Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  28

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  Investigators had a hard time pinning down exactly when Heller left the Fourth of July party. Most agree he was still there at five p.m. Some are sure he was drinking beer and joking with a group of men and boys, including members of the Hinterbach Rams football team. Others point out that he was drinking a non-alcoholic beer and say he got into an argument with one or more of the people at the party.

  Some say they heard people yelling in the trailer house. Others swear a brawl broke out in the middle of the celebration. Still more say Heller was throwing punches and kicks at another man as he went running out of Foster’s front door. But all seem to remember a ruckus, though the timeframe couldn’t be precisely identified by anyone.

  Nobody remembers him driving away, though Det. Roland said none of the other partygoers remember Heller’s presence when desserts were brought out at 7:30, about an hour before the sun was to set on the day—and life of the party’s hostess.

  29

  Butch Heller

  July 4, 1999, 5 p.m.

  The feel of a cold longneck in his hand meant all was right with the world. The longneck was an O’Doul’s, which meant he could get the sensation of drinking beer—and some of the taste—without the alcohol and the heartburn that would come with upsetting Summer. Holding the bottle and jaw-jacking with his neighbors was enough to keep him content.

  “So, how many of you young gentlemen have seen your girlfriend’s whip cream bikini?” The question was directed at Sammy, Paul, and the other boys shoveling plates of brisket and blackened hot dogs into their mouths. They had all gone to one theater or another to see the movie Varsity Blues during the winter, and Sammy still made references to it almost daily.

  The question got a big laugh from the crowd, including a few of the other fathers who’d played football in Hinterbach, all of whom looked around to make sure their wives weren’t listening. The players mostly blushed, though a couple smiled like Cheshire cats trying not to tell the world they were finally getting laid.

  Sammy was one. Paul Schuhmacher, Sammy’s running buddy who was expected to start at tight end, was another. Tall and aggressive, he had already been named preseason All-District by Dave Campbell’s Texas Football magazine. So had Sammy at quarterback and Bernie Beck’s kid at defensive lineman.

  Heller shook his head and polished off his beer—or what he wished was a beer—then signaled to everyone else he was off to get another from the cooler. He walked to Summer and gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “And how’s everything going over here?” Heller asked.

  “Fine. People aren’t eating my potato salad like they were last year. I’m worried I’ll have to throw some out.”

  “Nah. You know how people are. The longer they’re here and the more they drink, the more they’ll come back and eat whatever’s on the table.”

  Summer returned to her fidgeting. “I hope so.”

  Heller leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  Summer knew what was coming and rushed to get it over with. “Did what hurt?”

  “When you fell out of the sky?”

  Heller put his hand on her neck, which he was still getting used to seeing after her haircut. Summer shook her head, but also smiled. Heller had used that line when they first met. They’d been shopping at the H-E-B in Kerrville. It was also a hot July day, and they’d both been in the market for fresh fruit. That’s what he told her, anyway. Heller was there for cheap TV dinners and snack cakes, but he ventured into the produce section as soon as he spotted her. The cheesy pickup line was the first thing he could think to say to such a beautiful woman.

  Summer turned around. “You are so lame.” She kissed him, another quick peck. “But sometimes you’re very sweet.”

  “Thanks, honey.” He reached into the cooler. “Okay, I’ve got to go drain the main vein.”

  “And back to lame.”

  Heller laughed as he jogged to the back porch and up the rickety wooden stairs that would probably end up being his next project.

  After flushing the toilet, Heller looked in the mirror. He’d already sweated through his Charlie Daniels Band T-shirt. Another side effect of his sobriety was renewed attention to his own hygiene. When he was drunk, Heller didn’t care how he looked or smelled. But now that his senses weren’t constantly dulled, he found himself showering twice a day when he worked outside.

  Heller pulled off the shirt and heard his cheap sunglasses—which he’d left sitting on top of his thinning brown hair—hit the linoleum before tossing the shirt onto the side of the tub. He then took a towel and dried off his hair and torso, focusing on his armpits. He applied some Old Spice deodorant before picking up the T-shirt and going into the bedroom to find a new one.

  Though he didn’t have access to a full wardrobe yet, Heller had snuck in a few items and hidden them in the top corner of the closet. He found a sleeveless white T-shirt, perfect for the middle of the summer—and showing off his arms.

  He slipped on the shirt as he walked toward the back door to rejoin the party. He reached for the door but reversed course. He’d left his sunglasses, a pair of convenience-store specials meant to look like Ray-Bans, on the bathroom floor. Heller was scanning the floor for the black frames when he heard the door slam shut. Two hushed voices started arguing.

  “You need to stop it,” Summer said in what Heller assumed was her librarian’s voice. “People are going to notice you staring at me.”

  “Stop being paranoid,” a male voice said. “You’re the one who’s acting weird, standing over there all by yourself and not talking to anyone.”

  “Look, I think you should go. After what happened earlier today, I can’t believe you even showed up.”

  “It would be weird if I didn’t. Besides, you know I wouldn’t miss a chance to see your sexy legs.”

