Read Online Not in the Heart by Chris Fabry - Free Book Online

I’d say I’ve seen too much. Most envy living on the edge, sucking the marrow from life, but that’s romanticizing my travels. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I’m not thinking of the exotic locations or international celebrities I’ve interviewed. I think of events I’ve witnessed and tried to describe. Spaces of time that have numbed me to the core.
    A good friend accompanied me to the interior of Africa, flying in a small plane and driving over unimaginable roads. It could have been any year, any decade, you pick the famine. I wore plastic gloves and the three-year-old child I held weighed not much more than a newborn back in the States. I don’t know how he’d made it that long. His ribs were draped with a thin layer of skin and his pulse lightly flickered at his neck. His breath was as shallow as a bird’s, deep brown eyes as wide as the coastline and searching. He just stared at me as I did my stand-up in front of the camera, and when I looked down at him, right before I said the tagline with my name and the network’s signature, I noticed there was no movement on his neck and his pupils were fixed.
    I finished my report and handed him to the aid worker nearby and threw up in a trench. That was the second time I’d stared death in the face. The effects have lasted.
    That’s what greets me in the middle of the night when I awaken. And it’s part of the reason why writing Terrelle Conley’s story didn’t hold the allure it might once have. I’ve seen the eyes of men and children about to die, and I didn’t relish seeing another set.
    If you want to know, I don’t gamble for fun. I don’t use it to pass time. Gambling is something that makes me feel . It’s nerve on nerve rather than the dull plodding that passes for the rest of my life. Food has lost its allure. Even sex has lost its edge.
    I found the Sequoia and sat inside, trying to descend from the high and realizing what I’d just done. It would take a long time to deal with this guilt. So I decided to use my time wisely and at least check my messages.
    â€œTru, where are you?” Ellen said. Her voice was tight and edgy, like she thought I might be at a casino. “I need the car to get a change of clothes at the house. I thought maybe you could give me a break here for an hour or so. Call me. Would you?”
    I checked the time stamp, then my watch. Not good. It was early morning now and a good three-hour drive to the hospital. I tried to formulate some kind of cover story about working on the book or doing research or getting lost in the writing and losing track of time as the next message played.
    â€œThis is Dennis Sawyer,” the man said with more than a hint of a Chicago accent. “You called about the Conley case. I got plenty to tell you. Call me.”
    I put my head back. I needed sleep. I reached for the keys and noticed movement outside. Someone pecked on the glass and motioned for me to roll down the window. The guy was silhouetted in the lights above and wore a hooded sweatshirt. All I could see of his face was a handlebar mustache and a sick grin.
    I’m used to winos and the homeless stopping me. I have no problem giving them a few bucks, but I wasn’t in the mood and all the cash I had was on the boat.
    â€œSorry, pal; I’m tapped out.”
    The man banged the window with the bottom of his hand and it ticked me off. I made a gesture of goodwill to him with one of my fingers and started the car. In the rearview I noticed a vehicle that was little, loud, and expensive blocking my exit. To my left, a glint of light flashed off the chrome of a silver tire iron. Glass shattered and scattered onto my lap and into the front seats.
    Call it a reporter’s intuition, but my gut told me this was not good. The mojo was definitely gone.

C HAPTER 7
    28 DAYS BEFORE EXECUTION
    I was asleep in the hospital waiting room when Ellen