by Rehder, Ben
“That sounds good.”
“Or dinner. Either way.”
“So you’re—everything I told you—the way I feel—”
“I don’t have a problem with it.”
The anxiety was gone. Marlin felt good. Hell, he felt incredible.
Of course, the phone rang and ruined the moment.
Brooks answered, and her demeanor instantly changed. “Yes, sir…Yeah, I can, in about twenty minutes.” She looked at Marlin, and her eyes were wide with surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding…But how—yeah, I understand. No problem. I’ll see you shortly.”
She hung up, shaking her head in amazement. “That was Bobby. Florida troopers picked up Stephanie. But are you ready for this? Rita Sue Metzger just confessed to killing Vance Scofield.”
An hour after sundown, Red was ready to call the owner of the company who built the goddamned safe and threaten to cut his nuts off.
They’d tried drilling it, and the steel-tipped bit had done nothing more than scratch the finish. Billy Don had worked it over with a crowbar, trying to pry the door open, and the crowbar had ended up as straight as a flagpole. Next, Red had taken a jackhammer after the hinges, but all he’d managed to do was drop the damn thing on his foot. He suspected his pinkie toe was broken.
“Ain’t this a bitch?” Lucy said, standing to the side, drinking a tallboy.
Red saw disappointment in her eyes, and it pained him. “We’ll get in there, darlin’, just you wait and see.” But the truth was, he was running out of ideas. Short of dropping the safe off a high-rise in Austin, he didn’t know how they’d crack the bastard open.
Red sat on top of the safe to take a breather. He glanced at Lucy and winked, but she just stared at him in the dim glow of the porch light.
“What about the seven mag?” Billy Don asked.
That idea hadn’t even occurred to Red. “That’s what I was thinking,” he said.
“What’s a seven mag?” Lucy asked.
“Biggest damn deer rifle I got. Thing would stop a chargin’ rhino, even better than taking away his credit cards.”
Red was hoping for a smile—he was just trying to lighten things up a bit—but all Lucy said was, “Well, go get the damn thing then. What are we waiting for?”
He didn’t like this side of her. Snippy. Impatient. Nothing like the gal he’d had in his bedroom earlier in the day. “Be right back.”
Red went inside the trailer, removed the rifle from a case underneath his bed, and grabbed a single shell from his dresser drawer.
Back outside, he slid the round into the chamber. “Now, we’re only gonna be able to do this once. If it sounds like a shooting gallery over here, someone’s liable to call the game warden, and we damn sure don’t want that.”
Lucy pitched a cigarette butt into the weeds. “Let’s do it.”
Red knelt down and studied the safe. In the center of the door was a handle shaped like a four-legged starfish. Right smack in the middle of the handle, that’s where he would aim. Maybe break something loose inside, shake up the tumblers or whatever the hell was in there.
He backed up about twenty yards and laid down on the ground, facing the safe head-on. Then he remembered a video he’d seen on one of those cop shows. A guy was trying to break into a convenience store, and he threw a brick directly at the front window. The brick bounced off and hit him right in the face. So Red scooted over about five yards, giving the shot a slight angle. “Y’all stand behind me,” he said. “Safer that way. Billy Don, point the flashlight at the handle so I can see what the hell I’m doing.”
When they were in position and Billy Don had the light shining on the handle, Red dialed his rifle scope down to the lowest power and squinted through the lens. The handle filled the crosshairs.
“Y’all ready?” he asked.
“Get on with it,” Lucy replied.
Red took a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.
The rifle roared, followed by a loud thunk! and the whining sound of a ricochet.
Lucy raced forward and examined the damage. Red stayed on the ground, waiting to hear the results. He’d be a hero now, and Lucy would thank him accordingly. In all kinds of interesting ways.
“Not a damn thing,” she muttered. “Not even a dent.” She turned around. “There’s not even a goddamn dent!”
Red didn’t care for her tone. “Well, Jesus, it was your idea to steal the safe—but did you have any ideas about how we was gonna actually open it up? It don’t appear that you did.”