  Heller heard the unmistakable sound of an open palm making firm contact with a man’s cheekbone. He stepped out of the bathroom and saw Paul Schuhmacher holding his face and Summer pointing a finger toward the back door.

  “You need to get the hell out of here now,” Summer yelled.

  Heller sprinted toward the teenager. “What the hell is going on here?” Heller yelled as he stepped in between the two. “What happened earlier today?”

  Paul began laughing. “I fucked your old lady, that’s what happened.”

  Heller looked him up and down. Paul Schuhmacher was cocksure and had his chest puffed out. Heller turned around to face Summer.

  “What is he talking about? Why would he say that?”

  Summer didn’t say anything, but her face turned bright red. Her gaze dropped to the shag carpeting.

  “Why would he say that?” Heller asked again, this time nearly yelling.

  “Because it’s true, old man. I bent her over that dresser in her room and showed her how a real man fucks.” The boy smiled. “A woman like her deserves something better than your shriveled old ass. She fucking begged me for it.”

  Heller clenched his fists and his teeth before turning back to Summer. “Did you? I mean, you couldn’t have. He’s a kid. He’s Sammy’s friend for God’s sake. Please tell me you didn’t—”

  “Look, it just happened, okay,” Summer yelled before an awful sob came pouring out. She doubled over like someone had kicked her in the stomach.

  Heller felt dizzy. When the ringing in his ears subsided, he heard Paul laughing from over his shoulder.

  “You’re so pathetic,” Paul said. “Out there living in your football glory days and going to alcoholics’ meetings every other day because you’re too weak to control yourself. How did you ever expect to satisfy her?”

  Heller debated kicking the kid’s ass. He was only a teenager, so it would technically be a crime. And what would it do? It wouldn’t erase the fact Summer had cheated, nor would it further his agenda of mending his relations
hip with her—if he still wanted that.

  Then again, beating the ever-living shit out of Paul would be goddamn satisfying. He may be bigger and younger than Heller, but there’s no chance he’d been in as many fights. And Heller could scrap. He’d grown up in bars and pool halls around the state, so he’d helped his dad when necessary. The fights continued into adulthood, followed by a brief respite thanks to Summer’s influence.

  Though Heller badly wanted to bruise the bastard’s liver, he unclenched his fists for Summer’s sake and pointed his index finger at Paul.

  “Look, you need to get out of here right now before I do something we both regret.”

  “You don’t really think you could take me in a fight, do you?”

  “You feel like finding out?” Heller inched closer. “Leave. Now.”

  Paul smirked but took a step back. “Okay, fine. Fucking her was getting boring, anyway. Hell, she acted like she didn’t even want it the second time.”

  “Get. The. Fuck. Out.” When Paul didn’t move, Heller took two steps in his direction. Paul stumbled back toward the front door. Heller kept advancing, and Paul turned around before throwing open the door and slowly descend the steps, pausing to look back when he’d reached the ground with a shit-eating grin.

  Heller stopped at the doorjamb and watched Paul stroll down the street toward his house.

  Summer started yelling, so Heller walked back in the trailer. He found her sitting on the far end of the couch, knees tucked to her chin. The sight of her made him angry, so he closed his eyes. “How long has this been going on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Goddammit, tell me how long you’ve been fucking that boy. You owe me that.”

  She sighed. “A little while after you moved out.”

  Heller took a deep breath, his eyes still shut. “How could you? I understand you being lonely, but you kicked me out, remember? And with a boy? One of your own students? I mean, what the fuck?”

  Summer didn’t respond. Heller couldn’t hold it in any longer. He turned around and punched the nearest wall. His ring finger and pinky caught a stud, and he screamed in a mixture of pain, anger, and humiliation. Heller let out one more howl and allowed his breathing to slow before resuming his interrogation.

  “At least tell me this is the first time.”

  Summer nodded. Heller searched her eyes for the truth. He thought about the times he’d watch her flirt with the boys and fathers who came over for her parties, all the times he was proud that the rest of the town wanted her.

  He didn’t believe her.

  Heller turned toward the door. He heard Summer calling after him but couldn’t make out the words, which were eventually drowned out by the sound of gravel flying from the driveway into the faded aluminum siding.

  He needed a fucking drink.

  None of the liquor stores were open. But there was one place he could go that always had some whiskey.

  30

  “You fucked her, didn’t you?” Jorge asked as soon as Veronica had jumped out of his truck.

  “Shut up.”

  “Dude, I can practically smell it on you two. There’s no use lying to me. You’re terrible at it.”

  I wanted to lie. I wanted to say we’d made love all night, that we hadn’t slept and almost called in sick so we could keep going.

  Instead, as usual, I relented and told him the truth. “No, we didn’t. I thought we were going to. We had a moment and kissed. But then she got all weird and pushed me away. She literally kicked me out of her bed.”

  “No shit? How was she this morning?”

  That was the confusing part. After I’d hit the floor, Veronica opened her mouth like she wanted to explain. But then we stared at each other for a few awkward seconds before she turned her back and shut off her bedside lamp.

  “She’s a little nicer toward me now, I guess.”

