The road turned, and when it straightened, Boyette pointed again. “This is it,” he said as he yanked open the door before the engine was turned off. He launched himself into a clearing of weeds waist-high as the others scrambled to follow. Keith took a few steps and tripped over something, falling hard. As he scrambled to his feet, brushing off bugs and brush, he realized what had tripped him. The remains of a tractor tire, virtually buried in vegetation.
“Here’s a tire,” he announced, and the others stopped moving. Boyette was only a few feet away. “Get the metal detectors,” he said. Fred Pryor had one, and within seconds it was clicking and buzzing, giving all indications of being highly agitated. Aaron Rey produced two shovels.
The terrain was strewn with rocks, but the soil was soft and moist. After ten minutes of furious digging, Fred Pryor’s shovel struck what clearly sounded like metal.
“Let’s stop for a second,” Robbie said. Both Fred and Aaron needed a break.
“All right, Boyette,” Robbie said. “Tell us what we are about to find.”
The tic, the pause, then, “It’s a metal box used for hydraulic tools, heavy as hell, almost ruined my back dragging the damned thing over here. It’s orange in color with the name of the company, R. S. McGuire and Sons, Fort Smith, Arkansas, painted on the front. It opens from the top.”
“And inside?”
“Nothing but bones by now. It’s been nine years.” He spoke with an air of authority, as if this wasn’t his first hidden grave site. “Her clothing was wadded together and placed next to her head. There’s a belt around her neck, should be intact.” His voice trailed off, as if this were somehow painful for him. There was a pause while the others glanced at each other, then Travis cleared his throat and continued. “In her clothing, we should find her driver’s license and a credit card. I didn’t want to get caught with them.”
“Describe the belt,” Robbie said. The security guard handed Robbie a video camera.
“Black, two inches wide, with a round silver buckle. It is the murder weapon.”
The digging continued as Robbie captured it on video. “It’s about five feet long,” Boyette said, pointing, indicating an outline for the box. With its shape clear, each shovelful of dirt revealed more. It was indeed orange. Deeper, the name “R. S. McGuire and Sons, Fort Smith, Arkansas,” became visible.
“That’s enough,” Robbie said, and the digging stopped. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor were sweating and breathing heavily. “We won’t be removing it.”
The toolbox presented an obvious challenge, one that had gradually become more and more evident. The top lid was secured by a latch, and the latch was secured by a combination lock, the inexpensive kind found in every hardware store. Fred did not have the proper tools to cut the lock, but there was little doubt that they would somehow snap it free. After coming this far, they would not be denied a look inside. The six men huddled close together and gawked at the orange toolbox and the combination lock. Robbie said, “So, Travis, what’s the combination?”
Travis actually smiled, as though, finally, he was about to be vindicated. He lowered himself to the edge of the grave, touched the box as if it were an altar, then gently took the lock and shook dirt from it. He turned the dial a few times to clear the code, then slowly turned to the right, to 17, then back to the left, to 50, then to the right, to 4, and finally back to the left, to 55. He hesitated and lowered his head as if to hear something, then he pulled sharply. There was a soft click, and the lock was open.
Robbie was filming from five feet away. Keith couldn’t suppress a grin, in spite of where he was and what he was doing.
“Don’t open it,” Robbie said. Pryor hustled to the truck and returned with a package. He passed out sanitary gloves and masks, and when everyone had put them on, Robbie handed him the camera and told him to start filming. He instructed Aaron to step down and slowly open the lid. He did so. There was no corpse, only bones, the skeletal remains of someone, Nicole they assumed. Her hands and fingers were laced together below her ribs, but her feet were near her knees, as if Boyette had been forced to fold her to fit her in the toolbox. Her skull was intact but a molar was missing. She’d had perfect teeth; they knew that from the photographs. Around the skull there were strands of long blond hair. Between the skull and the shoulder, there was a length of black leather, the belt, they assumed. Next to the skull, in the corner of the box, there appeared to be clothing.
Keith closed his eyes and said a prayer.
Robbie closed his eyes and cursed the world.
Boyette stepped back and sat on the edge of the tractor tire, in the weeds, and began rubbing his head.
With Fred filming, Robbie directed Aaron to gently remove the roll of clothing. The articles were intact, though frayed along some of the edges and stained in places. A blouse, blue and yellow with some type of fringe, and a large ugly hole made by either insects or decaying flesh. A short white skirt, badly stained. Brown sandals. Matching bra and panties, dark blue. And two plastic cards, one her driver’s license and one a MasterCard. Nicole’s things were placed neatly on the side of her grave.
Boyette returned to the truck, where he sat in the front seat and massaged his head. For ten minutes, Robbie gave orders and made plans. Dozens of photographs were taken, but nothing else was touched. It was a crime scene now, and the local authorities would take charge.
Aaron and the security guard stayed behind while the others retreated down Roop’s Mountain.
CHAPTER 31
By 10:00 a.m., the parking lot at Lamb & Son Funeral Home was full, and cars lined both sides of the street. The mourners, dressed in their Sunday best, formed a line that began at the front door and ran three and four abreast through the small lawn, down the street, and around the corner. They were sad and angry, tired and anxious, and uncertain about what was happening to them and their quiet town. The sirens, fireworks, gunshots, and urgent voices from the street had finally subsided not long before sunrise, allowing a few hours of rest. But no one expected the streets to return to normal on Friday or over the weekend.
They had seen the eerie face of Travis Boyette on television, and they had heard his poisonous confession. They believed him because they had always believed Donté. So much more of the story had yet to be told, and if Boyette really had killed the girl, then someone would pay a heavy price.
The Slone Police Department had eight black officers, and all eight volunteered for the assignment. Though most had not slept in hours, they were determined to pay tribute. They secured the street in front of the funeral home, directed traffic, and, most important, kept the reporters at bay. There was a pack of them, all neatly cordoned off and barricaded a block away.
When Hubert Lamb unlocked the front door, he greeted the first wave of mourners and asked them to sign the register. The crowd began to move slowly, in no hurry. It would take a week to bury Donté, and there would be plenty of time to pay proper respects.
He was on display in the main parlor, his casket open and draped with flowers. His senior class photo had been enlarged and sat on a tripod at the foot of his casket—an eighteen-year-old in a coat and tie, a handsome face. The portrait had been taken a month before he was arrested. He was smiling, still dreaming of playing football. His eyes were full of expectation and ambition.
His family stood near the casket, where they had been for the past hour, touching him, weeping, trying to be strong for their guests.
———
At the campsite, Robbie described the scene to Carlos and the others. Bryan Day wanted to get to the grave immediately and record everything before the police arrived, but Robbie wasn’t so sure. They argued, though both knew Robbie would make the decision. Fred Pryor was on his cell phone trying to locate the sheriff of Newton County. Martha Handler was talking to Aaron on her cell phone and taking notes. Suddenly there was a shriek, an anguished cry, as Boyette fell to the ground and began trembling violently. Keith knelt over him, and the others gathered to watch helplessly. Quizzical looks were exchanged. After a minute or so, the seizure seemed to pass, and the shaking and jerking subsided. Boyette clutched his head and whimpered in pain. Then he seemed to die. His body went limp and was perfectly still. Keith waited, then touched his shoulder and said, “Hey, Travis, can you hear me?” Evidently, Travis could not; there was no response.