Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (22 page)

Hey, it’s Lucas. Can’t take your call, so leave a message.

When Marlin entered the small, crowded conference room, it appeared that Garza and his deputies were just finishing up. They’d been pulling boxes from the left side of the room, sorting through them, then moving those boxes to the right. There was a small stack of paperwork on the table—items of interest that had been pulled from Scofield’s belongings—but it didn’t look like much. The atmosphere in the room was bordering on bleak.

“Y’all want to take a break for a minute and let me make your day?” Marlin asked.

THEY’D BEEN SITTING silently for more than an hour when George finally broke down and asked, “Who’s this friend of yours?”

Colby played it coy. “Who?”

“This friend you’re supposed to be having dinner with.”

Colby had been preparing for that very question. “Wade Marlin,” he said calmly.

The question was, would George recognize that last name? If he was from around here, he most likely would. Colby was betting George was not a local.

“Marlin?” George asked, and Colby held his breath. “Like the fish?”

“Or the rifle,” Colby replied.

George stared at him for a good ten seconds before saying, “Okay, here’s how we’re gonna work it.” He slipped a cell phone from his pocket. “You’re gonna make up an excuse. And the whole time, I’m gonna have this”—he hefted his revolver—“pointed at the back of your head. Any bullshit at all and you’re a dead man. We clear on that?”

Colby nodded.

“You get cute,” George said, “and I’ll kill you first. Then I’ll find out where your friend lives and kill him, too.”

Colby nodded again.

“What’s his number?”

Colby gave it to him.

George dialed, and Colby prayed that Marlin hadn’t suddenly decided to change the greeting that had been on his answering machine for years, the one that simply said, “This is Marlin. Leave a message.”

After a few seconds, George seemed satisfied. He held the phone to Colby’s mouth.

“How do I look?” Billy Don asked, tugging upward on the tool belt around his waist. Red was wearing one, too.
Do plumbers even wear tool belts?
he wondered. Red couldn’t remember for sure, and if he didn’t know, he seriously doubted the old man would know, either.

“The pliers, the screwdriver, the wrenches—that’s all fine,” Red said. “But you gotta lose the hammer.”

“Why for?”

“When was the last time you fixed a leak with a hammer, Billy Don?”

Billy Don pondered the question, then said, “Good point.” He slipped the hammer from its loop and laid it on the cable-spool coffee table.

“Okay, one last thing,” Red said. “Try not to use my name. But if you do, call me Bart or Clem or something like that. Don’t use my real name. I don’t think this’ll be risky at all, but ain’t no reason to take chances.”

“What’ll you call me?”

“Hell, I’ll just make something up. Now, you ready? Lucy said we should show up around four-thirty. Get in and get out.”

“Where’s the dolly?”

“Already in the truck.”

In the small town of Marathon, Florida, Lucas pulled into a parking lot of a restaurant and killed the engine. He noticed that Stephanie was pressed against the passenger-side door—nearly
cowering—
and she still had that same combination of anger and fear on her face.

Sunday morning. That’s when this shitstorm had begun. And now he had to explain it all. Somehow.

He’d been wondering for days what he was going to say if he ever had to describe what happened. Should he tell the truth, which was almost impossible to believe? Or should he tell a bunch of lies? He’d been thinking that he wouldn’t have to make up his mind unless he got caught. And even then, he could’ve just kept his mouth shut. The cops can’t force you to talk.

But Stephanie—

She deserved some sort of explanation. The question was, what sort of explanation should he give? The truth…or something else? He had to make a decision.

