by John Hart
“Because screw him, that’s why!”
The sound of Johnny’s voice, raised in anger, pushed Jack back a step. Johnny never yelled. It didn’t happen. “He has twenty people out looking for you.”
“A dozen,” Johnny said. “Unless you count the ones by the church.”
“Dear God. You do think this is a game.”
“Of course it’s a game, and I’m winning.”
Jack studied his friend more closely. He was worked up. The dark eyes glinted. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“I just do, is all.”
“Because he locked you up?”
“Have you ever been in jail, Jackie-boy?” Johnny lobbed a final pebble; it bounced off Jack’s chest and landed at his feet. “I’ll talk to that old bastard when I’m good and ready.”
* * *
Eventually, Jack convinced Johnny to leave the swamp. He asked a lot of questions, and got the full story: the body and Johnny’s walk out, how he brought the sheriff back in, and what they found. It took some time, and in the end, he gave Johnny the best advice he could.
“Keep your mouth shut until I find you a criminal lawyer.”
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“Yeah, that’s it. You need a no-bullshit, thirty-years-in-court, criminal attorney.”
Johnny shook his head. “They’ll never hold me.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Johnny grinned the same grin, and that’s how it had always been: the certainty and the reckless smile, the confidence that was as alien to Jack as life on Mars.
“You coming?” Johnny asked.
He was twenty feet away, and Jack was already lost in thoughts of consequence and worry. Where Johnny was good on instinct, Jack’s strength had always been in gauging risk. That was about deeper understandings, patience, the careful path. Jack knew what the sheriff wanted. That worried him, but the Hush was here and now. So, on the way out, Jack walked behind his friend, and as he did, he watched the trail. Where were the dim places, the odd turnings? None of it made sense.
“Watch your step.”
Johnny pointed at a coral snake, and even that seemed harmless compared to the walk in, alone.
“Does it ever worry you, J-man? You know. Being here by yourself?”
“That’s a silly question.”
A week ago, Jack would have agreed. “What do you think killed Boyd?”
Johnny stopped, and turned. “Say that again.”
“Huh?”
“You asked what killed Boyd, not who. Why’d you phrase it like that?”
Jack tilted his head, thinking about it. “I honestly don’t know.”
“You sure?”
“I said, I don’t know.”
And he didn’t.
But he thought about it as the walk resumed.
What killed William Boyd?
What?
The question felt right.
* * *
When they reached firm ground, Johnny paused beneath the final trees, looking out. “A lot of people.”
Jack peered past his friend and saw fifteen cops, at least. Groups of them stood and smoked and looked tense. The sheriff was bent over the maps, his big hands on the edge of the table. “Just remember what I said.”
“Wait for the lawyer. Got it.”
“Let me go first.”
Jack took the lead, and it felt strange, the leading of Johnny Merrimon. When they were halfway to the church, the sheriff spotted them.
“You cut it close, Counselor. Two more minutes, and I was coming in after you.”
“I said I’d find him, and I have.” Jack stopped a few feet from the sheriff and the men who gathered behind him. “I expect you to honor your side of this, too.”
The sheriff brushed past Jack. His eyes were heavy on Johnny’s, and Jack wondered if he’d ever seen such animosity. “You gave us a pretty run of it this morning.”
Johnny shrugged, and the sheriff’s eyes narrowed. The mud on his uniform was partially dry. His hands and face were smeared with it. Beside him, Johnny looked fresh as a daisy. He was almost smiling.
Shit …
“Why did you run off last night?”
Johnny said, “You were being an asshole.”
“I had a dead billionaire on my hands. Such a thing can make a man tense.”
“It felt like more than that.”
“I won’t lie to you, son. I don’t understand you, and won’t pretend to like you. That’s nothing new and no surprise, either. But as long as you answer my questions, and do it in a respectful manner, I’ll keep this professional and quick and clean.” The sheriff turned sideways and raised an arm. “If you’ll come with us to the station—”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
The sheriff blinked twice, mouth open. It didn’t bother Johnny at all. “Nobody said anything about the station. We can talk here.”
