The Silence of Murder (13 page)

Far off, I hear a couple of lost geese honking. Closer in, a woodpecker competes with the cry of a mourning dove. I want them to smother the breathing on the other end of the phone, to cover up the chug of the white pickup truck, and to drown out Rita’s voice in my head.

A horn honks. I stand up, expecting to see T.J.’s dad’s ’81 Chevy, but it’s the Stratus Chase drives. He gets out of the car and stands beside it. “T.J. couldn’t make it.”

I take a couple of steps toward him. “Why didn’t he call me?”

“He said your cell was off, and he was afraid to wake Rita. So he called me.”

Once again, Chase is dragged into the mixed-up life of Hope Long. I’m totally embarrassed—again—but I have to admit I don’t mind seeing Chase.

“T.J. shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry, Chase. Thanks for letting me know, though.”

Chase meets me the rest of the way up the sidewalk. I don’t think I realized how tall he is, more than a head taller than me. I’m used to looking down at T.J., not up like this. “He had to help his dad finish some big lawn job in Ashland, I guess.”

“Well, thanks again.” I’m not sure whether to go back in or wait until he leaves.

“Anyway,” Chase says, “he felt pretty bad about you missing your driving lesson and all. So I thought maybe I could stand in for him?”

“Wait. Did T.J. put you up to this?”

Chase grins, showing straight white teeth. “No. But I got the feeling he thinks you can use all the lessons you can get. I figure this will square me with T.J. for good.”

“You must have owed him big-time.” I wait for Chase to fill in the blanks.

“Okay,” he says at last. “But don’t tell T.J. I told you. In the Lodi game last year, he didn’t just talk Coach into letting
me pitch. He pretended he hurt his arm so Coach would have to put me in.”

“Why would he do that? I didn’t think you guys were that tight. It doesn’t even sound like something he’d do.”

Chase seems to be studying our cracked sidewalk. Then he says, “T.J. overheard my dad and me arguing in the locker room. Dad thought I wasn’t working hard enough and that was why I wasn’t getting to pitch. It was a pretty big blowup. T.J. walked in on it.”

Now things are starting to make more sense. T.J.’s probably never fought with his dad. He would have wanted to fix things for Chase, no matter who he was.

“It was T.J.’s idea,” Chase says. “But I went along with it. I threw a horrible couple of innings, but it got my foot in the door. He’s right. I do owe him.”

“And teaching me to drive lets you off the hook?”

He nods again. “Not just off the hook … but out of the house. To be honest, I’m grateful for an excuse to get away from my dad for a while. But listen, Hope, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. If this is, like, your and T.J.’s thing, I don’t want to get in the way of that. I make it a rule never to mess up a relationship.”

For a second, I don’t know what he means. Then I get it. “T.J. and me? We’re friends. It’s not a ‘relationship.’ Not like you mean anyway.” I laugh a little, picturing last Sunday’s driving lesson, when T.J. vowed he was quitting. “I’m a terrible driver. I wouldn’t be surprised if T.J. made up the whole story about helping his dad so he didn’t have to go through another driving lesson with me.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’m just kidding, except for the part about me being a terrible driver. I don’t think I’ve gotten any better either.” I glance at his car. It’s reflecting sunlight so bright I have to squint. Did he wash it overnight? “Even if I agreed to let you waste your time trying to teach me to drive, I couldn’t do that to your dad’s car.”

“Yeah, you could,” he says, dangling the keys in front of me. “I’ll have you driving by midday.” His smile fades. “And there’s something I want to talk to you about anyway.”

He heads for the car, and I follow him. “What?”

“Later,” he says. “It’s about the trial.”

“The trial?” I can’t believe he’s the one bringing up Jer’s trial. Good ol’ T.J. His crazy plan might be paying off already.

“What about the trial?”

“Not yet,” he says, motioning for me to get in the other side. “I promise. Drive first, talk later.”

When Chase and
I get to the high school, we’re the only car in the parking lot. T.J. and I picked this spot because there’s nothing you can hit here, except a big tree a few yards to the east, and the school, of course, but it’s half a football field away. Good thing. My driving performance has never been worse. Chase makes me more nervous than T.J. does, even though he doesn’t scream at me.

“Give it some more gas,” Chase says, watching my feet. “Gas. That’s the one on your right.”