Lucas took a deep breath and said, “I went over to Vance’s that morning, and yeah, I was angry as hell. He’d been jerking you around for so long, Steph…I just wanted to get in his face, you know? Let him know that you were tired of his bullshit. So was I. You may not realize this, but everything he did—or didn’t do—affected me, too.” Lucas shook his head. “I’ve been waiting around like a moron, hoping you’d see what kind of scumbag he really is, and then you’d finally cut him loose. I dreamed about that day—when Vance would be out of the way, and you and me could finally have our shot. It always made me mad that he had a girl like you…and he kept acting like such an asshole. I’m a good guy, Steph. I would never treat you like that. I
love
you. I was hoping you’d eventually see that. Maybe you’d even feel the same way.”

He looked to her for acknowledgment—maybe she’d been thinking these same things all along—but she wouldn’t make eye contact. All she said was, “I want to know what happened.”

The traffic filed past on Highway 1, and Lucas was jealous of all those people leading normal, uncomplicated lives. If only he could go back one week and change the way things had happened.

“When I got there,” he said, “I didn’t see any cars except his. The woman you talked to on the phone was gone. So I bang on the front door, but he doesn’t answer. The door’s unlocked, so I go in and start calling his name. I figure maybe he saw me pull up, so he’s acting like he isn’t home. He knows I’m pissed off and he’s trying to avoid the whole scene. So I go from room to room, but I can’t find him. The TV’s on in the living room, his Explorer’s out front—he’s gotta be somewhere, right? So I go back to my car and start honking the horn. I wait five or ten minutes, just in case he’s out on the ranch somewhere, but he doesn’t show. Then I decide to check the barn.”

Lucas could feel his palms getting damp. He found himself checking the rearview mirror again, the paranoia kicking in, expecting to see a group of burly, well-armed cops closing in behind him. There was nothing back there except parked cars.

He was reluctant to say the next few words. Even if Stephanie believed him—and he wasn’t so sure she would—it was a big step to take. He knew the cops could use her testimony against him, and the girl he loved could wind up sending him to Death Row. But he didn’t have a choice.

“He was down there, Steph. Laying in the grass just outside the door. At first—well, I couldn’t tell what was wrong with him. There wasn’t any blood or nothing. He looked like he was sleeping. I was thinking maybe he had a heart attack or something like that. So I squat down beside him and start feeling for a pulse, and I could feel one. I put my head against his chest, and I could barely feel his heart beating. So then I’m freaking out, you know, wondering what I should do next. I started to go back to the house and call nine-one-one, but then I realized it would be quicker if I just took him to the hospital myself.”

Stephanie was eyeing him now, and he thought he could see disbelief on her face. Had he made the right choice?

“So I drove my car down to the barn,” Lucas said, wanting her to see it exactly the way he was describing it. “When I went to pick him up—I felt a big lump on the back of his head. There was just a tiny cut, and barely any blood at all. The thing is, it was all grass where he was laying—no rocks—so I knew he hadn’t just tripped and banged his head. Somebody had done that to him…and it scared me, Steph.” He could remember the fear, too, like a winter freeze burrowing into his bones, setting up shop deep beneath his heart. “I put him in my car, and by the time I’d reached the road, he was nearly gray. I stopped and felt for a heartbeat again—on his wrist, his neck, and his chest—and I couldn’t feel it this time. I put my hand up to his mouth to see if he was breathing…and he wasn’t. I’m sorry Steph, I truly am. But he was dead, and now I had him in my car. I didn’t know what to do or where to go.”

Lucas was trembling now, just as he had been six days ago. He
really
didn’t want to tell Stephanie what had happened next.

“What’d you do with him, Lucas?” Stephanie asked. Her voice was so full of bitterness and pain, Lucas barely recognized it.

He hesitated. “You gotta understand, I knew how it was gonna look, Stephanie. If I went to the cops—”

“But that’s what you should’ve done!”

He rubbed one hand across his forehead, trying to massage the pain that was blooming behind his eyes. “I know. I know. But I didn’t think anyone would believe me. Think of the position I was in. I had all the reason in the world to want this guy dead, and all of sudden I’ve got his body in my car? How does that look? Jesus Christ, even you, Stephanie. The first thing you thought was that I had killed him. You’re my best friend, but you figured I’d done it. So what chance did I have with a bunch of cops?”

