Winterkill. P.H. Turner

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СКАЧАТЬ at it.” I immediately regretted the damned.

      “But Sawyer,” she wheedled, “a man wouldn’t want his wife to interview criminals. Think of your children. You couldn’t very well tell them what you did all day, could you?”

      The imaginary zygotes drove me nuts. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “Can I call you later and catch up with you?”

      “Sure. You call me now. Love you.”

      “Love you, too. Take care.” I slipped deeper into the lavender scented water letting the warmth work on the kinks in my neck.

      * * * *

      By seven AM, I was editing video, listening to a social worker talk about the forty-seven percent dropout rate of Hispanic students in the south side high schools. Gang membership was surging. My cell rang.

      “Ms. Cahill? It’s Clay Watkins.” His deep voice boomed out of my speaker.

      “Good morning Mr. Watkins. How are you?”

      “Fine. Sorry I missed your call. I’m hoping you’re gonna tell me you’re coming on up here to join us at CBS3. I need a reporter like you. Am I right?”

      The offer letter was staring up at me from the desk. I fingered the paper, lingering over the clauses. Sure, I could stay right here. Find Rodriguez’s killer. Probably the kid’s best shot at justice. Might even win another Emmy. Why should I stay? Just to see a new kid try to ace the gang initiation and get his head blown off?

      “Absolutely. Shall I sign and fax it and then put the hard copy in the mail?”

      “Whew! Yes.” He cheered. “We’re happy to have you. When can you start?”

      “Two weeks.”

      * * * *

      I stood outside Andy’s office waiting for him to get off the phone.

      “Yeah, yeah,” he barked impatiently into the phone. “Go to hell, Frankie. I’m not doing it.” He slammed the receiver down. “Yeah? What do you want, Cahill? Better be good. Better brighten my day. Had my fill of assholes already.”

      “Me too, Andy. I’m resigning.” I laid the letter on his desk.

      “What the hell do you mean you’re resigning? You wanna tank your career, fine by me. You haven’t worked here two years. Two years. You got clauses in that contract of yours. Read it and weep. You aren’t going anywhere without a lawsuit.”

      I sat in his hard plastic chair. “I’ve read my contract. There’s no clause saying I have to work here for two years. It says I can’t take a job at an NBC affiliate within five hundred miles of San Antonio and I’m going to CBS3 in Cheyenne.” I dropped the letter of notice on his cluttered desk.

      He didn’t touch it. He fumbled in his file drawer, pulled out a file and started to read, flipping pages noisily. “Got your contract right here.” He peered at me over his cheaters. “So, there’s no clause in it.” He looked up with a nasty smile. “Big shit! News business is a small world. I call that news director and tell him you’re some flighty bitch who jumps from job to job and you’ll be out of a gig. I’ll do it too.”

      “I’ve signed the contract in Cheyenne, Andy. We haven’t always gotten along, but I have not broken my contract with you.”

      “Then turn in your keys and get the hell out,” he snarled. “Turn your crap you’re working on over to Manuel. He’ll do a good job on that story of yours.”

      “Consider it done.”

      * * * *

      I put my Press Award plaques in the single box—all that was needed to carry out my personal things. I called Lt. Deaver and he had nothing on the Rodriguez killing. He did wish me well. The gangs were silent, but so was the gunfire on the south side. Let Manuel chase it. I pulled my station keys from the ring and stared at them in my hand. Andy was right about one thing; news directors were a tight bunch. What if he called Clay Watkins and tried to screw me at CBS?

      I dialed Clay’s number. “CBS3. This is Margery. How may I help you?”

      “Sawyer Cahill, here. Could I speak to Mr. Watkins, please?”

      “Oh, hello Ms. Cahill. Mr. Watkins is in a staff meeting. Would you like to leave a message?”

      “No, I’ll call back later,” I said. “But would you tell him I called?”

      How fast could Andy make that call?

       3

      Cheyenne was my hometown until the end of my seventh grade year. I cried for three weeks that first summer in Denver, missing Julia Graham every day. She answered on the second ring.

      “I hope you’re calling to tell me you’re coming home after fifteen years. You’re taking that job you told me about, right?”

      “I’ll be there in a week, give or take a day or so!”

      “It’ll be like old times, Sawyer. Where are you going to be living?” she asked.

      “I’m hoping you can help with that. Got any recommendations?”

      “Ohh, Sawyer. Rentals are scarce what with the oil boom. Some oil workers are bunking in Laramie and driving back and forth to the fields. I’ll get on Craigslist and see if anything decent is available,” Julia said.

      “Thanks, you’re the best.”

      * * * *

      I left San Antonio in a red-streaked dawn. I was officially homeless. So far, Julia had struck out on finding me a rental.

      I-25 skirted the mountains around Raton, New Mexico. I’d make Denver late tomorrow and spend the night with mom. Dad died last spring and she was having a terrible time being alone.

      She opened the door before I could get my key in the lock, looking perfect in her pearls and deftly applied makeup. Her cashmere twinset matched the shade of her long skirt. “Sawyer, so good to see you, dear.” She kissed my cheek. Hands on my shoulders, she stepped back looking me over. “You look scruffy, honey.” She scrutinized me. “I’m not sure that shirt color does much for your red hair. Maybe a different shade, blue to accent your eyes.”

      “Mom, I didn’t dress up to drive ten hours.” God, she brings the petulance out in me.

      “Well.” Her eyes welled up. “I’m just saying…”

      “No problem, Mom.” I hugged her. “Let’s get this stuff up to my room.” Thirty seconds together before I hurt her feelings and tears spilled. I wanted to do better. I would do better.

      I followed her out to the deck. She precisely dusted off her chair, arranging her skirt around her knees. I enjoyed a cold Dos Equis. She had her favored merlot.

      “Tell me about your new job, sweetheart.”

      “It’s СКАЧАТЬ