Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  We looked back at her computer screen, now populated with information about Paul. Two large vertical photos dominated the left side, one stacked on top of the other. The top was a driver’s license portrait that looked like the man I’d been working with. The other was a mugshot of a younger, more menacing Paul Schuhmacher.

  “Did you not know about his arrest in Lubbock fifteen years ago?” Veronica asked.

  I shook my head.

  “A Tech girl came out just after his senior season there and said he raped her. And not frat-boy shit either. Her account was brutal. He was arrested on a sexual assault charge in early 2004. It was big state news because he is the son of the then-State Senator. How could you have missed that? I thought he was your friend?”

  I did the math in my head. “It was still in college and not exactly following the news. That was before smartphones and push alerts. And we were teammates, but we ran in different circles.”

  “And nobody from Hinterbach told you? A small town like that?”

  “I didn’t keep in contact with anyone from there after I graduated high school, and my parents moved away a month after they got me settled in college. After Ruth Ann died, none of us wanted to be there anymore.”

  Veronica stared at me. I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not. Her eyes dropped to her laptop. “It looks like he was convicted of second-degree sexual assault later in 2004 and sentenced to eight years in prison.” She used her finger to follow the lines of text on the right side of the screen. “He bounced around a little bit early on but served most of his sentence at the Allan B. Polunsky Unit in Livingston.” Veronica looked up at me. “That’s where they house the worst of the worst.”

  We both contemplated this. Though I hadn’t been close with Paul in decades, I refused to jump to conclusions yet. “You know, none of that means he killed Sylvia.”

  “No. But there is one more thing. It’s nothing concrete, but everyone at the Ledger knows that the FBI has been after Grant Schuhmacher for years. We can’t ever confirm it, though.”

  Paul’s father, who was the beloved mayor of Hinterbach when I was there, did have a meteoric rise to his current status. He was relatively young when he was elected to the State Senate, and only stayed one-and-a-half terms before running for his seat in the House.

  Even as mayor he always had a lot of money for campaigning. And he was known for favoring certain Hinterbach citizens. There was even a rumor he manipulated the school board.

  When we played there, the board wanted to implement mandatory drug testing for all athletes. The resolution was defeated every year until Paul graduated.

  Veronica typed Sylvia’s name and brought up her background. “She’d been arrested a few times for protesting. But see this last one?” She pointed at the screen again. “This is a federal charge of mailing threatening communications to a government employee. She was arrested and charged a year and a half ago, but never went to trial. That must be when she started working with the FBI.”

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  “Yeah. I think your batshit theory about Sylvia is right. She was working as a confidential informant for the feds. You just had the wrong target. She was trying to get incriminating information out of Paul, the disowned son of an allegedly crooked United States congressman, and pass it along.”

  That explained Paul’s motive. He obviously had the means and opportunity. But there were a few unanswered questions.

  Veronica beat me to them. “But if we’re right, why did he leave the body where it would be found? And why in the hell would he stick around until that happened?”

  My stomach turned to stone. The fight. The screwdriver.

  “He wanted to make sure he did a good enough job framing me.”

  We sat in silence, each staring at respective spots on the eggshell walls.

  “Well, I need two more sources before I can finish my story,” Veronica said.

  “The Texas Rangers, who won’t talk to you.”

  “And Paul Henry Schuhmacher.”

  31

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  Grant Schuhmacher was among the dozens of partygoers at Summer’s house that evening.

  Schuhmacher graduated from Hinterbach High and, through his influence as town mayor, played an active role in shaping the school district’s academic and athletic policies. And, by all accounts, he and Summer had a strong working relationship. He would recommend new works of literature for the library, and she would help coordinate community events for the space, as well as summer activities for her students.

  “I made it a point to stop by every year,” Schuhmacher said. “I always got there in time for her world-famous pecan pie and apple cobbler. She served them a la mode, and it was my job to bring the vanilla ice cream.”

  “But the main reason was herding folks at the party to the park across the street for the fireworks,” he continued. “Things never got too wild at her house. But it seemed to help having me remind folks that the park was the best place to watch. Our residents worked hard on the fireworks show, and I always made sure it got the biggest attendance possible.”

  Though Louisa Park was a short walk from Summer’s back yard, there was no direct line of sight. Not only were vehicles lining the curb, but trees and other vegetation blended in with the wooden fence that separated the buffet area from the street. It also would’ve been difficult to hear the goings-on in the backyard. One of the teens had brought a boombox with them, and the blaring music mixed with screaming toddlers and the laughter of drunk fathers and sons.

  In keeping with tradition, Mayor Schuhmacher was the last one to leave Summer Foster’s back yard.

  Nobody, except for her killer, saw her alive after he crossed the street.

  32

  Summer Foster

  July 4, 1999, 6:30 p.m.

  Summer sat frozen on her couch. What were her options? She was going to end up on the news like that teacher in the Pacific Northwest. Was it better to out herself? Or should she let Butch get drunk and tell everyone in town, one by one, until the police or school district launched an investigation?

