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“Actually, Foster. I blame myself for not seeing how severe his OCD had become. I think I didn’t want to see it. Anyway, it, coupled with the accident, had changed him. He was no longer the Foster I fell in love with. I hoped a baby would bring that Foster back.
“In any case, I was committed to our marriage and our life together. If he hadn’t attempted to kill Griff, I would be with him tonight. And Griff wouldn’t be a fugitive.” She divided a look between them. “I swear everything I’ve told you is the truth.”
She had no doubt that Ellie believed her. Coach was gnawing the inside of his cheek, apparently unconvinced. Suddenly he turned and picked up the telephone.
“Joe, didn’t you hear a single word she’s said?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ears, Ellie.”
“Then how can you—”
“Because I know Griff,” he said. “He’s always looked out for number one. He’s never given a damn about anyone except himself. You, me, his teammates. Nobody.”
“You’re wrong,” Laura said.
“He may have been a little selfish before,” Ellie said. “But he’s different now. I saw the change in him when he was here. And if you weren’t so damn stubborn, Joe Miller, you’d—”
“Mr. Miller, please,” Laura said. “You’ll regret—”
“I’m calling the police.” He shouted it over their chorused protests, slicing his hand through the air. “Now that’s all there is to it.”
There wasn’t much traffic to slow Griff down. Rush hour at its heaviest was a couple hours away. He made good time to the Itasca exit. The town still slumbered, but he crawled through it, heeding speed limit signs, not wanting to get stopped now.
It wasn’t difficult to find Lavaca Road. He continued along it until it turned into FM 2010, a narrow, rutted road that seemed to have been traveled so infrequently as to have become completely overlooked.
After a couple miles, he began to fear that he and Laura had been wrong. But then he spotted a dilapidated farmhouse and barn, showing up as smudged shadows against a sky just turning pastel with the rising sun. But he knew he had the right place.
Rodarte’s car was parked in front.
Griff slowed and turned in to the gravel driveway, spotting them instantly—two dark figures silhouetted against the glow in the eastern horizon. He rolled to a stop, turned off the engine, and opened the car door. The early morning atmosphere was soft and silent, deceptively benign.
Keeping the two men in sight, he reached into the duffel bag and took out the policeman’s pistol. Impersonating a deliveryman, incapacitating the cops, his and Laura’s madcap escape from the estate, all seemed a long time ago. Those recollections were blurred.
But vivid in his memory was the look on her face when she realized that the baby was lost.
If…if…if…
There were so many of them, he didn’t even know where to begin regretting.
But one big if remained: if he didn’t live through this, he hoped Laura knew that he loved her. Bad timing or not, he wished he’d said it when he’d had the chance.
He stuffed the pistol into the back waistband of the navy blue work pants he was still wearing. When he got out, he left the car door open, just in case he had to make a quick getaway. He walked along the exterior wall of the house toward the rear, realizing what a large and easy target his white T-shirt made against the faded clapboard. Rodarte and Manuelo Ruiz stood as still as scarecrows in the fallow field.
But then Rodarte raised his arm and waved. “Hiya, Griff.”
Griff disliked guns. Didn’t know much about them. Knew even less about police-issue pistols. But as he crossed the littered yard and walked toward the other two men, he was comforted by the weight of the pistol at the small of his back.
He had to step over a barbed-wire fence that had been knocked down. Dirt clods and fossilized tractor tracks made the ground uneven. But he didn’t look down. He kept his gaze fixed on Rodarte. When he got close enough to make out the detective’s features, Griff saw that he was smiling with amusement as he held his pistol aimed at Manuelo.
The tableau confirmed what Griff had feared—Rodarte didn’t plan to use Manuelo Ruiz as an eyewitness. Even if Griff allayed Manuelo’s fear and persuaded him to return to Dallas and tell the truth about Foster Speakman’s accidental death, Rodarte would never permit it. Because Rodarte didn’t want Griff to be exonerated. He didn’t even want him locked away for good. He wanted him dead.
And now Griff understood why. He knew why Rodarte had been waiting for him outside Big Spring FCI. He understood why he’d been tailing him and monitoring his every move since his release. He’d thought Rodarte was trying to scare him into making either a mistake or a confession. Fact was, Rodarte was scared of him.
The ground at Rodarte’s feet was littered with cigarette butts. At Manuelo’s feet lay a shovel. Behind him were a mound of freshly turned dirt and a wide hole. The implication sickened Griff. The bastard had made the Salvadoran dig his own grave while he stood there, smoking and smiling.
Probably, Griff thought, he and Manuelo would share the grave.
Manuelo stood as still as a statue carved of teak. His eyes were as hard and impenetrable as polished stones. Griff couldn’t tell if he was afraid, resigned, or waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He had no idea what his arrival would signify to the Salvadoran. He wished he had the Spanish-language skills to tell him that Rodarte was their common enemy, not each other.
