding an audience. When Mack died—a shocking event that stunned the nation—the network restructured Avery’s contract into a lucrative one-year deal that paid her half a million dollars as they scrambled for a permanent host. The future of AE was uncertain, and in that moment, Avery was an experiment. She was inexperienced and unproven. She was young and untested. She was, everyone believed, a temporary fix. But Avery Mason had proven them all wrong. She rose to the challenge and never balked.
A year later, she now boasted an impressive record of success during her stint as the face of American Events. She was no longer the new girl on the block. She was no longer hoping to break through and find an audience. She had found one, and they were devoted. She was established, she was polished, and she planned to etch her legacy into the framework of the network. Katie Couric-style. Diane Sawyer-esque. But only if she stayed strong during these negotiations and showed no sign of weakness. And, Avery was well aware, if she managed to keep her past from ruining it all. Because if there was one thing that spurred the public’s interest even more than watching the birth of a young starlet rising to fame, it was watching them fall from grace. Schadenfreude had become the new American pastime.
Avery walked over to Dwight. “I’m coming off a contract that by any measure was a bargain for HAP News. The bottom line is that with me as host American Events brought in revenues that were higher than any other show the network produced, and for the last year I’ve been one of the lowest paid anchors. David Hillary has made a killing off me. Now it’s time for him to pay me.”
Dwight took a deep breath. “Give me a number.”
“Seven figures.”
Dwight ran a hand over his bald head.
“It’s not an outrageous ask,” Avery said. “Not if you look at the numbers. And not just my numbers—ratings are up for the entire Friday night lineup because viewers stick around after AE is over.”
“If I go back to them with a counter that high, they’re going to want to know what they’re paying for.”
“They’re paying for me, and the audience I bring with me.”
“Content, my young and indestructible warrior. They’re going to ask what sort of content you have planned for the fall. You know, your second full season.” Dwight spread his hands and looked around. “A rehash of the Navy SEAL program is not going to cut it.”
“This is just for fun. And I’m going to do a lot more than rehash the SEAL program. I’m going to immerse myself in it. But that’s for later next year. For this coming fall, I’m sniffing a story that’s coming out of New York. It has to do with 9/11 and the timing is uncanny.”
“Give me some details. I’ll need ammunition if you’re sending me back to the table.”
“The medical examiner in New York just identified the remains of a victim who died in the World Trade Center attack. Twenty years later and they are still identifying victims. I’m heading to New York to look into the story.”
“Mason! You’re up. Let’s move!” a Navy commander yelled from the obstacle course starting line.
“Gotta run, D. Talk to Germaine and Hillary. Show them the numbers and remind them what a bargain I’ve been for the last year.”
Avery hustled to the starting line, got into her ready position, and took off toward the rope wall. She grabbed the knotted line and started her ascent.
“Shit,” Dwight said as he pulled his phone from the breast pocket of his unwrinkled suit.
CHAPTER 6
Negril, Jamaica Tuesday, June 15, 2021
WALT JENKINS RENTED A LONELY HOUSE IN THE FORESTED REGION between Negril and West End. A ten-minute drive to the east took him into the heart of Negril and the inlands of Jamaica, far from the white sand beaches that encircled the island and the mythical resorts that decorated their shores. The interior of Jamaica was less glamorous. The blue and pink and yellow homes shed their paint, dogs wandered through the streets, and a population worked to survive. But it was a kind populace, one that welcomed the American who had moved to their land to get away from some unspoken problem back home. The locals never asked Walt what he was running from. Love or the law, his Jamaican friends liked to say, were man’s only two problems in this world. But Walt had come to the right place, they told him. On this island there were “no problems, mon.” For three years Walt had tried to buy into that philosophy. The rum helped.
A thirty-minute drive to the west took him to the cliffs of West End, and to more tourists than he cared to see in a lifetime. But there was an establishment there called Rick’s Café and it was the only place Walt could find Hampden Estate rum—other than visiting the distillery itself, a massive compound located in Trelawny where the rum was distilled in giant pot stills. Walt had visited the distillery several times and had become close friends with the owner. His fondness for the rum made him trek to Rick’s Café a couple of times each week when he had a taste for the good stuff.
The ice rattled in his glass as Walt walked to the front porch of his house. He sat in the rocker and stared out at the horizon. It had been his nightly ritual for as long as he’d been here in Jamaica. Situated deep in the forests of Negril, the sunsets from his front porch were not as spectacular as when he ventured to the coast, but they were still worthy of thirty minutes of quiet solitude. Instead of sinking into the Atlantic, here on his porch the sun simply dipped beneath the branches of palm trees and mangroves, silhouetting them black against the cherry-stained sky.
He sipped rum until the sun was gone and the stars took over the sky. It was quiet here, very different from his old life back in New York. The occasional bark from a stray dog replaced the constant blaring of horns, and he had never once been awakened by the screaming siren of an ambulance or fire truck while here in Jamaica. During his first week at the house, one of those strays had wandered onto Walt’s porch and sat down next to the rocker. Walt scratched behind the dog’s ear and brought him a bowl of water and beef jerky. The dog never left. Walt named him Bureau and a friendship was born.
Bureau sat at Walt’s feet now as he clicked on the porch light and pulled the book he was reading onto his lap. There was a television in the house, but it picked up only local stations and offered little in the way of sports. He’d turned it on once during his first week in Jamaica but hadn’t bothered with it since. Three years later, he wasn’t sure it still worked. He read the local paper, and followed the Yankees and other events related to home on his iPhone. It was a device meant for communication, but Walt couldn’t remember the last time he’d used it to place a call. It had been longer yet since the damn thing had rung.
He took another sip of rum and opened his book, the latest John Grisham he’d been using as a distraction from thinking too much about his upcoming trip. As soon as he opened the book, though, his self-sabotaging ways prevented the diversion he was hoping to find in the pages. The chapter where he’d left off was kept by an American Airlines reservation he had printed the day before. He was headed back to New York, and the sight of the reservation stirred anxiety in his chest. He took another sip of rum, his self-prescribed antidote to such uneasiness, while cursing the subliminal workings of his brain that had caused him to place the ticket in a spot where he’d never miss it, and admiring the move at the same time. In his previous life he was a surveillance agent with the FBI. He worked on the fringes, never in the spotlight, and his actions had always been hidden and inconspicuous. He was glad to know that this many years removed from the Bureau he hadn’t lost his touch, even if tonight he was his own target.
He moved the reservation to the back of the book and began reading. The words, though, were lost on him. While his eyes blindly skimmed the pages, his mind was already running through the details of his upcoming trip, what he would say, and how he would handle seeing her again after so long.
Love or the law, man’s only two problems in this world.
CHAPTER 7
Los Angeles, CA Wednesday, June 16, 2021
