Fourteen
The moment Dallas opened the door of the pickup she was assailed with scents that reminded her of her father. As soon as she slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine, she imagined him riding beside her, tickled that she’d discovered his secret and ready to point out the way. She backed out of the garage and drove toward the barn, then took a sharp left onto the road leading to the pasture. Driving across the cattle guard made her wince with every jolt, but once she was over it, she followed the trail through the pasture to the mountain beyond.
The windows were down. The sun coming through the window behind her was warm on her neck. A grasshopper had hitched a ride on her windshield, and she marveled at its tenacity. The speed of the pickup, the force of the wind and the slick surface of the glass were as nothing to it. The grasshopper was along for the ride.
She looked at the road in front of her and then up at the looming mountain. It looked like a lush green cone rising from the earth, but she knew the wildlife there, not to mention the mountain itself, could be deadly.
When the cattle saw the pickup, some of them began bawling, as if calling out, Here we are, here we are. She knew her dad had used this pickup to haul hay out to the herd in the winter. They probably thought they were missing a treat.
The road ended at the fence, which was about thirty yards from where the incline began. Out of habit, she pocketed the keys, although she knew her dad would have left them in the truck, confident that none of his neighbors would ever steal from him. And while that had never happened, most likely one of them had killed him. She wished they’d just taken the truck and left her daddy behind.
The sun was hot on her face as she got out, but she was all about the business at hand. She felt her pocket to make sure she had her phone, picked up the old pillowcase and the trowel in one hand, and the shotgun in the other, and headed for the fence.
Ordinarily she would have bent over and crawled through the four strands of barbed wire, but she was afraid of injuring her shoulder, so she shoved her things beneath the fence and crawled under. It hurt to bend over and it hurt to lift, but not enough to make her quit, so she picked up her things and began looking for a path, something that would tell her where to start.
“Where is it?” she muttered. “Come on, Dad. Show me. Where is it hidden?”
Within seconds she heard a rustling in the brush off to her left. Imagining a threat, she dropped the pillowcase and swung the gun in that direction with both hands. The rustling continued and leaves were still moving as a lizard shot out from beneath a bush, running from whatever was behind him. Her heart was pounding, her hands shaking. She could feel those vicious bites on her shoulder all over again.
When an old tortoise came ambling out of the underbrush and into the sunlight moments later, relief was so strong that she laughed. She was still watching it go when it hit her. Her dad’s favorite saying was “Slow and steady wins the race.” She’d asked her dad for a sign, and there it was.
She rushed over to where the tortoise had emerged, pushed through the low bushes and looked up, and just that fast, she was in the forest. The sun was evident here only in small, scattered patches where it found a break in the canopy, and as she’d expected, it was at least ten degrees cooler in the shade. She stood for a moment to acclimate herself to her surroundings and then began to look for signs. The ground was rocky where she was standing, so she began to move forward, and within the first forty yards she saw it: a faint but definite path worn in the dirt and leaves, and leading up the mountain.
With her first step onto the path, a slight puff of breeze moved across the back of her neck, like the breath of someone walking behind her.
“I know, Dad. I found it, thanks to you.”
She started up, careful to listen for sounds that didn’t belong, but was soon aware that there were sounds she was still missing. She saw a squirrel up in a nearby tree and knew it was scolding her as she passed, but she didn’t hear it. A bird darted across her line of vision, which told her she should be hearing bird calls, but what she heard was so faint as to be indistinguishable. She shuddered. As long as her senses were at half-capacity, she was vulnerable.
She checked her watch. It was almost noon. She had about five hours before Trey would be back, so there was no time to waste. She wanted to finish what her dad had started, to pay off the farm with money from his plan, not from her bank.
She hadn’t been walking more than five or ten minutes when she caught a glimpse of something red and moved closer before dropping to her knees.
Ginseng!
Then she rocked back on her heels and looked up; scanning the forest from left to right, and as far as her eyes could see, she saw clusters of tiny red berries and the trademark long, pointed shape of the ginseng’s green leaves. Some were growing beside a nearby outcropping of rocks, others were nearly hidden beneath deadfalls and brush, and still more were growing right out in plain sight, like diamonds in the rough.
