Keith stood and said, “He usually blacks out for a few minutes.”
“Let’s put him out of his misery,” Robbie said. “One quick pop to the head. There’s a grave not far from here that’s about to be empty.”
“Come on, Robbie,” Keith said.
The others seemed to like Robbie’s idea. They backed away and were soon occupied with other matters. Five minutes passed. Boyette had not moved. Keith knelt down and checked his pulse. It was steady but faint. A few minutes later, Keith said, “Robbie, I think this is serious. He’s unconscious.”
“I’m not a brain surgeon, Keith. What do you want me to do?”
“He needs attention.”
“He needs a funeral, Keith. Why don’t you take him back to Kansas and bury him?”
Keith stood and walked a few steps to where Robbie was standing. He said, “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry, Keith. There’s a lot happening right now, in case you haven’t noticed. Boyette’s health is not one of my priorities.”
“We can’t just let him die out here.”
“Why not? He’s practically dead anyway, right?”
Boyette grunted, then shook from head to toe, as if an aftershock were rumbling through. Then he was still again.
Keith swallowed hard and said, “He needs a doctor.”
“Great. Go find one.”
Minutes dragged by, and Boyette was not responsive. The others didn’t care, and Keith almost persuaded himself to get in his car and leave, alone. But he could not bring himself to ignore a dying man. The security guard helped Keith load Boyette into the rear seat of the Subaru. Fred Pryor walked from the direction of the creek and said, “That was the sheriff. I finally got him, finally convinced him that we’re for real, and that we’ve found a dead body in his jurisdiction. He’s on his way.”
As Keith was opening his car door, Robbie approached him and said, “Call me when you get to a hospital, and keep an eye on Boyette. I’m sure the authorities here will want to talk to him. There’s no open investigation at this point, but that could change quickly, especially if Boyette admits he killed the girl in this state.”
“His pulse is almost gone,” the security guard reported from the rear seat.
“I’m not planning on standing guard, Robbie,” Keith said. “I’m done. I’m outta here. I’ll drop him off at a hospital, God knows where, and then hustle back to Kansas.”
“You have our cell numbers. Just keep us posted. As soon as the sheriff sees the grave, I’m sure he’ll send someone to see Boyette.”
The two shook hands, not sure if they would see each other again. Death binds people in odd ways, and they felt as though they had known each other for years.
As the Subaru disappeared into the woods, Robbie checked his watch. It had taken about six hours to drive from Slone and find the body. If Travis Boyette had not delayed, Donté Drumm would be alive and on his way to a quick exoneration. He spat on the ground and quietly wished Boyette a slow and painful death.
———
During the forty-five-minute drive from the campsite, complete with at least four stops to ask for directions, Boyette had not moved and had not uttered a sound. He still appeared to be dead. At the emergency room entrance, Keith told a doctor about Boyette’s tumor, but little else. The doctor was curious as to why a minister from Kansas was traveling through Joplin with a gravely ill man who was neither a relative nor a member of his congregation. Keith assured him it was a very long story, one he would happily tell when they had the time. Both knew they would never have the time and the story would never be told. They placed Boyette on a stretcher, with his cane, and rolled him down the hall for examination. Keith watched him disappear behind swinging doors and found a seat in the waiting area. He called Dana to check in. His wife had received his updates with a growing sense of disbelief, one shocker after another, and she seemed to be numb to anything new. Fine, Keith. Yes, Keith. Sure, Keith. Please come home, Keith.
He called Robbie and told him where they were at that moment. Boyette was alive and being examined. Robbie was still waiting for the sheriff to arrive at the site. He was anxious to hand over the crime scene to the professionals, though he knew that would take time.
Keith called Matthew Burns, and when Matthew answered, Keith began with a happy “Well, good morning, Matt. I’m now in Missouri, where an hour ago we opened the grave and saw the remains of Nicole Yarber. Top that for a Friday morning.”
“So what else is new? What did she look like?”
“All bones. Positive ID, though. Boyette is telling the truth. They executed the wrong man. It’s unbelievable, Matt.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I’ll be there for dinner. Dana’s freaking out, so I won’t be long.”
“We need to meet first thing in the morning. I’ve watched the coverage nonstop, and there hasn’t been a word about you. Maybe you’ve slid under the radar. We gotta talk. Where’s Boyette?”
“In a hospital in Joplin, dying, I think. I’m with him.”
“Leave him, Keith. Maybe he’ll die. Let someone else worry about him. Just get in your car and haul ass.”
“That’s my plan. I’ll hang around here until I hear something, then I’m on the road. Kansas is just minutes away.”
An hour passed. Robbie called Keith with the news that the sheriff had arrived and Roop’s Mountain was now crawling with police. Two state policemen were on their way to the hospital to secure Mr. Boyette. Keith agreed to wait for them, then he was leaving.
“Thanks, Keith, for everything,” Robbie said.
“It wasn’t enough.”
“No, but what you did took courage. You tried. That’s all you could do.”
“Let’s keep in touch.”
The state troopers, Weshler and Giles, were both sergeants, and after terse introductions they asked Keith if he would fill in some gaps. Sure, why not, what else was there to do in an ER waiting room? It was almost 1:00 p.m., and they bought sandwiches from a machine and found a table. Giles took notes, and Weshler handled most of the questions. Keith began with Monday morning and hit the high points of this rather unusual week. As he told his story, they seemed to doubt him at times. They had not been following the Drumm case, but when Boyette went public with his claim of guilt, and mentioned the body being buried near Joplin, phones started ringing. They tuned in, and they had seen Boyette’s face and performance several times. Now that a body had been found, they were smack in the middle of a growing story.
A doctor interrupted them. He explained that Boyette was stable and resting. His vital signs were near normal. They had X-rayed his head and confirmed the presence of an egg-size tumor. The hospital needed to contact a family member, and Keith tried to describe what little he knew about Boyette’s relatives. “There’s a brother in prison in Illinois, that’s all I know,” Keith said.
“Well,” the doctor said, scratching his jaw, “how long do you want us to keep him?”
“How long should he be kept?”