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Thirty-Seven
“Seems strange to me, Mr. Holloway, that you would be a Marine on the rise one minute, only to go uncharacteristically postal on your staff sergeant the next.”
The sheriff settled back in his seat, his expression relaxing like he’d been waiting a long while to let loose with that observation.
“Isn’t going postal meant to be standard army guy behavior?” Dean narrowed his stare, not sure what the sheriff’s point was, which further bolstered his decision to match that point with his own brand of sarcasm. “You know, gun-slinging meathead who just saw too much misery and hit his limit?”
“I looked up your court documents.” The sheriff shrugged, hinting he didn’t buy Dean’s explanation. Even the sheriff’s reply didn’t clarify his earlier comment about some mystery person “defying all logic” to help him.
Given the sheriff’s change of subject, maybe that person was Ramos—Dean’s only friend and from his army days at that—though Ramos connecting with the sheriff seemed hugely unlikely. Things had escalated at Maynard’s only hours earlier, and not even Ramos was that quick to find shit out.
“Good for you, Sheriff, but my memory of my legal woes isn’t so damaged that I need the recap.”
“You were in Afghanistan.” The sheriff’s brow crinkled, the corners of his mouth tensing like he edged on annoyance. “You claimed you attacked your sergeant in an attempt to stop a sexual assault. He, on the other hand, claimed the same about you. No witnesses backed either story, but you took the hit all the same. Now, I’ve been around long enough to know that what happens in a court doesn’t aways reflect the truth—”
Dean laughed, a quick and barking sound. “Nice theory. I should have hired you as my lawyer.”
Despite the joke, the sheriff’s hard expression remained. “Tell me what happened to get you kicked from the Marines.”
“I don’t have to.” A slow realization took shape in his brain, that realization stealing his breath and rocking his belly with instant sickness. “Sarah told you, didn’t she?”
There’s been one person who’s defied all common sense and done something to help you.
That’s who the sheriff had been talking about.
Why? Why would she still help when she needed to focus on getting as far from him as possible?
Don’t start getting hopeful, asshole. You’re still going to prison.
The sheriff’s silence, coupled with the slow drop of his shoulders, confirmed Dean’s theory, even if the man didn’t say anything more than, “I imagine time in prison and a Bad Conduct Discharge, didn’t seem fair at the time.”
“It wasn’t, but shit happens.” Dean fought an urge to look away, but he wanted to see where all this went.
“Sometimes, yes.” The sheriff nodded as though, as someone somewhat older than Dean, life and his profession might have given him first-hand knowledge on the subject of injustice. “No one spoke for you, though it seems as though there should have been plenty who could. I wouldn’t wholly blame a man for abandoning his care for the law after that.”
The sheriff’s brown eyes mellowed, conveying an unshakeable sort of understanding. Still, any sign of compassion rubbed against Dean’s years of warranted mistrust, so he laughed and offered, “Is this your way of saying you’re letting me go?”
The sheriff threw back his head and let out a genuine but unexpected laugh. “You know I can’t do that. Heck, I’d be grilling you for all sorts of information if it weren’t for the fact that you’ve already given me Luciano Conti’s name. Besides, I’m sure you’ll get more grilling from far more qualified detectives once I pass you onto the state prison system.”
The sheriff paused, his focus remaining forward as he rolled up one of his shirt sleeves, revealing a faded tattoo of an American flag on his inner forearm. Dean had to squint. There was a picture of military dog tags underneath, but he couldn’t make out the numbers. Meanwhile, he grappled against the idea that someone as straightlaced as the sheriff even had a tattoo.
The sheriff used the end of his pen to tap at the ink on his skin. “First Gulf War. I have some idea what it’s like, putting your life and sanity on the line. And for all your trouble, Mr. Holloway, you got sent home and your name smeared.”
Dean stared across the desk, still not too sure of what to make of all this or why the sheriff even believed his story. “You’re telling me this because…?”
“Because, besides myself, if there’s anyone in this town who’s a decent judge of character, it’s Sarah Overton, even if she doesn’t think so lately. I’ve never seen her trust someone who was wholly untrustworthy. Reckless, maybe, but not untrustworthy. I also never let go of my suspicions over your link to Anthony Stucco, so I can’t say I do outright believe you, but I believe Sarah. She says you’re not a bad person, even though you’ve had a whole lot of bad come your way. All the evidence since your arrival in town points to you trying to, as you say, change. To make the most of the nothing that life gave you.”
“Why would she vouch for me?”
The sheriff put down his pen, his face holding a blank expression as his head did a small, wobbly sort of shake. “Are you really that empty in the skull?”
Dean frowned. “What?”
The sheriff pressed his eyes shut and swore under his breath before addressing Dean again. “Never mind. Anyway, Miss Overton wants a few words with you. I’ll need you in your cell before I can allow that.”
Dean nodded and the sheriff stood, heading for the door. “You never know, Mr. Holloway, you might be in some kind of luck. If what you say about Luciano Conti is provable, perhaps any half-baked lawyer might argue your actions were performed under extreme duress.”
The sheriff held the door open, and Dean followed in silence, not mentioning the evidence he’d collected over the years. Frankly, he needed a break from talking about Luciano and the syndicate. In no time at all, his whole life would no doubt be consumed with talking about little more than that.
