“All right, mind if I pray?”
“Go right ahead.”
Keith closed his eyes. He found it hard to pray under the circumstances—Donté staring at him, Robbie anxiously waiting, the clock ticking louder and louder. He asked God to give Donté strength and courage, and have mercy on his soul. Amen.
When he finished, he stood and patted Donté on the shoulder, still not believing that he would be dead in less than an hour. Donté said, “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m honored to meet you, Donté.”
They shook hands again. Then the metal clanged and the doors opened. Keith stepped out, Robbie stepped in. The clock on the wall, indeed the only clock that mattered, gave the time as 5:34.
———
The looming execution of a man claiming innocence did nothing to arouse the national media. The stories had become so commonplace. However, the tit-for-tat angle of the church burnings on the eve of the execution woke up a few producers. The melee at the high school added some fuel. But the possibility of a race riot—now, that was too good to be ignored. Toss in the drama of the National Guard, and by late afternoon Slone was buzzing with brightly painted television vans from Dallas and Houston and other cities, most providing direct feeds to network and cable stations. When word spread that a man claiming to be the real killer wanted to confess on camera, the train station became an instant magnet for the media. With Fred Pryor directing things, or at least attempting to keep some order, Travis Boyette stood on the bottom step of the platform and looked at the reporters and the cameras. Microphones were thrust at him like bayonets. Fred stood at his right side, actually shoving some of the reporters back.
“Quiet!” Fred barked at them. Then he nodded at Travis and said, “Go ahead.”
Travis was as stiff as a deer in headlights, but he swallowed hard and plunged in. “My name is Travis Boyette, and I killed Nicole Yarber. Donté Drumm had nothing to do with her murder. I acted alone. I abducted her, raped her repeatedly, then strangled her to death. I disposed of her body, and it’s not in the Red River.”
“Where is it!”
“It’s in Missouri, where I left it.”
“Why’d you do it!”
“Because I can’t stop myself. I’ve raped other women, lots of them, sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn’t.”
This startled the reporters, and a few seconds elapsed before the next question. “So you are a convicted rapist?”
“Oh yes. I have four or five convictions.”
“Are you from Slone?”
“No, but I was living here when I killed Nicole.”
“Did you know her?”
———
Dana Schroeder had been parked in front of the television in the den for the past two hours, glued to CNN, waiting for more news from Slone. There had been two reports, brief little snippets about the unrest and the National Guard. She had watched the governor make a fool of himself. The story, though, was gathering momentum. When she saw the face of Travis Boyette, she said out loud, “There he is.”
Her husband was at death row consoling the man convicted of the killing, and she was watching the one who had actually committed the crime.
———
Joey Gamble was in a bar, the first one he’d seen when he left the office of Agnes Tanner. He was drunk but still aware of what was happening. There were two televisions hanging from the ceiling at opposite ends of the bar, one was on SportsCenter, the other on CNN. When Joey saw the story from Slone, he walked closer to the television. He listened to Boyette as he talked about killing Nicole. “You son of a bitch,” Joey mumbled, and the bartender gave him a quizzical look.
But then he felt good about himself. He had finally told the truth, and now the real killer had come forward. Donté would be spared. He ordered another beer.
———
Judge Elias Henry was sitting with his wife in the den of their home, not far from Civitan Park. The doors were locked; his hunting rifles were loaded and ready. A police car drove by every ten minutes. A helicopter watched from above. The air was thick with the smell of smoke—smoke from the fireworks party at the park, and smoke from the destroyed buildings. The mob could be heard. Its nonstop drumming and booming rap and screeching chants had only intensified throughout the afternoon. Judge and Mrs. Henry had discussed leaving for the night. They had a son in Tyler, an hour away, and he had encouraged them to flee, if only for a few hours. But they decided to stay, primarily because the neighbors were staying and there was strength in numbers. The judge had chatted with the chief of police, who somewhat nervously assured him that things were under control.
The television was on, another breaking story from Slone. The judge grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, then there was the man he’d seen in the video, not three hours earlier. Travis Boyette was talking, giving details, staring at a bunch of microphones.
“Did you know the girl?” a reporter asked.
“I’d never met her, but I had followed her. I knew who she was, knew she was a cheerleader. I picked her out.”
“How did you abduct her?”
“I found her car, parked next to it, waited until she came out of the mall. I used a gun, she didn’t argue. I’ve done this before.”
“Have you been convicted in Texas before?”
“No. Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Arkansas. You can check the records. I’m telling the truth here, and the truth is that I did the crime. Not Donté Drumm.”
“Why are you coming forward now, and not a year ago?”
“I should have, but I figured the courts down here would finally realize they had the wrong guy. I just got out of prison in Kansas, and a few days ago I saw in the paper where they were getting ready to execute Drumm. Surprised me. So here I am.”
“Right now, only the governor can stop the execution. What would you say to him?”
“I’d say you’re about to kill an innocent man. You give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll show you the body of Nicole Yarber. Just twenty-four hours, Mr. Governor.”
Judge Henry scratched his chin with his knuckles and said, “A bad night just got worse.”
———
Barry and Wayne were in the governor’s office watching Boyette on CNN. Their governor was down the hall being interviewed for the fifth or sixth time since his courageous handling of the angry mob. “We’d better go get him,” Wayne said.
“Yep. I’ll go; you keep an eye on this.”
Five minutes later, the governor was watching a rerun of Boyette. “He’s obviously a crackpot,” Newton said after a few seconds. “Where’s the bourbon?”
Three glasses were filled, and the bourbon was sipped as they listened to Boyette talk about the body.
“How did you kill Nicole?” Strangled her with her belt, black leather with a round silver buckle, still around her neck. Boyette reached under his shirt and pulled out a ring. He thrust it at the cameras. “This is Nicole’s. I’ve worn it since the night I took her, has her initials and everything.”
“How did you dispose of the body?”
“Let’s just say it’s underground.”
“How far from here?”
“I don’t know, five or six hours. Again, if the governor would give us twenty-four hours, we can find it. That’ll prove I’m right.”
“Who is this guy?” the governor asked.
“A serial rapist, rap sheet a mile long.”
“It’s amazing how they always manage to pop up right before the execution,” Newton said. “Probably getting money from Flak.”
All three managed a nervous laugh.
———
The laughter at the lake was interrupted when a guest walked past a TV inside and saw what was happening. The party quickly moved indoors, and thirty people huddled around the small screen. No one spoke; no one seemed to breathe as Boyette went on and on, perfectly willing to answer any question with a blunt response.