Читать книгу Dark Hearts - Sharon Sala - Страница 8
ОглавлениеSam drove I-75 northbound for almost two hours without remembering a single mile of the trip. It wasn’t until his gas gauge began to signal a need to refuel that he finally had to stop. His head was throbbing and his belly was growling as he went inside the station. He knew he should eat but wasn’t sure if anything would stay down.
The woman behind the register was reading something on her cell phone and didn’t bother to look up as he walked in.
“How’s it goin’?” she mumbled.
Since he guessed that was her standard greeting, he didn’t bother answering.
One quick scan of the fried food inside the deli case was all it took to send him on the hunt for something with a longer shelf life, which turned into sweets. He chose a box of doughnuts and a honey bun, and then got a large coffee to go before going to the register to pay.
“Will that be all?” the clerk asked, still focused on her phone.
Sam reached across the register and laid his hand over the phone.
“Ring me up, please,” he said softly.
There was a frown on her face as she looked up. The look in his eyes startled her, and she quickly totaled his purchases.
He paid her with cash, waited for his change and then walked out, drinking the coffee as he went. It was too strong and bitter as hell, but it served the purpose, and slowly his belly began to settle.
He put the food in the SUV and began to refuel. As he did, he glanced at his watch. Almost 5:00 p.m. Even though it would be dark soon he was driving straight through. On a good day, the trip was at least an eight-hour drive, but driving in the mountains in the dark was going to slow him down. Still, it didn’t matter. No matter where he was, he wouldn’t be sleeping.
Once the gas tank was full, he got back inside and called Trey to check in.
His brother answered on the second ring. “Hey, Sam, where are you?”
“About two hours closer to you than I was when I started. Is there any word on Trina?”
“No. She’s been in surgery a little over an hour and a half. I’ll call when I know something, I promise.”
“Would you do me a favor?” Sam asked.
“Sure,” Trey said. “What do you need?”
“Get me a room at Grant’s Motel.”
“It burned down six years ago,” Trey said.
“Well, hell. Is there another one?”
“Yes, but you could stay at the farm.”
Sam’s voice had a don’t-argue tone.
“No, I can’t stay at the farm. I wouldn’t go home when Mom was still alive, and I’m not going back there now. I’ll take the motel, please.”
Trey took the cue not to argue.
“I’ll give them a call. It’s at the north end of Main.”
“Thanks. I’ll drop off my stuff as soon as I get in, and then see you at the hospital.”
“Okay,” Trey said, and then added, “Hey, brother.”
“Yeah?”
“It will be good to see you again.”
Sam sighed. He felt like crying.
“It will be good to see you, too,” he said.
He disconnected, opened the box of doughnuts and then started the car. He took a bite out of the first doughnut as he was driving away. It was the first of three he would eat before he ran out of coffee to wash them down.
* * *
Rita Porter was pouring herself a drink when her husband, Will, came in the back door. Startled by his sudden appearance, she jumped as if she’d been shot and dropped the glass into the sink. Booze and glass went everywhere.
“Now look what you made me do!” she screeched, and then staggered toward the utility room.
Will wanted to strangle her. He had a very short time in which to declare himself a candidate for the state superintendent’s job, and everything in his life was going to hell in a handbasket. He wished Rita to hell, too, and headed for his office, picking up the mail from the front hall table on the way and leaving her to clean up the mess.
But Rita wasn’t finished with him. She came back, and then followed him all the way through the house carrying the broom and dustpan.
“I guess you heard about the Jakeses,” she said.
Will turned around, still holding the stack of mail in one hand and a paperweight from his desk in the other.
“Everybody in town is talking about it, so yes, I heard.”
Rita kept staring without saying a word.
“What?” Will snapped.
She shrugged. “I was just wondering. You graduated with all three murder victims.”
His frown deepened. “Yes, and your point is...?”
“I don’t know. Just wondered if you knew anything about what’s happening.”
A wave of rage shot through him so fast he threw the paperweight straight at her, missing her head by inches.
She shrieked.
“You nearly hit me! What are you trying to do? Kill me? That’s it, isn’t it? You wish I was dead.”
Will glared, so angry he was shaking.
“What I wish is that you weren’t a fucking drunk. That’s what I wish. Now go clean up that broken glass and whiskey before you pass out. I don’t want to have to clean up another one of the messes you make on your drunken binges.”
She screamed, then threw the broom and dustpan at him, and ran to their bedroom, stumbling and bawling all the way.
