by Sandra Brown
“Your fingerprints were on the hilt of the letter opener.”
“So were Manuelo’s.”
“But he could have handled it at any time.” She tried to make eye contact, but he avoided it. “Griff?”
“I didn’t want you to know how he died.”
“I have to know.”
He looked away from her, out the windshield, his eyes following a family of four, mom and dad, two children, who’d just come out of a movie. The young son was rolling his eyes, flapping his arms, doing a disjointed jig, obviously imitating an animated character. They were laughing as they piled into their SUV and drove away.
“Why were your fingerprints on the letter opener?”
“I was trying to save his life,” he replied in a quiet voice. “When I saw what had made Manuelo scream, I pushed him aside and shouted at him to call 911. But he was transfixed by the horror of what he’d done. So I placed the call. While I was doing that, Manuelo split.
“I bent over Speakman to see just how bad it was. My initial reaction was to try to pull the letter opener out of his neck. I took hold of it but almost immediately realized it would be better to leave the thing where it was. It was partially plugging the wound, and even at that it was gushing.” He stopped, cursed softly. “Laura, you don’t want to hear this.”
“I must.”
He hesitated, then continued. “There was nothing I could do but what I did, which was to apply pressure around the blade, try to slow down the bleeding.”
She swallowed. “Rodarte said that there was blood on Foster’s hands, tissue under his fingernails. That he had…”
Griff held out his hands to her, palms down, so that she could see the scratch marks on the backs of them. “He was trying to pull the letter opener out. I knew for certain he would die if he did, so, yeah, we fought over control of it.”
He waited to see if she would respond to that, but when she didn’t, he went on. “I talked to him, trying to calm him down and stop him from struggling. I told him that help was on the way. Told him to hold on, to hang in there. Stuff like that. But…” He shook his head. “I knew he wasn’t going to make it, and I think he did, too.”
“Did he say anything?”
He shook his head. “He couldn’t articulate.”
“Were you with him when—”
“Yes. I stayed.”
“Thank you for that.”
“Jesus, don’t thank me,” he said, sounding almost angry. “Believe me, as soon as he was gone, I was out of there. I knew what it would look like. I showed no more guts than Manuelo. I grabbed my ass and ran. And…” He stopped, looked away, toward the brightly lit entrance to the theater.
“What?”
He blew out a gust of breath. “There were plenty of times after that last afternoon with you when I wished he was dead.” He looked directly into her eyes then. “Not dead specifically. Just…just not. In the depths of my rotten soul, I wished him away.” He continued looking at her for ponderous seconds before speaking again. “But I didn’t kill him. Do you believe that?”
She opened her mouth to speak but discovered she couldn’t. His story was more credible than she wanted it to be. But she also remembered that afternoon of fevered lovemaking, the hunger and urgency of it. Her impassioned responses had unleashed from him a wild possessiveness. She remembered the way his large hands had moved over her body, claiming it, the intensity with which he had thrust into her, and how jealously he’d held her afterward.
She lowered her head and massaged her temples.
“Forget I asked,” he said curtly. “You’re not going to believe me until you have Manuelo Ruiz’s sworn statement that he accidentally stabbed your husband. You and Rodarte.”
She reached out and angrily grabbed his hand. “Don’t you dare compare me to Rodarte. And don’t give me attitude, either. You’re asking me to believe in your innocence. I want to, Griff. But believing you also means accepting that my husband, the person I had loved and admired for years, was a madman who plotted your murder. It’s a lot to absorb so soon after burying him. Forgive me if that’s proving to be difficult.”
She dropped his hand, and for several moments the atmosphere crackled. He was the first to relent. “Okay. No more attitude.” He reached into the backseat and got the duffel, placed it in his lap, and unzipped it. “My only hope of exoneration—from anybody—is to find Manuelo Ruiz.”
He rifled the bag, removing what appeared to be the aide’s keepsakes from El Salvador. A rosary. A map of Mexico, with a red crayon line snaking up through it to a starred spot on the Texas border.
“His route,” he said. There was an old photograph of a couple on their wedding day. “His parents, you think?” He passed her the picture.
“Possibly. Their age looks right.”
That was it except for a few Spanish-language paperback books and an inexpensive wallet. Griff checked every compartment. In the last one he looked, he found a piece of stained paper. It had been folded so many times, the creases were dirty and almost worn through. Griff carefully spread it open on his thigh.
He read what was printed on it, then smiled and passed the sheet to her. Written in pencil were four digits and a name. She looked back at him. “An address?”
“Appears to be. It’s a place to start looking.”
“It could be right here in Dallas or in Eagle Pass.”
“Yeah, but it’s something.” He seemed suddenly galvanized. “Do you have a cell phone?”
She reached into her handbag and withdrew it. Checking the readout, she saw that she’d missed several calls. “I had silenced it at the office and forgot to turn it back on. Kay called once. Rodarte’s called three times. The last time was twelve minutes ago.”
