Tumbleweeds (49 page)

She left him sitting in a stiff formal chair before the cold fireplace, and he heard her instruct her kitchen help to lower their voices. Trey felt that a bucket of ice-cold Gatorade had been thrown over him. Would John think that after his old buddy bared his soul to the Harbisons he’d be free to bare his? Once John no longer had to keep his silence, would he listen to that damn conscience of his and give up everything to square himself with God?

Oh, my God.
He might. That would be so like John.

And… what if he inadvertently incriminated John when he related what had happened? His brain was no longer capable of quick thinking. His tongue was not as glib. What if he said
we
instead of
I
? What if that sharp Mrs. Harbison asked questions and he flubbed his answers, or—another possibility he hadn’t thought of—what if they decided to report him to the police? He’d assumed the Harbisons would want to keep the embarrassing details of their son’s death to themselves since they’d not made them public twenty-three years ago, but what if he was wrong? What if they wanted their pound of flesh for what he did? He had not planned to reveal that he was dying. His impetus for coming forward with the truth was not to be part of his confession. But… how could he be sure that, even if he told them of his terminal illness, Betty and Lou Harbison wouldn’t still want justice for Donny? What if they wanted him charged with manslaughter! There would be an investigation. John could be dragged in….

Christ almighty! What had he been thinking?

He got to his feet and left the room. He picked up his carry-on and started up the stairs.

Betty heard him and came to the foot of the balustrade. “Are you all right now?” she called.

“Never better, Mrs. Harbison!” he called down.

A
t Melissa’s, Deke declined supper and took over his son-in-law’s study to make his calls. He had fifteen minutes before he had to leave for mass and would finish his list tonight when he returned. By another stroke of good luck, Thelma Goodson, the name of the home economics teacher, was among those on his daughter’s reunion roster. He dialed her number in Florida but received no answer. Rather than leave a message, he’d try her again later. The next call was to Harbison House, hoping Lou had already left with the kids for mass. A mother was more likely to know the answers Deke was seeking, and he could trust Betty to say nothing to anyone at this point, even to Lou.

He breathed easier when she answered but found her a little hesitant when he identified himself. She’d been that way with him since her boy’s body was discovered. He asked if they could speak privately, knowing he sounded mysterious.

“One of the girls is in the kitchen with me,” she said. “Want me to get rid of her?”

“No, that’s okay,” Deke said, “but I’d like you to keep this conversation between ourselves. Just you and me—okay?”

“I owe you that,” Betty said, her tone terse. “I won’t say anything to Lou. What’s on your mind?”

His first question produced the perplexity he’d expected. “Did Trey Hall know Donny?” Betty repeated. “Well, he knew him, sort of. Why do you ask?”

“I wish I could tell you, Betty. What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”

“They weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination. They’d see each other when Trey used to pick up his aunt’s order.”

Just as he’d guessed. That would explain how Trey had learned Donny looked after the school mascot. “What about John? Did they know each other?”

“Only to speak once in a while at St. Matthew’s. Now you do have me curious, Sheriff.”

“I can imagine. Now, prepare yourself for this next question, Betty. Would Trey have known you and Lou were going to be out of town the week Donny died?”

Betty’s startled surprise was palpable in her silence. Finally, she spoke. “I suppose Trey could have learned from Mabel that we’d be gone. She would have been one of the customers I’d have called.”

Deke let out a breath of satisfaction. Another piece of the puzzle had slipped into place.

“It’s… peculiar, your asking about Trey Hall,” Betty said. “You may know he’s spending the night here. He shocked me a while ago by asking if I’d replaced my rolling pin. It was the one I couldn’t find when we got back that week.”

Deke bolted upright in his chair. “Did you ever find it?”

“No. I know I used it Monday morning to roll out biscuits. I left some for Donny. The next time I went for it, it wasn’t in the drawer.”

A weapon!
Donny must have gone for the rolling pin when he saw two strapping athletes from a rival school in his backyard and reckoned what they had in mind.

“He told me that his aunt had mentioned I’d misplaced it,” Betty said, “but I can’t see how I’d have said anything about it to her.”

Chills were chasing up and down his backbone, and Deke guessed they were Betty’s as well. “Is Trey still leaving in the morning?”

“I understand from Father John those are his plans.”

In the morning. That didn’t leave him much time.
“I have to ask you once more to keep this conversation between ourselves until you hear from me again,” Deke said. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Betty said, “but you’re scaring me, Sheriff.”

“I know, Betty, but it can’t be helped. I appreciate your cooperation.”

Deke hung up. The noose was tightening. The only problem was the conflict of the time element. He’d gone over and over the notes he’d jotted down from memory (the original ones were still in the evidence bag in Randy’s keeping) to check for the one point he’d missed but could find none to put Trey and John in Donny’s backyard after he came home from band practice. He’d find it, though. He closed his notebook. Time he left for mass.

But just as he reached the door, an idea hit him that sent a tremor down his legs.
God bless America!
He was guilty of breaking the first rule of police work: Never assume anything. He returned to the desk and rummaged through drawers until he located a county phone directory. The name he’d forgotten but might recognize began with a
P
and fit the man Deke remembered from his earlier investigation. Maybe he still lived in Delton. Ah, yes, there it was—Martin Peebles, band director of Delton High School. Deke recalled him as a prissy young fellow, full of himself, patently resentful of giving him his valuable time during their interview. Deke’s luck held. Martin Peebles answered after an interminable six rings and wasted valuable minutes of Deke’s time making sure he was who he claimed to be before Deke got him to concentrate on the afternoon in question.

