Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

I didn’t like Jorge’s flirty nature now that we were adults. He always seemed one step away from cheating on his wife, and it often created conflict where none had existed. But as I pictured Paul slicing and bludgeoning the woman I used to call Jillian, I realized Jorge’s shady ways could be the key to keeping me out of prison.

  While Veronica continued researching and writing with her white earbuds in, I called my best friend.

  “Hey man, what are you doing?” Jorge asked.

  “I’m with Veronica, and I need your help.”

  “Bro, if you don’t know where to put it by now, I don’t think I can help you.”

  My expression hardened, despite the fact Jorge couldn’t see me. “Jorge, I need you to shut the fuck up and listen to me for once.”

  “Oh.” I heard Jorge walk to a quieter room. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Do you still have Walker’s cellphone number?”

  “Who?” Jorge apparently collected so many phone numbers he couldn’t keep track.

  “The Texas Ranger.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I saved it in my phone as something else. Why?”

  I waved at Veronica to get her attention, then gave her a thumbs up. “Awesome. I need to talk to her, but I only have Agent Orange’s landline.”

  “Agent who?”

  “The other guy. Anyway, text me Walker’s number.”

  The receiver crackled as he sighed into his phone. “She told me not to tell anyone I have it. She said it was for my personal use only and to call the other guy if we needed to talk to them.”

  “I know. But she’s nicer and might take me seriously.”

  “All right, all right.” Jorge was whispering, and I could picture him checking the hall to make sure his wife wasn’t listening outside the door. “I’ll give it to you in the morning.”

  Jorge was normally not so dense. I tried to avoid feeling paranoid, but a small part of me wondered why he was being so difficult. “Goddammit, I need you to text it to me right now.”

  “What’s so important you need to call her after ten?”

  Under normal circumstances, I would have told Jorge everything. But one of two bad things could happen if I did. Jorge might call Paul and put us all in danger. Or Jorge still wouldn’t give me Walker’s number, which would mean he was complicit.

  But if I appealed to our friendship, and the threat to my freedom, he might finally give in.

  “Veronica and her editors found out some stuff that could help Walker in the investigation,” I said. “I need to make sure they know about it before they arrest me. And Veronica could use a quote for the story she’s writing right now.”

  “Oh wow, that’s great. So, who did it?”

  I hated lying to Jorge, but he would have to forgive me later. “Tell you what: let me talk to Walker, see if we agree on who it is, then I’ll call you back. Deal?”

  “Fine, but you better call me back, fucker. You always say you will but never do.”

  I was terrible about calling people back. My ways wouldn’t change that night, either. I didn’t like talking on the phone in the first place, and I truly didn’t have the time. “I will, I promise.”

  A minute later, I tapped on Jorge’s text and added Pablo Escobar to my contacts, then corrected the information. Fight-or-flight kicked in and I had to take a deep breath before calling. “Hello, is this Caroline Walker?”

  “Uh, yes, this is she. With whom am I speaking?”

  “It’s Bartholomew Beck.”

  “Hold on,” she whispered. I could hear her say something, though it was muffled, as though she was holding her hand over her phone. “How did you get my number?”

  It only took Walker a moment to answer her own question. “Jorge gave it to you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but I told him it was an emergency. And it is, I swear.”

  “Look, without giving you too many details, I can tell you that you’re no longer a suspect in the death of Sylvia Davenport.”

  “So, you’ve figured out Paul Schuhmacher did it.”

  I heard footsteps, bootheels on tile. She wasn’t at home. “How do you know?” she said, no longer whispering.

  “You know my background. I’m capable of gathering facts. And since your boss seemed to think I was suspect number one, I decided to prove my innocence before he arrested me.”

  “First, he’s my partner on this, not my boss. Second, leave the investigating to us. You could get hurt.”

  “I’ll remember that next time I’m accused of murder.”

  I was angry with Walker. But I had to calm down so we could work together. “I’m sorry,” I continued. “By the way, where are you? Are you with Agent Orange right now?”

  Walker snorted. “Yes, and I need to get back to what we were doing.”

  “Y’all are about to make an arrest, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But, if we were, it would require an arrest warrant, which would mean getting our criminal complaint and related affidavits in order. And that stuff takes time, so I need to go. But do me a favor and keep your head down until we make this hypothetical arrest.”

  I barely had time to end the call before Veronica bombarded me with questions. I recounted our conversation, with extra emphasis on Walker’s warning to keep quiet.

  “Did you both agree that your conversation was off the record?”

  I considered what she was saying. Veronica wanted me to give her information for her story. “No. But I’m not a journalist.”

  “But you’re a true-crime writer, and she knows that. Legally, you’re in the clear.”

  I shook my head. “Can you even use anything Walker and I talked about?”

  “Did you lie to me?”

  I did not want her to use me as her source. Though I was no longer a suspect, making enemies in law enforcement was not in my best interest. But I couldn’t explain why to Veronica, whose one-track mind was fully on the story I needed her to keep chasing.

  “No, I didn’t lie. But you better keep my name out of it.”