  No. She felt better in control. But to whom could she confess?

  Perhaps she should write a note and go buy a gun. If only Butch weren’t such a pussy and had one in their house. But after her purchase, should she make her suicide public or private? How would Sammy react if she killed herself? Would he be better off with her dead or in jail?

  Her brain was still spiraling, but Summer knew none of those options would play out immediately. Butch would take some time to get properly hammered. And there were the dozens of neighbors outside, most of whom were finishing their dinner and would be expecting dessert soon. Summer looked at the clock hanging on the living room wall, which was leaning off-center after Butch’s outburst, a slice of cleaner wallpaper peeking out. It was just after six-thirty. If she didn’t get her pecan pie in the oven, she would fall behind schedule.

  And yet, she couldn’t take her eyes off the large, wooden timepiece that had been there since she was a child. She studied the roman numerals and admired how rustic it looked. She once again watched the second hand for eight minutes before finally unfolding her legs and standing to put the clock back in place.

  Summer set timers for the pie and apple cobbler, which had to come out first, then returned to her seat on the couch. She stood to remove the cobbler, then once again for the pecan pie. She knew she’d have to stay standing and return to her life, whatever that meant now.

  She’d just set the pie on the cooling rack when the second-to-last person she wanted to see walked through the back door.

  “Summer Foster, I believe you look lovelier every time I see you. And I love what you’ve done with your hair.” Grant Schuhmacher was holding a plastic gallon of cheap vanilla ice cream, its yellow contents matching the impurity of the man cradling it under his armpit.

  Hinterbach’s mayor, who flirted in a southern gentlemanly way, had lived around the corn
er for as long as she could remember. And for that entire time, he’d been married to Gina, who was still an English teacher at Hinterbach High. Paul was born when they were both in their late twenties.

  “Hi, Grant. I’m running a little bit behind.”

  “No problem at all.” Grant walked toward the freezer. “Sorry for barging in, but I didn’t want the ice cream to melt.”

  “It’s fine. I appreciate you bringing it.”

  Grant opened the olive-green freezer door. “It wouldn’t be the Fourth of July without it. Say, I didn’t see Butch outside.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Summer turned away from Grant so he couldn’t see her face turn red. “I sent him to get more ice and chips to hold people off until these cool down enough to serve.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Summer waited a few moments, hoping Grant would go back outside to hobnob until she was ready to put back on a smile. Instead, he began walking toward her couch.

  “Come, let’s sit while we wait for the pies and that rascal boyfriend of yours,” he said.

  She didn’t say anything. But dealing with one person was better than facing the crowd outside, so Summer staggered over and sat as far on the opposite end as she could. Grant swiveled gracefully to face her, crossing his right leg over his left.

  He was overdressed as always, wearing a light beige linen suit with a baby blue, short-sleeved collared shirt underneath. His hair was cropped close, his usual Independence Day look, with the slightest hint of silver at the temples. His square jaw had a late-evening stubble, and a small tuft of chest hair was peeking out through the opening of his shirt, which was down a summer-casual two buttons. On many other days, Summer had thought of Grant Schuhmacher as a handsome man. But on that day, she saw something different.

  And older version of Paul.

  “Paul’s been telling me about the books you recommended the juniors read before classes start back up,” Grant said. “That Lord of the Flies, well he loves that one. Of course, he knows which group he would fit into.”

  Summer nodded. It was a joke to him, but she saw flashes of it that morning.

  “Now, that other one, he’s not so sure about it,” he continued. “And I must say, after reading a little bit of it, I’m not so sure about it either.”

  Summer sat up a bit straighter and cleared her throat. “Fahrenheit 451 is a classic.”

  She was thankful for a momentary distraction from her own thoughts. Summer had already defended the Ray Bradbury novella to teachers and the administration ad nauseam.

  “Most of the nearby school districts teach that book much earlier than we do. Not only does it instill the values of free speech and critical thinking, it also builds a lifelong love of literature and helps show how a society that doesn’t learn from its past is doomed to repeat its mistakes, like the Nazis burning books.”

  Grant nodded thoughtfully. “I see those points. I guess it’s all the science-fictiony stuff that gets us. I’m partial to westerns myself. Lonesome Dove, now there’s an American classic, though I suppose it’s too adult for us to teach. And those Hank the Cowdog books, Paul sure did love those.”

  “Those are both fine choices. That’s the great thing about libraries: There’s a book in there for everyone.”

  A few more awkward moments passed before Grant spoke again. “Butch sure has been gone a while. Did he run up to the Sinclair? Or did you send him all the way to H-E-B?”

  “I’m not sure where he decided to go. I just gave him a list.”

  “You never can tell with him, can you? I am glad you seem to be straightening him out, though. He told me he would start helping Paul get ready for this season, kind of like you did for the Beck girl, may she rest in peace. But he’s been a no-show so far.”

  Summer retreated into herself, and her head swirled again with thoughts of Ruth Ann. Of Paul Schuhmacher. Of Butch.

