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.”
He shrugs. “I hung out there sometimes. And I like horses, sort of.”
“Yeah. Right,” I say. I know he doesn’t like horses. If I had to guess, I’d bet he hung out at the barn to be around Coach, not horses.
“Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” T.J. asks.
“You’re right. No big deal,” Chase says. “I just saw you there a few times when I was on my run, so I thought I’d ask.”
“Wait. You run out there?” I’ve pictured Chase running through the streets of Grain every morning, not out in the country.
“Every day except game day,” Chase says. “You know what Coach says—said—about saving your energy for the field.”
“Too bad,” T.J. says. “You might have seen the killer that day.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that,” Chase says.
Me too. If I’d gone to the barn with Jer that morning, or if T.J. had wandered over there, or if Chase had run past … “We need to focus on what we can do now.” I get to my feet and try to think. Means, motive, opportunity. “You know, anybody could have been there. The jury should doubt. It’s crazy not to have reasonable doubt.” Brushing grass and leaves from my pants, I stare down at T.J. and Chase. “It only took a second to kill Coach. One swing of the bat, one moment where somebody lost control. Anybody could have done it, don’t you think?”
Neither of them says anything for a minute. T.J. won’t look at me. Chase looks like he’s going to throw up. I wonder if we’re all picturing the same thing—that one swing of the bat. “Okay, then,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Let’s show the jury. Let’s make them doubt. And I think we have the best shot at getting that doubt if we go with Coach’s wife. If we can prove she can walk, that she’s not as sick as everybody thinks she is, that would be enough for doubt, don’t you think? Raymond could get the jury to have reasonable doubt with that.” I spot a gum wrapper on the other side of the tree, and I dash over to get it. Then I see a crumpled beer can, and I pick that up and throw it all into the rusty trash can. The words reasonable doubt swirl in my head. I really think we’re onto something.<
br />
When I come back to the tree, Chase is grinning. T.J. has his nose in his notebook.
“What?” I ask.
“Does she always do that?” Chase asks T.J.
“Hmm?” T.J. doesn’t look up.
“What?” I ask, confused. “Do what?”
“Hope,” Chase explains, “in the middle of all this, you still pick up other people’s trash. And you don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
I glance down at my hands, but I’ve already thrown whatever it was away.
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen you pick up litter,” he continues, still grinning. “And candy wrappers, and even cigarette butts.”
“Really?” I never even thought about it. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”
We’re staring at each other, neither of us looking away.
“Man!” T.J. springs into action. “I’ve got to run.”
“Want me to drive you?” Chase volunteers. I feel a twinge of sadness that my driving lesson must be over.
T.J. walks backward toward the school building. “No. I’m good. Hope, you working tonight?”
“Yeah!” I shout because he’s halfway to the school.
“I’ll stop by the Colonial if I get done in time!” T.J. pivots and takes off running.
For some reason, Chase’s keys are in my hand. “How about one more time around?”
“You’re on.”
I’m about to shift the car into drive when I spot something white creeping along Chestnut, the street that runs beside the high school. It’s a pickup truck, and it’s about a block away. “Chase! There it is!” I scream.
“There what is?”
Then, without thinking, I slam the car into gear and hit the gas.
17
All I can think about is catching up with that white pickup truck. The car lunges forward. The truck turns the corner.
“Hope!” Chase screams. “Brake! Hit the—!”
A branch slaps the windshield. I see the pointy green edges of leaves, the crooked knots on the branch.
Thump! Scritch! There’s a whine of bark on metal. Then the car shoots across the grass and rolls to a stop.
“You want to tell me what that was about?” Chase shouts.
“I can’t believe I let him get away,” I mutter, as out of breath as if I chased him on foot.
“Who?” Chase demands.
“The white pickup truck.” I’m a little dizzy. A wave of nausea floats through me.
“What pickup truck? Where was it?”
“Didn’t you see it?” I point across the lot to the empty street. “It was right there.”
“But why chase it?”
I start at the beginning and tell him about the truck following him and not turning on its lights. About Rita seeing somebody watching the house from a pickup parked on our street. “I think it’s the same person who’s been calling the house.”
He looks away, where the truck was only minutes earlier. “There are a lot of trucks around here. Are you sure—?”
“How can I be sure? That’s why I wanted to follow it.” I should have known he wouldn’t believe me.
“Okay. Calm down. Maybe you scared him off.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “You sure scared me.”
“I’m sorry.” Then I remember the thud. The scrape. “Chase, what did I do to your car?” I pop open the door and struggle to get out of the driver’s seat. At first, I don’t see anything. Then I take a step back. “Oh man!” On the roof of the car is a scratch at least a foot long. “Look what I did! I’ll … I’ll get it fixed. I’ll buy you a new one.” With what? I can’t believe I did this to his car, to his dad’s car, the sheriff’s car.
Chase walks up and puts his hand on my head. “Settle down. It’s okay. Really, it is.”
I throw off his hand and stand on tiptoes to inspect the scratch. It’s worse than I thought. The cut is wider, a crooked silver snake across the top of this beautiful blue car. “Your dad already hates me.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“He told you not to hang out with me. He’ll probably put us both in jail.”
“Hey, at least we’ll go down together, right?”