But there was no softness in her eyes, only tears. “You haven’t answered my question,” she said. “What did you do with him?”

Lucas could see no way around it. It was obvious he hadn’t put Vance’s body in the river. He had to tell her who did. “I took him to your mother’s house.”

Her head swung around. “You did what?”

“I didn’t know where else to go. I knew Rita Sue would help me figure it out. She’s smart that way, you know? I thought she might be able to help me explain it all in a way that made sense.”

Lucas could imagine the thoughts that were running through Stephanie’s head. He was asking her to believe that her own mother had had a part in all of this.

Stephanie didn’t say anything, so Lucas continued. “But the worst thing was, I could see the doubt in her eyes. Just like you, she thought I had done it. She didn’t come right out and say so, but I could tell that’s what she thought. I told her exactly what had happened, just like I’m telling you, but she didn’t believe me. She said the same thing—that I never should’ve touched the body, because now I had Vance’s blood and hair in my car. Threads and stuff from his clothes, too. The cops can find all that and use it as evidence. So I asked her what I should do. And you know what she told me, Stephanie?”

No reply at all. Stephanie was staring out the front windshield now, looking like she was in shock.

“She told me I should get out of town. She said the cops would nail me for it, whether I’d done it or not, so I should just take off.”

They sat in silence for a good half minute, the car getting hot in the Florida sun. Lucas was so tired. He wanted to find a long pier and drive the car right off the end of it. Sink into the water and forget everything. Then the last six days could vanish. It wouldn’t matter what anybody thought—whether they believed he was a killer or not. It seemed like a much easier path than the road in front of him.

“My old car wouldn’t have gotten us anywhere,” he said. “And the Corvette…was just sitting there. I figured the cops would think someone killed him when they were stealing the car.
Everybody
knew about that car. Lots of people might’ve thought about stealing it. Maybe it was stupid, but I thought it might throw them off course a little. Buy me some time.”

Judging from the cop at the motel, it hadn’t worked. None of it had worked. Lucas had hoped that Stephanie would run away to Key West with him—for just a week or so, he’d first told her—and then agree to stay down there with him forever. They could find a little home, get a couple of decent jobs, and forget about everything that happened in Blanco County. What a complete fool he had been.

“So how did his body end up in the river?” Stephanie asked quietly. Her tone of voice suggested that everything Lucas had told her was a gigantic fairy tale.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess your mom…”

Again, she looked at him, and her eyes were on fire. “You’re saying my mother did that?”

Lucas nodded. “I guess so. I don’t know how else it could’ve happened. She did it for us, Stephanie. She wanted us to be together. She hated Vance.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Before Lucas could stop her, Stephanie sprang from the car and slammed the door behind her. “You’re a fucking liar!” she screamed through the open window.

He couldn’t blame her for feeling that way.

And when she walked straight to a pay phone and dialed three numbers, he couldn’t blame her for that, either.

Lucas started the car.

WHEN MARLIN FINISHED telling Garza and the deputies what he’d learned, the sheriff cussed Lucas Burnette under his breath.

“I still need to confirm that those two phone numbers are actually on the same calling plan,” Marlin said. “But since the two numbers only differ by one digit…”

“In any case, Stephanie knew Lucas damn well, despite what Rita Sue thought. How many calls were there from Stephanie’s phone to Lucas’s?”

Marlin scanned through the phone records in his hand. “In the last month, a couple dozen. Plus, I looked back at Scofield’s records, and he made plenty of calls to this other number, too. He was calling Lucas. It didn’t raise any red flags because it was listed as Stephanie’s phone, and we never noticed that it was actually a different number.”

Nobody commented for several moments. The implications spoke for themselves.