“I’m sure you’d like that, but I can speak for the rest of us when I say we’d like air-conditioning and a change of clothes.”
“Tough day in the swamp?”
The sheriff’s eyes hardened further as, behind him, two deputies showed faces just as bitter and bug-bitten and angry. “I should take you down for that.”
Johnny pointed. “You have a leech.”
The sheriff touched his neck, found the leech, and pulled it off, bloody. “Son of a bitch.”
A smile slid onto Johnny’s face.
The sheriff took him down.
* * *
At the station, it was chaos in the parking lot, chaos in the halls. A deputy had each arm. Two more moved in front, and in back. Johnny fought them for most of it. He knew what was coming.
“Don’t say anything, Johnny!” That was Jack, yelling through the crowd. “Sheriff, this is unacceptable. Is my client even under arrest?”
The sheriff turned, still angry. “Your moment will come, Counselor.” A buzzer sounded, and the crowd of cops squeezed Johnny through a doorway. “But it’s not now.”
A metal door clanged, and Johnny was alone with men in uniform, in a hall he remembered. He knew Jack was upset; but the sheriff had never questioned Jack, never leaned on him, breathed in his face, locked him up. Jack could not know how personal that felt. Nor could he fathom the hell an isolated box could be for a man like Johnny. The sheriff, though, had seen it. He knew Johnny paced like a caged animal, that he couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, that collapse alone had broken the cycle. A full week had passed in isolation before Johnny woke with a drip in his arm and a nurse peeling back an eyelid.
Can you hear me?
Do you know where you are?
The sheriff had been there, too, not smiling but satisfied. When he’d leaned above Johnny, he’d smelled of toothpaste and hair tonic. “There are no hunger strikes in this jail.”
“I wasn’t striking.”
“I need to hear you say it.”
“I’ll eat,” Johnny said; and when he’d swallowed enough to convince them, they returned him to the concrete box where he couldn’t run or see the stars or feel anything.
“Interview three.”
The sheriff directed the deputies, and they got him into the third interview room, though Johnny didn’t make it easy. With his cuffs bolted to the table, the deputies stepped away, making room for the sheriff, who pointed at Johnny’s scrapes, the split lip. “It didn’t have to be like this.”
“We both know you wanted me here.”
“Yeah, well. You’re the only one in the county who’s tried, once already, to kill my victim.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe and maybe not. We’ll talk about that once I wash the swamp off my face.”
The sheriff turned for the door, and Johnny smiled the dangerous smile. “There’s rarely the one leech, you know.” He licked blood from his teeth and spit it, pink, on the floor. “You might want to check your pants.”
* * *
The sheriff did
exactly that. He showered in the locker room and changed clothes.
No leeches.
In the hall, one of his deputies stopped him. “Clyde Hunt is in your office.”
“Tell him I don’t have time right now.”
“He’s a city captain. You can’t blow him off.”
“Shit.”
“You knew this was coming.”
“Thought I’d have more time.”
“You can blame the lawyer for that.”
“Okay, yeah. I’ll deal with it.”
Sheriff Willard Cline was not a bad man—he’d say as much to anybody. He didn’t take payoffs, or drink to excess or favor the powerful. He did the job as clean as any lawman could, and for the trouble, he’d been reelected for forty years straight. Even at seventy-one, he was trusted by the people of Raven County. They thought he had a good head. He thought so, too; but the Merrimon kid bothered him.
“Clyde.” The sheriff entered his office with both palms up. “You don’t have to say it. I know you’re upset.”
“Is he under arrest?”
“Not yet, no.”
“Then I want him released.”
The sheriff circled his desk and sighed inwardly. Clyde was a good man, and he was right about most of it. “Just sit down, okay. I know you’re angry. I understand it. Please.” The sheriff gestured to a chair and waited. Clyde was agitated, but eventually sat.
