by Rick Treon
She knew it had been eight minutes because her nose had almost touched the watch she placed on her vanity every night. She hadn’t fought him off, but instead stared at the face and counted the seconds. Four hundred ninety-three. She rounded down. Paul didn’t say a word afterward, and neither did she. She stayed bent over until hearing the front door close. Then she’d stumbled to the shower.
As she took another long drag, Summer watched a trio of cats near the dumpster in the alley that bordered Freddy’s Creek. An albino female was crouched down as low as she could. Behind her, a black-and-gray-striped male looked ready to pounce. Flanking the female on the left was an orange tabby, which she assumed was male. The female cat—Summer decided to call her Miss Kitty—flinched like she wanted to make a break for it. She was met immediately by a hiss and a swipe from the tabby, who was obviously named Garfield. Miss Kitty backed up, inching closer to the dark male cat, who would be known today as Paul. While Miss Kitty was distracted by Garfield, Paul took advantage and mounted her. Miss Kitty let out that guttural howl that only a cat can make, the one that accompanies the worst kind of pain.
Miss Kitty wriggled herself free and sprinted forward. It took ten seconds for Garfield to wrangle her and for the scenario to begin again, the animal kingdom’s version of a rapist and his wingman. Summer shook her head and blew out a heavy cloud of smoke.
As she finished her cigarette, Summer contemplated telling someone this time. She’d developed early and started partying in the seventh grade. Other girls had probably had it worse, though she couldn’t be sure because nobody talked about it.
“You fucking idiot,” Summer told herself as she walked back inside. She couldn’t tell anyone.
Paul was seventeen.
And her student.
Summer was still trying to calm herself when she heard the crunch of gravel under tires. Butch was home. She took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen to make potato salad. By the time Butch walked in, she was making a racket and looking like she’d been hard at work.
“Hey sexy, did you sleep in this morning?” he asked.
Summer turned around as though she hadn’t heard him walk in. “Oh, hey. Yeah, I got started a little bit ago. I’m running really late.”
Butch started walking toward her. “No, you’re not. We have all day.”
Summer could feel him sliding up behind her like Paul an hour before. It took everything she had to stay calm as he put his hands on her hips.
12
Veronica had the same question I’d asked Jorge a few months ago.
“Is this legal?”
I had no answer. Reselling clothing is a legitimate industry, but it’s usually trendy shirts and designer jeans. But should FR clothing—which is specially treated and required by law at job sites in the oil and natural gas industry—be re-sold? Even if the answer was yes, buying used FRs out of a guy’s garage was not on the level.
The more important question: Were the shirts and pants fire-resistant, or were the patches merely sewn onto normal clothes?
But at four for a hundred dollars, everyone hooked up with the oilfield underground was willing to take that chance.
I parked my car in the driveway of a nondescript house in Borger. “Of course, it is. Besides, I’d hate for you to have to spend hundreds of dollars to get on a job you don’t care about.”
Veronica had been too late to make it to RedBoots, so she’d already bought a cheap pair at Walmart. I was relieved. My animosity about paying for half her hotel room had faded. I was downright giddy at the prospect of sleeping on a mattress instead of couch cushions.
As we got out of my car, I peered into the large window that faced the driveway. A man pulled up the blinds and pointed to the garage like I was being allowed access into a speakeasy. I led Veronica to a heavy steel door that opened as I was about to reach for the knob.
“Hola,” an Hispanic man said as we walked into a newly painted and carpeted room, though a slick black pickup was parked in the middle. “You are Jorge’s friend?”
“Si.” I pointed to Veronica. “We need clothes for her. Dos, uh—” I tugged at my T-shirt and tried to come up with the Spanish name for shirt.
“Camisa,” the man said with a subtle shake of his head. “FR?”
“Si.” I pointed at my thigh. “Y dos.”
The man looked Veronica up and down. She stood taller than us despite being in flats and had shoulders broader than his. If nothing else, she would appear strong enough to do the job.
Veronica knew what clothes fit her frame best, and she was obviously disappointed with the selection when the man came back with two pairs of jeans and two shirts—one blue and one beige—and handed them to her.
“Go behind the truck and try them on,” I said.
“You’re kidding, right? I’m not getting undressed in some random guy’s garage.”
She made a fair point, but I doubted our friend would let her return the clothes if they didn’t fit. “We won’t look. Or you can see if they fit over your regular clothes. You’ll want two layers when it starts getting cold in a couple of weeks.”
She took a step toward me and held out the clothes. “I’m not doing it.”
“If you don’t have FRs that fit, you can’t be on the job site. Then what was all of this for?” I pointed to the truck. “Will you please go try them on?”
Veronica stood her ground for one more defiant moment before storming off. The man and I exchanged an awkward smile and waited a few minutes for Veronica to re-emerge. The shirt was fine. The pants a bit too loose, which would work in her favor. She didn’t know it yet, but Veronica would appreciate looking less attractive on the job.