Dallas was in shock. Maybe the ginseng had already been here when the first Phillips came, or maybe this place was the result of a pioneer woman’s need to provide. But however the ginseng got here it was going to save the farm.
“Oh, my God! Oh, Daddy, oh, wow!”
She laid down the shotgun, then dumped the trowel out of the pillowcase and began to dig, applying what she’d read on Google to the task at hand.
The first plant she dug up took a long time, because she was uncertain how far down to dig, and how to get it out with damaging the neck and roots. The second and then the third became easier as she figured out how they grew and the best way to extract them. She brushed off excess dirt with her fingers and then dropped each one into the pillowcase, remembering to put a red seed back in each hole and cover it up to ensure the proliferation of the plants for years to come.
The work was tedious. Her ribs were aching and her shoulder was throbbing, but she kept thinking each root she dug up was money in the bank, and that was enough to keep her moving. About two hours in she began to get thirsty and wished she’d thought to bring water. She would know better next time, she thought, and kept working.
Once she thought she heard a dog on the far side of the mountain, and sheer panic went through her before sanity prevailed. She’d been hearing hounds all her life. Almost everyone had some. They didn’t really howl. They bayed, and that was all she’d heard. She pictured big-headed, short-haired dogs with floppy ears and long legs. The blueticks and the redbones were the most popular breeds, but hounds of all kinds and sizes were a hunter’s most prized possessions, and they were as thick in the mountains as the people who owned them.
She dug for another hour, crawling from one place to another without ceasing. When her phone signaled a text, she stopped to read it, smiling when she saw it was from Trey. It was what she called a welfare check, and since he didn’t need a call back, she sent him a quick text that she was fine, saving all her news for a face-to-face conversation, and kept digging.
Finally she stood up to stretch her legs and look around. It felt like she’d been digging forever, but from the looks of the area she’d barely scratched the surface. Now that she knew the ginseng was here, along with the enormity of the task of harvesting it, the fear that it would be stolen became real.
People were killed over the rights to a found patch of ginseng, which immediately made her think of her dad, and she knew thieves would steal it right off private property every season, even taking the chance of trespassing on state or federal land, willing to risk going to prison for the big money that “sang,” as the locals called it, brought.
She couldn’t imagine how this patch had stayed hidden for so long, why someone hadn’t found it and poached it years ago. But there was another way to look at it. If the Phillips family had never brought roots to a buyer, then people would assume they had none to sell. And if fifty years had gone by since this had been harvested, two generations of people would have forgotten it ever existed. She couldn’t tell anyone but Trey what she’d found until the harvest was over.
She thought of the lights she’d been seeing up on the mountain; most of which had been off to the north from where she was standing. They could have been poachers stealing ginseng, not hunters as she’d assumed. This was harvest season. There could be people all over this mountain looking to make some much-needed extra money. It made her antsy about getting this all dug before someone discovered it. And on another note, she was so thirsty she barely had spit enough to swallow. It was time to go home.
The pillowcase was full of ginseng, so she carried it and the trowel in one hand, and the shotgun in the other, as she started down the mountain. It was getting late, and she kept her eye on the trail and planted her feet firmly. The spots of sunshine were fewer and farther between, and the air was a little bit cooler. Remembering she still had chickens to tend, she hastened her step.
She could see the old pickup through the trees as she reached the bottom of the path, but she stopped and scanned the pasture and the horizon before she walked out of the tree line. No need advertising where she’d been.
Confident she was unobserved, she crawled back under the fence and headed home.
Still riding the elation of discovering her Daddy’s secret, she barely noticed the bumpy ruts. She drove straight to the barn, got out with the pillowcase and made a run for the cooler.
She pulled out one of the empty plastic bins and shook the roots from her pillowcase into it, then popped on a lid and set it beneath a shelf. According to Google, the temperature in here was just right to keep green roots fresh. And now that the cooler held more than eggs, the new padlock and key on the shelf also made sense.
She padlocked the cooler, added the key to the ring of keys she carried, and drove the truck back into the shed.
Her fingers were shaking as she entered the house and walked straight to the cabinet for a glass. She filled it with water straight from the tap and drank it empty, then filled it up and drank it empty again. No more digging without water.
