Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  “Why would I do that? My goal is to spend as little time here as possible. I should’ve just added your no comment to the Butch Heller story and moved on with my life.”

  I sat down beside her. “But you’d’ve been printing a lie. You feel good about not doing that, right?”

  Veronica nodded but didn’t look at me. We sat like that until I got uncomfortable and walked into the bathroom.

  “What do you want for dinner?” I yelled as I got undressed. “I’m going to go buy some stuff for the minifridge. It won’t hold much, but I can get you a TV dinner or something.”

  I walked back into the room to find Veronica in a long T-shirt with HARVARD ALUM on the front. I couldn’t see anything else, but I assumed she was wearing something underneath.

  “Can you pick up some beer? Dos Equis?”

  “Wow, you are trying to fit in with these pipeliners,” I said. “You’ll have to switch to something cheap and domestic, though.”

  “Baby steps,” she said.

  I pointed to her shirt. “I thought you went to UT?”

  “Oh, I did. This is my dad’s. He got a business degree from there. Now he basically runs one of those new tech companies down in Austin. He’s hoping this whole journalism thing is just a phase.”

  “Yeah, my dad was the same way. He’s thrilled I’m finally working for a living.”

  “What does he do?”

  I sat down on my bed and faced her. “He’s retired. He and my mom didn’t start having kids until they were in their late thirties. They didn’t think she could have any, then my sister and I came along. Anyway, he was a master carpenter. He worked jobs kind of like this, then started building some of the best furniture in the Southwest. He’s had pieces in almost every custom furniture store in Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Colorado. Now they travel the country in their RV visiting family and fishing.”

  “Sounds nice. What about your sister?”

  I looked down at the carpet. “Ruth Ann died when I was in high school.”

  Veronica moved to my bed and put her hand on mine. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Time heals all wounds, right?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  I rubbed her fingers, and our eyes met for a moment before she jerked her hand away. “I’m going to jump in the shower.”

  I did a terrible job of hiding my disappointment. “Gotcha. I’ll go get the beer and some groceries.”

  17

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  Heller liked working with his hands. Like many who abuse alcohol and drugs, he changed jobs frequently. He’d been a mechanic, carpenter, plumber, electrician, and construction worker. He liked to use those skills during his spare time. His tool of choice on the afternoon of July 4, 1999, was a hammer, though the one he used to rebuild Summer’s porch was not the one he used later that night.

  That hammer was a small sledge. He’d stolen it from his most recent job site, which was perhaps the pettiest of Heller’s list of crimes.

  The Hinterbach Police Department file on Heller was thick well before he was arrested for Summer’s murder. His criminal history included breaking and entering, assaulting a police officer, and public nudity. He had also sued the Nimitz County Sheriff’s Office once—and HPD twice—for excessive use of force. Neither case was successful, though he did get out of his fourth Driving While Intoxicated charge by successfully proving the arresting deputy failed to properly Mirandize Heller.

  18

  Butch Heller

  July 4, 1999, Noon

  As he rebuilt the porch in front of their trailer, Heller thought about the brownie points he was earning with Summer, who thought he was putting in hard manual labor.

  She had no idea he was having fun.

  Of all the things Heller had done to make money, carpentry was his favorite. He was skilled with a hammer, and pounding nails was an excellent way to work out frustration. Taking a pile of wood and turning it into something solid and useful also scratched his creative itch.

  The progress was a bit slower than he’d hoped, though. The heat was oppressive. Heller wanted a beer, preferably one that had been sitting under ice in a cooler. Instead, Summer had given him a pitcher of sweet tea. Though the effect wasn’t the same, Heller poured a glass and surveyed the neighborhood. He wasn’t the only one in Hinterbach working on his honey-do list. He counted two push lawnmowers and a weed eater, plus one neighbor putting on a new screen door.

  Heller was about to down the rest of his glass when Bernard Beck walked out of his house.

  Bernard, whom most folks called Bernie, and his family had lived across the street from Summer for more than twenty years. His wife had helped with Sammy after Summer’s parents passed. He and Heller had been friendly and collaborated on a few projects, including their respective tool sheds.

  They hadn’t worked together since his daughter died in that car crash. Ruth Ann had been Bernie’s pride and joy. Not only had she graduated the salutatorian in May, but she’d won two gold medals at the state track meet. Ruth Ann was also class president, drum major, captain of the softball team, and a list of other accolades that took about five minutes to recite.

  Heller gave his neighbor a cursory nod, expecting little in return. But to his surprise, Bernie jogged across the street.

  “Howdy, neighbor,” Bernie said. “I see Summer finally talked you into rebuilding that old thing.”

  “Yeah. And on a holiday. I must really love her.”

  Bernie slapped Heller on the shoulder. “Funny how it always seems to work that way.”

  “What about you? I’m sure your old lady has you working on something.”

  Bernie’s smile disappeared. “No, I’m all caught up. I came by to see if you needed help.” His eyes were pleading with Heller. The isolation had finally gotten to him. “With me and the boy, you can get this done in no time.”