“Gotcha.” I press the pedal, and the car lurches forward, so I slam on the brakes with both feet.

“You really haven’t driven, like, at all, have you?” he says.

“I told you I haven’t.”

He laughs and makes me circle the lot until I’m dizzy. Then he has me change directions and drive in more circles “to unwind.”

I’m not sure how long we do this—longer than T.J. and I
usually last—but eventually I’m not horrible. I can flick on the turn signal and make the car turn, and I can stop without dashing our heads through the windshield.

“Not bad,” Chase says. “Let’s take a break. Pull up under that tree on the edge of the lot.”

It’s the one shady spot in sight. “Are you sure? I could hit the tree, you know.”

“Are you kidding? I promised I’d have you driving by midday, and I never break a promise.”

I remember what he said about his dad breaking promises. Apparently, promises are big deals to him. If Rita makes a promise—to quit smoking or drinking or whatever—I don’t even pay attention.

When I pull up exactly where I’m supposed to, Chase gives me a thumbs-up. Then he reaches into the backseat and brings out a cooler. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

We set up on a wool blanket by the big tree. Chase hands me a peanut butter sandwich and an ice-cold bottle of root beer. It feels like a real picnic. Jer and I used to go on picnics when we lived in Oklahoma. I can’t remember why we stopped.

“I love root beer.” I take a deep swig from the bottle and try to think of the last time I had one.

“Told you we were alike,” he says. “I even took my shower last night instead of this morning.”

I laugh. “Doesn’t count. It was already morning when you left my house.”

“You’re right.”

While we eat our sandwiches, we talk about schools, his
and mine. He asks about Jeremy, and I tell him about the time we let them keep Jer in a hospital, on a mental ward, overnight. “It took Jer a month to get over it. Rita thought it would do him some good. I knew better, but I went along.” I fight off the images of my brother the day we brought him home—Jeremy without his energy, sitting in a heap wherever I parked him.

Chase talks about running, the “high” he gets running hard, alone.

Before I realize it, I’ve eaten my whole sandwich. “I still can’t believe you made sandwiches. What if I hadn’t come along for the lesson?”

“I’d have eaten both sandwiches,” he answers. “I needed to stay out of the house until my dad left for work. He and I can use a little distance.” He wads up his napkin and wipes his mouth.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it? Did your dad find out you were with T.J. and me last night?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a cop thing. He doesn’t like the idea of relatives of the defense fraternizing with relatives of the prosecution.”

“Fraternizing?” I can’t help grinning at that one. “I’m not sure I’ve ever fraternized before. Is this it?”

“Apparently so. Yes.”

I lean against the tree and let the bark dig into my shoulders. I don’t mind.

Chase pitches his trash into the cooler and leans back next to me. The tree trunk is big enough so our arms don’t touch, but I feel him there. “Okay. Let’s talk,” he says.

I know what he means. I’ve been waiting for him to tell me what he said he would,
promised
he would, about the trial.

“So, tell me.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about your brother’s case,” he begins. A leaf falls, spinning in front of us until it brushes the grass and tumbles to a stop. He scoots around to face me. “Okay. Hear me out on this, Hope. I think we need to keep in mind that it’s not up to us, to you, to prove who really murdered Coach.”

Disappointment begins as a slow burn in my chest, rising up through vessels and veins. I thought Chase understood. He doesn’t. Fine. I’ll do it with T.J., or I’ll do it myself. I wasn’t counting on
his
help anyway.

As if he’s reading my mind, he holds up one finger. “Hang on. I know that’s what you want, to prove somebody else murdered Coach. But it can’t be easy to prove murder. I mean, even if you know who did it, it’s a whole different thing proving it. I don’t think even you could pull that off, Hope. But here’s the good part. You don’t have to. All you have to do is create reasonable doubt. And people doubt just about everything.
That’s
what I’ve been thinking.”

I want to nail the person who killed Coach and let Jeremy take the blame. But I can tell Chase has done a lot of thinking about this. And I’m not stupid. I’ve heard of reasonable doubt. “Go on.”

“Doubt,” he repeats. “That’s all you need. How hard can it be to get a couple of people on that jury to doubt?”

I turn “doubt” over in my head. “Doubt. Like getting them to believe somebody else
might
have killed Coach?”