  She must’ve done a poor job hiding it. Grant’s rugged smile faded, and he slid toward Summer’s end of the couch.

  “Hey, is everything okay?”

  Summer tried to hold it together, but fight or flight began to take over. She remembered Miss Kitty being tag-teamed that morning outside her house. Summer began inching her back deeper into the couch and pulled her knees up to her chin again.

  “Stop it,” she whispered. “Just stop.”

  Grant did as he was told and held up his right palm. “Okay, okay. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.”

  Summer wanted to say that his fucking son is what happened. That his son was an animal that needed to be put down.

  “My son did what?” Grant asked.

  Summer’s right hand shot up to her mouth. Had she said all that?

  “I don’t understand,” Grant continued. “Why would you say that about Paul?”

  Summer closed her eyes and felt tears stream down her cheeks. She’d apparently made her choice.

  “He… he raped me.”

  Grant let his hand fall and pushed himself back to his end of the couch. “What did you say?”

  Summer sniffed and wiped away the rest of her tears. If she was going to do this, she might as well do it right.

  “I said your son, Paul, raped me. Earlier today.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He forced me to have sex. In my bedroom.”

  “I know the definition of rape, dammit,” Grant said. “What I mean is, how could that happen?”

  Summer took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Paul and I began sleeping together when school let out for summer.”

  Grant opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. He looked to his right for a few moments before turning back to face Summer. “You know, not to be confrontational or accusatory, but technically you are in the wrong.”

  “I understand that. But earlier today, I told him to leave. Butch was going to be home soon, and I had to get started preparing for all of this.” Summer pointed toward her back door. “But instead of leaving, he forced himself on me.”

  Grant stared expressionlessly at Summer before pursing his lips. “If what you say is true—and you’ll understand if I don’t automatically believe your accusations which, quite frankly, I find to be outrageous—where does that leave us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, on the one hand, there’s you, having sex with a student, which is a state felony, I believe.” Grant held up his hands, miming Lady Justice’s scale. “On the other hand, we have Paul, who you—the confessed criminal—have accused of not stopping your illegal sexual activity when you said no. You see the dilemma, right?”

  “Are you trying to say that those two things are equal? What I did wasn’t violent. Hell, if he’d’ve come to you and said he nailed the hot librarian, you’d be giving him a high five right now.”

  “I resent that implication. But nonetheless, we have two wrongs. They may not make a right, but I think we both have something to gain by letting sleeping dogs lie.”

  Summer closed her eyes and shook her head. Grant Schuhmacher was a cliché politician through and through. She wondered which he was protecting more: his son’s reputation or his own.

  She looked back up at him. “The apple really doesn’t fall far from the goddamn tree. You’ve talked me into sweeping this under the rug—for now. But you should know that your brainiac son went and bragged to Butch. I’ll let you handle shutting him up.”

  Summer smiled when Grant’s eyes widened. She stood and picked up the pie. He was still sitting on the couch when she reached the back door.

  “Well, Mr. Mayor, are you going to get the ice cream for me?”

  The last hour had been the best of her day. Few things are as cathartic as a confession. And, though Summer hadn’t let Grant in on all her secrets, she’d done enough to get her a little high. Not quite the runner’s high she loved, but enough that the smile on her face was genuine.

  “Okay everyone, time to make our way over to the park for the fireworks,” Grant said.

&
nbsp; Summer waved to her guests as they tossed the paper plates and plastic cutlery into the black fifty-gallon trash cans on either side of the buffet line. Several of the drunk fathers asked if she was going to join them. She told them she’d be there in a few minutes, but she wanted to clean a little while she still had daylight.

  She smiled, watching the horde march toward the lawn chairs or blankets they’d set up. No matter the questionable shit she’d done, Summer was a pillar of the Hinterbach community. She could live with a few secrets to maintain that status.

  Though she was in a good mood, Summer could no longer put off her need for a cigarette. Out of courtesy, she tried not to smoke when she was hosting, even outside. There were a few people in every crowd who didn’t smoke, and there were kids present. She didn’t particularly like smoking either, but in the late seventies—and probably today, though she couldn’t officially know since her job was to punish such misbehavior—middle- and high-school girls who didn’t were considered outcasts.

  Summer contemplated her life as she breathed in the filtered joy. She watched as a tow truck hauling a car pulled into the courthouse parking lot. The car was a silver luxury sports coupe, and it sparkled—except for the large dent in the passenger-side fender.

  It was far too nice to belong to all but a few of Hinterbach’s residents, and she knew what they drove. Plus, the mechanic shop was closed. Perhaps the truck driver lived here and was stopping on his way to Kerrville.

  Summer turned back to the mess in her yard. Should she start with putting trash in the cans, or should she gather up her serving dishes and put them inside? The bugs were already getting bad, and they would swarm to the food if she didn’t get it inside soon.

  Summer started tossing serving spoons into the bowls.

  Then she heard his voice.

  33