She passed a mirror in the hall and caught a glimpse of her reflection. She barely recognized herself. Her hair was windblown, and peppered with bits of grass and leaves. Her jacket was awry, and her eyes were narrowed and secretive. Conscious of the time, she made a dash for the bathroom. The least she could do was brush the bits of the forest out of her hair before she went to do chores. She would deal with the rest of her appearance when she finished.
* * *
Trey’s day started out as perfect as a day could get. He’d made mad, passionate love to the woman he loved for a good portion of the night and arrived at the station to find Avery’s birthday cake in the break room.
“Morning, Chief. Help yourself to a piece of cake. It’s carrot.”
“That sounds great. Happy birthday, Avery,” Trey said, and took a piece of cake and a cup of coffee into his office to begin the day.
By ten o’clock he was headed to the town hall for a meeting with the mayor and the city council. There had been complaints for more than three years about the availability of handicapped parking during the annual Halloween Fair held in the city park, and they wanted Trey’s input on location and traffic control. He was getting ready to wrap up when he got a text.
Two men fighting at the feed store. One of them pulled a knife.
“Sorry, gentlemen. Duty calls,” he said, and left in a hurry, then ran hot all the way to the site.
He turned off the siren as he drove up on the fracas, noting with disgust that it had now spilled out into the street, along with a gathering crowd of onlookers.
He jumped out on the run with his gun drawn and quickly realized the two men fighting were brothers, Walt and Stuart Pryor.
“Drop the knife, Walt!” Trey ordered. “Do it now.”
Walt was hunched over in a crouch, ready to lunge, his features contorted with rage. He needed Trey to understand. “He stole my sang, Chief! My own damned brother stole my sang and was going to sell it as his own.”
“Drop the knife and kick it over here,” Trey ordered.
Walt gauged the four yards separating him from his brother against the gun in Trey’s hand and reluctantly did as he was told.
Trey eyed the crowd with disgust. “What’s the matter with you people? Go find something better to do.”
The people dispersed, mumbling beneath their breath. The fight had just been getting good when the chief had to show up and ruin everything.
Trey picked up the knife, holstered his gun and pointed at the brothers. “Where’s the ginseng in question?”
“In the front seat of his truck. I caught him before he got inside to sell it,” Walt complained.
“How do you know it’s yours?” Trey asked.
“It’s in my knapsack. He stole that, too.”
Trey eyed Stuart. “Get the knapsack and bring it to me,” he said, and proceeded to handcuff Walt and bag the knife as evidence while Stuart went to the truck.
Trey set Walt in the front seat of the cruiser, locked the knife in the trunk, and then stood by the open cruiser door, watching as Stuart returned.
Stuart handed Trey the knapsack, and remained silent as he was handcuffed and put in the backseat.
Trey put the knapsack in the trunk with the knife, then got into the car and called dispatch.
Avery quickly responded. “Go ahead, Chief.”
“Tell Earl I’m coming in with two prisoners.”
“Will do, Chief. Over.”
“Over and out,” Trey said, eyeing Stuart in the rearview mirror. It was telling that the man hadn’t defended himself.
“Sorry bastard,” Walt muttered, and then glanced out the window, still shaking his head.
It took Trey another hour at the station before Stuart finally admitted he took the sang because Walt owed him money and wouldn’t pay it back, at which point Walt reluctantly admitted that was a fact.
Trey stared at the brothers, now standing side by side in adjoining cells.
“What a mess you two made, and for what? Stuart, you sneaked around and stole your brother’s property instead of facing him like a man. And you, Walt, you were willing to kill your brother for money? I know your mama. She’s gonna have herself a fit when she finds out what you two have done. Now the next few months of your life depend on the leniency of the judge who hears your case.”
Walt sighed. “Can someone call my wife and tell her to come get my car?”
Stuart glanced at Walt and then looked at Trey with a defeated stare. “I don’t have anyone to come get my truck.”
“Then it will be impounded,” Trey said.
Stuart glared at Walt. “None of this would have happened if you’d just paid me back.”
“Well, I didn’t have the money until now,” Walt said.
