by George Wier
CHAPTER TWELVE
The cloud cover over Austin and points west had blown off to the north, and at the base of the fierce yellowish glow across the lake tendrils of flame climbed in a vortex of billowing smoke and sparks a hundred feet into the sky.
Sarah Banks’ boat was not moored in the spot where we had left it mere hours before.
We commandeered another bass boat. I made Jessica sit in the bottom of the boat near my feet, a life-preserver tight around her and her straight black hair blew back at me, brushing my knees as I held the tiller and powered the boat up to its top speed. In the bow Patrick Kinsey sat gazing forward and talking into his police radio as he swept the water before of us with his flashlight.
“Look for another boat!” I shouted to him above the high whine of the motor.
We made good time. As we drew closer I could make out the silvery arcs of water directed toward the conflagration. Gouts of steam flew up wherever it touched.
“There’s not going to be anything left,” Jessica said. “It’s going fast.”
“I know,” I said. “Stay down!” She was on her knees, trying to peer forward and around Patrick’s silhouetted black form.
“I’m down, daddy!” she protested, clearly annoyed.
Anyone looking at her would have said there was no way I was her father, and technically they would have been correct, as Jessica was half-Samoan, half-Caucasian, and mine and Julie’s adopted daughter. Yet, in every way that a person can be related except blood, Jessica and I were what we held ourselves out to be: over-protective father and rebellious, willful daughter. God, but I loved her.
The structure was mostly gone by the time we arrived. We moved around it toward the shore and the fire trucks with a milling crowd of helpless fireman, police officers, and gawking neighbors. The marina had stood near the end of a small, jutting peninsula dotted with residential homes and so there were plenty of bystanders to get in the way.
The heat from the blaze and the roiling smoke that shifted every few moments in the stiff breeze kept us far enough away that we had to angle in east around it and toward the shore. I killed the motor as we glided in.
Jessica and I watched in fascination as burning timbers tumbled into the water and sizzled. Patrick got someone’s attention on shore and two firemen helped to pull the bow of the boat onto dry land. Patrick got out first, then reached back to help Jessica, who was not as sure-footed. I’d have to take her out on Town Lake more often, get her used to handling water craft. And maybe, just maybe she’d spend a little less time with some of her more questionable friends if I did.
I joined them on the shore and walked over with Patrick toward the firemen. The three hoses aimed at the blaze shut down one by one. With a glance toward what was left of the marina, I could tell that there was little point.
Perry Reilly stood there surrounded by firemen and ambulance crew. He had a blanket wrapped around him and was wet from head to toe, shaking like a leaf.
“Goddammit,” I said, walking up to him. “What did you do, Perry? And where’s Sarah?”
His face crinkled up and he began sobbing. He pointed toward the marina, and both questions were answered with that one gesture. He brought his hands to his face and sagged down to his knees before anyone could catch him.
“There’s a boat over there,” a voice said. “Swamped.”
I looked to where a fireman pointed. Twenty yards out I could see it. Sarah Banks’ bass boat.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“She wanted to see for herself. She went in there,” Perry said. “I couldn’t stop her.”
He was no longer crying, thankfully. He was, however, in a state of mild shock. All I knew to do was to just keep him talking, playing it over and over again.
We sat in the Lakeway Police Station: me, Patrick, Perry, and a very nice and very professional Lakeway Police Sergeant named Michael Lee. I occasionally looked past Perry through a glass window to where Jessica sat in the lobby, clearly bored and likely sleepy. What time was it getting to be? My watch had stopped. Probably it wasn’t waterproof.
“We never found her,” Sergeant Lee said, “but we’re not going to stop looking until we do.”
“She’s dead,” Perry said. “It must have been the explosion.”
The whole story came out. While Perry had sat in her boat, Sarah had gone through the doorway I had entered earlier. She had called to him once to tell him she was alright, then for several minutes he didn’t hear anything. The explosion came without warning, blowing Perry from the boat and capsizing it. After Perry recovered from the initial shock, he found he could do nothing but tread water and watch as the flames engulfed what was left of the marina. To prove his story, one side of his face was swollen where he was smacked by a board blown out by the explosion. The son of a bitch was clearly extremely lucky.
“Why did you two come back, Perry?” I asked.
“She wanted to see it. See the evidence for herself. She was excited by it—the murder, the investigation, the clues—just like on the television shows.”
“She said that?” Mike Lee asked.
“Yeah,” Perry admitted. His fingers probed and rubbed his face. “I feel. . . numb,” he said.
“Your face or your emotions?” I asked.
“Both,” he said.
“Okay,” Patrick said. “Let’s get him to an ER and get him checked over.”
“Fine,” Mike Lee said, “but I’ll want a full written statement later on.”
“I’ll make sure he comes in,” I said.
I noticed motion past Perry. Jessica was shifting around out there, looking for something to hold her attention. She turned and looked at me and then rolled her eyes.
“I’m fine,” Perry said. “Really.”
