Allison (A Kane Novel) Read Online Free
Author: Steve Gannon
what’s being reported in the news, the Frenches did receive a ransom letter. The envelope contained a locket belonging to Jordan and a demand for money.”
“Are her parents going to pay?”
“They were willing to,” I answered. “Unfortunately, the kidnappers haven’t been in contact since.”
“Why not?”
I shook my head. “Nobody knows for sure. But my dad has a theory.”
“And that is?”
“He thinks Jordan French is dead.”
2
Mike Cortese swung his telephoto lens across the beach, searching for the best angle to frame the gigantic waves. He had already shot fifteen minutes of the colossal slabs of water slamming off the Newport jetty, but he still hadn’t captured the images he wanted. He mentally weighed shooting a short video clip with lifeguard tower W in the foreground, the guard station flying a red storm-surf flag and a black-ball pennant that signified no flotation devices allowed. Adjusting the focus, Mike assessed the shot, then rejected it. Shooting past the tower foreshortened the waves, negating the chaotic violence of the storm surf he wanted to show.
From experience, Mike knew he needed another object in frame with which to gauge the size of the La Niña-generated waves. Normally a sequence like this included someone in the water—a bodysurfer, for instance—to provide a visual reference. The trouble was, the waves were simply too big for anyone to ride, especially in the Wedge “bowl,” where reflected energy from the rock jetty rejoined the main swell to throw it up even higher. Only a handful of local bodysurfers who called themselves the “Wedge Crew” had dared to enter the ocean, and even they, the best of the best, were treading water far outside the break line and taking off only on intermittent ten- to twelve-footers between sets.
With a sigh of exasperation, Mike lowered his camera. Around him the beach teemed with girls in bikinis, boys in baggy shorts, and families with picnic baskets. Most of those there that morning stopped whatever they were doing to stare in awe whenever a particularly large wave thundered ashore, drumming the sand like a monstrous footfall. In an effort to communicate the power of the swells, Mike recorded several minutes of crowd reaction, then returned his attention to the ocean. At last he found the shot he wanted. To the left of the guard tower, three young girls were playing along the shoreline—wading up to their knees during calmer intervals, then retreating with excited squeals of laughter as the next upsurge approached.
Mike moved closer to a berm running the length of the beach. After a quick refocus, he framed the nearest of the girls in his lens, shooting her scrambling from the water as an oncoming wave threatened in the background. It was perfect, the teenager’s slim body giving Mike the size reference he had lacked earlier. Getting ambient sound with the camera’s shotgun microphone as well, he widened the shot to include the wave just as it crashed offshore.
“What’re you doing, mister?”
Mike continued shooting as the girl and her friends once more entered the water, this time wading up to their thighs. Then, lowering his camera, he turned, finding a young boy standing behind him.
“You look like a sharp kid,” Mike answered. Kneeling, he rested the camera on his knee. “You tell me.”
“You’re shooting the big waves for TV. Channel 2 News, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“The eyeball,” the boy replied solemnly, pointing at the CBS logo on Mike’s camera.
Mike pretended to be surprised. “Hmmm. I forgot about that.”
“All the TV stations have camera logos.”
“You’re right,” Mike laughed, ruffling the youngster’s hair. “I knew you were a sharp kid.”
“Dex, don’t bother that man while he’s working,” a tanned woman in shorts and a halter top called from a nearby blanket.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Mike called
“Are her parents going to pay?”
“They were willing to,” I answered. “Unfortunately, the kidnappers haven’t been in contact since.”
“Why not?”
I shook my head. “Nobody knows for sure. But my dad has a theory.”
“And that is?”
“He thinks Jordan French is dead.”
2
Mike Cortese swung his telephoto lens across the beach, searching for the best angle to frame the gigantic waves. He had already shot fifteen minutes of the colossal slabs of water slamming off the Newport jetty, but he still hadn’t captured the images he wanted. He mentally weighed shooting a short video clip with lifeguard tower W in the foreground, the guard station flying a red storm-surf flag and a black-ball pennant that signified no flotation devices allowed. Adjusting the focus, Mike assessed the shot, then rejected it. Shooting past the tower foreshortened the waves, negating the chaotic violence of the storm surf he wanted to show.
From experience, Mike knew he needed another object in frame with which to gauge the size of the La Niña-generated waves. Normally a sequence like this included someone in the water—a bodysurfer, for instance—to provide a visual reference. The trouble was, the waves were simply too big for anyone to ride, especially in the Wedge “bowl,” where reflected energy from the rock jetty rejoined the main swell to throw it up even higher. Only a handful of local bodysurfers who called themselves the “Wedge Crew” had dared to enter the ocean, and even they, the best of the best, were treading water far outside the break line and taking off only on intermittent ten- to twelve-footers between sets.
With a sigh of exasperation, Mike lowered his camera. Around him the beach teemed with girls in bikinis, boys in baggy shorts, and families with picnic baskets. Most of those there that morning stopped whatever they were doing to stare in awe whenever a particularly large wave thundered ashore, drumming the sand like a monstrous footfall. In an effort to communicate the power of the swells, Mike recorded several minutes of crowd reaction, then returned his attention to the ocean. At last he found the shot he wanted. To the left of the guard tower, three young girls were playing along the shoreline—wading up to their knees during calmer intervals, then retreating with excited squeals of laughter as the next upsurge approached.
Mike moved closer to a berm running the length of the beach. After a quick refocus, he framed the nearest of the girls in his lens, shooting her scrambling from the water as an oncoming wave threatened in the background. It was perfect, the teenager’s slim body giving Mike the size reference he had lacked earlier. Getting ambient sound with the camera’s shotgun microphone as well, he widened the shot to include the wave just as it crashed offshore.
“What’re you doing, mister?”
Mike continued shooting as the girl and her friends once more entered the water, this time wading up to their thighs. Then, lowering his camera, he turned, finding a young boy standing behind him.
“You look like a sharp kid,” Mike answered. Kneeling, he rested the camera on his knee. “You tell me.”
“You’re shooting the big waves for TV. Channel 2 News, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“The eyeball,” the boy replied solemnly, pointing at the CBS logo on Mike’s camera.
Mike pretended to be surprised. “Hmmm. I forgot about that.”
“All the TV stations have camera logos.”
“You’re right,” Mike laughed, ruffling the youngster’s hair. “I knew you were a sharp kid.”
“Dex, don’t bother that man while he’s working,” a tanned woman in shorts and a halter top called from a nearby blanket.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Mike called
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