“I think that’ll work once we get you a belt.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
I used the drive back to Walmart as an opportunity to get her on my side. “By the way, I already have something to help keep up my end of our deal. I spoke to two investigators today.”
Veronica turned to me. For the first time since arriving in Borger, she didn’t look annoyed.
“Who is investigating?”
“The Texas Rangers. One of them even has the last name Walker. I swear I’m not making that up.”
Veronica pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse. “What are their names?”
“Lieutenant Owen Johnson and Caroline Walker. Johnson said people call him OJ. I prefer Agent Orange.”
She snorted. “And what did you discuss?”
“They know I wrote Cold Summer.” I paused before continuing. I didn’t want to tell her everything, but she’d find out later if I was lying. “They consider me a suspect.”
Veronica kept writing and didn’t look up. “Did you kill her?”
I was jarred by the coolness with which she asked the question, as though she wouldn’t be surprised if I said yes.
“You’re kidding, right?”
She looked up but didn’t say anything.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t kill her.”
She turned her attention back to the notepad. “Why do they think you’re a suspect?”
“Well, I found the body first and immediately told Jorge and another guy that it was Jillian, even though you couldn’t tell by looking at her.” I decided to leave out the fight. It was ultimately irrelevant, and I didn’t want her to think I’d killed her.
Instead I told her about the injuries, the decomposition, and the side-by-side photos from earlier that day.
“I see why you would make the connection,” she said. “I always assume the worst-case scenario, too.”
I smiled. It had been a while since I talked to someone else who wrote about death.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. The woman had told everyone on the job her name was Jillian, but the Rangers said her real name was Sylvia Davenport. They also confirmed that she is from Austin.”
“So, the victim is named Sylvia Davenport and from Austin. That’s not very helpful.
”
I bristled but kept my frustration in check. “I know. I tried to get more, but they weren’t talking. But you have something to start with. And now you know it’s a juicy story. I’m jealous you’re writing about it and not me.”
I took a few moments to ready myself as we pulled into the Walmart parking lot. Now was as good a time as any to bring up the elephant in the car.
“Thank you for doing this, by the way. I re-read your story, and I know your editors probably think that Franklin Jones may have killed Summer Foster. But I flat-out know that isn’t true.”
She nodded. “But you have to admit, what his defense attorney said was compelling.”
“It’s nothing but cherry-picked facts sprinkled into a strong narrative. That’s why Action Jackson is such a rich man.”
“True,” she said. “Telling a good story can be very convincing.”
13
Excerpt from Cold Summer
Though the early evidence overwhelmingly pointed to Heller, Det. Roland did not want to taint the investigation by failing to investigate other suspects. Ex-lovers are always on that list and, though there were several to consider, one name stood out: Franklin Jones.
After graduating from the University of Texas at Austin’s business school and getting his MBA from Arizona State, Jones returned to the Hill Country and was almost immediately made the vice president of a Kerrville bank. His second order of business was reconnecting with the girl he’d been obsessed with in high school. They dated for years, but tensions reportedly increased when she wouldn’t move in with him. Then, after catching her cheating with Heller, Jones beat Foster, bruising the right side of her face and cracking a rib.
Det. Roland contacted Jones’ attorney and waited more than a day to hear anything back. The veteran investigator had already been to his house, but Jones was an important man and had said nothing.
“Literally nothing,” Det. Roland said later. “He opened the door, saw my badge, and handed me his lawyer’s business card. I asked him a few questions, but every time he just smiled and nodded toward the card.”
The phone call he received two days later was not from that attorney. It was from an agent with the local FBI office. The agent informed Det. Roland that the feds had an open investigation involving Jones.
“He was cryptic, and wouldn’t tell me what the investigation was about,” Det. Roland said. “But he provided Jones with an alibi. He said they’d been monitoring Jones, and they knew his whereabouts at the time of Summer Foster’s death. The FBI never did tell us exactly where he was, but it didn’t matter. We already knew Heller was our doer.”
14
Franklin Jones
July 4, 1999, 11 a.m.
He’d been waiting two years. Two long, unbearable years. Jones had taken out that frustration at the gym and was proud of the larger physique he would unveil that evening. But which outfit would show off his swollen arms and chiseled chest most? That was the question Jones considered as he stared at the clothing options laying on his bed.
He’d also been saving himself for Summer. He wasn’t going to risk getting another woman pregnant—or possibly falling in love—before their reunion. He’d gotten her once, and he could get her again.
The timing was almost perfect. If the protective order had been lifted a month ago, Jones would have had no problem reigniting the flame. She’d been alone for five months and would be yearning for someone, starving for male attention and needing a strong support system, just like she was when they’d first gotten together. He wanted to provide both in spades.
But then Jones had watched Butch Fucking Heller stand on her front porch again, only this time he was the one begging for forgiveness. Jones was in his usual spot in the courthouse parking lot—which was exactly 119 feet away from her property line—and cursed himself for not breaking the restraining order. But, in the end, Jones knew the restraint he showed would pay dividends. He liked to play the long game. It was always worth it in the end.
