The Confession (20 page)

She wrapped a sandwich and stuffed it into a small box. Keith took a folded grocery bag from the pantry and went into their bedroom. For his new pal Travis, he found an old pair of khakis, a couple of T-shirts, socks, underwear, and a Packers sweatshirt that no one had ever worn.
He changed shirts, put on his clerical collar and a navy sport coat, and then packed a few things of his own in a gym bag. Minutes later, he was back in the kitchen, where Dana was leaning against the sink, arms locked defiantly across her chest.

“This is a huge mistake,” she announced.

“Maybe so. I didn’t volunteer for this. Boyette chose us.”

“Us?”

“Okay, he chose me. He has no other means of getting to Texas, or so he says. I believe him.”

She rolled her eyes. Keith glanced at the clock on the microwave. He was anxious to take off, but he also realized that his wife was entitled to a few parting shots.

“How can you believe anything he says?” she demanded.

“We’ve had this conversation, Dana.”

“What if you get arrested down there?”

“For what? Trying to stop an execution. I doubt that’s a crime, even in Texas.”

“You’re helping a man jump parole, right?”

“Right, in Kansas. They can’t arrest me for it in Texas.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Look, Dana, I’m not going to get arrested in Texas. I promise. I might get shot, but not arrested.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“No. No one’s laughing. Come on, Dana, look at the big picture. I think Boyette killed this girl in 1998. I think he hid her body and knows where it is. And I think there’s a chance for a miracle, if we can get down there.”

“I think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe, but I’d rather take a chance.”

“Look at the risk, Keith.”

He had inched closer and now put his hands on her shoulders. She was rigid, her arms still crossed. “Look, Dana, I’ve never taken a chance in my life.”

“I know. This is your big moment, isn’t it?”

“No, this is not about me. Once we get there, I’m staying in the shadows, keeping a low profile—”

“Dodging bullets.”

“Whatever. I’ll be in the background. It’s the Travis Boyette show. I’m just his driver.”

“Driver? You’re a minister with a family.”

“And I’ll be back by Saturday. I’ll preach on Sunday, and we’ll have a picnic that afternoon. I promise.”

Her shoulders sagged, and her arms fell to her sides. He squeezed her fiercely and then kissed her. “Please try to understand,” he said.

She nodded gamely and said, “Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you. Please be careful.”

———

Robbie’s midnight wake-up call came at 12:30. He’d been in bed with DeDe for less than an hour when the phone erupted. DeDe, who’d gone to sleep without the aid of alcohol, jumped first and said, “Hello.” Then she handed the phone to her mate, who was fogged in and trying to open his eyes.

“Who is it?” he growled.

“Wake up, Robbie, it’s Fred. Got some interesting stuff here.”

Robbie managed to rouse himself, at least to the next level. “What is it, Fred?” DeDe was already flipping to the other side. Robbie smiled at her fine rear end under the satin sheets.

Fred said, “Had another drink with Joey. Took him to a strip club. Second night in a row, you know. Not sure my liver can take much more of this project. I’m sure his cannot. Anyway, got the boy drunk as a pissant, and he finally admitted everything. Said he lied about seeing the green van, lied about the black person driving the damned thing, lied about everything. Admitted he was the one who called Kerber with the fake tip about Donté and the girl. It was beautiful. He was crying and carrying on, just a big blubbering fat boy knocking back beers and
talking trash to the strippers. Said he and Donté were once good buddies, back in the ninth and tenth grades when they were football stars. Said he always thought the prosecutors and judges would figure things out. Can’t believe it’s come down to this. He’s always thought the execution would never happen, thought Donté would one day get out of prison. Now he’s finally convinced that they’re gonna kill him, so he’s all tore up about it. Thinks it’s his fault. I assured him that it is. The blood will be on his hands. I really beat him up. It was wonderful.”

Robbie was in the kitchen looking for water. “This is great, Fred,” he said.

“It is, and it’s not. He refuses to sign an affidavit.”

“What!”

“Won’t do it. We left the strip club and went to a coffeehouse. I begged him to sign an affidavit, but it’s like talking to a tree.”

“Why not?”

“His momma, Robbie, his momma and his family. He can’t stomach the idea of admitting that he’s a liar. He’s got a lot of friends in Slone, and so on. I did everything I could possibly do, but the boy is not willing to sign on.”

Robbie downed a glass of tap water and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “Did you tape it?”

“Of course. I’ve listened to the tape once, about to go through it again. There’s a lot of background noise—you ever been to a strip club?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Really loud music, a lotta rap shit and stuff like that. But his voice is there. You can understand what he’s saying. We’ll need to enhance it.”

“There’s no time for that.”

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

“How long is your drive?”

“Well, at this lovely time of the day, there’s no traffic. I can be in Slone in five hours.”

“Then get your ass on the road.”

“You got it, Boss.”

An hour later, Robbie was in bed, flat on his back, the dark ceiling doing strange things to his thought process. DeDe was purring like a kitten, dead to the world. He listened to her breathe heavily and wondered how she could be so untroubled by all of his troubles. He envied her. When she awoke hours later, her first priority would be an hour of hot yoga with a few of her dreadful friends. He would be at the office screaming at the telephone.

And so it had all come down to this: a drunk Joey Gamble confessing his sins and baring his soul in a strip club to a man with a concealed mike that produced a scratchy audio that no court in the civilized world would take heed of.

The fragile life of Donté Drumm would depend on the eleventh-hour recantation by a witness with no credibility.

L
ost in the frenzy of the departure was the issue of money. When he paid six bucks for Boyette’s feast at the Blue Moon Diner, Keith realized he was low on cash. Then he forgot about it. He remembered it again after they were on the road and needed gas. They stopped at a truck stop on Interstate 335 at 1:15 a.m. It was Thursday, November 8.