“Why is my stepson in custody?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Short version.”
“History.” The sheriff rolled his shoulders. “Means and opportunity.”
“No motive.”
“I just want to talk to him, Clyde. You’d feel the same way.”
“Jack Cross tells me the arrest got violent.”
“Yeah.” Another sigh. “There’s that.”
The sheriff looked at everything but Clyde. The shower had offered time to calm down, and he was not proud of how he’d behaved. It was the swamp, the sleeplessness, and that kid, that … damn kid. “He bothers me, Clyde. All right. I admit it.”
“Bothers you, why?”
How could Willard explain that something untouchable lived in Johnny Merrimon? He asked for nothing, took nothing, gave nothing. Even as a child, he’d maintained a deep-eyed implacability that would be unnatural in a grown man.
Could it be resentment?
“He rubs me the wrong way, Clyde. I can’t explain it.”
“He’s my wife’s son. I’ve raised him since he was thirteen.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“Then talk to him, damn it. Don’t pile on three deep and haul him in, cuffed. You wouldn’t even know Boyd was dead if Johnny hadn’t called.”
“And that doesn’t bother you? That he just happened to find a body in all that wilderness? We’re talking countryside dense as a thicket. You honestly think your boy just stumbled on a dead man he’d already shot at once? You’re a cop, for God’s sake. You know better.”
“You brought my son in bloody. That’s all I know for sure.”
The sheriff scrubbed his hands across his face. He’d been up for thirty-six hours, and in the swamp for most of it. It shouldn’t have happened like this, but he’d known Johnny when he was a wild-eyed boy in war paint and eagle feathers, a heartsick, screwed-up kid with a stolen pistol in one pocket and the keys to a stolen truck in the other. The papers called him a hero, but he’d been a trespasser, a truant, and a thief; and that was just in childhood. As a man, he’d quit everything wholesome and good. Now Boyd was dead, and it was impossible—here, of all places—for the sheriff to discount the behavior he’d seen Merrimon exhibit in jail. He’d almost died, alone in a cell. He’d gone damn near catatonic, and that was in isolation, the first week. No one fell that hard in a room alone, not unless they were already broken.
“I want him released, Willard. I’m asking as a friend.”
The sheriff shook his head, and was genuinely sad for the cop across his desk. “He’ll disappear if I let him go, and I don’t much care to go in that swamp again.”
“You can’t arrest him without cause. I’ll call a judge if I have to. I’ll call the goddamn DA.”
“I’ve already called her, Clyde.” The sheriff leaned away, and took no pleasure in what came next. “I want authority to charge.”
* * *
The district attorney was in court, so it didn’t happen fast. Three hours. Word spread from the sheriff to Clyde to Jack. In three hours, the DA would come.
“I want to see him. I’m his lawyer.” The sergeant at the front desk was not impressed by Jack’s voice or by the card Jack smacked against the bulletproof glass. “Lawyer.” Jack said it slowly, in case there was some confusion. “Lawyer.”
Clyde put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You’ll have to go higher than him to get what you want.”
“Who, then? Every sitting judge is on the bench, and wouldn’t get involved this early, regardless. The DA will side with the sheriff—”
“Maybe, Jack. But she’s answerable, too. I don’t think they have enough to hold anybody.”
Jack showed the desk sergeant his back. “You’re talking about motive.”
“Motive. Murder weapon. As far as I can tell, no one knows exactly how Boyd died or even when.”
“So, why the arrest? Why now?”
Hunt sat on a plastic chair. The wall behind him was cinder block, painted green, the floors stained concrete. “He’s hoping Johnny will say something stupid.”
“I told him not to talk.”
Clyde smiled sadly. “Does he often do what you say?”
Jack sat down, knowing the big detective was right. Johnny played by his own rules. Always had. “Can’t you do something?”
“The body was found in the county. I’m city.”