“Damn it all to hell,” Will said, and then sighed.
He took off his suit coat, rolled up his sleeves and took the broom and dustpan with him as he headed for the kitchen.
“Damn bitch. I wish she was dead, all right. I just don’t want to be the one accused of doing it.”
* * *
Greg Standish entered the bank through the back entrance and slipped into his office unnoticed. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now. In fact, he was thinking of all the ways he could fake his death and disappear. His life and his dreams were pretty much over, and if that wasn’t enough, between his wife, Gloria, and his daughter, Carly, he was bordering on bankrupt. Once the directors got wind of his situation he would be out of a job, and then that would be that.
He saw a cop car go flying past and frowned. So the last survivor from that wreck was gone. He heard Trey found his mom. And Trina. He couldn’t believe she was still alive after being shot at point-blank range. His eyes narrowed. He’d never given much thought to dying, and now he was wondering if it hurt.
* * *
T. J. Silver was in the game room playing “Call of Duty” on his Xbox when his dad walked in.
“Hi, Dad,” he muttered, without taking his eyes from the screen.
Marcus stood in the doorway, staring at his son and wondering exactly where he’d gone wrong. T.J. was handsome and intelligent, a college graduate, and had yet to turn a finger at anything resembling work. Marcus had been born into money, but he’d always worked. He’d always wanted his dad to be proud of him. T.J., on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered to be living an idle life of wealth.
When Marcus didn’t answer him, T.J. realized his dad was pissed about something, and immediately stopped the game and stood up. “I guess you heard about Betsy Jakes,” he said.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I heard. I also heard her daughter got shot, too. She’s not dead, though.”
T.J. shrugged. “They say she’s not going to make it, though. Injuries were too serious.”
Marcus pointed at the Xbox. “Have you done anything today that could remotely qualify as work?”
T.J.’s eyes widened. This wasn’t like his dad. Something had him all hot and bothered.
“Yes, I have, actually. I was in the office here all morning, working on details for your announcement party for the senate seat. Then I went to the Jackson memorial—as did you, because I saw you there, but you didn’t bother to acknowledge me. So what’s your problem, Dad?”
“My problem is that at your age, you should have more to do than play video games. In my day, my father expected me to toe the line.”
T.J.’s eyes narrowed as he responded in a tone that was just shy of disrespectful.
“Well, in my day, my father encouraged...no, expected me to make a splash all over my college campus, and after I graduated be sure I was mentioned regularly in the society pages by showing up at all kinds of local benefits and things. I thought he was grooming me for something special, like maybe following in his footsteps once he got into politics. That’s what I thought my father expected.”
Marcus grunted as if he’d just been punched in the gut. Twice he started to respond and then couldn’t, because he’d realized T.J. was right. He’d never looked at his behavior in that vein before, but everything T.J. had said was the truth. His son was the product of his own raising, and he had no one to blame but himself. He shook his head and walked away.
T.J. was still a little pissed as he watched his father leave. The old man was obviously amped up about another classmate being murdered. Shit happened.
He checked the time. Cook was probably finishing up dinner, and he wanted to shower and change before he sat down to eat. As he headed upstairs to his room, he was debating with himself about what he wanted to wear. He decided on something sporty but comfortable. It didn’t pay to be lax about one’s appearance—ever. A person never knew when it would matter to make a good impression.
* * *
Sunset was only minutes away as Lainey walked back from the pasture with the feed bucket, leaving Dandy out in the pasture eating. There were no other animals on the property now except her horse. He was a big gray grullo with a feisty attitude, and there was a time in her life when that had fit who she was, but no more. Her body was still weak from the cancer treatments, and she had gotten so thin that her endurance was nil. But she was cancer-free, and every day she woke up was a good day and a chance to get stronger.
When she was almost back at the barn, Dandy nickered.
She turned to look, but he already had his head back down in the feeder. She smiled.
“Good night to you, too, big guy!” she yelled.
Dandy looked up, nickered again and then resumed his meal.
Now that her last chore for the day was over, Lainey was left with nothing to deter her thoughts from going back to Sam.
There was a time when he’d been the reason she drew breath. Then life had interrupted their love affair and she’d had to figure out how to live without him. She’d thought she was doing okay until the phone call from Dallas, and now all she could think about was seeing Sam again, if for no other reason than to tell him to go to hell.
She latched the door to the granary and started toward the house. The sun was gone now. She was going up the back steps when she heard a long, high-pitched scream that made her shudder. After one quick glance back, she leaped up the steps and hurried into the house. There was a panther somewhere on the mountain, and she hoped he stayed there. Dandy was too old to fight off a big cat like that now.