“Stuart, how much did Walt owe you?” Trey asked.
“A hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Walt, how much was that ginseng worth?”
“Maybe twenty-five hundred dollars.”
Trey shook his head in disgust. “You both act like you were dropped on your heads when you were babies. Now make yourselves comfortable and don’t start any shit. You hear?”
They flopped down on their bunks. It wasn’t the way they’d planned to end their day.
* * *
By the time Trey logged the knife and knapsack into evidence and officially booked the men, it was after three and his belly was growling.
“Hey, Avery, I’m going to Charlie’s to grab a sandwich. You want anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m pretty full of birthday cake,” the dispatcher said.
“If you need me, you know where I’ll be,” Trey said, and headed out the door.
He thought of Dallas and wondered what she was doing. As soon as he got in the car he sent her a text.
Hey, sweetheart, just checking in. You don’t need to call me back unless you need me. Love you.
Moments later he got one back.
I’m fine. Staying busy. I’ll explain tonight.
Smiling, he went to eat.
* * *
The killer was coming out of the barbershop when the chief drove past. He smiled and waved as he headed to his car, taking delight in the fact that the chief waved back. He had no sense of regret for what he’d done, having learned long ago that dirty things sometimes had to happen when the end justified the means. The only downside was his carelessness. He didn’t know what he’d done that gave away the fact Dick had been murdered, but he couldn’t let it happen again.
His cell phone rang as he was getting into the car. He checked the caller ID and then smiled as he answered.
“Hello?...Yes, I’m on my way home. Need anything?...Okay, then. See you soon.”
He dropped the phone in the console and drove away with a nice new haircut and a satisfied smile on his face.
* * *
Dallas was in the egg room, sorting and cleaning the day’s eggs, when she heard a car honk. She eyed the shotgun propped near the door as she wiped her hands, and then walked out into the breezeway, where she stopped, stunned by the sight of the news crew, led by Mark Dodson.
Mark approached her with a smile and a pen and paper, obviously intending to prove he had remembered her hearing loss.
The crew was already setting up the camera when Dallas strode out of the barn, shouting every word as she said, “If anyone turns on a camera, I’ll have you all arrested for trespassing.”
They froze. Mark began writing rapidly.
Dallas yanked the pen out of his hand and poked it back in his pocket.
“I’m getting my hearing back, and to save time and your ink, what the hell are you doing here?”
Mark stuttered.
“We, uh...we found out your father’s death was ruled a homicide. We wanted to get a statement from—”
“Get off my property,” Dallas said, and then waved at the camera crew. “All of you! I’m not talking about my father’s death. I’m not talking about the dog attack. I’m not talking, period. How many times do you have to be told?”
Mark glared. No more Mr. Nice Guy. His tone turned sarcastic, bordering on demeaning. “Sorry, but you’re news, baby. The public has a right to—”
“A right to what? My personal life? No, they don’t, and neither do you. I’m not a wanted felon. I’m not famous. I will not trot out the devastation I feel for everyone’s entertainment as they eat their supper, understand?”
“The boss isn’t going to like this,” Mark snapped.
“I’ll call him myself,” Dallas said.
“And tell him what? If you’re going to give someone the story, give it to me, damn it!”
“I’m not giving anyone the story. I’ll be giving him my resignation. I learned a hard lesson during all this tragedy. I now know what it feels like to be on the other side of that camera, and I don’t much like it. I don’t want to be a part of that anymore.”
Mark looked dumbfounded. “Are you serious? Why would you quit when you’re on the verge of getting into the big leagues?”
“Get in the van and go back to Charleston. All of you! And don’t ever come back,” Dallas said.
The camera crew scrambled into the back of the van, as Mark got in the front seat. He was still staring at her in disbelief.
She stood in the breezeway, watching them leave, and never once regretted what she’d said. And the moment they were out of sight, she sent a text to her boss. Ironically, the last scoop she gave him was about herself. Dallas Phillips, WOML’s hot on-the-spot journalist, had just quit her job.
Once the text was sent, she felt nothing but relief. She’d cut ties with the very reason she’d left Trey, and instead of regret, it felt like she’d finally stepped out into the light.