“Ummm, November fourth… Yes, I remember that afternoon well.”

“Do you recall if Donny Harbison attended marching practice
after school? I know he was present in your last-period class that day because he wasn’t marked absent, but did he report to
marching
practice?”

“A correction, Mr. Tyson,” the man said. “Donny wasn’t present in my last-period class.”

Deke gripped the receiver. “What? He wasn’t marked absent. Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. The date of the birth of one’s son is not something one is likely to forget. My wife went into premature labor that afternoon and I left my last class under the direction of a student assistant, but I gave the seniors a pass and canceled marching practice.”

“Why didn’t you give me this information when I asked for it?” Deke thundered.

“Because you must not have asked me, Sheriff. I believe you wanted to know if Donny would have played hooky from band practice, and I assured you he would not have missed it for the world.”

Deke dropped back into his chair, the wind knocked out of him. Well, there it was. The missing piece. He’d collect the final bit tonight and disturb Charles’s and Randy’s Friday night happy hour to insist they meet him at the crime lab in Amarillo. He wouldn’t be able to rest until Y’s set of prints in the evidence box was compared to those he’d snitch tonight. It saddened him to think it, but he was sure the outcome would plug the last gaping hole in the puzzle.

C
ATHY TOOK A LAST LOOK
in the mirror and drew on the bright blue cardigan that matched the print in her pique sundress. Trey had liked her in azure blue. She glanced at her watch again. It was five thirty. Finally! Time to go. She’d thought the moment would never arrive, but she had to make sure that John would be on his way to mass and out of the picture before she arrived at Harbison House to talk with Trey. She was counting on the house being relatively quiet with Lou and most of the children at mass. The front door was always unlocked
until bedtime. If Betty was in the kitchen and the kids in the TV room, she might be able to slip quietly inside and up the stairs to the guest room to conduct her business in private without being seen or heard. Later, when Trey disappeared, no one could report to John that she had been there unless her car was spotted outside the house.

Shadows of old sins… They only dogged the good, she thought. The wicked always escaped them. But not this time. She believed she could convince Trey Don Hall to die with the sin upon his conscience he’d come to confess.

U
PSTAIRS IN
J
OHN’S ROOM
, Trey sat down at his desk and pulled Deke’s check from his pocket, the mock orange blossom coming with it. He took a pen from its holder and wrote his name on the back of the check, attaching a note that read: “For the kids. I’m leaving, Tiger. I’ve reconsidered and have decided not to go through with it. I’m trusting you to keep your silence as you always have. Spare me that blight on my name. I’d appreciate your prayers. Love to the end, Trey.”

He placed the mock orange blossom on top. It had wilted, only the fragrance remaining of its former perfection. When he was dead and gone, what would linger of him?

Without saying good-bye, he drove away from the house. The sun had set and left a sky striated with the colors of red and purple, orange and yellow that the region was famous for. He’d forgotten the magnificence of the Panhandle’s sunsets in June, the quiet of the prairie at the end of the day. It would have been a melancholy time for him as a boy if it hadn’t been for John and Cathy.

The slow fading of the light made him think of the days he had left, but the thought of his approaching death did not fill him with the usual suffocating panic. He felt calm and satisfied, the kind of deep gratification he’d known only during moments in a football game when—against the order from the sidelines—he called the
right play. With one of those memory tricks his brain played on him these days, he found himself back at Miami his sophomore year. It is fourth down and Miami is on the six-yard line, seven seconds remaining in the game. The Hurricanes call their last time-out to discuss the final play of the contest. He and the coaches huddle on the sidelines, the season and any hope of a national championship riding on their decision. The offensive coordinator calls 76 Double Seam; the head coach wants 62 Topper Z Sail. They agree to go with 76. He returns to the huddle unconvinced. His team eyes him, trust in their stares. He goes with his gut and calls a different play that wins the game.

And so he’d done today. Last play of the game, and he’d called it different from what conventional wisdom—or self-interest—would have him do, but he couldn’t jam up his best friend. He couldn’t give John cause to fall on his sword. He’d have to die without the measure of redemption he’d hoped to earn by facing the Harbisons with what he had done. He was sorry for their pain, their brokenness, but he wouldn’t take a second son from them. He’d burn in hell before he’d ruin John’s life and his wonderful work to save his rotten soul. When he got home to Carlsbad, he’d take back the letter he’d given to his lawyer to be mailed after his death. He’d written it before he’d decided to come in person to face the music and seek forgiveness, but now he could not risk the danger it might pose for John.

A white car was coming toward him. It was almost abreast of the BMW when he recognized the driver. Trey couldn’t believe it. With a happy whoop, he waved and blew the horn long and hard as the Lexus passed by, his heart filling with surprise and gratitude. He pulled over to the shoulder, and sure enough, the Lexus slowed and made a U-turn on the empty country road and headed back, pulling behind the BMW. Its door opened, and Trey got out of his car, a broad smile splitting his face. He held his arms wide. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“What?”

“I said I certainly hope so—that you’ll be damned.”

When Trey saw the gun raised, his arms fell. “Catherine Ann!” he cried as the rifle was aimed and fired and a bullet ripped through his heart.

T
he newest employees and the secretary of the Morgan Petroleum Company were expected to man its offices until six o’clock, even on a Friday night when the whole business world knocked off early, so it was not like Will Benson to log out at five thirty. Linda, the secretary, ever curious about details of the handsome young petroleum engineer’s life, remarked, “Got a hot date, Will?” when he bid her and a fledgling colleague like himself good night.

“You might say that.”

“
Might?
Don’t you know?” his fellow worker chortled with a wink at Linda.