Jones settled on a tight red polo shirt, sharply pressed khakis, and his amber aviators. A pair of deck shoes with no socks seemed appropriate for the heat. He carefully put the other choices away, then re-emerged with the more casual clothes he would wear before heading to Summer’s party. He wanted a fresh haircut and a shave. He wanted to remind Summer of how beautiful they looked together. No shops were open in Kerrville on the Fourth of July, but Jones had given his barber a nice financial incentive to open at eleven-thirty, just for him.
Jones had nearly twenty-five minutes to kill. He was always running early, a trait he usually liked, but finding ways to waste time that morning was excruciating. He’d woken up at 5:45, like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. He’d spent some time on a long morning workout, followed by cooking breakfast and reading the Daily Times over his egg whites and turkey bacon. While reading the paper, he saw an interesting event in the calendar. An alcoholics’ meeting would be held downtown.
Jones had known Heller would go. The man who’d caused Jones’ two-year exile went to every meeting possible. Jones had also attended those meetings the last two weeks, just to monitor Heller’s activities. Jones thought the jig was up the last time he’d gone. Heller had made eye contact and walked over. Jones froze and tried to steady himself for the upcoming fight. Then Heller smiled, and Jones saw no recognition in his eyes. Heller had noticed his Longhorns T-shirt and wanted to chat with a fellow fan. Jones introduced himself as “Francis” and talked about Ricky Williams and his Heisman. They discussed how Texas had trounced Mississippi State in the Cotton Bowl and wondered what new coach Mack Brown would do without the NCAA’s most prolific runner.
Jones had followed Heller after that meeting in his less-conspicuous pickup, and Heller couldn’t be clever enough to spot a tail. Jones got less confident the farther they got from Kerrville and had to pull into the driveway of a long-abandoned house when he saw Heller turn down County Road K.
Jones got out of his truck and ran to the overgrown street corner. He saw Heller’s tacky red Pontiac drive into the dead end and park outside of a dilapidated house. Heller walked inside, but only stayed for about ten minutes. Jones hurried back to his pickup as Heller retraced his path down County Road K. He waited until he heard the car’s obnoxious exhaust fade away.
Jones should have let it end there. But the last time he’d neglected his gut for too long, he ended up full of regret. After knocking on the door, Jones had pretended to be with the Census Bureau, just another worker drone there to make sure someone still lived at the house so they could send the new form. It was a good cover story. So good, in fact, that Jones discovered something that would make Summer hate Heller and kick him to the curb permanently.
Jones loved the smell of his barbershop, always so clean, the hardwood floors swept after every cut and the utensils disinfected religiously. He’d taken years to find the right barber, one that knew how to style his hair and was competent with a straight razor. And, as he’d exploited earlier that week, his barber was easily incentivized by cash. It took so long to find this person because he hadn’t considered using a woman barber until last year, when he was in a fix a few hours before the office Christmas party.
“This must be some Fourth of July party you’re going to, Frank,” Patty said. “Most people just throw on a ballcap and T-shirt and have fun.”
Patty was a bit older than Jones but still attractive. On nights when his discipline wavered, he thought about asking her to dinner. Patty couldn’t make much money cutting hair, no matter how skilled she was, so giving in would be inevitable. But he couldn’t do that to Summer. Jones did allow her to call him Frank, though, an unrefined nickname he despised coming out of anyone else’s mouth.
“You’re trying to impress a girl, aren’t you?”
“You know me.”
Patty turned on her stainless-steel clippers. “Well, she better be worth it to have me out here cutting your hair instead of eating barbecue.”
“Oh
, she is. The woman of my dreams.”
Jones saw Patty shake her head in the mirror. “Well, it shouldn’t be hard to win her over. I mean, how many girls have the president of a bank chasing after them, especially one with such a nice head of hair.”
Patty wasn’t wrong. Jones was even better off than when he and Summer first got together. It helped that his uncle had been the president, and his great uncle the chairman of the board. When the old man had finally retired, everyone got a bump. Jones had been chosen as his uncle’s successor in middle school, after it was clear the “eccentric” bank president wouldn’t have any children. Jones’ college was paid for, from undergrad through business school. Jones—whose mother had been the black sheep of the family and was relegated to Hinterbach—was now a debt-free millionaire with a mansion in the Hill Country and three vehicles, including a brand-new BMW.
“It’s nice to talk to someone who gets it,” Jones said. “And someone who understands capitalism. So, how much did we agree on?”
“Two hundred.”
Jones shook his head. “I’m pretty sure it was one fifty.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m only half done. I can stop right now, and you can go looking like this.”
He checked his reflection. “Tell you what: I’ll give you two hundred, but you owe me a favor.”
“And what do you call this?”
“The most expensive haircut I’ve ever gotten.”
Patty smiled. “Fine, but I can’t imagine what I could do for you besides cut your hair.”
Jones wasn’t sure either. He just knew it paid to have people owe him favors. “Who knows? But enough about me. How are things with your boyfriend?”