As Marlin and Garza sprinted back to the cruiser, Marlin heard a hissing sound and noticed green fluid puddling under the front bumper. They hopped in and screeched onto the highway, lights flashing and siren blaring. Garza grabbed the mike and called for backup.
“He took out your radiator,” Marlin said, one hand braced against the dashboard as they gained speed.
“I saw,” Garza replied.
The speedometer was quickly up to ninety. A half-mile ahead, Clements’s Cherokee came into view-stuck behind several vehicles in the left lane and a semi carrying a mobile home in the right lane. Seconds later, Garza was on Clements’s bumper.
The drivers in the left lane began to drop their speed as they heard the siren… as did the driver of the big rig. Now the cruiser and the Cherokee were caught behind a cluster of traffic going fifty. Then Clements saw his chance: He nosed up mere inches from the semi and cut sharply left, almost clipping the front fender of a station wagon. The driver of the wagon tapped the brakes, slowing Garza, as Clements accelerated in the fast lane, gaining a few hundred yards on the cruiser. Finally, the wagon pulled to the right behind the semi, and Garza had a clear path.
“Road narrows,” Marlin reminded him.
Garza nodded. The two southbound lanes merged to one, with a meager shoulder on the side. The cruiser crested a hill, and now they could see another semi carrying the other half of the double-wide mobile home. Clements was already on its tail, weaving left and right, trying to pass. Oncoming drivers blared their horns and swerved right as Clements tried to see around the semi.
Marlin smelled something burning and leaned to see the temperature indicator on the dashboard. Pegged on H. “Car can’t take much more,” he said.
Garza was riding Clements’s bumper now, speed at sixty, and Marlin wondered if the sheriff was going to attempt the PIT maneuver-a move where the pursuing car nudges the rear quarter-panel of the lead car, causing it to spin out. The answer was clear when Garza found a lull in the traffic and pulled into the oncoming lane, edging up to the Cherokee.
Steam poured out from under the hood and Marlin knew the cruiser didn’t have much longer. He craned his neck and looked back-but there were no other deputies in sight yet to continue the chase.
Just as Garza was about to use his right front fender to tap the Cherokee behind the left rear wheel, Clements jerked the Jeep onto the shoulder and began slipping past the semi on the right, picking up speed. The three vehicles were approaching a long leftward curve now, and Garza eased into the left lane to see if he could pass the semi. The road was clear for several hundred yards-except for a broken-down truck on the right shoulder, directly in Clements’s path. With the way the road curved, and the semi’s large load, Marlin knew Clements couldn’t see what lay ahead.
Garza and the driver of the semi both spotted the imminent disaster and reacted: Garza pushed firmly on his brakes and put some distance between the cruiser and the semi. The semi began to drift over into the left lane to give Clements a chance to see the truck in his path.
But it was simply too late-and Clements was going too fast now.
He finally spotted the truck and tried to accelerate and cut back in front of the semi. He almost made it, but he clipped the rear of the broken-down truck in an explosion of glass, and began to spin. The rotating Cherokee careened across the highway, bounced off a guardrail, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the highway.
But now Clements was sitting broadside in the path of the semi.
The driver was standing on his brakes, leaving trails of black rubber. Marlin winced: He could see Clements’s terrified face as the semi closed in on the driver’s-side door.
The semi finally began to lose its momentum and drop some speed. It was traveling no more than five miles an hour when it thumped into the Cherokee and pushed it for ten yards down the highway. But the sight of that massive metal grille closing in on him made Maynard Clements pass out cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
By the time Marlin and Garza arrived at Blanco County Hospital, deputies were executing a search warrant on Clements’s home and property.
The small hospital was quiet, as usual, but Marlin could sense a buzz of excitement among the staff. Rumors had already spread about Clements’s involvement in the Gammel homicide.
Marlin and Garza proceeded to room 107, where they found Deputy Ernie Turpin posted at the door, as Garza had requested. Garza asked him for details.
“Couple of busted ribs, is all,” Turpin said. “I been poking my head in there every few minutes. He’s awake-I know that much-but not responsive to the doctors. They don’t know if it’s shock or what.”
Inside, Marlin and Garza found Maynard Clements lying quietly, staring upward. His eyes moved in their direction as they entered, then continued to study the ceiling.
Garza pulled a chair up next to the bed, and Marlin hung back behind him.
After a few moments of silence, Garza said, “Maynard?”
Clements gave a small nod.
Garza pulled a small tape recorder from his breast pocket and hit the RECORD button. “Maynard, I’m going to record this conversation, okay?”
In a weak voice, Clements said, “I understand.”
“Now, I’m going to read you your rights, just so we’re clear on what the situation is here.”
Clements didn’t respond.
Garza recited the Miranda warning from memory, then asked Clements if he understood. Maynard gave another small nod.
“Please answer aloud, Maynard.”
“I understand my rights,” Clements whispered.
Garza let a few minutes pass, then quietly said, “Maynard, my deputies are searching your home right now. Your Cherokee, too. All your possessions. I’ve got a pretty good feeling they’re going to find evidence tying you to the death of Bert Gammel.”
Marlin noticed Garza had said “death” rather than “murder.”
Garza continued: “See, no matter how clever you think you are, there’s always something you leave behind. A tire track or a shoe print. Maybe a puddle of tobacco juice. That means DNA evidence, which is almost impossible to beat.”
Clements gave Garza a quick glance, then went right back to looking at the ceiling.
Garza stopped for a moment and crossed his legs. “You grew up here, Maynard, so you know how the people are. You know the kinds of sentences juries come back with. And I’ll be honest with you, Maynard: The district attorney is gonna go for broke on this one-because everything points toward Murder One. You understand what I’m saying to you here?”
Clements squeezed his eyes shut.
“But…” Garza took a small pause. “A confession could go a long way toward helping you out. The only thing the D.A. likes better than a guilty verdict is getting a guilty verdict without having to go to trial. If he can avoid-”
“I did it,” Clements croaked-so quietly Marlin almost missed it.
Marlin felt a charge of adrenaline travel through him, a rush of excitement unlike any he had felt in years. But he struggled to remain perfectly still-like a hunter standing among a herd of deer who haven’t sensed his presence-afraid that any movement would spook Clements back into silence.
“I know you did,” Garza said softly. “Tell me about it.”
Tears sprang from the corners of Clements’s eyes and ran down his temples. Garza passed him a tissue, which Maynard accepted with his left hand, grimacing in pain.
“It’s just like Marlin said: He was bribed, and so was I. But then it all went wrong.”
Clements quit speaking then, for so long that Marlin wondered whether he had changed his mind about confessing. Marlin followed Garza’s lead and simply waited.