She shook her head and stomped up the steps into the trailer.
Meanwhile, Billy Don had wandered over to Red’s truck and was fingering a dime-sized hole in the tailgate. “Lookee here, Red. You bagged yourself a Ford.”
Nicole Brooks was in the interview room, in uniform again, her hair back in its familiar braid. Marlin watched her through the one-way glass, along with Bill Tatum and Ernie Turpin. She appeared comfortable and collected as she positioned the microphone and inserted a cassette into the recorder. Rita Sue Metzger was directly across from her, Bobby Garza to her left.
Garza had asked Brooks to lead the interview—a tremendous responsibility and a hell of a vote of confidence. The sheriff had speculated that Rita Sue might be more comfortable speaking to a woman. There didn’t appear to be much that could calm Rita Sue’s nerves at the moment, though. Her eyes darted around the room. She kept clearing her throat, and she was petting her Chihuahua’s head so furiously that Marlin thought she might accidentally rub the little dog bald. It was a nice touch by Bobby—allowing her to bring the dog along.
“Mrs. Metzger,” Brooks said, “I’m going to ask you about the statement you made to Lieutenant Klante, the officer you spoke to in Florida. Would you please repeat it for me and Sheriff Garza?”
Rita Sue stopped stroking the dog for a moment, and rubbed her hands together nervously. “Ain’t I supposed to have a lawyer?”
Marlin noticed that Garza opened his mouth as if to speak, but he let Brooks address it.
“As I mentioned earlier when I informed you of your rights,” she said, “we can certainly provide an attorney for you if that’s what you want. But there’s really no need for one. We’re just trying to get to the truth. If you’re ready to tell us what happened, we’re ready to listen. There’s no reason to get anyone else involved.”
Rita Sue nodded, but Marlin wondered how much she really understood. Did she fully realize that she didn’t have to answer any questions? Did she know that her statement to Klante could easily be brushed aside by any competent criminal attorney? Many defendants did more damage to themselves by opening their mouths than all of the other evidence combined.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. The dog whined, and Rita Sue went back to petting it. Then she simply blurted it out: “I killed Vance Scofield.”
Marlin realized that until then he had been holding his breath. Now he let it out slowly. Phil Colby was, without question, officially in the clear.
“Could you tell us when and where this happened?” Brooks asked casually.
“At his house on Sunday morning.”
“Inside or outside?”
Rita Sue bowed her head, looking down at the dog. “Outside.”
“How did this come to pass?”
“Pardon?”
“What happened exactly? What led up to the incident?”
Again, there was a long pause. Garza shifted in his chair but didn’t say anything. Brooks waited with an expression of empathy on her face. Finally, Rita Sue spoke again. “Vance Scofield was dating my daughter. I’m sorry I had to lie to y’all about that—saying I hadn’t heard of him. I hadn’t ever met him, but I did know that Stephanie had been seeing him for several months. But the problem was, he treated her something terrible. Always running around on her with other women. They talked about getting married, but he never did anything about it. No ring or nothing. Took advantage of her, that’s what he done. I told Lucas—” She stopped talking
abruptly, and her hand went to her mouth.
“Mrs. Metzger,” Brooks said, “we know that Stephanie and Lucas were in Florida together. Stephanie has already told the Florida police that they had a romantic relationship. She also told them everything that Lucas told her. About finding Vance. I understand completely if you’re fond of Lucas—we all like him—but it will be best if you tell me everything. In fact, it will be the best thing for him if you just tell the truth.”
“Lucas didn’t do nothing,” Rita Sue quickly insisted. “I don’t want him getting in trouble for what I done.”
“I can respect that.”
“He found the body and brung it to my house, but that’s it. I told him to run.”
“Okay.”
I like that boy.”
“I know you do.”
