Let the Guilty Pay

by Rick Treon

  “Right. So, he’s trying to live vicariously through her, and he’s getting real rough on her. She finally tells him she’s as good as she’s ever going to get with his help, hoping he’ll lay off. Instead, he goes out and finds her a personal coach.”

  “I see, so this girl’s father is rich. That’s an important detail. You need to put facts like that in your reports earlier.”

  “No, the family’s not rich,” Beck said. “I mean, I guess they’re not poor. But the dad doesn’t hire a coach, he gets a neighbor to help the girl out. The neighbor was real good when she was in high school, too.”

  Summer tossed the plate in her hand, but then turned around to look at Beck. He wasn’t near the tables anymore. He was standing in the middle of the yard looking at her. There was a chance he was still giving her an account of a book he’d read, but Summer didn’t think so.

  “Bartholomew, what did you read?”

  He smiled and took a step toward her. She could see a bit of his older sister, mostly in the eyes and nose. And his legs. Beck walked around on a pair of tree trunks, though his calves were almost furry below his long basketball shorts.

  “I told you, it’s a true account of a young woman’s life. Don’t worry, I’m about to get to the good part.”

  Summer jumped when she heard the first bomb explode over Hinterbach.

  “So, the girl starts training with the neighbor woman and her times start improving. And the girl realizes she’d made a new friend. Pretty soon, their training gets more intense, and the neighbor woman starts becoming friendlier and touchier with the girl. The girl likes it, and the neighbor lady asks her one day if she’d ever kissed a girl.”

  “That’s a lie.” Summer covered her mouth as soon as she’d said the words, wishing to God she could take it back.

  Beck stepped closer. “How could it be. It’s in this nonfiction book. That means it’s all true, right?”

  Summer decided it was time to play the adult card on Beck. Despite his physical appearance, he was still only sixteen and had been taught to respect his elders. “Now you listen here, Bartholomew Beck, you need to stop this right now before I tell your parents.”

  Beck continued his advance, getting within a few feet of Summer. “So, the girl didn’t answer. She just looked up into the neighbor lady’s beautiful blue eyes, then reached up and kissed her. They start having sex, and the girl falls head-over-heels in love with the woman. And they spend a lot of time together running, so the girl gets real good at track. Her grades are also good, so she gets a partial scholarship to the University of Texas. But the girl doesn’t tell anyone, because she’s so in love with the neighbor lady that she decides to stay and go to the local community college.”

  Summer was crying. Ruth Ann had loved her.

  But those tears soon turned cold on her cheeks. Nobody goes through a monologue like his without planning something terrible. Beck had found his sister’s diary, gotten drunk on her liquor, and cornered Summer.

  She flinched as the fireworks got louder. The show was closing in on its finale. She only had to hold him off for a minute or two.

  “You don’t have to finish this,” Summer said. “I don’t want to hear it any more than you want to say it. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Beck froze for a moment, then sprinted toward her. She took off to her left, but soon realized she’d chosen the wrong direction. She was at the shed within seconds. Before she could correct her course, Beck had grabbed her shoulders.

  She kicked and threw punches, some of which landed, but it was like trying to fight a bear. Beck wrapped her up and jerked her toward him, screaming something unintelligible in her face. He tried to throw her down, but Summer resisted successfully. She felt his breathing slow. He just needed to get the anger out of his system.

  She sighed.

  Then the world tilted.

  Summer was aware of herself—of her body, of her shallow breath—but only in the loosest sense of the word. Feeling had been replaced by numbness. She tried opening her eyes, but only saw glimpses of fading light and amorphous shapes, though she felt darkness leaning over her.

  Summer wanted to tell the boy to call 911. Her mouth wouldn’t move.

  43

  I didn’t set out to kill her. I was a drunk sixteen-year-old searching for reason and justice in a life that rarely provides either.

