Distant Shores

The rickety stairway snaked thirty feet straight down to a crescent of sand. Caution held her as firmly as any mothers touch. It was dark and the stairs could be slippery, dangerous.

Then she saw them.

Killer whales, at least a dozen of them.

Their fins rose tall and straight out of the water. Each one seemed to cut the moonlight in half.

She held on to the splintery railing and hurried down.

It sounded again, haunting and mournful. A vibrato, humming that wasnt of this world at all; it was a music borne of water, carried by the waves themselves. Out there, a whale breached up from the water and slammed down again; a second later, there was a great whooshing sound, and air and water sprayed up from one of the animals blowholes.

Elizabeth was mesmerized.

After they were gone, the sea erased all evidence of them. Moonlight shone down on the water as it had before. It would have been easy to wonder if theyd ever been there at all, or if shed dreamed it.

She wished Jack were here. She would have turned to him, then let him take her in his arms. But he was faraway, with--

Larry King.

"Oh, shit. "

Shed forgotten to call him.

Forgotten. Worse yet, she hadnt even watched the show. What in the hell was wrong with her?

She ran up the stairs and back into the house.

Nervous excuses cycled through her mind as she dialed the number: Sorry, honey, I was in a multicar accident. The Jaws of Life just set me free only minutes ago. I ran right to the phone booth.

I ate something that disagreed with me and lapsed into a coma.

The hotel operator directed the call to Jacks room.

It rang. And rang.

"Get out of bed, Jack," she whispered desperately. She couldnt screw up this badly. She had to talk to him tonight. He deserved that at the very least.

The voice mail kicked in. She left a message and hung up. For the next three hours, she called every fifteen minutes, but he never answered.

There was no way Jack could sleep through all those rings. Not even if hed gotten drunk after the interview.

She knew him too well. Jack always answered the phone.

So, where was he?

Jack stole the show.

A few minutes into the interview, Larry had asked him a straightforward question--something like "Are todays athletes good role models, Jack? Should they be?"

Jack had rehearsed his answer to that a dozen times. Hed known exactly what to say, but then, when hed opened his mouth, hed spoken from his heart instead.

"You know, Larry," hed said, "Im angry. Weve taken nineteen-year-old kids and turned them into multimillion-dollar celebrities. Weve absolved them of responsibility for everything except performing w

ell in the arena. They drive drunk, we slap their wrist. They rape women, we say the women should have known better. They bite off their opponents body parts, for Gods sake, and a few years later, theyre back in the ring, earning millions. When I was in the NFL, the world opened up for me. All I had to do was play well. I was unfaithful to my wife and unavailable to my kids. And you know what? No one blamed me for any of it. Everyone talked about the pressures of being a star quarterback. But life is tough for everyone. It took me fifteen hard years, but I finally learned that I was nothing special. I could throw a ball. Big deal. We have to quit letting our celebrities and our athletes live by their own standard. We need to become a nation of good sports again. "

"There are a lot of people who are going to like that answer," Larry had said. "And more than a few who wont. "

That was when Jack knew. He hadnt ruined his career by being honest; hed made it. Bad-boy athletes and team owners would hate him. Fans and parents would love him.