  Bernie pointed to his son, who was using a weight rack in the open garage. Heller couldn’t remember his first name. It was something strange. Most people just called him Beck, though Bernie usually called him the boy or the kid.

  “He’s growing up fast,” Heller said. “He’ll be able to take his old man soon.”

  “He already can, but don’t tell him that. He has a chance at starting defensive line.”

  Heller turned his attention back to Bernie. “Really? How old is he now?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Heller looked back at the boy. “Sixteen going on twenty-six.” He rubbed his stubble. He’s damn near got a full beard. I’m jealous.”

  “Me too.”

  They shared a laugh. It was nice to have his neighbor back. Between that and being back in Summer’s good graces, Heller allowed himself to imagine being truly happy again.

  “So, can we help?”

  Heller picked up his favorite framing hammer. “I really am almost done. But, sure, let me go get some more tools.”

  “Here, you hand me that and I’ll call the boy over here for some muscle. If you want, you can go inside and help that beautiful wife of yours while we finish up.”

  Heller handed Bernie his hammer. “No sir, I’m not going to let you have all the fun. You two get started, and I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Heller walked around to the backyard, where Summer was spreading a tablecloth on one of three picnic tables Heller had built a few years ago.

  “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” Heller asked.

  Summer shook her head. “You’re corny, you know that?”

  “Yes ma’am.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “And you love it.”

  She smiled and returned to her tablecloth. “Did I hear you talking to someone out front?”

  “Yeah. Bernie. He saw me working on the porch and came over to help.”

  Summer whipped around to face Heller. “Are you fucking kidding me? How can you do that to him?”

  Heller put his index finger to his lips, begging Su
mmer to lower her voice as he rushed over to her.

  “Look, he doesn’t know. If he’s ready to have friends again, isn’t that the best way I can help him?”

  “How can you be such a monster. After what you did—”

  “It was an accident,” Heller said through clenched teeth.

  Summer turned and stomped toward the back door to their trailer. Heller watched her, then walked into the tool shed. He pulled the string to turn on the overhead light, but it didn’t come on.

  He tried again. Nothing. He cursed and yanked so hard the nylon string came off in his hand. “Goddammit. Guess I’ll add that to my list of shit to get done around here.”

  Heller fumbled around on the tool bench and found a flashlight. He walked to the back and found the crate that housed his hammers and other hand tools. The first hammer he pulled out was a mini, two-pound sledgehammer. He laid it down on the bench and reached back in the crate. The next two he found were the claw hammers he needed.

  Summer was back in the house when he re-emerged. He hurried to the front and readied himself to engage in small talk with Bernie. Anything deeper, and Heller might not be able to keep his shit together.

  The rest of the front porch only took thirty minutes to finish. He and Bernie made quick work of the pile of lumber in the front yard. The younger Beck was strong as an ox, though he possessed almost no skill with a hammer and mumbled every time he missed a nail. There wasn’t much talk aside from that.

  Heller thanked his guests and walked back into the house. He moved quickly to the bedroom, hoping to avoid a knock-down, drag-out with Summer. “We got the porch done,” he shouted toward the kitchen. “I’m going to jump in the shower. You’re welcome to join if you want.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Heller didn’t respond. He smelled rank after spending a couple hours in the sun and needed the shower. Summer had laundered the sheets and made the bed. He contemplated taking a nap after washing up. After his early morning, it might help him get through the night with enough will power.

  Despite his best efforts, Heller started thinking as he turned on the water. Was Summer right? Was he a monster? Heller still wasn’t sure.

  Heller had turned the New Year holiday into a weeklong bender. He’d been laid off from his job as an electrician at the end of December and didn’t want to tell Summer, so he made a bar in Kerrville his temporary workplace. He liked to think he was a day or two away from coming clean. He was also close to proposing marriage, though he had a few things to smooth over with her first.

  All that would have to wait after the third of January. Or, to be precise, the first few hours of the fourth. If he’d still been employed, that would be the last day of the holiday weekend, so Heller had been drinking more than usual. It would’ve been out of character for Heller to be anything less than half in the bag at all times. So, for authenticity’s sake, he closed down the bar before making one last stop.

  Heller felt fine as he rolled up County Road K on his way back to Summer. But if he was sober enough to drive, how in the hell had he lost control? Part of it was the rush he was in. Heller knew that much. His brain was racing at the thought of what he was doing, of what Summer was going to say when he got back to Hinterbach. Still, had he not been so drunk, Heller wouldn’t have ended up sideways on the blacktop.

  The next thing he remembered was a rusty pickup smashing into the bed of Heller’s work truck. It was one of the few things Heller’s piece of shit father left him when he died of cirrhosis. His Dad had never been trustworthy, but the pickup was, and the heavy steel toolboxes on both sides of the bed were like tank armor.

  The other truck slid and went up on two wheels. Heller heard shattering glass as he stomped on the brake pedal. It struck his passenger side, so Heller wasn’t hurt. Just dazed.

  After falling out of his own vehicle, Heller looked back. The front half of the rusty pickup had crumpled like an accordion, and a girl was lying halfway out of an opening where the windshield had been. He stumbled over and brushed back her slick hair. Even in his drunken state, Heller immediately recognized Ruth Ann Beck.

