by John Grisham
Boyette waved his cane in another direction. "A good ways off. I don't think they will hear or see us."
"Let's go," Robbie said.
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What had begun on Monday morning with a seemingly routine pastoral conference now came down to this--Keith was riding in the rear of a pickup truck, bouncing up the side of Roop's Mountain, which was nothing more than a medium-size hill dense with kudzu and poison ivy and thick woods, facing a real chance of armed conflict with surly landowners no doubt high on meth, in the final push to determine whether Travis Boyette was, in fact, telling the truth. If they did not find Nicole's remains, Boyette was a fraud, Keith was a fool, and Texas had just executed the right person, in all likelihood.
If, however, they found the body, then, well, Keith could not comprehend what would happen next. Certainty had become a fuzzy concept, but he was reasonably certain that he would be home sometime that night. He couldn't begin to imagine what would happen in Texas, but he was sure he wouldn't be there. He would watch it all on television, from a safe distance. He was fairly certain events down there would be sensational and probably historic.
Boyette was in the front seat, rubbing his head and straining to see something familiar. He pointed to his right--he was sure the grave was to the right of the trail--and said, "This might be familiar." The area was a dense patch of weeds and saplings. They stopped, got out, and grabbed two metal detectors. For fifteen minutes, they scoured the thick undergrowth looking for clues and waiting for the detectors to make their noise. Boyette limped along, whacking weeds with his cane, followed by Keith and watched by everyone. "Look for an old tire, a tractor tire," Boyette said more than once.
But there was no tire, and no noise from the detectors. They retook their positions in the truck and moved slowly onward, inching up the incline on a logging trail that gave no indication of having been used in decades. Strike one.
The trail disappeared, and for twenty yards Fred Pryor inched the truck forward through vegetation, flinching as it was scraped by branches and vines. Those in the rear of the truck ducked for cover as limbs whipped about. Just as Fred was about to stop, the trail appeared again, vaguely, and Boyette said, "Keep going." Then the trail split. Fred stopped as Boyette studied the fork and shook his head. He doesn't have a clue, Fred said to himself. In the rear, Robbie looked at Keith and shook his head.
"Over there," Boyette said, motioning to his right, and Fred followed his direction.
The woods became thicker, the trees younger and closer together. Like a bloodhound, Boyette raised his hand and pointed, and Fred Pryor turned off the ignition. The search party fanned out, looking for an old tractor tire, looking for anything. A beer can aroused one of the metal detectors, and for a few seconds the tension spiked. A small airplane flew low overhead, and everyone froze, as if someone were watching. Robbie said, "Boyette, do you remember if the grave is under the trees or in an open area?" The question seemed reasonable. Boyette replied, "I think it was more out in the open, but the trees have grown in nine years."
"Great," Robbie mumbled, then continued stomping around, crushing weeds, gawking at the ground as if the perfect clue were just one step away. After half an hour, Boyette said, "This is not it. Let's move on."
Strike two.
Keith crouched in the back of the truck and exchanged glances with Robbie. Both seemed to say, "We should've known better." But neither spoke. No one spoke because there was absolutely nothing to say. There were a thousand thoughts.
The road turned, and when it straightened, Boyette pointed again. "This is it," he said as he yanked open the door before the engine was turned off. He launched himself into a clearing of weeds waist-high as the others scrambled to follow. Keith took a few steps and tripped over something, falling hard. As he scrambled to his feet, brushing off bugs and brush, he realized what had tripped him. The remains of a tractor tire, virtually buried in vegetation.
"Here's a tire," he announced, and the others stopped moving. Boyette was only a few feet away. "Get the metal detectors," he said. Fred Pryor had one, and within seconds it was clicking and buzzing, giving all indications of being highly agitated. Aaron Rey produced two shovels.
The terrain was strewn with rocks, but the soil was soft and moist. After ten minutes of furious digging, Fred Pryor's shovel struck what clearly sounded like metal.
"Let's stop for a second," Robbie said. Both Fred and Aaron needed a break.