“I kept telling Stephanie he was the one she oughta go with, not that Vance, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Brooks was leaning forward, making good eye contact, showing as much polish in her approach as a twenty-year homicide detective. “What I need to know, Rita Sue, is what happened. What happened between you and Vance?”
The dog appeared to be napping in Rita Sue’s lap. “I stuck him in the freezer on my porch. Later, when the rains come, I put him in his truck and rolled it into the river. It’s dangerous, you know—driving through water like that.”
Next to Marlin, Tatum quietly said, “She’s ashamed of herself. Doesn’t want to tell how it happened.”
But in the interview room, Brooks wasn’t showing any frustration. “That’s what we thought,” she said. “But now that we know for sure, it clears up a lot of questions. I appreciate you telling me. I’m wondering—how did Vance behave when you got to his place on Sunday morning? What did he say?”
Marlin recognized that Brooks was altering her strategy, asking peripheral questions instead of directly addressing the moment of violence.
“He’d had another girl there,” Rita Sue said. “Musta picked her up the night before. Stephanie called and told me about it, and that’s what got me so mad. I hated to see my baby so sad. So I went over there to talk to him about it.”
It was the most important bit of information Rita Sue had shared so far. If she truly had gone to Scofield’s to talk, rather than to kill, she was looking at a lesser charge. Everyone, in both rooms, waited for Rita Sue to continue. She was simply shaking her head, staring at the tabletop.
Brooks prodded her, speaking softly. “What happened when you got there?”
Rita Sue raised her head. “You sure I ain’t supposed to have a lawyer?”
“As I’ve said, you are entitled to one, but at this point, I don’t think—”
“I wanna go ahead and get a lawyer. I think it’d be best if I had a lawyer.”
Brooks sat back. Garza reached forward and turned off the tape recorder.
Then Rita Sue asked the most heartbreaking question Marlin had ever heard: “They gonna let me take my dog with me to prison?”
27
MARLIN GOT HOME at around midnight, dead on his feet but feeling pretty good, considering. Henry Jameson, the forensic technician, would check Rita Sue’s freezer in the morning to confirm that portion of her story. By then, they’d have a full account of the Florida cops’ interrogation of Stephanie Waring. It should clear up a lot of things, including what role she had played in all of the events.
Marlin had called Phil Colby again an hour earlier, but he still wasn’t answering, and Marlin was starting to worry. After all, somebody had fired a shot at Colby—or near him, anyway—just yesterday. Marlin picked up the phone to try again but noticed the message light blinking on his answering machine. He hit the button.
Hey, Wade, it’s Phil. Listen, I can’t make it over to your place for dinner tonight. Got stuck down here at the auction in Uvalde. But hey, I’ll call you and we’ll get together soon. Talk to you later.
Marlin played the message a second time, thoroughly confused. Who was Wade? Colby must have meant to dial someone else. And how did Colby get to Uvalde without his truck? Had he ridden with someone else?
Odd, but at least Colby was okay.
Marlin shut the lights off and went to bed, planning to sleep as late as possible the next morning. Seven, maybe even seven-thirty.
Red was a big fan of late-night cable TV and cheap beer by the twelve-pack, a combination that gave him a whopper of an idea just after midnight. They were watching highlights from a tractor pull in Arkansas when it hit him. “That’s it!” he shouted, pointing at the screen. “We’ll use my truck! Just like that!”
“What’re you babbling about?” Billy Don asked.
Lucy was stretched out on the couch, a beer between her legs. She had shown no inclination whatsoever to retire to Red’s bedroom, and Red knew it was because she was thinking about that damn safe. He wouldn’t get any more loving until he found a way in. And now he had it.
“We’ll jerk the sumbitch open!” he said, rising unsteadily from the recliner, scooting out the door, not caring if anyone followed or not. He’d do this alone if he had to, and come out looking like a genius.
He went straight to the shed behind the trailer, and when he came out carrying a fifty-foot length of chain, Billy Don and Lucy were sitting on the front steps. The safe was still hunkered at one corner of the house under a floodlight. It wasn’t like anyone was going to walk off with it.