  34

  Excerpt from Cold Summer

  In the time that passed between Heller’s arrest and his trial, restaurants and coffee shops in Hinterbach were filled with conversations about the man in jail, the woman buried in the cemetery, and the kind of evil that transpired that night.

  Nobody in town claimed to have proof she was cheating on Heller. But perhaps an act of infidelity was never necessary. The knowledge that she was coveted by every man she passed on the street may have been enough. Perhaps there was something insidious about Hinterbach, and whatever evils lie beneath its quiet surface had come to a head that night.

  35

  Franklin Jones

  July 4, 1999, 8:30 p.m.

  Jones muttered to himself all the way from the tow truck to Summer’s house. His plan had been derailed by a summer rain shower and some dumbass who couldn’t drive when the pavement got wet. That dumbass’ wreck happened just after the crest of a hill, and Jones didn’t have time to stop. He slid sideways and crashed into the station wagon.

  Jones wasn’t hurt, though the same could not be said of his BMW. He would have to get the passenger fender and dashboard replaced, and the rest of the interior would have to be re-done after the bottle of red wine broke in the backseat.

  He might not have made it to Summer’s house at all if it weren’t for his new mobile phone. Jones hadn’t planned on cashing in his favor with Patty so soon—and he had to shell out even more cash to his barber’s fiancé for the tow and the detour to Hinterbach—But it was worth it to see Summer and torpedo her relationship with Butch Fucking Heller.

  Jones was stealthy on his approach to her trailer. His original plan was to make a splash, perhaps reconnect with some of the neighbors, particularly Mayor Schuhmacher, a patron of his bank. But any interaction now would mean having to explain what happened to his car. The next obvious questions would be: Why had he driven to San Antonio on a holiday?

  He didn’t want to
come up with a reasonable explanation. As he approached Summer’s backyard undetected, Jones gave himself an attaboy and breathed a sigh of relief before speaking. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

  Summer stopped cleaning but didn’t turn around. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Jones had planned for this kind of pushback. He stopped and put his hands in his pockets, hoping to disarm her and checking to ensure the note was still there. “Hello Summer. Don’t worry, I come in peace.”

  She turned around. “In peace? The fact that you even have to say that means you know you shouldn’t be here. Now get the hell away from me.”

  “I deserve that. But you should know the restraining order expired at midnight.” He took a step forward. “May I please come closer? I came to apologize and reintroduce myself.”

  “Reintroduce yourself? I know who you are. You’re a controlling asshole who can’t stand to not get your way. A rich kid who only knows about money and thinks it can buy affection. I don’t care if you have dropped, what, five pounds? Or if you think you can behave now. You’re the same asshole I never loved and never will.”

  His preparation didn’t blunt the pain from hearing Summer’s contempt. But he had changed. He could control his anger now. He was more considerate of others’ needs and would spend the rest of his life being sweet to Summer.

  To do that, Jones knew he would need to prove himself. Standing by and retreating at her first pushback would not accomplish that, so he stepped toward her again. “Summer, sweetheart, it’s okay. You can relax. I’m relaxed.”

  She picked up a long barbecue fork and pointed it at him. “You need to stop right there. If you don’t leave, I will scream, then go inside and call the police.”

  “Please don’t.” Jones held up his left hand. “I know what I did. But I went through anger management. I learned a lot, like taking ownership of my decisions. I needed it, and I will never be that person again.”

  Jones walked a bit faster toward Summer. She froze for a moment before sucking in a breath. He could tell she was about to scream, so he sprinted the last few steps and covered her mouth while taking away the fork.

  “It’s okay,” Jones whispered. “All you have to do is relax and hear me out. If you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll leave, and you can go watch the fireworks.”

  Summer’s breathing slowed, and she stopped struggling. She nodded her head, so Jones took his hand off her mouth.

  “I didn’t see Butch in the park, but I take it you two are still together?” he asked.

  Summer nodded.

  “Well, I have something to tell you that will make you change your mind about him. It all started with him having sex with a woman in his truck outside of a bar. That woman was a hook—”

  Summer stomped on Jones’ left foot and lunged sideways. She was strong and nearly escaped his grasp. But he was stronger. He held onto her wrist with his right hand and yanked Summer to him, her back slapping into his chest. His left hand found its way to her mouth again.

  “Why do you always make things more difficult for me? I wish you would be more considerate of my feelings and allow me to express myself. Can you do that?”

  Tears dripped on his index finger and the web of his thumb. Summer nodded again.

  “Thank you.” Jones kept his hand over her mouth. “As I was saying, Butch had sex with a prostitute in his truck outside of a bar. About nine months later—I apologize for not having exact dates for you—that prostitute had Butch’s child.”

  Summer relaxed her body and tried to turn and face Jones. He let her, though he kept his grip on her wrist and moved his right hand to her hip to maintain control.

  “Even if that were true,” she said, “how the hell would you know something like that?”

  “I think you know the connections I have around here. But rest assured, I checked it out myself. I’ve met the woman and I’ve seen the child. Well, I heard the mother talk about her. Sorry. I don’t ever want to lie to you. Not like Butch has.”

  Summer stared into Jones’ eyes, and he smiled. This was how he’d imagined their reunion going.