Finally, Garza said, “Okay, folks, I’m gonna spell a few things out and see if anybody can poke holes in it. There’s a real good chance that Vance Scofield and Lucas Burnette were in the methamphetamine business together. They were making the stuff at Lucas’s house, but they kept some of the supplies, namely allergy medicine, in Scofield’s garage. If they kept any kind of written records—customers, transactions, et cetera—we can assume those went up in the fire. Speaking of the fire, we know it was arson, and we know it was torched right around the time Vance was killed. Since we don’t have a solid time of death, we can’t be sure of the timing between those two events. Vance might’ve been killed before or after the house burned, but my guess is before. My guess is that Lucas and Scofield had some kind of argument, it got out of hand, and Lucas killed him. Then Lucas tried to cover it up by dumping the body in the river. But he was nervous, because he knew we’d eventually make a connection between the two of them. He didn’t want us finding the lab in his house, so he burned it down.”

“Then he took off in the Corvette,” Marlin added. “Probably with Stephanie Waring.”

Garza nodded slowly “Yeah, probably. Maybe she’s with him, maybe she’s not. Maybe she knows what happened, maybe she doesn’t. All we know is that her cell phone—the original one, anyway—appears to be in Miami, and Lucas was spotted in Key West this morning. Until we can get Lucas’s story, I’d say he’s our number-one suspect. Let’s finish with these boxes, then knock off till tomorrow morning. I know y’all have been working hard, and there’s not much more we can do until Lucas trips himself up. When he does, maybe we can finally get this fiasco sorted out.”

As the deputies went back to work, Garza followed Marlin out of the conference room. The sheriff ran a hand through the graying hair at his temple. “Regarding Colby…if you want to let him know what’s happening in a vague sort of way, I don’t have a problem with that.”

Marlin was about to reply when Darrell bustled into the hallway.

“Sheriff, you’ve got a call from Florida. Stephanie Waring just turned herself in.”

The old man lived in a nice house on a quiet street, and Red could see Lucy coming out the front door before he even got his truck backed into the driveway. “It’s perfect!” Lucy said through the driver’s window. “He’s asleep!”

Billy Don grabbed the dolly from the bed of the truck, then they followed Lucy inside, where they saw a white-haired geezer wearing a bathrobe, sitting in an easy chair in front of a television. His chin was nearly touching his chest, and he was snoring loudly. The TV was tuned to the same war movie Billy Don had been watching back at the trailer.

“This way,” Lucy whispered, and proceeded down a carpeted hallway. She led them into a darkened bedroom, but there was no bed, just a large wooden desk with a computer resting on it. Next to the desk, a matching file cabinet was covered with dust.

“In the closet,” Lucy said in a quiet voice, and all this hush-hush bullshit was starting to make Red nervous. He’d never known a plumber who was this damn quiet. Most of them went banging around like they were being paid by the decibel.

All three of them stepped into the large walk-in closet, and for a couple of seconds, they stared in reverence at the bulky object against the far wall.

The safe.

Lucy’s description hadn’t done it justice. Sure, it was just like she’d said—maybe three feet square, as sturdy as a brick shit-house. But there was more to it than that. To Red, the safe seemed to actually glow with mystery. It seemed to stare back at him, smug and cocky, as if daring Red to bust the door open and find the magical prize inside. Suddenly, without Red even realizing it, his misgivings about the project vanished into the muggy, mothball-scented air. Yes, the safe had secrets, and Red wanted to know those secrets real bad.

“Think you can move that thing?” Red said to Billy Don. Red meant it as a challenge—something to motivate the big man, like betting him he couldn’t eat a ten-pound ham.

Billy Don responded by stepping over to the safe and running the fingertips of one hand along the top of the iron box, like a game-show model stroking the fender of a brand-new Dodge. Then he squatted down low, with his massive legs spread, and flattened his palms against the side of the safe, up high. With a soft grunt, Billy Don began to push. There was no doubt it was a tremendous effort. Billy Don’s arms began to tremble with the strain, and his joints were making noises like a bowl of breakfast cereal.