  Heller had acted more cowardly than he ever could’ve imagined that night. It remained his greatest source of shame. He’d never admitted everything that happened. But after Ruth Ann’s funeral later that week, Heller broke down and told Summer he had caused the crash.

  He’d expected Summer to be upset, but also to console him. Instead, she went silent and sat for what seemed like five minutes. Then she unloaded a series of rapid-fire slaps and screamed until he left.

  “Hurry up in there,” Summer yelled through the bathroom door. “It’s almost time for you to start grilling, and I need you to help me get the other tables set up before that.”

  Heller smiled. She may never forgive him, but at least Summer had let him back in the house.

  19

  Veronica and I watched as a pair of track hoes worked in tandem to carry a long stretch of twenty-six-inch pipe. The bases of the earthmovers looked like black-and-yellow tanks, their top halves swiveled out ninety degrees. Both inched along at the same glacial pace while their mechanical arms suspended the steel tube at least twenty feet above the ground.

  “That is so cool,” she said.

  “Yep. And it never gets old.”

  Our attention was pulled away from the synchronized slow-motion dance by Zak’s booming voice. “Helpers, let’s go.”

  “Go do what?” Veronica asked.

  I started walking. “Get railroad ties so we can build skids for that pipe.”

  “I didn’t understand half of those words.”

  I motioned for her to follow me, and we fell in step with ten other helpers to form a line that snaked through a maze of pipe. Jordan Washington led us around a deep trench that exposed the existing pipeline, then stopped as he reached a massive pile of the wood planks, each one four inches tall, six inches wide, and four foot long. Though we called them railroad ties, they were much smaller than the ones used on train tracks.

  “We need to bring a bunch of those pieces of wood over to where we were standing.” I said.

  I walked over to the pile, but Veronica stayed behind. “You expect me to do that, too?”

  The rest of the helpers were already tossing the ties off the top in a schizophrenic beat of wood-on-wood thumps. “You’ll only have to carry one. It’ll be fine.”

  “What the hell am I doing here?” Veronica whispered to herself.

  I cupped her elbow. “I’ve been there. But if you’re like me, you’ll find out you’re capable of a lot more than you think.”

  We approached the diminishing pile of wood, and I stood three on end to show her my lifting technique.

  “Get them vertical like this. Then you bend all the way down, so your shoulder is about halfway. Give them a big bear hug, then lift with your legs and balance them on your shoulder.” I groaned as they teetered beside my head. “Now you get one of them and try.”

  Veronica looked at me skeptically but did as I asked. She was wobbly and had to take a step back to steady herself, but she got it up and smiled. “Holy crap, I did it.”

  “Yep. Now we have to lug them back over there.”

  This was the bad part. When we first got to the job, much of the pipe and fittings had yet to arrive, so we all had a lot of time on our hands. Jordan had bet me fifty bucks I couldn’t carry three of the railroad ties at the same time. Most can only manage two, though Jordan also claimed he could carry three. I won the bet. But from then on, I was accused of slacking any time I carried fewer than three.

  I was winded by the time we caught up with the other helpers. Veronica was not, though she was constantly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The hike had no doubt enflamed the soles of her feet. They were swollen and red by now, with at least one blister on each. Insoles and thicker socks would help. That’s what I’d done, though I had to sever the toes from the insoles before my Flintstone feet would fit inside.

&nbs
p; “You’ve got to work on your cardio, Mr. Big Nasty.”

  “It’s just Big Nasty,” I said between gulping air.

  There was not much aerobic activity built into the duties of a welder’s helper. There were opportunities to build strength, and I’d taken advantage of that. But the lack of continuous movement, combined with an aversion to going to the gym after spending ten hours on our feet, allowed many welders and helpers to maintain their beer bellies.

  We dumped our logs into one of four piles that stretched parallel to the road leading past the job site. The rest of the helpers started building the skids below the pipe, which was still suspended by the track hoes. When all four were built, the pipe was settled onto the wood. Zak, Paul, and Jorge put four-foot-long levels along the pipe, and wood was added and subtracted to get the pipe exactly right.

  “Now what?” Veronica asked.

  “We cut it into sections.”

  “Wait, we have to cut the pipe, too?”

  I pointed to Jorge’s pickup. “Yep. That’s what those bottles are in the back of each rig. The green one is oxygen, and the black one is called acetylene.”

  “A set of what?”

  I snorted. “Acetylene. It’s a gas that mixes with the oxygen. It produces a blue flame that cuts through the steel like butter.”

  Jorge approached us. “Dude, quit trying to explain it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “What did I get wrong?” I asked. “I told her exactly what you told me.”

  “Yeah, well, I gave you the dummy version because I knew you didn’t care. But if she’s going to write about us, I want her to get it right.” Jorge pulled the glasses off my face and put them on his, sliding the bridge up his nose with his index finger. “First, the metal isn’t melting. The acetylene does bring the steel to its ignition temperature, but then we let the oxygen flow in. That interacts with the iron in the steel, changing the molecules and causing oxidation.”