As Keith pumped gas, he was aware of the fact that Donté Drumm would be strapped to the gurney in Huntsville in about seventeen hours. He was even more aware that the man who should be suffering through his final hours was, instead, sitting peacefully only a few feet away, snug inside the car, his pale slick head reflecting the overhead fluorescent lights. They were just south of Topeka. Texas was a million miles away. He paid with a credit card and counted $33 in cash in his left front pocket. He cursed himself for not raiding the slush fund he and Dana kept in a kitchen cabinet. The cigar box usually held around $200 in cash.

An hour south of Topeka, the speed limit increased to seventy miles per hour, and Keith and the old Subaru inched upward to seventy-five. Boyette so far had been quiet, seemingly content to sit crouched with
his hands on his knees and stare at nothing through the right-side window. Keith preferred to ignore him. He preferred the silence. Sitting next to a stranger for twelve straight hours was a chore under normal circumstances. Rubbing shoulders with one as violent and weird as Boyette would make for a tense, tedious trip.

Just as Keith settled into a quiet, comfortable zone, he was suddenly hit with a wave of drowsiness. His eyelids snapped shut, only to be reopened when he jerked his head. His vision was blurred, foggy. The Subaru edged toward the right shoulder, then he moved back to the left. He pinched his cheeks. He blinked his eyes as wildly as possible. If he’d been alone, he would have slapped himself. Travis did not notice.

“How about some music?” Keith said. Anything to jolt his brain.

Travis just nodded his approval.

“Anything in particular?”

“It’s your car.”

Yes, it was. His favorite station was classic rock. He cranked up the volume and was soon thumping the steering wheel and tapping his left foot and mouthing the words. The noise cleared his brain, but he was still stunned by how quickly he had almost collapsed.

Only eleven hours to go. He thought of Charles Lindbergh and his solo flight to Paris. Thirty-three and a half straight hours, with no sleep the night before he took off from New York. Lindbergh later wrote that he was awake for sixty straight hours. Keith’s brother was a pilot and loved to tell stories.

He thought about his brother, his sister, and his parents, and when he began to nod off, he said, “How many brothers and sisters do you have, Travis?”

Talk to me, Travis. Anything to keep me awake. You can’t help with the driving, because you have no license. You have no insurance. You’re not touching this wheel, so come on, Travis, help me out here before we crash.

“I don’t know,” Travis said, after the obligatory period of contemplation.

The answer did more to lift the fog than anything by Springsteen or Dylan. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

A slight tic. Travis had now shifted his gaze from the side window to the windshield. “Well,” he said, then paused. “Not long after I was born, my father left my mother. Never saw him again. My mother took up with a man named Darrell, and since he was the first man I ever remembered, I just figured Darrell was my father. My mother told me he was my father. I called him Dad. I had an older brother and he called him Dad. Darrell was okay, never beat me or anything, but he had a brother who abused me. When they took me to court the first time—I think I was twelve—I realized that Darrell was not my real father. That really hurt. I was crushed. Then Darrell disappeared.”

The response, like many of Boyette’s, raised more mysteries than it solved. It also served to kick Keith’s brain into high gear. He was suddenly wide-awake. And he was determined to unravel this psycho. What else was there to do for the next half day? They were in his car. He could ask anything he wanted.

“So you have one brother.”

“There’s more. My father, the real one, ran off to Florida and took up with another woman. They had a houseful of kids, so I guess I have outside brothers and sisters. And there was always this rumor that my mother had given birth to a child before she married my father. You ask how many. Pick a number, Pastor.”

“How many are you in contact with?”

“I wouldn’t call it contact, but I’ve written some letters to my brother. He’s in Illinois. In prison.”

What a surprise. “Why is he in prison?”

“Same reason everybody else is in prison. Drugs and booze. He needed cash for his habit, so he broke into a house, wrong one, ended up beating a man.”

“Does he write back?”

“Sometimes. He’ll never get out.”

“Was he abused?”

“No, he was older, and my uncle left him alone, far as I know. We never talked about it.”

“This was Darrell’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“So, he wasn’t really your uncle?”

“I thought he was. Why are you asking so many questions, Pastor?”

“I’m trying to pass the time, Travis, and I’m trying to stay awake. Since I met you Monday morning, I have slept very little. I’m exhausted, and we have a long way to go.”

“I don’t like all these questions.”

“Well, what exactly do you think you’re about to hear in Texas? We show up, you claim to be the real murderer, and then you announce that you really don’t like questions. Come on, Travis.”

Several miles passed without a word. Travis stared to his right, at nothing but the darkness, and lightly tapped his cane with his fingertips. He had shown no signs of severe headaches for at least an hour. Keith glanced at the speedometer and realized he was doing eighty, ten over, enough for a ticket anywhere in Kansas. He slowed down and, to keep his mind going, played out the scene in which a state trooper pulled him over, checked his ID, checked Boyette’s, then called for backup. A fleeing felon. A wayward Lutheran minister aiding the fleeing felon. Blue lights all over the road. Handcuffs. A night in jail, maybe in the same cell with his friend, a man who wouldn’t be the least bit bothered by another night behind bars. What would Keith tell his boys?

He began to nod again. There was a phone call he had to make, and there was no good time to make it. The call was guaranteed to engage his mind at such a level that sleep would be forgotten momentarily. He removed his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Matthew Burns. It was almost 2:00 a.m. Evidently, Matthew was a sound sleeper. It took eight rings to rouse him.

“This better be good,” he growled.

“Good morning, Matthew. Sleep well?”

“Fine, Father. Why the hell are you calling me?”