  Jorge looked confused. “I meant, what did she say when you asked her about the kiss?”

  “We haven’t talked about it. I mean, what am I going to say? Hey, that’s not cool, leaving me with blue balls like that.”

  Jorge laughed. “No. But you could ask her why she freaked out on you.”

  “True. I guess I’m just embarrassed.”

  Jorge nodded. It’d taken nearly thirty-five minutes to get out to Site Three, and that was after driving to Site Two and having a twenty-minute tailgate meeting. The road to Site Three was less defined than any we’d driven before. It was washed out in several areas—if it were to rain, even a four-by-four wouldn’t guarantee a successful exfiltration—and required climbing and descending nearly half a dozen steep hills.

  We’d missed the morning break, and members of the skeleton crew at our new, tiny site were starting to emerge from their trucks. There were two riggers, neither of whom looked like they’d been on many jobs, and two young men standing beside twenty-pound fire extinguishers.

  The site itself was also less defined than the other two. Rather than a large flat area for dozens of vehicles and other machinery to operate, Site Three was a small strip at the top of a hill. An old launcher was fenced off, while about fifty foot of pipe had been exposed leading from the launcher down the hill, which was only about thirty feet wide. It was on this hill that Jorge, Paul, Veronica, and I would put the finishing touches on a pig receiver—which is the mirror image of a launcher, meant to catch the filthy swine after its trip down the line.

  Because much of the room was needed for the track hoe, Jorge and Paul parked their welding rigs at the bottom of the hill. That meant Veronica and I had to schlep the extension cords, leads, rods, tools—and goddamn railroad ties—up the hill before work could begin. Yet another disadvantage to being on the top of a hill was the wind, which blew into us unencumbered for miles.

  The introvert in me would enjoy the relative solitude of this new job site. And my ears would love having to deal with just two welding machines growling at us from the bottom of a hill rather than half a dozen in a fifty-yard radius.

  But the work itself would be noticeably harder. By the time we were set up to start welding, Veronica had figured that out, too.

  “This sucks,” she said. “I’m so ready to be done with this shit and get back to my cool, windless office.”

  I spit out the dirt that had gathered in my mouth. “On the bright side, we’re going to get in shape.”

  Veronica looked around to make sure nobody was in listening range. “So, do you really think you’re about to get arrested? If the Rangers ask for you again, I won’t be able to hold off on running what I already know, including that you’re the one they’re looking at for the murder.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t do it, so if the criminal justice system works, they won’t arrest me.”

  “We both know that’s not true.”

  I caught a strange tone in her voice. Something left over from the night before? “Wow, thanks for the reassurance.”

  “You know what I mean. Investigators and DAs screw up all the time.”

  I couldn’t deny that, though I preferred not to think about it. “I hope you’ll be able to write something before that happens, showing that I’m not the most likely suspect.”

  “I’ll need two things for that. First, I need to go see Jamie one more time.”

  “Get him to admit to knowing Sylvia better than he lets on,” I said. “Good thinking.”

  Veronica nodded and looked around, avoiding eye contact. Things were going to stay awkward until we talked about it.

  “So, about last night—”

  “Let’s not and say we did,” Veronica said. “You were drunk, I was a little homesick, and I took advantage of the fact that you’re a lonely guy. I’m sorry about that, but I don’t feel anything for you.”

  “I don’t have a crush on you. But thank you for at least acknowledging that something happened.”

  “It would probably be best if we pretend it didn’t. It was a mistake. Simple as that.”

&nb
sp; I was lying on my bed and thumbing through Facebook when Veronica walked into our room reeking of beer. She immediately flipped open her laptop and began hammering away.

  “What did you find out?” The words stumbled out of my mouth. I had done a terrible job of trying to sound nonchalant.

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t care who Jameson is or why he killed that woman. I just care that it was him and not me.”

  She continued to type. “It wasn’t Jamie.”

  “How do you know?” I popped up from the bed to look over her shoulder when she didn’t respond.

  “I think I know who did it. But you’re not going to like hearing it.” She typed a name into one of those background check websites, one for which I assumed the Ledger had an account.

  Paul Henry Schuhmacher.

  “You should’ve told me Paul was Grant Schuhmacher’s son,” she said. “It would’ve saved me a lot of time.”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” I struggled to stay calm. “I’m telling you, he’s not a murderer. Did you even look into Jamie, or do you like him too much?”

  Veronica didn’t respond to my insinuation that she wanted to sleep with our cowardly foreman. “My bosses had already run Jameson’s name and we didn’t find anything suspicious, though he had one arrest for public intoxication in Tulsa a few years ago. But the Ledger couldn’t find anything on a Paul Henry. At least not one with a photo that matched. So, I went over to talk to Jameson today because he has access to employee documents. That’s where I saw Paul’s full name. Paul Henry Schuhmacher, with three h’s—more than unique enough to narrow down.”

  I clenched my teeth. “You lied to me about why you went there.”

  “No, I didn’t. You assumed.”

  I replayed our conversations. She was right. I had convinced myself Jameson was the bad guy and hadn’t even asked why she was going over there after work.