But one side of the safe came right off the floor.

Red decided they shouldn’t bother with a practice lift. He snapped into motion, saying, “Hold it right there, Billy Don. Let me get the dolly under it.”

It was all going smoothly, and Red was thinking they’d be long gone in a matter of minutes. They had the safe on the dolly, and Lucy had slipped down the hallway to check on the old man—to make sure he was still asleep. That’s when the problem popped up.

Billy Don, wheeling the safe toward the closet door, said, “Sumbitch won’t fit.”

“What do ya mean it won’t fit?”

“It won’t fuckin’ fit, Red, that’s what I mean.” Beads of sweat had emerged on Billy Don’s forehead.

“How tight?”

“An inch on either side.”

Red refused to panic. Someone had gotten the safe in here, so they’d just have to take it out the same way. “We’re gonna have to remove the door,” he said.

“Remove the door?” Lucy said. She was outside the closet, in front of Billy Don.

“Won’t fit through,” Red said.
“
All we gotta do is take the pins outta the hinges. Door’ll come off and give us a couple more inches.”

“What about the door over here?” Lucy said. “The one into the bedroom. Ain’t we gonna have to remove that one, too?”

“Shit,” Red said.

“Didn’t nobody measure this damn thing?” Billy Don asked.

“And don’t forget the front door,” Lucy said.

“Double shit,” Red said.

“It’d be a hell of a lot easier to remove those pins if we had a hammer,” Billy Don muttered, glaring at Red. “And I left mine at home.”

Red used a flathead screwdriver, tapping it as quietly as possible with a crescent wrench. Each pin groaned slightly as it was removed, but it didn’t take long to have the closet door off the hinges.

Billy Don rolled the safe through the opening—with a half inch of clearance on either side—and Red quickly put the door back into place.

They repeated the process with the bedroom door, and twenty-three minutes after they had entered the house, they were trundling the dolly down the hallway toward the front door.

“He’s still sleeping,” Lucy said, coming back from another quick check.

“We’re leaving wheel marks,” Red pointed out.

“I’ll vacuum those up later,” Lucy said. “You sure you wanna take the front door off the hinges? I think I’ve got a better way.”

Red knew what Lucy was thinking.

The old man was watching TV in a small living area. There was a sofa on one side and an entertainment center against the opposite wall. Just past the sofa, at an angle to the TV, was the old man’s easy chair.

Behind the easy chair was a sliding glass door.

“We’ll never get it past him,” Red whispered. “Ain’t enough room.” Billy Don was waiting in the hallway with the safe.

“There will be if we move him back some,” Lucy replied.

She may be a woman,
Red thought,
but she’s got balls the size of coconuts.
“What if he wakes up?”

“He wont.”

“Yeah, but if he does, he’ll—”

“He won’t,” Lucy said again, sounding downright certain. “He had a little snack earlier, and there was something in it to help him sleep.”

“You gave him drugs?” Red asked.

Lucy shrugged. “The same shit he takes every night. It’s no big deal.”

Red had to wonder about that. What right did she have to give the old man something he hadn’t asked for?

Lucy leaned and spoke right into his ear. “Let’s just get this done so we can get back to your bedroom and celebrate.”

Now that Red thought about it, it all made sense. So what if the old guy got a little extra shuteye? Hell, he could probably use it. He looked at Lucy. “You sure he won’t wake up?”

“Let’s give it a little test.” She clapped her hands, and Red nearly jumped out of his Wranglers.

The old man was still snoozing away.

Billy Don poked his curious head around the corner. Red motioned him over and explained the plan to him.

“You serious?” Billy Don asked.

“Damn right. Let’s do it and get outta here.”

Billy Don retreated down the hallway and returned a minute later with the dolly. Red positioned himself behind the easy chair. Lucy nodded at him with a smile on her face.