After locking up the house, she washed up and began making herself some supper, trying not to think about Sam coming home with a broken heart. She did not want to feel sorry for him. She needed to stay mad and hurt and everything in between. She had to, or she would likely get her heart broken all over again.
* * *
Sunset had come and gone. Once Sam reached Knoxville, Tennessee, he took 81 North. The dark pavement in front of his headlights all looked the same, even though he’d already left one state and driven into another.
Two hours had passed since he’d last talked to Trey. He kept thinking Trina should be out of surgery by now, but he’d heard nothing, and Trey had promised to call.
Traffic was heavy. At least a dozen eighteen-wheelers had passed him during those hours, along with the constant barrage of other traffic. Now, though, traffic was beginning to slow down, and he couldn’t figure out why until he topped a hill and saw a cadre of flashing lights on the highway below. He tapped the brakes to accommodate the slower pace, and as he did, caught a flash of headlights coming over the hill behind him at a breakneck pace.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the lights popped up in his mirror. There was no way that driver would be able to brake in time to keep from hitting him. He was bracing himself for impact when, at the last moment, the car swerved and went airborne into the center median.
Sam glanced over his shoulder as it went flying past him in the dark. It was rolling in midair when it hit and continued to roll after impact, the headlights bouncing up and down in the darkness. When the car finally stopped, it was upside down.
Sam slammed on the brakes and pulled off onto the shoulder. He left the lights on in his SUV as he grabbed his flashlight and jumped out. Other witnesses to the wreck were also stopping and running toward it.
He darted into the grassy median. The car had rolled a good fifty yards away. The beam of his flashlight was not meant to illuminate this much, and he could barely see where he was going, plus he was beginning to smell gas. It must be spilling out.
A man ran up behind him as they neared the wreck.
“I just called 911,” the stranger said. “I saw the whole thing. He was flying when he came over that hill.”
Sam stopped at the wreck and got down on his knees before flashing the light throughout the interior. Not only was it empty, but the windshield was gone.
Sam stood abruptly. “It’s empty. The driver was thrown out. Spread out and start looking.”
By now a half-dozen others had joined them, and most of them had flashlights, too. They quickly spaced themselves out and began backtracking in a wide perimeter away from the wreck.
As they were searching, Sam began to hear more sirens and turned to look. One of the patrol cars was coming back up with his lights flashing.
Sam kept moving slowly, sweeping the grassy median with his flashlight as he walked. The first thing he found was a duffel bag, and then a few yards farther he found a red-and-black tennis shoe. The duffel bag was from a college in Tennessee, and the shoe was a popular one with the younger crowd. His heart sank.
“Over here!” someone yelled.
He turned and ran.
The driver was lying facedown on the missing windshield, and when Sam saw him, for a split second the night and the people around him disappeared and he thought he was hearing the whup whup whup from the rotors of a chopper and watching blood running out of his buddy’s head and seeping into the sand at his feet. The heat of the desert wind was in his face as the flashing lights from the highway patrol car momentarily blinded him. It was the lights that yanked him out of the flashback.
“He’s dead!” the man yelled, waving at the patrolman who was coming their way.
As Sam dropped down on one knee to check the body for a pulse, the man said again, “He’s dead. I done checked.”
Sam was numb. The driver was in his early twenties, and the man was right. He was dead.
A crowd was gathering around the body, and they were all talking at once, wanting to tell their version of what they’d seen to the highway patrolman.
Sam glanced down at the boy one last time, and then turned around and walked back to his SUV. He tossed the flashlight onto the seat beside him, grabbed a canister of hand wipes and began pulling out the sheets to clean his hands, and then he kept pulling them out and wiping and pulling them out and wiping until he realized he was crying. He took a slow, shaky breath as he threw the canister on the floor, then wadded up the hand wipes and put them in a trash bag.
“Jesus wept,” he said softly, and then closed his eyes, but the sight was still burned into his brain, and the moment he spoke the words, he remembered a scene from his childhood and the scolding his mother had given him for what he’d said.
Do not use the Lord’s name in vain, Samuel Wade.
I didn’t curse, Mama. That’s a Bible verse. Daddy said it’s the shortest verse in the Bible.
Well, your daddy is right, but so am I. Don’t say that again unless you’re on your knees saying prayers.
Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, Mama.
Sam rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He wasn’t on his knees, but he needed to be.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” he said softly. “Sorry for everything.”