“Shut up, Mr. Reilly,” Patrick said.
*****
I called Julie from the Emergency Room at Lakeway Hospital and told her what was going on. It was after midnight. She had been asleep and there was not a hint of anger in her voice. I started to tell her what had happened thus far, but she stopped me. She didn’t want to know. I breathed a sigh of relief. We hung up.
Perry sauntered slowly out into the lobby, looking lost and alone. Jessica lay curled up in a waiting-room seat, snoring softly.
I walked over to Perry and guided him over to sit down for a minute. The policeman who was waiting for us poked his head inside the ER doors and I motioned for him to give us a minute.
“Perry?” I said.
“Bill,” he said. “I’m okay.”
“Good.”
Jessica woke up, stretched, and sat up.
“No more women,” Perry said.
It struck me as mildly funny at first, but then looking into his eyes drowned the humor of it.
“Okay,” I said.
“Let’s go home, dad,” Jessica said.
I never thought I’d hear her say something like that. This from a girl who had planned on spending the night waiting in the wet and cold for concert tickets.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”
*****
The policeman took us back to the lake shore and we stepped out to meet Patrick and the local Fire Chief. The visit was brief.
Patrick stayed behind while Perry, Jessica and I got back in the commandeered bass boat, backed out, and headed toward Point Venture on the farther shore. Perry turned and gazed for a long moment at the ruined marina, now no more than charred, floating timbers.
At the Point Venture marina we tied the boat back where we had found it and I penned a quick note to the owner explaining that he—or possibly she—would likely need to refill the gas tank. I left my phone number.
We drove back to Sarah’s house so that Perry could retrieve his car.
Sarah’s Chevy was gone. Tire tracks cut across the dampened lawn from the driveway from in front of Perry’s car and disappeared at the curb to the street.
“Dad?” Jessica asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I
don’t know, honey,” I said. “I don’t know.”
I waited as Perry climbed out of his car, oblivious, got into his own, backed out and pulled slowly away.
“Her car is gone, isn’t it, dad?” Jessica said.
“Yeah, honey,” I said. “It sure is.”
*****
I swung slowly past the Burnet place, noting fresh police tape on the front door. Patrick didn’t miss a trick. He’d likely called someone and had a cruiser dispatched to secure the place. I’d seen enough there for the time being anyhow. I did have some hope, however, that Patrick would be calling me back to go over Burnet’s records with him. There had to be something there that was helpful.
I thought about Walt Cannon as we made our way back to the community entrance gate. I thought about Garcia y Vega cigars and their intoxicating yet rancid smell. I thought about Sarah Bank’s mousey, dishwater blond hair, her quick, husky laugh and the texture of her skin. And then Perry Reilly’s face haunted me in the glow of a burning marina.
I stopped at the security gate. Bob was back on duty.
“Hell of a night,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I admitted. “Tell me, Bob, did Miss Banks leave any time in the last hour in her Chevy?”
“Why, no. I haven’t seen her. Why?”
“Well,” I said, “is there any other way out of this place except this gate?”
“No,” he said. “Unless you count the lake.”
“By car, I mean,” I said.
“No, Mr. Travis. Just this one gate.” Then he stood there, his face suddenly stony, as if a thought had occurred to him.
“What?” I asked.
“Uh. Nothing.”
“Come on, Bob. The police think Miss Banks died in that marina explosion.”
“Well. There is one way out, though I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Where’s that?”
“The back way. Through the woods and back out to a dirt road that leads to the highway.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“You won’t see anything tonight,” he said. “Tell you what. Come by here noon tomorrow and I’ll show you myself.”
“Bob, I think I’ll take you up on that invitation. You work some awfully odd shifts.”
“Yeah,” he said.
He peered closely at me, then in at Jessica, who was yawning fiercely.
“You look like hell, Mr. Travis,” Bob said.
“Thanks,” I replied.
We drove slowly out into the night.
“Dad,” Jessica said, cuddling up close to me. “I love you.”
“I know, honey. I love you too. We’re going home.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“The investigation is closed, Bill,” Patrick Kinsey told me over the phone.
The morning sun streamed through my office window. It was a Tuesday morning. Jessica was there with me, reading a magazine. I would have liked it better had she been reading Teen Beat, or even the newspaper, but it was Rolling Stone.
“Why closed?” I asked.
“Walt Cannon confessed to the murder of Phil Burnet late last night.”
“No,” I said.
“Yep. Signed, sealed, delivered. All over but the shouting.”
“How the hell did that happen?” I asked.
“He came in and said he wanted to confess, then wouldn’t say anything until somebody called me, got me out of bed and got me down here. He’s downstairs in a locked room, cooling his heels.”
“Something is not right here, Patrick. Something is very not right.”
“I can’t do any better than a signed confession, Bill,” he said. “What am I supposed to do?”
He was right about that. Technically.
“Mr. Cannon confessed?” Jessica piped in. The magazine slipped to the floor.
“Shh!” I admonished her.