“Exactly. Or even just that Jeremy might not have. You give them a reason. Then they have reasonable doubt.” Chase is now kneeling in front of me, almost begging me to understand. “You can make them doubt, Hope.” His eyes are intense, green as mermaid tears.

My heart quivers because I think he’s right. Doubt is so much easier than proof. “Okay. I’ll make them doubt.” I breathe deeply, taking in clean air, sunshine … and hope. “I just don’t know where to start, Chase.”

“Hey, you two!”

Across the school lawn, I see T.J. waving his arms like he’s flagging down fire trucks. Automatically, I scoot farther away from Chase. He gets off his knees and sits down. My stomach lurches, and I feel guilty, which is silly because there’s nothing to feel guilty about. “Hey, T.J.!” I call.

He jogs toward us. I take the trash out of Chase’s cooler and walk it over to the garbage can. Then I wait for T.J. “Sorry I forgot to turn on my cell this morning,” I say when he’s close enough to hear.

“Not sorry enough,” he answers.

“Huh?”

“It’s still off. I tried to call you again.” He glances over at Chase, then back to me.

“Oops. I don’t deserve the title of Cell Owner.” I hand him my root beer bottle, with a couple of sips left.

He downs it. “So, how was the driving lesson? I’m guessing that’s what’s going on. Sully, down at the site, said he saw you two here. I figured the driving show must be happening without me.” He pulls out that tin laugh again.

“Yeah. I’m giving it a try,” I say, sounding really stupid.

Chase gets to his feet. “Got to say you were right about Hope’s driving disability.”

“Says you.” I snatch the keys off the picnic blanket. “Wanna see if I’ve improved, T.J.?” I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but all I can think is that I don’t want to stand here with the two of them.

“Maybe later. I’ve only got”—T.J. glances at his watch—“twenty minutes before I have to get back. Dad needs to finish the job by tomorrow.”

“Sure. I understand.” I want to offer him a sandwich, include him in the picnic. But we’re out of food.

T.J. sits on the picnic blanket as if he’s put it there himself. “I’ve been working on the suspect list.”

Chase and I join him, sitting on either side. “That’s great, T.J.,” I say. “We were just talking about the case. I’m really glad you’re here. Chase has an excellent idea about strategy. Tell him, Chase.”

T.J. frowns over at Chase.

“I’m sure you’ve already thought of it,” Chase begins. He glances at me, then gives T.J. a shortened version of “reasonable doubt.”

“You’re right,” T.J. says when Chase is finished. “I should’ve thought of that myself.”

“But we still have to get clues or evidence, don’t we?” I ask. “We have to have something that will make the jury doubt. Or at least make them suspect somebody else did it.”

T.J. sits up, straightens his glasses, and takes over. “Means, motive, and opportunity. That’s what we have to work with.
That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He sounds so logical. I wait for him to explain. “Stay with me. Means is the bat. That’s a given. Coach was killed with Jeremy’s bat. But almost anybody could have used it.”

“Right!” I agree. “Everybody knew he left his bat inside the barn door when he went to the barn.”

“Opportunity and motive,” T.J. continues. “They’re a little tougher, depending on which suspect we want the jury to doubt.”

“I still vote for his wife,” I say. “I know we don’t have any proof or anything. But you should have heard her yelling at Coach.”

Chase nods.

“Okay,” T.J. continues. “But we’re going to need a better motive than an overheard argument, especially since you’re not even sure what the argument was about.”

I try to think. “Rita told me she never thought Coach and his wife were happy together.”

“Still not much to go on,” Chase says.

“Yeah,” T.J. admits. “But if Rita knew they weren’t happy, other people probably did too. We can ask around.” T.J. scribbles in his notepad, a pocket-sized black one.

I feel my blood pumping through me faster. “What about opportunity? Coach’s wife was supposed to be in her house, right? That’s not far from the barn.”

When I glance at Chase, a stray wave of his hair blows across his forehead. He doesn’t brush it back. “If you could prove that Caroline Johnson can walk, it wouldn’t be a stretch to believe she could walk to the barn.” Chase squints
at T.J. “Have you ever seen her when you’ve been at the barn?”

I frown at T.J. I didn’t think he ever went to the barn. He’s scared of horses.

T.J. pulls a weed from the ground and begins tearing it into tiny pieces. “I don’t go there anymore.”

“When did you ever?” I ask. “I thought you didn’t like horses.”