"All right, Boyette," Robbie said. "Tell us what we are about to find."
The tic, the pause, then, "It's a metal box used for hydraulic tools, heavy as hell, almost ruined my back dragging the damned thing over here. It's orange in color with the name of the company, R. S. McGuire and Sons, Fort Smith, Arkansas, painted on the front. It opens from the top."
"And inside?"
"Nothing but bones by now. It's been nine years." He spoke with an air of authority, as if this wasn't his first hidden grave site. "Her clothing was wadded together and placed next to her head. There's a belt around her neck, should be intact." His voice trailed off, as if this were somehow painful for him. There was a pause while the others glanced at each other, then Travis cleared his throat and continued. "In her clothing, we should find her driver's license and a credit card. I didn't want to get caught with them."
"Describe the belt," Robbie said. The security guard handed Robbie a video camera.
"Black, two inches wide, with a round silver buckle. It is the murder weapon."
The digging continued as Robbie captured it on video. "It's about five feet long," Boyette said, pointing, indicating an outline for the box. With its shape clear, each shovelful of dirt revealed more. It was indeed orange. Deeper, the name "R. S. McGuire and Sons, Fort Smith, Arkansas," became visible.
"That's enough," Robbie said, and the digging stopped. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor were sweating and breathing heavily. "We won't be removing it."
The toolbox presented an obvious challenge, one that had gradually become more and more evident. The top lid was secured by a latch, and the latch was secured by a combination lock, the inexpensive kind found in every hardware store. Fred did not have the proper tools to cut the lock, but there was little doubt that they would somehow snap it free. After coming this far, they would not be denied a look inside. The six men huddled close together and gawked at the orange toolbox and the combination lock. Robbie said, "So, Travis, what's the combination?"
Travis actually smiled, as though, finally, he was about to be vindicated. He lowered himself to the edge of the grave, touched the box as if it were an altar, then gently took the lock and shook dirt from it. He turned the dial a few times to clear the code, then slowly turned to the right, to 17, then back to the left, to 50, then to the right, to 4, and finally back to the left, to 55. He hesitated and lowered his head as if to hear something, then he pulled sharply. There was a soft click, and the lock was open.
Robbie was filming from five feet away. Keith couldn't suppress a grin, in spite of where he was and what he was doing.
"Don't open it," Robbie said. Pryor hustled to the truck and returned with a package. He passed out sanitary gloves and masks, and when everyone had put them on, Robbie handed him the camera and told him to start filming. He instructed Aaron to step down and slowly open the lid. He did so. There was no corpse, only bones, the skeletal remains of someone, Nicole they assumed. Her hands and fingers were laced together below her ribs, but her feet were near her knees, as if Boyette had been forced to fold her to fit her in the toolbox. Her skull was intact but a molar was missing. She'd had perfect teeth; they knew that from the photographs. Around the skull there were strands of long blond hair. Between the skull and the shoulder, there was a length of black leather, the belt, they assumed. Next to the skull, in the corner of the box, there appeared to be clothing.
Keith closed his eyes and said a prayer.
Robbie closed his eyes and cursed the world.
Boyette stepped back and sat on the edge of the tractor
tire, in the weeds, and began rubbing his head.
With Fred filming, Robbie directed Aaron to gently remove the roll of clothing. The articles were intact, though frayed along some of the edges and stained in places. A blouse, blue and yellow with some type of fringe, and a large ugly hole made by either insects or decaying flesh. A short white skirt, badly stained. Brown sandals. Matching bra and panties, dark blue. And two plastic cards, one her driver's license and one a MasterCard. Nicole's things were placed neatly on the side of her grave.
Boyette returned to the truck, where he sat in the front seat and massaged his head. For ten minutes, Robbie gave orders and made plans. Dozens of photographs were taken, but nothing else was touched. It was a crime scene now, and the local authorities would take charge.
Aaron and the security guard stayed behind while the others retreated down Roop's Mountain.