She handed the phone to Griff. He pressed the send button, so that Rodarte’s number would be automatically dialed. It rang only once before he answered. “Mrs. Speakman?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Rodarte. You’ve got me. And I’ve got her.”
“You’re a moron, Burkett. You’re just digging yourself in deeper.”
“Listen, I’m gonna make this quick, simple enough even for you. I did not kill Foster Speakman. Manuelo Ruiz did.”
Rodarte laughed. “Right. The minion. The slave who idolized the guy. Yank somebody else’s pod.”
“It was an accident. Manuelo was fighting with me.”
“Trying to protect Speakman from you.”
“Wrong again, but we’ll go into the details later. You and I both need Manuelo. You’re right about him worshiping Speakman. That’s why he was so horrified by what he’d done, he ran. Find him and all our problems will be over. I’ve got a lead for you.” He read off the address. “We found it in Manuelo’s belongings. He didn’t have much, so this means something or he wouldn’t have kept it.”
“What city?”
“I don’t know, but you’ve got resources.”
“And he’s got almost a week’s head start.”
“That’s why you can’t waste any time. If you find him, treat him kindly, and you’ll get the truth of what happened that night. Nobody committed a murder. Manuelo will tell you that. He can tell you—”
Griff broke off suddenly, surprising Laura, who’d been following every word. One second he’d been speaking rapidly into the telephone, the next, he was silent, staring into near space. Through the phone, she could hear Rodarte saying, “Burkett? Burkett, are you there? Burkett!”
“Griff?” she whispered. “What?”
He focused on her sharply, then slapped the phone closed, abruptly ending his call. He opened the car door and dropped the phone onto the pavement. As he turned on the car’s ignition, he said, “Rodarte’s probably put a satellite track on your phone, so we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“I don’t understand.” She clutched the hand grip as he backed out of the parking slot and wheeled the car sharply.
“Manuelo Ruiz can clear me.”
“That’s
why you’re desperate to find him.”
“And why Rodarte is desperate not to.”
CHAPTER
34
HE SPED OUT OF THE THEATER PARKING LOT, WOVE THROUGH the commercial complex, and took the first ramp he could onto Central Expressway, heading north, driving as fast as he dared but not so fast as to invite being stopped. He drove with one eye on the rearview mirror, afraid that, at any moment, he would see a pursuing squad car.
“Why wouldn’t Rodarte want to find Manuelo Ruiz?” Laura asked.
“Think about it. He hasn’t exactly launched a full-out manhunt for him, has he?”
“He thought that you had killed him, that all they would discover was a body. He was more interested in finding you.”
“So he could indict me for murder. Best-case scenario for Rodarte would be for Manuelo to be across the border, well on his way back to the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again. Shit!” he hissed, thumping the steering wheel with his fist. “Do you think he got that address? Do you think he understood it?”
“I—”
“Because if he finds Manuelo before I do, the man will never make it into a court of law, probably not even into an interrogation room.”
“You think Rodarte would help him escape?”
“If Manuelo’s lucky, that’s what he’ll do. What scares me is that Rodarte will make sure no one hears Manuelo’s account of what happened. Ever.”
“You mean…he would kill him?”
Griff shrugged.
“Griff, he’s a police detective.”
“Who’s dedicated himself to putting me on death row. To that end, Manuelo’s easily dispensable.”
“So what do we do? Call one of Rodarte’s superiors, tell them your side?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know who his friends are. He recruited two of them to beat me up. I wouldn’t know who to trust.”
“Then what?”
“We find Manuelo before Rodarte does.”
“How are we going to do that?”
Swerving in front of a truck to take an exit, Griff muttered, “Wish the hell I knew.”
The pancake house was open all night. At any hour it was well lighted and crowded, and so was the parking lot. A car left there didn’t attract attention. Griff parked, and they got out.
“Welcome to the glamorous world of a fugitive.” He took Laura’s hand and led her around to the back of the building, where the odorous Dumpsters were open and overflowing.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a half-mile walk. Are you okay with that?”
“A half mile is a warm-up.”
He smiled down at her, but his expression was grim. “I didn’t say it was an easy half mile.”
Leaving behind the commercial area, they entered a residential neighborhood. Over the past several days, through trial and error, he’d learned the safest route, if not the easiest. It took them through yards with dense shrubbery and large trees but no exterior lighting, fences, or barking dogs.
They came upon the house from the rear. Griff was relieved to see that no lights were on inside. Each time he came back to his refuge, he was afraid the owners had returned during his absence.
The backyard was enclosed by a stockade fence, but when they reached the gate, he opened the latch without difficulty. “It’s never locked.” He ushered Laura through the gate, then closed it silently.
“Who lives here?” she asked, speaking in a whisper. The houses on either side were obviously occupied. Lights shone through windows. Somewhere close a sprinkler was swishing. They could hear a television show’s soundtrack.
“I used to.” He led the way to a back door, opened it, and pulled her in behind him. The alarm system began to bleep, but he punched in a sequence of numbers and it went silent. “They never changed the code. All these years, it’s been the same.”
