A man named Rusty walked in and announced, “Another church is on fire! One of those black Pentecostal ones.”
“Where?”
“In Slone, near Washington Park.”
The thought of a retaliatory church burning was at first inconceivable. Even Jesse was stunned. But the more they talked about it and analyzed it, the more they liked it. Why not? Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. If they want war, we’ll give ’em a war. There was a general agreement that Slone was a powder keg and they were in for a long night. This was disturbing, but also stimulating. Every man sitting around the stove had at least two guns in his truck and more in the house.
Two strangers entered the Trading Post: one, a man of the cloth with a collar and navy jacket, the other man a slick-headed cripple who shuffled along with a cane. The minister walked to a display case and took out two bottles of water. The other man went to the restroom.
Keith set the two bottles on the counter and said “Good morning” to Jesse. Behind him, the experts in the rockers were all talking at once and Keith understood none of it.
“You from around here?” Jesse asked as he rung up the water.
“No, just passing through,” Keith said. His speech was crisp, precise, no accent at all. Yankee.
“You a preacher?”
“Yes. I’m a Lutheran minister,” Keith said as he caught a nose full of onion rings being removed from hot grease. A hunger pain hit and buckled his knees. He was starving, and exhausted, but there was no time for food. Boyette was shuffling over. Keith handed him a bottle, said “Thanks” to Jesse, and turned for the door. Boyette nodded at Jesse, who said, “You boys have a good day.”
And with that, Jesse spoke to the man who murdered his niece.
In the parking lot, an Audi stopped abruptly next to the Subaru, and two men—Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor—crawled out. Quick introductions were made. Aaron and Fred looked closely at Boyette, sizing him up, asking themselves if the guy was real. Robbie would want to know as soon as they got back in the car and called him.
Aaron said, “We’re about fifteen minutes from the office, and we’ll have to detour around downtown. There’s a lot going on. Just stick close, okay?”
“Let’s go,” Keith said, anxious to finish this interminable drive. They drove away, the Subaru tailgating the Audi. Boyette seemed calm, even detached. The cane was resting between his legs. He thumped its handle with his fingers, in much the same way he’d been doing for the past ten hours. When they passed the sign indicating the municipal boundaries of Slone, Boyette said, “I never thought I’d see this place again.”
“Recognize it?”
The tic, the pause. “Not really. I’ve seen a lot of these places, Pastor, small hick towns everywhere. After a while, they tend to blur together.”
“Anything special about Slone?”
“Nicole. I killed her.”
“And she was the only one you killed?”
“I didn’t say that, Pastor.”
“So there are others?”
“Didn’t say that either. Let’s talk about something else.”
“And what would you like to talk about, Travis?”
“How’d you meet your wife?”
“I’ve told you before, Travis, leave her out of it. You’re much too concerned with my wife.”
“She’s so cute.”
———
On the conference table, Robbie pushed a button for the speakerphone and said, “Talk to me, Fred.”
“We met them; they’re behind us now, and they appear to be a genuine minister and one seriously weird sidekick.”
“Describe Boyette.”
“White male, you wouldn’t call him handsome. Five ten, 150, shaved scalp with a bad tattoo on the left side of his neck, several more covering his arms. Has the look of a sick puppy who’s spent his life locked away. Green shifty eyes that don’t blink. I wanted to wash my hand after shaking his. Weak handshake, a dishrag.”
Robbie took a deep breath and then said, “So they’re here.”
“They are indeed. We’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”
“Hurry up.” He turned off the speakerphone and looked at his team scattered around the table, all watching him. “It might be somewhat intimidating for Boyette to walk in here and have ten people staring at him,” Robbie said. “Let’s pretend like it’s business as usual. I’ll take him to my office and ask the first questions.”
Their file on Boyette was getting thicker. They had found records of his convictions in four states and a few details of his incarcerations, and they had located the lawyer in Slone who’d represented him briefly after his arrest there. The lawyer vaguely remembered him and had sent over his file. They had an affidavit from the owner of the Rebel Motor Inn, one Inez Gaffney, who had no recollection of Boyette, but did find his name in an old ledger from 1998. They had the building records from the Monsanto warehouse where Boyette allegedly worked in the late fall of that year.
Carlos tidied up the conference table and they waited.
———
When Keith parked at the train station and opened his door, he heard sirens in the distance. He smelled smoke. He sensed trouble.
“The First Baptist Church burned last night,” Aaron said as they walked up the steps to the old loading platform. “Now there’s a fire at a black church over there.” He nodded to his left, as if Keith was supposed to know his way around town.
“They’re burning churches?” he asked.
“Yep.”
Boyette struggled up the steps, leaning on his cane, and then they stepped into the lobby. Fanta pretended to be busy with a word processor, barely looking up.
“Where’s Robbie?” Fred Pryor asked, and she nodded toward the back.
Robbie met them in the conference room. Awkward introductions were made. Boyette was reluctant to speak or to shake hands. Abruptly, he said to Robbie, “I remember you. I saw you on television after the boy was arrested. You were upset, almost yelling at the camera.”
“That’s me. Where were you?”
“I was here, Mr. Flak, watching it all, couldn’t believe they had arrested the wrong guy.”
“That’s right, the wrong guy.” For someone as high-strung and quick-tempered as Robbie Flak, it was difficult to remain calm. He wanted to slap Boyette, and grab his cane and beat him senseless, and curse him for a long list of transgressions. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands. Instead, he pretended to be cool, detached. Harsh words would not help Donté.
They left the conference room and walked into Robbie’s office. Aaron and Fred Pryor stayed outside, ready for whatever came next. Robbie directed Keith and Boyette to a small table in the corner, and all three sat down. “Would you like some coffee or something to drink?” he asked, almost pleasantly. He stared at Boyette, who stared back without flinching or blinking.
Keith cleared his throat and said, “Look, Robbie, I hate to ask for favors, but we haven’t eaten in a long time. We’re starving.”
Robbie picked up the phone, rang Carlos, and ordered a tray of deli sandwiches and water.
“No sense beating around the bush, Mr. Boyette. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
The tic, the pause. Boyette shifted and squirmed, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “Well, the first thing I want to know is if there’s any reward money on the table.”
Keith dropped his head and said, “Oh my God.”
“You’re not serious, are you?” Robbie asked.