Free Scott Free by John Gilstrap Page A

assumed that missing kids on the news would ultimately turn up dead. It was just the way things happened.
    But not this time. Brandon would talk himself hoarse to convince everyone involved in the search that Scott was still alive. He was a strong boy, an experienced camper. A winter survival course graduate. If anyone could prevail against the odds, it would be Scott.
    Brandon’s job was to make damn sure that no one gave up on him.
    The clock was his enemy now, the one element that showed no mercy, ticking endlessly forward. Closer to the end. Closer to death.
    He’s not dead!
    But he had to be hurt, didn’t he? A person can’t just fall from the sky and not be hurt. But how badly? Concussion? Broken leg? Broken back? Brandon’s mind tapped into the horror of lying paralyzed in the snow, slowly freezing to death, or worse yet, burning.
    Oh, my God.
    No! He couldn’t think this way. He couldn’t allow it. Pessimism was an unaffordable luxury. Negativism need not apply. Still, the most horrible images lurked just outside the door, waiting for his defenses to weaken.
    Scott’s life was Brandon’s life. They were a pair. Team Bachelor. And while the boy was strong enough and smart enough to plod through life without his old man, Brandon knew with absolute certainty that he himself couldn’t make the trip alone.
    He didn’t possess that kind of strength.

Day Two

7
    S HERRY SAT IN A HARDBACK CHAIR , in front of a six-by-six-foot-square wall emblazoned with the familiar peacock logo. The sign on the door out in the hallway read PRESS ROOM , but the place was really a ballroom that had been hijacked by the press corps for the duration of the president’s visit to SkyTop. A dozen such minisets lined the perimeter of the room, one for each of the networks and cable stations, plus a dozen others from around the world, with logos Sherry didn’t recognize. In the far corner, toward the front, sat a familiar blue lectern with its two microphones. Somebody just needed to add the presidential seal, and the lectern would become the set for a presidential press conference.
    Security had been tight but not impossible as she’d reported in for her interview. When she asked why, she learned that the First Skier, as the press had dubbed the president, had no plans to do anything but ski until the Founder’s Day address later in the week. They assured her, however, that if the time came when POTUS wanted to address the nation, an impenetrable security net would materialize in an instant.
    As it turned out, when Audrey had referred to Molly Bartholomew as a friend, she’d overstated the relationship by about twelve thousand percent. “Sworn enemy who didn’t have the clout to argue” was far more accurate. It turned out that Audrey’s real friend was Molly’s boss in New York, who’d yanked Molly away from a planned day off in order to accommodate this interview. They’d scheduled it for the eight o’clock hour in New York, after they’d discussed all the hard news for the day, but before they’d turned to the latest fashion trends.
    As a camera moved into place in front of her, and two floodlights became supernovas, Sherry tried to sit motionless as Molly threaded a microphone under Sherry’s sweater and another technician jammed an earpiece into her right ear.
    â€œHere’s the deal,” Molly explained. “They’re trying out a new news anchor this morning. His name is Brock, and try not to laugh when you say it. Anyway, he’s going to be asking you these questions”—she handed Sherry a sheaf of papers—“during the bottom of the hour news break. Look into the camera when you answer and try not to shout.”
    â€œI’ve done television before,” Sherry said. “Are we going to be live?”
    â€œAbsolutely. And if you do a good job, it’ll probably be broadcast all day at the news