  The composition notebook I found in the top of Ruth Ann’s closet contained a detailed account of her love affair with Summer. It included beautiful details. Stories about staring into each other’s eyes, exploring each other’s bodies, discussing each other’s secrets and fears. I cried when my sister described the moment she fell in love. I threw the diary across her room when she wrote about how fortunate she was to have checked the mail alone the day her scholarship offer to UT arrived. She immediately walked to the banks of Freddy’s Creek and tossed the package, then told our parents an assistant coach called that afternoon to say she wasn’t going to get an offer.

  If she’d been alive and I’d read that diary, there’s a chance I could’ve forgiven Summer for sleeping with my sister—I remember feeling jealous while reading those parts—and denying her a chance at a better education. But she was dead. And it was Summer’s fault. My beloved sister chose that community college to stay close to Summer. If it weren’t for their affair, my sister wouldn’t have been driving past County Road K on that horrible night.

  If not for Summer Foster, my sister would be alive.

  But as mad as I was, my goal was never murder. I had gone there looking for a confrontation, but I only wanted to yell. I wanted to tell Summer that I knew what she’d done. I wanted her to fear the consequences of me telling my parents or her boss. I wanted her to feel my pain, even if it was only for a few moments.

  After I’d accomplished that goal, my altered state and excess testosterone got the best of me. I grabbed her and shook, yelling an uncontrollable string of nonsense about fairness and fate and how it should’ve been her that died on that lonely road. Then I tried to throw her down, but she stopped me.

  I spent many years wishing her resistance had snapped me out of my hysteria. But as soon as I felt her body relax, I threw her down, expecting to knock the wind out of her and leave her bruised.

  Then I heard the sickening sound of her skull giving way to the corner of the picnic table.

  I wish I could claim convenient amnesia from there. I can’t. I looked around to make sure nobody had seen me, then drug her to the shed and found the bluntest object I could find. Her death had been an accident, but I wanted to make it look like someone had done it on purpose. Part of me still thinks I saw the faintest hint of life as the hammer came down where her skull had met the table, but the right side of her head was already dented and seeping blood, and the nearest hospital was too far away to save her.

  If she was still alive, I truly believe I kept her from suffering more.

  And the coverup? Finding a hammer and bashing her head in more, then driving a screwdriver into her eye to make it look like her attacker was a crazed lunatic? The framing of an innocent man, who as I sat on my bed was days away from being executed? The profits I made off Cold Summer that cemented Heller’s reputation as a violent killer?

  He did not kill Summer, but Butch Heller was not an innocent man. I read that note in Summer’s pocket, the one detailing how he let his own daughter die because he refused to own up to his infidelity. I processed those words as I hid in a thicket of nearby trees and watched Heller stumble to Summer’s body and have one last conversation with her.

  I also considered framing Franklin Jones. Since I’d chased him off just a few minutes beforehand, that was my first thought after realizing she was dead. But I never would’ve gotten away with it. He could’ve hired real lawyers, whereas Heller was left with a public defender. Jones was also a pillar of the Hill Country community. Heller was a known low life, the perfect patsy.

  I heeded Heller’s plea to call
the police as he staggered through Summer’s gate. The decision to say I’d seen him kill her was almost unconscious, like the only plausible response I could give when the operator requested the nature of my emergency.

  In the ensuing decades, many have speculated that Heller was innocent of killing Summer, but nobody had accused me. I’d been allowed to move on, living a life of being nice and giving a voice to others who had been destroyed by monsters like me. But after someone had finally confronted me with the truth, I realized that no amount of making up for this secret would ever be enough.

  Confession was my only route to absolution.

  Not only had Veronica taken my keys, but she’d driven my car to Jameson’s hotel. We needed to talk before she finished her story. Not to keep her from publishing the fact I killed Summer Foster, but to give her my full accounting. Anything less and I might as well keep lying.