CHAPTER 31
By 10:00 a.m., the parking lot at Lamb & Son Funeral Home was full, and cars lined both sides of the street. The mourners, dressed in their Sunday best, formed a line that began at the front door and ran three and four abreast through the small lawn, down the street, and around the corner. They were sad and angry, tired and anxious, and uncertain about what was happening to them and their quiet town. The sirens, fireworks, gunshots, and urgent voices from the street had finally subsided not long before sunrise, allowing a few hours of rest. But no one expected the streets to return to normal on Friday or over the weekend.
They had seen the eerie face of Travis Boyette on television, and they had heard his poisonous confession. They believed him because they had always believed Donte. So much more of the story had yet to be told, and if Boyette really had killed the girl, then someone would pay a heavy price.
The Slone Police Department had eight black officers, and all eight volunteered for the assignment. Though most had not slept in hours, they were determined to pay tribute. They secured the street in front of the funeral home, directed traffic, and, most important, kept the reporters at bay. There was a pack of them, all neatly cordoned off and barricaded a block away.
When Hubert Lamb unlocked the front door, he greeted the first wave of mourners and asked them to sign the register. The crowd began to move slowly, in no hurry. It would take a week to bury Donte, and there would be plenty of time to pay proper respects.
He was on display in the main parlor, his casket open and draped with flowers. His senior class photo had been enlarged and sat on a tripod at the foot of his casket--an eighteen-year-old in a coat and tie, a handsome face. The portrait had been taken a month before he was arrested. He was smiling, still dreaming of playing football. His eyes were full of expectation and ambition.
His family stood near the casket, where they had been for the past hour, touching him, weeping, trying to be strong for their guests.
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At the campsite, Robbie described the scene to Carlos and the others. Bryan Day wanted to get to the grave immediately and record everything before the police arrived, but Robbie wasn't so sure. They argued, though both knew Robbie would make the decision. Fred Pryor was on his cell phone trying to locate the sheriff of Newton County. Martha Handler was talking to Aaron on her cell phone and taking notes. Suddenly there was a shriek, an anguished cry, as Boyette fell to the ground and began trembling violently. Keith knelt over him, and the others gathered to watch helplessly. Quizzical looks were exchanged. After a minute or so, the seizure seemed to pass, and the shaking and jerking subsided. Boyette clutched his head and whimpered in pain. Then he seemed to die. His body went limp and was perfectly still. Keith waited, then touched his shoulder and said, "Hey, Travis, can you hear me?" Evidently, Travis could not; there was no response.
Keith stood and said, "He usually blacks out for a few minutes."
"Let's put him out of his misery," Robbie said. "One quick pop to the head. There's a grave not far from here that's about to be empty."
"Come on, Robbie," Keith said.
The others seemed to like Robbie's idea. They backed away and were soon occupied with other matters. Five minutes passed. Boyette had not moved. Keith knelt down and checked his pulse. It was steady but faint. A few minutes later, Keith said, "Robbie, I think this is serious. He's unconscious."
"I'm not a brain surgeon, Keith. What do you want me to do?"
"He needs attention."
"He needs a funeral, Keith. Why don't you take him back to Kansas and bury him?"
Keith stood and walked a few steps to where Robbie was standing. He said, "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry, Keith. There's a lot happening right now, in case you haven't noticed. Boyette's health is not one of my priorities."
"We can't just let him die out here."
"Why not? He's practically dead anyway, right?"
Boyette grunted, then shook from head to toe, as if an aftershock were rumbling through. Then he was still again.
Keith swallowed hard and said, "He needs a doctor."
"Great. Go find one."
Minutes dragged by, and Boyette was not responsive. The others didn't care, and Keith almost persuaded himself to get in his car and leave, alone. But he could not bring himself to ignore a dying man. The security guard helped Keith load Boyette into the rear seat of the Subaru. Fred Pryor walked from the direction of the creek and said, "That was the sheriff. I finally got him, finally convinced him that we're for real, and that we've found a dead body in his jurisdiction. He's on his way."
