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The governor, speaking from her office in Austin, solemnly hailed Foster Speakman as a man who had been, and would remain, an inspiration to all who knew him. She commended him for the courage with which he had faced his personal tragedy. His murder was shocking. Her heart went out to his widow, Laura Speakman, who had demonstrated a courage and poise that matched those of her late husband. She vowed the full assistance of her office and every state agency in the apprehension and conviction of Speakman’s murderer. “The perpetrator of this egregious crime will answer for it,” she pledged.
A Joe somebody, whom Griff remembered from the SunSouth office parking lot, was identified as the airline’s spokesperson. He resolutely dodged microphones and cameras as he waded through reporters on his way into the corporate building.
“He’s promised a statement will be forthcoming shortly,” the anchorwoman told her viewers. “We’ll get that to you as soon as possible. Greg, you interviewed investigators at the scene. What have you learned from them?”
Greg, the field reporter, had taken up a position outside the ivy-draped estate wall. He said the police were reluctant to discuss the details of the case at this time. “One interesting aspect to this mystery,” he said, “is that the victim’s aide, Manuelo Ruiz, who was constantly at Mr. Speakman’s side, apparently wasn’t in the home last night. His absence is unexplained.”
“That is interesting,” the anchorwoman said without interest.
The well-coiffed anchorwoman didn’t attach any importance to Manuelo’s disappearance, but it was damn important to Griff that the aide hadn’t yet been found.
He continued to flip through the channels until all the stations moved on to other stories. He hadn’t been named as a suspect, but neither had anyone else. Only that one reporter had mentioned Manuelo. And Rodarte hadn’t appeared in any of the reports Griff saw.
“Has his nose to the ground looking for me,” he muttered, switching off the set.
Griff’s involvement was still unknown by the general public, so that bought him a little time. He had a hiding place. It was unlikely the motel clerk would remember the guest in room number seven, even when Griff’s face started appearing on TV screens. So he had some breathing room.
His primary worry was finding Manuelo—Ruiz, was it?—before Rodarte did. But in order to do that, he needed a car.
He located a Dallas telephone directory under the bed, along with a dusty Gideon Bible. The directory had seen more use, but not by much. It was several years old, and bugs had left droppings on the pages, but it had business listings as well as residential. He used the motel’s phone to place the call.
“Hunnicutt Motors.”
“Is Glen there?”
“Hold please, I’ll see.”
He was subjected to elevator music for several minutes.
“Glen Hunnicutt.” It was a booming voice as large as the man who possessed it.
“Comfort Inn. You said it could just as well have been the honeymoon suite at the Paris Ritz.”
Only another ex-con, even one incarcerated in a minimum-security facility, would recognize the tone and know what it signified, would know not to blurt out a name or say too much. Following a significant pause, the car dealer said, “Hold on.”
Griff heard the receiver being set down, movement, a door closing, more movement. When he came back to the phone, Glen Hunnicutt spoke in a low rumble. “How’re you doin’?”
“I was doing great.”
“Was?”
“Now I’m screwed. I need to borrow a car, and nobody can know about it.”
Glen Hunnicutt was a successful used-car dealer. By his own admission, he’d got greedy. For several years he’d cooked his books, fudging heavily on the income he reported to the IRS. He got caught and was sent to Big Spring to repent.
Being away from his wife had been torture for him. She was all he talked about. With every breath, he bemoaned his homesickness for her and their marriage bed. One evening Hunnicutt really got the doldrums, droning on and on about his celibate misery.
“And it’s not just getting laid I miss. She’s special. I mean it, really. She puts up with me, and that’s saying a lot. I love her so much. That may sound sappy, but it’s the God’s truth. I don’t know if I can take being away from her. I really don’t. She—”
Griff, who’d been an unwilling audience for this lament, sent his chair over backward as he lunged toward Hunnicutt. “Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up?”
Then he hit Hunnicutt in the mouth as hard as he could, his famous throwing arm behind the punch. His knuckles connected with Hunnicutt’s perfect caps, cleanly separating them from his gums.
Hunnicutt, spitting chipped porcelain and blood, was helped to his feet by other prisoners who rushed to his aid while hurling recriminations and insults at Griff. As one held a towel to Hunnicutt’s bleeding mouth, he said, “Joke’s on you, asshole. You’ve just done Hunnicutt here a favor.”
Above the heads of the others, Hunnicutt and Griff made eye contact. Griff held it for several beats before turning away.
It was possible for prisoners in minimum security to obtain furloughs—temporary, unescorted releases from the prison. They were granted for limited and specific purposes, such as a family crisis, a funeral, or specialized medical treatment. Including dentistry.
