Wild Hearts. Sharon SalaЧитать онлайн книгу.
a black-and-white jacket. She enjoyed her work, particularly since she’d become one of WOML Charleston’s hottest on-the-spot reporters.
She was still in traffic when she got a phone call from the station to meet up with the film crew at the site of a twelve-car pileup on the I-90 outside the city.
Change of plans.
She took the next exit, and then drove under the freeway and headed back out of town.
She met up with the film crew a good quarter of a mile away from the pileup and, despite a stiff wind and thick smoke from the burning cars, began gathering information to go on air. When they signaled to her to get ready, she grabbed the mike, inserted her earpiece and took her stance, waiting for her cue. When it came, she shifted from Dallas the woman to the on-air personality she’d become, and began relaying what had happened with an urgent and somber mien.
“To date, fifteen people have been taken to local hospitals. The northbound lanes of I-90 will be closed indefinitely. Authorities are asking travelers to please take alternate routes. This is Dallas Phillips for WOML Charleston.”
“And cut!” her cameraman said. “Great shot with that smoke billowing up behind your head.”
Dallas frowned. “More like a shot of hell. Hard to believe it started with twelve cars and at last count there were twenty-five. This is a nightmare. There are people who will never make it home.”
“You didn’t cause it. You just report,” he said.
What a way to start a day, she thought, her shoulders slumping, and then her phone began to ring as she followed the crew back toward where the news van and her car were parked. She glanced down at the caller ID, but it just registered Out of Area.
“Dallas Phillips,” she said.
“Dallas, this is Trey.”
She closed her eyes, remembering the look on his face when she’d driven away. It was shocking to realize that it hurt just as much now as it had back then. Then she took a deep breath and turned on her on-camera charm.
“Trey! Wow! I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you? How’s Betsy?”
“Honey, are you where you can talk?”
A chill of foreboding swept through her as she remembered he was the chief of police, a person who dealt with death and crimes as she did, but in a different way.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s your dad. Get somewhere so we can talk.”
“I’m alone now, damn it! What’s wrong?”
“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but he’s dead.”
She started crying, weak, helpless sobs of disbelief.
“No! Oh, God, no! What happened? Was there an accident?”
Trey hesitated. This was the part that was going to gut her.
“The sheriff is calling it an apparent suicide, but it will hinge on the autopsy.”
Dallas began to scream. “What? No! You’re wrong! You’re wrong! He would never do that, never! Do you hear me, Trey Jakes? Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that to me again!”
Trey felt like crying with her.
“I’m sorry, Dallas, as sorry as I can be. At first glance, it was pretty obvious.”
“Why? What was obvious? I’m an investigative reporter, remember? What the fuck makes you think it was suicide?”
“Mom found him, Dallas. She stopped off at the farm this morning to buy eggs and found him hanging from a rafter in the barn.”
Breath caught in the back of Dallas’s throat as shock rolled through her.
“I’m coming home,” she said, and disconnected.
Trey ended the call, and then leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling, but she was coming back to Mystic. If only it weren’t under such tragic circumstances.
* * *
Dallas alternated between numbness and uncontrollable sobs for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Charleston to Mystic. Once she left the I-79 and turned west, she was surrounded by mountains and enveloped in a green so lush it made her homesick. It wouldn’t be long before the cold nights of fall would turn the trees to vivid shades of yellows, oranges and reds. Even though she’d left Mystic for the bright lights of the big city, she’d never completely weaned herself away.
She couldn’t believe her father was gone. It was unimaginable. How had this happened? Why had this happened? Over halfway there she stopped for gas and a bathroom break, and had to wipe her face and get her act together before she dared get out of the car. Her eyes were swollen, her nose was red from blowing and wiping, and she was sick to her stomach.
She filled up the car and then went into the truck stop to go to the bathroom. She stood out in her city clothes and her shiny red nails, and when she walked, she moved with a stride born of confidence rather than an awareness of her sex.
More than one man looked in appreciation until they saw the tearstained eyes, and then they looked away in embarrassment, as if they’d accidentally walked in on her while she was undressed. It was the naked pain on her face that said she’d been dealt a hard blow.
When she came out of the bathroom she stopped to get a cold drink and a bag of pretzels. She hadn’t eaten since her Pop-Tarts this morning and wasn’t sure any of this would stay down. Still, she had to try. Being light-headed while driving was not a wise decision, and after the major pileup she’d seen this morning, she didn’t want to become another statistic for the evening news.
When she went up to pay, the woman behind the counter kept staring, even as Dallas swiped her card and signed for her purchases. When the lady saw the name, her eyebrows shot up and she broke into a wide, happy grin.
“I knew you looked familiar! You’re Dallas Phillips, from WOML Charleston, aren’t you? I see you on TV when I go visit my mother. You’re really good.”
“Thank you,” Dallas said.
“Say, can I have your autograph?” the lady asked. “I mean, besides the one you just signed for your credit card.”
“Sure,” Dallas said. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Coralee. I really appreciate this.”
Dallas tried to smile but couldn’t make it happen as she slid the autographed paper back across the counter.
“Thanks again, and have a nice trip,” Coralee said.
Dallas shuddered. “Yeah, thanks,” she said, and then she was gone.
She took a big drink of the cold Dr Pepper, then opened the bag of pretzels and set it in the console so they wouldn’t spill as she took off down the road. She glanced at the clock on the dash and guessed she would be home around five. And the minute the thought went through her head, she cried again.
Home wasn’t there anymore, just the house that had sheltered her. She hated the thought of going into that place tonight worse than anything she had ever had to do. Daddy’s presence would be everywhere, but Daddy was gone.
* * *
The coroner left the crime scene with Dick Phillips’s body just after 1:00 p.m., and by late afternoon nearly everyone in Mystic knew Dick Phillips had hanged himself. The shock wave sparked all kinds of suppositions, none of which made any sense to the people who’d known him, but not a one considered it could be murder.
Trey had nothing to argue the point except his own personal belief that Dick had never struck him as the kind of man who would just quit. The only unexplainable thing he’d seen at the whole crime scene was that Dick’s clothes had dirt all over the back but none