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What was he going to do?
Where could he hide?
Surrendering, as his turncoat lawyer had urged him to, wasn’t an option. Even if he wanted to entrust himself to the legal system again, which he didn’t, Turner had deserted him, and, by the sound of it, so had his probation officer. There was no one in his corner.
No, he could not turn himself in. But while dodging capture, he could be gunned down in the street, if not by someone wearing a badge, then by a citizen with a vigilante mentality.
Taking temporary shelter in a cement culvert, he flipped open his phone and punched in the familiar number, only because there was absolutely no one else he could call.
It rang six times before it went to voice mail. “Thank you for calling the Millers. Please leave a message.” Griff hung up and
immediately redialed, more from a desire to hear Ellie’s cheerful voice than with the hope of his call being answered. He listened to the recording again, wondering where Coach and Ellie could be this early in the morning.
But if one of them had answered, what would he have said? What could he say that they would believe?
He punched in another number he had committed to memory. Jason Rich answered. “Hey, Jason, it’s Griff.” He tried to sound like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I called to apologize for not making it to our workout yesterday. And looks like I won’t be there today, either.”
“How come?”
“I’ve come down with some kind of stomach flu. I think I got hold of some bad tamales. I’ve been puking my guts up.” A short pause, then, “Is your dad around? I’d like to talk to him, please.”
“You’re sick?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s not true, what he said?”
“What who said?”
“That policeman.”
Griff pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. “Was his name Rodarte? A detective?”
“A man with scars on his face. He came here yesterday and talked to my dad and me.”
Griff had hoped that Rodarte would forget his tie to the Riches, but Rodarte never forgot anything. He had made a veiled threat to harm Jason. Yesterday he had questioned him, probably put pressure on the kid to tell him everything he knew about Griff Burkett. He would have frightened the boy. Griff could have killed the son of a bitch for that.
“He said you—” Jason’s voice cracked. “He said you—”
“Jason!”
Bolly’s voice, coming out of the background. Sharp. Intrusive. “Who are you talking to? Jason, who is that?”
Then Jason, in a pleading voice, said, “Dad, he’s—”
“Give me the phone.” Scuffling sounds. Then directly into Griff’s ear, Bolly snarled, “I should have known better than to trust you.”
“Bolly, listen, I—”
“No, you listen. The cops have been here twice. My wife freaked out, especially when this Detective Rodarte told her what you did.”
“Bolly—”
“I don’t want you calling here. I don’t want you near my family. I trusted you with my son. Jesus, when I think—”
“I wouldn’t lay a hand on Jason. You know that.”
“No, killing your lover’s paraplegic husband is more your speed.”