As Keith was opening his car door, Robbie approached him and said, "Call me when you get to a hospital, and keep an eye on Boyette. I'm sure the authorities here will want to talk to him. There's no open investigation at this point, but that could change quickly, especially if Boyette admits he killed the girl in this state."
"His pulse is almost gone," the security guard reported from the rear seat.
"I'm not planning on standing guard, Robbie," Keith said. "I'm done. I'm outta here. I'll drop him off at a hospital, God knows where, and then hustle back to Kansas."
"You have our cell numbers. Just keep us posted. As soon as the sheriff sees the grave, I'm sure he'll send someone to see Boyette."
The two shook hands, not sure if they would see each other again. Death binds people in odd ways, and they felt as though they had known each other for years.
As the Subaru disappeared into the woods, Robbie checked his watch. It had taken about six hours to drive from Slone and find the body. If Travis Boyette had not delayed, Donte Drumm would be alive and on his way to a quick exoneration. He spat on the ground and quietly wished Boyette a slow and painful death.
------
During the forty-five-minute drive from the campsite, complete with at least four stops to ask for directions, Boyette had not moved and had not uttered a sound. He still appeared to be dead. At the emergency room entrance, Keith told a doctor about Boyette's tumor, but little else. The doctor was curious as to why a minister from Kansas was traveling through Joplin with a gravely ill man who was neither a relative nor a member of his congregation. Keith assured him it was a very long story, one he would happily tell when they had the time. Both knew they would never have the time and the story would never be told. They placed Boyette on a stretcher, with his cane, and rolled him down the hall for examination. Keith watched him disappear behind swinging doors and found a seat in the waiting area. He called Dana to check in. His wife had received his updates with a growing sense of disbelief, one shocker after another, and she seemed to be numb to anything new. Fine, Keith. Yes, Keith. Sure, Keith. Please come home, Keith.
He called Robbie and told him where they were at that moment. Boyette was alive and being examined. Robbie was still waiting for the sheriff to arrive at the site. He was anxious to hand over the crime scene to the professionals, though he knew that would take time.
Keith called Matthew Burns, and when Matthew answered, Keith began with a happy "Well, good morning, Matt. I'm now in Missouri, where an hour ago
we opened the grave and saw the remains of Nicole Yarber. Top that for a Friday morning."
"So what else is new? What did she look like?"
"All bones. Positive ID, though. Boyette is telling the truth. They executed the wrong man. It's unbelievable, Matt."
"When are you coming home?"
"I'll be there for dinner. Dana's freaking out, so I won't be long."
"We need to meet first thing in the morning. I've watched the coverage nonstop, and there hasn't been a word about you. Maybe you've slid under the radar. We gotta talk. Where's Boyette?"
"In a hospital in Joplin, dying, I think. I'm with him."
"Leave him, Keith. Maybe he'll die. Let someone else worry about him. Just get in your car and haul ass."
"That's my plan. I'll hang around here until I hear something, then I'm on the road. Kansas is just minutes away."
An hour passed. Robbie called Keith with the news that the sheriff had arrived and Roop's Mountain was now crawling with police. Two state policemen were on their way to the hospital to secure Mr. Boyette. Keith agreed to wait for them, then he was leaving.
"Thanks, Keith, for everything," Robbie said.
"It wasn't enough."
"No, but what you did took courage. You tried. That's all you could do."
"Let's keep in touch."
The state troopers, Weshler and Giles, were both sergeants, and after terse introductions they asked Keith if he would fill in some gaps. Sure, why not, what else was there to do in an ER waiting room? It was almost 1:00 p.m., and they bought sandwiches from a machine and found a table. Giles took notes, and Weshler handled most of the questions. Keith began with Monday morning and hit the high points of this rather unusual week. As he told his story, they seemed to doubt him at times. They had not been following the Drumm case, but when Boyette went public with his claim of guilt, and mentioned the body being buried near Joplin, phones started ringing. They tuned in, and they had seen Boyette's face and performance several times. Now that a body had been found, they were smack in the middle of a growing story.