“What about back channels to the DA? Connections? Favors?”
Hunt shook his head. “I’ve called in every favor I have, but Boyd died a billionaire. People worry about blowback.”
“Does Johnny’s mom know?”
“She’s on her way home from the coast, and, yes, she knows.”
“Shit.”
“Yep.” Hunt scrubbed his face. “That pretty much sums it up.”
After that, the minutes ticked past, and neither spoke. Pressure built until Jack stood and paced, then sat again.
“You’re not making this any easier.”
But Jack couldn’t stop. He went from the front door to the bulletproof glass, back and forth until he turned, once, and found the sheriff behind the glass. “Cross.”
The sheriff mouthed his name and pointed at the inner door. Jack crossed the room, and looked at Hunt as the door buzzed and clicked open.
“Jack…”
Hunt was on his feet, with something like despair on his face. Jack tried for confidence, but his voice sounded thin. “I won’t let him talk.”
After that, Jack was through the door and alone with the sheriff. He started to speak, but the sheriff waved him down. “Keep your shorts on, Counselor. Your client is safe and unharmed, and nobody’s said nothing.”
Jack followed the sheriff, and tried to appear as if keeping quiet were his choice. In the third hall, the sheriff stopped beside a metal door with a window at chin height. Jack saw wire in the glass, his friend beyond the wire. “Thank you for letting me see him.”
“This is no favor, Counselor. Mr. Merrimon decided he wanted an attorney after all.”
“Didn’t he tell you that two hours ago?”
“Nope.” The sheriff opened the door. “He did not.”
Jack looked into the room and saw what he’d always imagined. Metal furniture. More concrete. Johnny’s hands were cuffed to a steel ring in the table’s center. He faced the two-way glass, his back to the door. “How much time do I have?”
“That’ll be up to the DA.” The sheriff gestured Jack inside, smiling as if he knew the young lawyer had never had a real client or seen the inside of
a jail. “Make yourself at home. Microphone’s off.”
Inside, the room smelled of concrete, industrial-strength cleaner, and old sweat. Jack waited until the door clanked shut behind him, then moved to the table, where he saw an unsigned Miranda waiver and a felt-tip pen. His friend did not look up, so Jack sat down, shocked by the sight of Johnny’s face. There was no color left; dark circles spread beneath his eyes. “Johnny?” His friend dredged up a smile, but it came from some distant, painful place. Jack had never seen anything so hollow before. “Jesus, man. What’d they do to you?”
“Not a thing.” Johnny shifted, and the restraints scraped in the bolt. “Thanks for coming.”
Jack looked away from Johnny’s face. It was so drawn, it was gaunt. “You sure you’re okay?”
“It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, man. Just talk.” Johnny’s eyes tracked up the wall and settled on a point near the ceiling. “Is the sun down yet?”
“What?”
“I can’t feel it.”
Jack felt something like panic. He was out of his element, and there was no logic in his friend. Eager for something to do, Jack scanned the Miranda waiver. All the blanks were filled in: Johnny’s name, the date.
“That was the sheriff,” Johnny said. “He wanted me to sign it.”
“Did he question you? Did you say anything?”
“Just that I wanted to see you.” Johnny’s eyes drifted to the same spot on the same wall. Jack looked there as well, but saw nothing. “That’s west.” Johnny’s eyelids drooped, and he tilted his head, looking at Jack. “How long did you say I’d been here?”
Jack ignored the question. “I’ve been talking to lawyers,” he said. “Big names. Heavy hitters. Clyde’s paying for it, so don’t worry about the cost. Just keep quiet until I get somebody lined up.”
“Tell Clyde to save his money.”
“Johnny—”
“I’ll be out by tomorrow.”
Jack leaned back and frowned. “You can’t be certain of that.”
“Is the sun down yet?”
“Why do you keep asking that?”
Johnny looked at the same spot on the same wall. “I can’t tell if it’s down or not.”