  Fortunately, Jordan agreed to give me a ride to Fritch if I let him take a couple of Veronica’s beers. His excuse to leave was a new pack of cigarettes, so he had no time to waste and was already out of the motel parking lot before I got to Jameson’s door. I wished Jorge were with me, but I did not want to put him or his family in danger.

  I listened during the long pause after my knock. Hushed voices and rustling sheets.

  Jameson, shirtless and wearing a pair of boxer briefs, barely cracked open the door. “Big Nasty, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to Veronica.”

  He put his finger to his lips and lowered his voice. “She’s not here.”

  “Come on, I know she’s in there. She told me she was coming here, and I heard her talking before you opened the door.”

  “Look, I’m telling you, she’s not in here.”

  I acted like I was turning to go. Jameson was starting to shut the door when I spun around and bull-rushed him. I busted through to find a woman burrowing under a dingy bedsheet.

  Veronica had stooped to sleeping with Jameson to get more information for her stories. She was about to upend my life and help send me to prison, but not before having some fun. Anger bubbled to the surface. I was about to rip off the sheets and start screaming when I noticed FR clothing leading to the bed. Then I saw a United States Marine Corps tattoo slipping out from under the sheet.

  “Sorry, Melissa,” was all I could manage before Jameson ushered me out of the room.

  “Don’t you fucking tell anybody,” he said once we were out in the parking lot.

  “I didn’t see anything—as long as you’re straight with me. Did Veronica stop by here a little while ago?”

  “No, I swear. She told me she was coming over but never showed up. So I called Melissa.”

  Jameson shut the door and I pulled out my phone. Veronica didn’t answer. I left a voicemail, then sent a text.

  Stopped by Jameson’s. Said he hasn’t seen you. Where are you?

  Why would Veronica lie about where she was going? Then again, all she did was lie to me. I was still holding my phone when she called back.

  “Hey, we still need to talk about all of this,” I said. “Come pick me up.”

  “Veronica’s not available at the moment.”

  Paul. After nearly dropping the phone, I looked around, half expecting Agent Orange or Walker to pull up and ask to trace the call. No such luck.

  “Where’s Veronica?”

  “You mean Verna?”

  How did he know that? Were they working together somehow? “You know who I’m talking about. It sounds like we’ve all got some things to discuss. If you come pick me up, I’m sure we can work it all out.”

  “We’re headed out to Site Three right now.”

  That made no sense. Paul did not have a key to the gate. “How are you going to get in?”

  “Jorge taught me his little trick. Plus, if I can’t get the gate open, I have a master key in the bed that’ll open any lock. Either way, I’ll leave it ready for you to come in after me. You’re right—we do have some stuff to talk about.”

  “I can’t come after you. Veronica took my car.”

  His laugh made my skin crawl. “Looks like I won our bet. She said you’d recognize your own ride in the parking lot, but I told her you wouldn’t.”

  I jerked my head around, searching until I saw my black sedan tucked between two dually pickups.

  “The key fob’s in the cupholder.” Paul ended the call without giving me a chance to respond.

  Veronica had driven here to finish getting employee information from Jameson. Paul had taken her.

  His joke about the master key was a reference to either the torch or a cutting disc, both of which would make quick work of any padlock. But Paul couldn’t be in his rig, which was undoubtedly being monitored by Walker and Agent Orange. So what was he driving?

  I had no time to figure it out in the parking lot. I’d see for myself in less than an hour.

  44

  Paul had used a torch. In the middle of the day along a busy highway, the man I once considered a friend had parked, turned on the valves to the oxygen and acetylene, attached a torch, and cut into one of the padlocks on a rancher’s gate. Anyone could’ve seen him.

  What else was he willing to do?

  I thought about this as I inched my sedan along the rough terrain. I would have to ditch the car at least a hundred yards away, where the road got nearly vertical and even Jorge’s pickup had slowed to a crawl.