Warm tears press against my throat, choking off air. I’m as close to crying as I get. “This isn’t funny.”
Chase’s lips twist in a feeble attempt to kill his grin. “Okay. It isn’t funny. But it isn’t tragic either. Come on. It’s just the roof. And it’s just paint … mostly.” He walks over to the car. He’s so tall he can reach the roof easily. His finger runs along the scrape, as if he’s petting the snake. “I can fix this.”
“No you can’t. Can you?” A spark of hope rises, and I snuff it out. “You’re just saying that.”
He leans against the car. “I mean it. I’ve even got the right color paint.”
“How—?”
“Last summer I scratched the rear door.” He moves to the passenger-side back door. “Bet you never noticed this.”
I follow him, but I can’t see anything from where I’m standing. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“I scraped a stop sign making a turn after a party and a six-pack. I knew my dad would kill me—I already had one DUI—so I got the right paint and fixed it before he noticed. Your scratch isn’t even as deep as that one was.”
My heart pounds a little softer. I’m not crazy about taking driving lessons from a guy with DUIs, but still. “You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“We can fix it right now, before Dad has a chance to see it, if you want to. He won’t be home.” Chase opens the driver’s door. “Only, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll drive.”
A few minutes later, Chase pulls the car into the garage behind his dad’s house. It’s a small garage, with barely enough room for one car. We get out, and I look around. Shelves are loaded with paints and stains, all neatly arranged by color and size.
“Found it!” Chase hollers from the back of the garage.
“I’m not surprised. Everything is so neat and orderly in here.” There’s not a single tool on the ground or slung onto a bench. Hammers hang with hammers, all according to size. Shovels and rakes line one wall.
Chase pulls out brushes and rags from a wooden worktable. It’s obvious he’s done this before. “Sheriff Matthew Wells is big on organization.”
I watch him fill the scratch and begin the paint process, but the fumes make me cough.
“Go on in,” Chase says. “The back door’s unlocked.”
“I’m okay,” I say, but I cough between the words.
“Go. The garage is really too small for paint jobs. I’ll be in pretty soon. Make yourself at home. Water and soda in the fridge, all arranged alphabetically. Just kidding. Sort of.”
“You sure it’s okay?” I’m wheezing a little now. A doctor once told me I might have asthma, but that was before we moved to Ohio. Still, I wouldn’t mind getting out of here.
“I mean it, Hope. Go!”
I feel funny letting myself in through the back door of the sheriff’s house. It’s a neat brick ranch, with white shutters.
Inside, it smells like evergreen. The off-white carpet is totally clean. No newspapers or magazines strewn on this couch. Not even a jacket folded over the back of a chair. The giant brick fireplace takes up one whole wall, and there’s not a speck of ash to be seen. On the entry wall is a picture of the Andover baseball team. I pick out Chase right away, the cutest guy on the team.
Crossing the kitchen to find a drink, I can’t get past the refrigerator magnets. Our fridge has one magnet that holds one of Jeremy’s color-wheel pictures because I put it up there myself. This fridge has magnets with ball-game schedules and chore responsibilities, plus Chase’s past achievements. On one side are report cards, all of them with A’s or A-pluses. On the other side, blue ribbons from baseball and track events.
Would Rita have kept things like this if I’d won first prizes and gotte
n all A’s? I remember one time in second grade—no, third grade—when a math team I was on won a prize. Our mothers got to come to our classroom and sit in the front row. Rita came. She got there late, but she was there. I’d totally forgotten about that.
I peek outside. Chase is still hovering over the car.
I shouldn’t, but I’m dying to see Chase’s bedroom. What posters would he have on his walls? What books? What bedspread? Maybe he has pictures of Boston girls on his dresser.
I wander down the hall and see three doors feeding into the hallway. I pass one room, the bathroom. The next room has white walls and a big bed in the center. There’s nothing on either dresser, and the shades are pulled down. This has to be Sheriff Wells’s room.
I tiptoe into the only other room in sight and know instantly that it belongs to Chase. It’s almost as tidy as his dad’s room—bed made, clothes picked up, shades drawn even, but at half-mast, not all the way. On the nightstand is a framed picture of a beautiful woman with blond hair and Chase’s eyes, green as emeralds. His mother. Except for some loose change, the photograph is the only thing on the little table.
I glance around the room, taking in an autographed baseball in a plastic holder on his dresser, a phone charger, and a paperback book I can’t make out. There aren’t any posters on his walls, but there are photographs of the Cleveland Indians and a team picture of the Red Sox.
I should leave. On the way out of Chase’s room, I take one more peek into his dad’s. The only halfway messy thing is the built-in desk. File folders line the back of the desktop, and even those stand at attention, like books on a library shelf.
I wonder if Jeremy’s case file is in there. I check the window that faces the garage and see Chase with some kind of blow-dryer thing still hard at work on the car.
I have to see Jeremy’s file, if there is one. I go back to the line of folders that stretches from one edge of the pine desk to the other. I don’t have time to go through all of them.
I’m willing to bet that these files are arranged alphabetically. I thumb through, and I’m right. But there’s no “L.” No “Jeremy Long.”
The Silence of Murder Page 11