  “Let’s say I believe you, which I don’t,” Summer said. “But even if I did, your reason for telling me is transparent and gross. You want me to get mad at Butch so you can worm your way back into my life. Well, I’ve got news for you. I lied earlier. Butch and I are not together. He left earlier today, and I don’t know if he’s ever coming back.”

  Jones felt lightheaded for a moment, a feeling of joy pricking at his skin and eyes.

  “Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face,” Summer said. “Just because Butch is gone doesn’t mean I’m going to get back together with you.”

  Summer tried to push away from Jones, but he held fast.

  “Don’t you get it?” she continued. “I don’t like you. You make my skin crawl. I’m going to have to shower for an hour after you leave to wash the gross off of me.”

  Jones shut his eyes and tightened his grip.

  “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  He grabbed a fistful of hair. His right hand slipped around her waist and Jones lifted her a foot off the ground. He looked around. The back door was at least twenty feet away, but he could take her around to the other side of the shed.

  He took two steps before hearing a male voice behind him.

  “Hey, what are you doing?”

  Jones set Summer down and lowered his hand from her mouth. “Don’t scream or make any quick moves,” he whispered in her ear.

  Jones turned his head and saw a burly figure walking toward him. It was probably a teenage boy, though he had the beginnings of a full beard and looked like he could lift Jones’ BMW. He was short, though, which Jones could use to his advantage if things got physical.

  “Hey there, sport,” Jones said. “I was just giving my old friend here a hug.”

  “We both know that’s not true,” the boy said. “I remember you. You’re that rich guy who beat her up a few years back.”

  Jones froze, realizing who the kid was. He was the neighbor boy with the weird name. Garfunkel or Sebastian. Something like that. The boy knew him and could make trouble if Jones didn’t play it right.

  He felt Summer take a deep breath and turn toward the boy. “Hi Bartholomew. Yes, this is Frank, and he was dropping by to say hi. But he was about to leave. Isn’t that right, Frank?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Jones said through the teeth of his clenched smile. “I mostly came by to drop this off.”

  Jones took out the letter he’d written and pressed it into her palm. “Please read it. It’s the rest of the story I was telling you earlier.”

  Summer took a step back and nodded. “Well, thank you for stopping by. I’m sorry you missed dessert.”

  Jones stuffed his hands back in his pockets and brushed past the kid, who smelled like pineapple rum. He snuck back to the tow truck, where Patty’s fiancé was still waiting. Jones had paid him seven-hundred dollars to wait in the courthouse parking lot for as long as it took.

  The sun was setting, so Jones quickened his pace to beat the darkness. As he reached the truck, Jones turned around to look at Summer with the last rays of sunshine. She and the boy were cleaning the tables. The note was hanging out of her dress’s tiny pocket. He needed to give her a day or two to read it. By the time his car was ready to drive back, she’d welcome him in. She’d thank him for the care he’d shown by doing such thorough research on Butch.

  “Hey, are you ready?” the driver shouted through the passenger window.

  Jones opened the door and climbed in. “Yeah, there’s nothing else I can do today.”

  “Everything go okay?”

  Jones shut the door and closed his eyes, comforted by visions of Summer, sitting in their room in his house after he took her out of the cesspool that was Hinterbach. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll get her soon enough.”

  36

  Jorge frowned at me as I climbed into his truck.
“You didn’t call me back last night.”

  We sat in silence for a moment before it was broken by the sound of Veronica slamming the back-passenger door. Chipper as always, she started talking before feeling the tension.

  “I know,” I said. “Listen, one more thing has to happen, then I can tell you everything. And it should happen soon.”

  “Whatever.” I knew Jorge’s tones. He was annoyed with me, which didn’t happen often.

  “Look, I’m not trying to shut you out. We just can’t tell anyone anything right now.”

  Jorge chose silence as his response. I laid my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, though I knew I wasn’t going to get my morning nap.

  When Jorge parked at Site Three, we all noticed the absence of a white pickup.

  “Did Paul call and tell you he was running late?” Veronica asked Jorge.

  “Nope. Try calling him.”

  Veronica and I looked at each other. All of us had traded numbers. “He’s your friend,” she said.

  I thought about pointing out that she was his helper. But without explaining why I didn’t want to call him, she was right. I was the most logical person to make the call.

  I put my cell on speakerphone, but all we heard was Paul’s voicemail message—a female robot voice reciting Paul’s number—before hanging up.

  “I wonder if he called in sick,” Jorge said. “Let me call Zak and see what’s up.”

  I looked at Veronica in the rearview mirror as we listened. We were wondering the same thing: Had he already been arrested?

  “What’s up?” we heard Zak ask.

  “We’re out here at Site Three, but Paul isn’t here,” Jorge said. “Did he call you?”

  “Shit. No. You try to call him?”

  “Yeah, but it went straight to voicemail.”

  “Okay,” Zak said. “Let me try. I’ll holler back in a minute.”

  Jorge reached below his feet and pulled a breakfast burrito out of a paper Allsup’s bag. Veronica and I had stayed in the truck during his morning stop, not wanting to poke the bear.