“This was your house?”
“My high school coach and his wife. They took me in when I was fifteen.”
“The Millers.” At his look of surprise, she added, “I read about you.”
He didn’t risk turning on any lights, but there was enough light from the neighbors’ houses straining through the kitchen window curtain that he could make out her features as he searched her face. “You read about me?”
“When Foster recommended you to father the baby. I researched your background.”
“Oh.” He waited a beat, then said, “I guess I passed. In spite of the fact that my dad was a wife beater and my mother a whore.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“People say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Generally speaking, people are unfair.”
“Not in this case. I turned out rotten, too.”
She shook her head and was about to say something when the refrigerator cycled on, creating a buzz that sounded as loud as a chain saw in the silent house. She jumped. He touched her arm. “It’s just the fridge. It’s okay. Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her behind him as he made his way from the kitchen into the living area, where the drapes were drawn and it was much darker.
Still speaking in a whisper, she said, “So this is where you’ve been staying all this time?”
“Since my escape from Turner’s house.”
“They’ve been sheltering you?”
“Hardly. They don’t know I’m here. I came to see Ellie not too long ago. She mentioned a trip to Hawaii. I guess that’s where they are. Anyhow, I showed up here, prepared to throw myself on their mercy. I didn’t have to.”
“You may when they return.”
“I may,” he said ruefully. “I’m sure Coach will kick me out. But at least they can’t be accused of sheltering me. I’m sorry I can’t turn on any lights. The neighbors know they’re away and will be keeping an eye on the house. It’s that kind of neighborhood. Careful. I’ve got to close this door.” He shut the door between the living room and the hallway, plunging them into total darkness.
“Didn’t Rodarte think to look for you here?”
“I’m sure he did and probably still has a car doing periodic drive-bys. But when he discovered the Millers were out of state, he figured I wouldn’t be here. Besides, he knows Coach can’t stomach the sight of me now. He’d think if I showed my face around here, he’d be the first person Coach would call. I’ve been hoping that all this would be cleared up before they return from their vacation and they’d never know that I’d used their house.” He laughed softly. “Ellie probably would figure it out, though. I’ve tried to clean up after myself, but she’s an excellent housekeeper.”
“Is that their car we were in?”
“Their second car. Not used much. I sneaked it out of the garage in the middle of the night, drove it to the parking lot of that restaurant, and left it. I’ve been coming and going from there. As far as the neighbors know, the car is still in the garage.”
He felt his way along the wall till he reached the doorway to his bedroom. “In here.”
When they were inside and the door closed behind them, he released her hand and felt his way over to the desk. He found the lamp by feel and turned it on. They blinked against the sudden light. He motioned toward the window that overlooked the front yard. “Crude but effective.”
He’d stretched a dark blanket over the window frame and secured it all around with tape, so that not even a sliver of light would shine through. “From the outside all you see is drawn blinds.”
“Genius.”
“More like desperation.”
A laptop computer was on the desk. He switched it on. He’d found it in the spare bedroom. Coach had always cursed computers, saying they were “too damn hard to operate,” so Griff supposed it was Ellie who’d joined the age of electronics.
While it was booting, he watched Laura as she moved around the room, looking at photos, trophies, clippings, and other memorabilia of his life—starting at age fifteen.
“You began early.”
She was looking at a photo of him taken before he was old enough to shave. He was kneeling with one knee on the turf, wearing a football uniform with full pads, his helmet tucked under his arm, his expression as badass as he could make it. The photos and awards in this room chronicled his football career from those adolescent teams up to that fateful play-off game with the Redskins.
“You loved it, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you regret what you did?”
“You have no idea.” He glanced at the computer monitor. It wasn’t a speedy, streamlined new model. Programs were still loading. Laura sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap, like she was settling in to listen.
Griff looked at a framed photo of himself caught in the motion of throwing a pass. It had been taken during the game that had won his high school the state championship. Coach’s team. The school district had held a victory parade upon their return from Houston, where the game had been played in the Astrodome. Up to that point, it had been the highlight of Griff’s life.
“You know from the day you start that it can’t last forever,” he said. “Even if you go all the way to the pros, it’s short term. Thirty is old. Thirty-five is ancient. And that’s if you escape serious injury. You’re never more than one play away from the end of your career. Or even the end of your life. Each time the ball is snapped, it’s a tempt of fate.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “But I wouldn’t trade a day of it. Not a single day. I loved the buildup that was part of each game. By kickoff time, I’d have a knot in my gut harder than a fist, but it was a good kind of anxiety, you know?”
She nodded.
“I loved the snap, getting my hands around that ball. I loved the adrenaline rush I got every time I called a tricky play and it was perfectly executed. I received perks and favors all along the way, a college education, millions in salary. But the truth is, Laura, I’d have played for nothing.
“Because even on the worst days, I loved the game. I loved it even on the Monday mornings when I could barely get out of bed for the aches and pains.” He smiled. “Most mornings it still takes me half an hour before I can stand up straight.”