  I pulled the car as far off the trail as possible and hiked. I was thankful the wind from earlier had blown in a cold front, leaving dark gray clouds hanging low on the horizon. When I summited the tallest hill, my vision reached far enough to see Jorge’s truck on top of Site Three. Was Jorge with him? I thought about calling Jorge to make sure he was safe at home, but my phone was useless.

  I was still about fifty yards out when Paul jumped out of the driver’s side. He waved to me, then carefully stepped down the hill before climbing into the cab of a track hoe. Its top half swiveled, and the arm reached out as far as it could, its fingers clawing at the virgin prairie. It swiveled again, quickly dumped out the contents before going back in for one more healthy dollop.

  Paul emerged from the machine and pointed up to the truck. “I’m going to bring the truck down here,” he said casually, as though we were back from our lunch break and about start a weld. “Come meet me.”

  I did as he asked because, despite my best efforts, I hadn’t come up with a plan on my walk. The only reason to dig that hole was to hide Veronica’s body. And probably mine. I looked around a final time, hoping inspiration would hit and I would form an escape plan. Running was not an option. We were several miles from civilization and Paul was much faster than me. There was also nowhere to hide. We were exposed, though ironically the remoteness of our location made this one of the best spots to kill a person. Or two.

  He parked next to the soon-to-be grave and jumped out. “Hop in the bed and put the cutting disc on Jorge’s other grinder, the old one without the safety.”

  My hands were shaking as Paul’s plan came into focus.

  I had just reached the tailgate when the pickup rocked like a boat hitting choppy water. I looked around the cab and saw Paul carrying Veronica over his shoulder. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back. Her feet were similarly restrained, with a healthy amount of duct tape closing her knees together. I heard muffled screams and assumed her mouth was also taped shut.

  I wasn’t sure how much Paul knew about me or Veronica, so I played dumb.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Well, I’m obviously going to kill her.” He dumped Veronica on the ground like a bag of flour. “And you’re going to help.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to kill her for the same reason I was going to kill you. She knows I killed Sylvia.”

  I thought about the best way to look shocked by this news. I took too long.

  “Look, you can assume I know everything,” Paul said. “About you, about Veronica, about you
r conversations with the Texas Rangers. All of it.”

  “If that’s true, why am I not tied up like her?”

  Paul walked past me and dropped the tailgate. “Like I said, you’re going to help me.”

  I grabbed Paul’s arm as he tried to walk back to Veronica. “I’m not going to help you kill anyone.”

  “I know you prefer killing alone. So do I. But right now, we don’t have a choice.”

  You prefer killing alone. Veronica had told Paul about Summer. “When did she tell you?”

  Paul jerked his arm out of my grip. “After I grabbed her, she wanted to bargain with me. She told me getting revenge on you was the real reason she was here, not to cover Sylvia’s murder. I got her to unlock her laptop so I could snoop around. As you know, she was doing both.”

  I looked over at her. Veronica’s body was facing away from us, but her head craned our direction as she listened. “When did you know we were onto you?”

  “She apparently asked Jameson to see the paperwork I filled out to get hired on, including the photocopy of my driver’s license they made. That sounded real suspicious to Jameson, but he let her do it anyway because she fucked him.”

  Veronica shouted through the duct tape in protest. He looked at her. “Hey, I’m just telling him what he told me.”

  Paul turned back to me. “So, Jameson tells me that she was looking through my stuff. I figured that if she’s doing that, I better find out why. So, I looked her up online. If a reporter is here, trying to get my real name and learn more about me, I figure she must at least suspect I killed Sylvia.”

  Paul walked over to Veronica and kicked her in the ribs. She rolled toward the hole. “And two days ago, those Texas Rangers came to my trailer and asked me questions. The girl wrote down the VIN from my truck as they left.”

  “So why not run? Get as far away from us and the police as you can?”

  Paul kicked her again, forcing her to the edge. “I’m going to do that. But it takes a little bit of time when you’re under surveillance. Plus, I need to get rid of Veronica.”