“Well?” Patrick said.
“Alright, Pat. But I’m going back to Point Venture today. When we returned last night, Sarah Banks’ car was gone. Remember when I slowed down on the way to the marina?”
“Yeah.”
“I looked. Saw her car parked right in front of Perry’s. In front, not behind. Later, when we brought the boat back and I took Perry to his car, it was gone and a couple of tire tracks lead across her lawn.”
“Stolen?” Patrick said.
“I can’t believe you would say something stupid like that, Pat.”
“Okay. Okay. Just calm down, Bill. Look, did the gate guard see her leave?”
“No. I asked him. But there’s another way out of there.”
“That’s news to me. Okay. Go and look, and when you’re done, call me if you have anything. But from where I’m sitting I can safely wipe this one off the books.”
“I want to talk to Walt,” I said. “Will you let me if I come down there?”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” he said. “Look. I don’t exactly like this. My hands are tied. He didn’t give any reasons, just up and admitted to it. I still want to know everything you want to know. There are rabbit holes this case runs into and out of the like of which I’ve never seen. And it’s. . .”
“Unsettling?” I asked.
“Exactly. It hurts my brain when I think about it.”
“I know the feeling, Pat,” I said. “I know it all too well.”
“Okay,” he said. “If you want to see him, you’d better do that first. I have no idea what’s going to happen when the press gets hold of this one. A Texas Ranger. This sort of thing doesn’t happen. Not in real life. For that matter, not even on TV.”
“I’ll see you shortly, Pat,” I said. “I’m bringing Jessica.”
“Fine,” he said. We hung up.
*****
One minute later Perry Reilly’s head poked inside my office. Jessica started and almost fell out of her chair.
“You frightened me!” she exclaimed.
“Sorry, kid,” Perry said.
“What are you doing here, Perry?” I asked. “I thought you’d be taking it easy today.”
“Can’t,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because. Her car was gone last night, Bill. She’s still alive somehow.”
“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed,” I admitted.
“I’m not blind.”
“So what do you want to do?” I asked him, knowing full well what the answer was.
“I’m going back with you.”
“Oh no,” Jessica said. “Not again.”
I sat there in my chair a moment longer, and a thought occurred to me. This one had me stock-still. My neighbor and my daughter watched me, but my mind was doing little jumps through space and time.
Walt Cannon had said at the tail-end of our last meeting that one way or the other, there would be hell to pay.
Hell. The Devil. The god of mischief.
It had begun with Perry Reilly and his associate canoeing on Town Lake. She had spotted the body. Perry had called it in. The next day, about the time the drizzle began in earnest, Walt Cannon had stopped in to visit Perry to see if he knew anything else, then had left and walked next door to see me. Walt had looked older. He’d aged ten years in the previous one. What other men or women had I seen that happen to? Presidents, well into their term of office, governors, men and women carrying excessive loads. And then it struck me: people in ill health! People on the way out with little or nothing left to lose.
I shivered, visibly.
“What’s wrong, dad?” Jessica asked me.
“Hell to pay,” I whispered.
“Bill?” Perry asked. I suppose at that moment I came out of my mild fugue state.
“It’s nothing,” I said, and then added: “I hope.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Hi, Walt,” I said.
“What are you doing here?” he asked me.
It was common practice to take a prisoner to an interview room or, for a visit from a friend or relative, to one of those windowed-off doubl
e rooms complete with microphones. Patrick had neatly side-stepped procedure and taken me directly to a small, locked room in the Sheriff’s Office infirmary where Walt Cannon sat in a rolling office chair with his polished cowboy boots up on a gurney. I had no doubt that there were no other accommodations for special prisoners, particularly for those who had served the state and served it well over the course of their lifetimes.
“That’s what I wanted to know,” I said, and then the juxtaposition hit me: a similar, long-ago reputed conversation between Henry David Thoreau and Walt Whitman.
The door clicked shut behind me. We were alone, with Patrick out in the hall.
“I don’t have anything to say,” Walt said.
“That’s fine,” I said, walked over to the bed, picked up his cowboy boots and dropped them into space. I hopped up on the bed and sat myself.
“You were always just a tad rude, Bill,” he said.
“Can’t help it,” I said. “No more rude than when a friend says one thing, then officially admits something else.”
“I don’t have any friends,” he said.
“Sure fooled me. I recall a certain barbecue in West Texas, back when Julie was pregnant with Jennifer. That was at your place, Walt. With your rusted dinosaur in your front yard and all of West Texas out your back-forty. Hell, you’re practically family.”
“You don’t know me, Bill. You don’t know the things I’ve seen, the men I’ve had to kill. There’s a great deal you don’t know.”
“The operative word there is ‘had’, as in ‘couldn’t help but’, as in ‘duty’.”
“Doesn’t excuse it,” he said.
“Maybe not to you. But from where I’m sitting, you’re a god-damned unsung hero.”
“I don’t have time for this,” he said, and studied the backs of his fingernails.