Red began to tip the chair over backward.

The old man’s slippered feet came off the floor and dangled in the air like baby booties from a rearview mirror.

For the first time that day, everything went according to plan.

Two minutes later—with all three of them lifting—they managed to get the safe into the bed of the truck.

“You didn’t plan this very well, did you?” Phil Colby asked.

His arms and legs were throbbing from being bound. He was thirsty as hell. And then there was the heat. The forecast earlier that morning had called for the low nineties, but it was hotter inside the cabin, even this late in the day. George had stripped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and kicked off his boots. He’d even removed his Stetson. But that wasn’t enough. He was fanning himself with a hunting magazine, and his hair clung to his head in damp strips.

“I could say the same thing about you,” George replied, “Yeah, you got your photos of Herzog, but after that, your little act fell to shit. And, Jesus—how stupid were you to call from your own phone?”

Herzog?
Colby recognized that name from somewhere. He bounced it around in his brain but couldn’t come up with anything. He wanted more. “What does Herzog have to say about all this?” he asked. “He know what kind of trouble you’re going to?”

George ignored him.

“You get a chance to see those photos yourself?” Colby asked. “I was pretty proud of them.” He was taking a risk, talking about photos he had never even heard of, much less seen.

For the first time, Colby thought he saw a glimmer of a smile on George’s face. “Yeah, they were pretty good,” George said. “How’d you find out he was banging that gal?”

What gal?
Colby wondered. “Just got lucky,” he said. “Pieced it together and went from there.”

That seemed to satisfy George. “Pretty slick,” he said, smiling, showing crooked teeth. “You sure rattled Herzog’s cage, I’ll give you that much. Especially with this being an election year.”

Colby immediately felt sick to his stomach.
It was Dylan Herzog, the senator.
Someone was blackmailing the chairman of the Natural Resources Committee, and this goon thought it was Colby. But it all made sense. Herzog was known to cater to the whims of the high-fencers, and Colby had become their worst enemy. Anyone looking to hurt the high-fencers would realize that the senator was a perfect target. But what did Vance Scofield have to do with it? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe the murder of Scofield was completely unrelated.

For the first time, Colby realized what kind of jam he was in. It was one thing when he thought the high-fencers were trying to put a scare into him. It was something completely different to know that the political future of a high-powered senator—a man who had openly voiced aspirations to the governorship, and who was rumored to have his eyes set on the White House—was depending on George to make sure Colby and the damning photographs weren’t a problem. Would George—psychopath that he was—be content merely to retrieve the negatives? And what would he do when Colby came clean and revealed that he didn’t really know anything about the photographs at all, that the only reason he’d said he did was because George had a nasty habit of shooting at him? One thing was certain: Colby had to
do
something. He couldn’t just sit there, trussed up, and wait for Monday.

“You know,” Colby said, “I’m gonna have to use the bathroom pretty soon.”

George said, “Well, I guess you’re in a hell of a spot, then, ain’t ya?”

“Yeah, I guess I am, but you’re not thinking things through, George. When we go into the bank on Monday morning, how’s it gonna look if I go in there smelling like an outhouse? Hell, we’re both gonna be ripe enough as it is, just from the heat. Don’t you think we’ll need to clean up at some point? Fresh clothes, maybe a shower? Otherwise, people are gonna know something’s up. Besides, if you keep me taped up like this much longer, I doubt I’ll even be able to use my arms. Right now, I can’t even feel my fingers.”

The way George stared at him, Colby knew he was thinking it over.

“I’ve got all kinds of chains and rope in my barn,” Colby added. “You could fix it where it’s a lot easier to turn me loose for bathroom breaks and that sort of thing. Maybe you could grab us some food when you’re over there. Towels, water, maybe some other stuff. Sure would make things nicer, don’t you think? As it is, I don’t think you even brought anything to drink, did you? How’re we gonna make it till Monday morning without something cold to drink?”