“You sure about this, Red?” Billy Don called.
Red ignored him. He was too focused. They were about sixty seconds away from getting their hands on some serious cash!
“Hell, let him give it a try,” Lucy said. “Neither of y’all have had any other brilliant ideas.”
Red staggered over to the safe and wrapped one end of the chain around the handle, securing it with a padlock. Then he climbed into his truck and backed it up to within three feet of the safe. Next, he wrapped the loose end of the chain around his trailer hitch. He snapped a second padlock into place, and now he was ready for action.
He went to his truck door, but changed his mind and walked over to the porch steps. “How ‘bout a kiss for good luck?”
“I ain’t in the mood,” Billy Don said.
Red shot him a scowl, then looked at Lucy.
She rolled her eyes, then leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the lips. It wasn’t much, but Red figured it would do for now. He went back to the truck and got in.
There were two ways he could go about this. Option number one: He could pull forward slowly and take the slack out of the chain, then just continue to pull. But he decided all that would do is tump the safe over and he’d end up dragging it through the weeds.
So he went with option number two. He gunned it, and he gunned it hard. He mashed the gas to the floor, popped the clutch, and took off down the driveway like a scalded dog.
It was a quarter second later, just as the truck reached the thirty-foot mark, when the realities of practical physics dawned on him. If that door comes loose, he thought, it’s gonna be flying like a goose on steroids.
He suddenly had a sick feeling in his stomach.
And he ducked just in time.
He felt a tremendous thump! from the rear of the truck, followed by an ear-splitting crash, and the rear window exploded into thousands of tiny shards, which rained down on him.
Red sat up straight and immediately stomped the brakes, bringing the old Ford to a halt just before it hit a cedar tree. Hell’s bells, I’ve done it! he thought. The door of the safe had come right through his rear window, but who cared! He could buy a whole new truck!
He climbed out of the truck and screamed, “Did y’all see that? I mean, did y’all see that!”
But something was wrong. Lucy and Billy Don weren’t running up to him, clapping him on the back, congratulating him on his clever idea. In fact, Lucy had risen from the porch steps and was going back inside the trailer.
Billy Don was walking down the driveway, shaking his head. “Didn’t work,” he said
, handing Red a beer. “Chain broke.”
“I’m serious, man,” Colby said. “If you don’t cut me loose soon, I’m gonna lose my arms. I can’t feel a damn thing. And I’m about to piss my pants.”
After a long moment, George rose to his feet in the darkness, walked over to Colby’s chair, and tested the duct tape with his skinny fingers. “I’m going over to your place. You try to get loose, I’m gonna know when I get back.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Damn right you’re not.”
28
MORNING CAME SLOWLY, with the light seeping through the dirty windows of Wade Morgan’s hunting shack.
Phil Colby wasn’t bound with duct tape anymore. Now he was lying on his back, arms spread, with a chain leading from each wrist to a heavy-duty eyebolt screwed into the plank floor on either side of him, five feet away. Not ideal, but a hell of a lot more comfortable than the chair. The feeling in his hands was back. He’d been allowed to take a leak when George had returned from the house with the supplies. Colby had even managed to sleep for an hour or two just before sunrise. George, on the other hand, had slept hard the entire night, snoring regularly while Colby tried to figure a way loose from the chains. Or closer to the empty gun cabinet. If he could talk George into unchaining one arm, Colby would have more maneuverability. He might have a chance.
Red woke up, hung over again, at eight-forty on the couch. Not because Lucy wouldn’t let him sleep with her (although he had noticed with despair that she had come to bed fully clothed), but because she was a flailer—the kind of gal who throws her arms and legs around at night, like some kind of puppet with a brain injury. At two o’clock, she nailed him with a solid jab to the ribs. At three-fifteen, she rattled his teeth with an elbow to the jaw. At four-twenty, when she brought a knee squarely into his family jewels, he’d had enough. He grabbed a spare pillow and camped out in the living room.