He could almost feel her hand on the back of his neck.
It’s okay, Sammy. When you know better, you do better.
He put the car in gear and slowly pulled back onto the interstate. For some strange reason, home seemed even farther away.
* * *
Trey and Lee were alone in the waiting room. Dallas had gone home because the livestock needed tending. He’d put out a couple of round bales of hay for their cattle early this morning, so they wouldn’t have to be tended to for a couple of days, but Dallas’s hens had to be fed and watered, and the eggs had to be gathered, no matter what else was wrong with their world.
They were still in the waiting room when Trey’s phone rang. He saw it was Dallas and answered quickly.
“Hey, honey. Everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m getting ready to drive back into town. Is Trina still in surgery?”
“Yes, but don’t drive back. I was watching the weather earlier, and there’s a heavy thunderstorm predicted for this area. I don’t want you out on the roads in that.”
“But, Trey, I don’t want you there by yourself.”
“I’m not alone. Lee’s here. I’ll let you know the minute she’s out of surgery. Just stay home. At least I’ll know one of you is safe.”
Dallas heard the weariness in his voice and knew if she pushed the issue and went to the hospital anyway, it would be at his expense, so she finally agreed.
“I’ll stay home. Just know how much I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” Trey said. “I’ll talk to you later.”
He disconnected and then settled back in his chair. Lee was dozing sitting up. They didn’t have anything much to say to each other and even less to the people who stared at them as they passed the waiting room.
Five hours after Trina went into surgery, the surgeon came into the waiting room looking for her family.
Trey stood abruptly, while Lee eased up from the sofa where he’d been sitting. They were both afraid to hear the verdict.
“Are you here for Trina Jakes?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“I’m Dr. Lowell. I operated on her. She came through the surgery and is in ICU.”
Lee dropped back onto the sofa and started to cry. Just the news that she was still alive was what he’d been praying for.
Trey wanted details and got them as the doctor continued.
“Her condition is critical. The bullet missed her heart by centimeters, shattered a couple of ribs and punctured a lung. It took a while to remove all the bone fragments. I pulled a couple out of one kidney and one from her liver. The bullet also nicked part of her spine on exit, but the spinal cord is intact. She lost a lot of blood, and for the time being I’ve put her into a drug-induced coma.”
“Dear Lord,” Trey muttered, and then the cop part of him kicked in. “Did she regain consciousness at any time before she was moved to ICU?”
“No, and as serious as her injuries were, that was to be expected.”
“When can I see her?” Lee asked.
“Check the visiting times in ICU, and discourage anyone but immediate family,” Dr. Lowell said.
Trey had his own comment to make.
“Just so you know, I need a no-visitor hold put on her chart, and there will be a guard stationed outside her room. She’s the only living witness to the latest of three murders, and the killer isn’t going to want her to wake up.”
Dr. Lowell grimaced. “Yes, so I was told. I’ll make sure that’s taken care of.”
“On behalf of our family, we thank you,” Trey said.
Lee pulled himself together to add his thanks. “Yes, Dr. Lowell. Thank you for saving her.”
Lowell nodded. “It wasn’t all me. I had a good team with me in the OR. I’ll be checking on her on a regular basis, so I’m sure we’ll speak again,” he said, and left the waiting room.
Now that Trey knew what he had to work with, he moved into action.
“I need to make some calls and get a guard rotation set up here.”
“I’m going to find ICU,” Lee said. “I’ll text you the visiting times.”
Trey nodded. “I’m not leaving the area. I just need a little privacy to make those calls.”
Lee went one way and Trey the other as they left the waiting room. Trey sent a text to Dallas on the way down in the elevator, then waited to call Sam until he was in a more private place. He was on his way out to his cruiser when he realized the predicted rain was imminent.
Thunder rolled as he made a run for the car, followed by a shaft of lightning that momentarily lit up the sky a few miles away.
He unlocked the car and slid into the seat. The silence was brief. There was traffic on the police radio, but from what he could hear, Dwight Thomas, their night dispatcher, had everything in hand.
He thought about Sam, and then shifted focus to the need for security on Trina. He didn’t have enough officers in Mystic to keep someone on guard day and night. He was trying to remember the security service Mack Jackson had used a few months ago for his fiancée, Lissa, when she was being stalked by the janitor where she worked, and looked to see if he still had Mack’s number in his contacts. He did, so he hit the call button, and then wiped a shaky hand across his face as he listened to Mack’s phone ring.
