Last Light (15 page)

There were only so many miracles to be had in a place like this, but didn’t a kid like Alan, after having lost so much, deserve a miracle? Then again, he thought as he glanced around the open space with its neon monitors and silent patients, didn’t they all?

He opened his book and began reading.

A hand touching his shoulder startled him awake. “You’ve got an audience, Sheriff,” Beth said. “Alan, do you remember Sheriff Saylor?”

Drew stared down at the boy in the bed who stared back at him. “Alan? How you feeling, kiddo?”

The boy’s face creased with confusion as tears slipped down his cheeks. He glanced at each of the adults in turn, his frown deepening, but never made a sound. Finally, he curled into a ball, facing away from them, his thin body rocking against the mattress.

Beth shrugged at Drew and pulled him out of earshot. “He’s still in shock,” she whispered. “It might be a while before we see what he actually remembers.”

“Should I tell him? Has anyone told him? About his family?” It was the worst part of Drew’s job, but he’d rather shoulder the burden than let Beth take it on herself. “Or is it better to let him remember on his own?”

She glanced back at the boy, now still, eyes closed once again. Asleep or blocking out the world? From the way his heart raced on the monitor, Drew guessed the latter. He had a feeling it didn’t matter who told Alan about his family—he already knew.

“Let me talk to the doctors,” Beth said. “But you should know, he might never remember any details about that night. Or be able tell us about it, even if he does.”

Drew’s shoulders slumped. Alan Martin had been his last hope to learn the truth. If it was the Manning boys, he could accept it—he’d have to if Alan verified their story. But he just couldn’t get over this gnawing in his gut that it had all been too easy, that there was more to this than a drug-fueled frenzy coupled with a boy trying to protect his big brother.

“Maybe you should go home, get some rest,” Beth suggested. “Come back when Alan’s calmer. Last thing we want is to upset him now that he’s come so far.”

Silently, Drew handed her the copy of
Curious George
.
He turned away then turned back, the sleepless days crashing over him, leaving him empty and too exhausted to protest. “Call me? When he’s ready for visitors.”

Her smile was the only warm thing in this sterile, cold place. “I will, Sheriff Saylor. Drive careful now.”

He didn’t make it farther than the parking garage and his Jeep. He curled up in the back seat, using his jacket as a pillow, and slept. The next day he returned to work and turned the Martin case over to the state’s attorney, effectively closing the investigation.

“You’re okay with this?” the prosecutor asked. “I don’t need anything down the road messing with this plea bargain.”

Drew’s gut said the case was far from closed. But all the evidence—hell, the two main suspects themselves—said otherwise. Plus, people were clamoring for closure. Sometimes public welfare trumped gut instincts.

He guessed. Didn’t mean he had to like it. But he’d have to learn how to live with it. “Yeah, we’re done. It’s in your hands now.”

“Okay, then. I’ll get a court date, and as soon as the judge signs off on the plea agreement, we’ll get those two off your hands. I’ll bet you’ll be relieved not to have to worry about them any more.”

LUCY WAS JUST
leaving the family-run funeral home that also served as Blackwell County’s coroner when TK’s call came.

“Hey, I think I might have something here,” TK said breathlessly—it was the most excitement Lucy had heard from the younger woman since they met.

“Good, because I didn’t have much luck with the coroner. The one who attended the Martin scene died eight years ago and didn’t leave anything except the notes we already have.”

“What would you say if a police interview went on almost thirty-six hours but only eleven of them are recorded?”

“I’d say there’s a good chance some civil rights were violated if a lawyer wasn’t present.”

“And,” TK’s voice up-ticked like a game show host, “what would you say if, of the eleven hours recorded, one is missing? The one right before the suspect confesses?”

Lucy pulled off the road and onto the dusty shoulder. The fields around her were parched; cattle lay in the scant shade of a hillside, seeking shelter from the blazing sun. “I’d say that sounds promising. Any ideas who was doing the interviewing during that missing hour?”

“From the end of the last tape beforehand, it sounds like it was the sheriff himself. Andrew Saylor.”

Saylor was on Lucy’s list to interview anyway. She consulted her map; his house wasn’t far by Texas standards, maybe eighteen miles. “Good work, TK.”

“Does that mean I get out of this hellhole?”

“No. It means you’re doing exactly what we need—finding those holes in the timeline and the bits and pieces the defense were never given access to.”

“There are boxes and boxes of paper—”

“Ignore anything we already have. Focus on work product: detective notes, memoranda, witness interviews, and any lab reports that weren’t forwarded to the defense because they weren’t deemed exculpatory. Those could all give us new leads.”

“You really think Manning could be innocent?”

“I think we need to keep digging for the truth.”

“Is Ruiz coming to help me?” A warm undercurrent in TK’s voice said maybe it wasn’t the help she was looking forward to as much as seeing the man again.

“No. His visit with his father was approved. He’s on his way to Abilene.” Lucy pulled back onto the county road, keeping the map close at hand. “I’ll talk to you after I interview Saylor. Oh, and do me a favor. Scan all the crime scene photos and upload them to our cloud drive. Feels like we’re missing something from the ones we have. Call me if you need anything.”

“How about a box of Band-Aids for my paper cuts?” she said with a laugh.

Lucy hung up. She had the feeling that if she’d sent the former Marine out into the sunbaked fields to do recon in the ninety-six-degree heat, she’d get less whining.

Half an hour and several wrong turns down unmarked lanes later, she drove over a lane bordered by meadows on both sides and then pulled up in front of a gate surrounding a forested plot of land along the river. Three separate signs—two written and one a simple silhouette of a man holding a shotgun aimed at the viewer—informed her that trespassers would be shot. Message received.

At the far end of the property, nestled in a clearing on the riverbank was a ranch-style house with a tin roof. Lucy leaned on the horn to announce her presence. A few moments later a man with a shotgun appeared on the porch. He waved her forward as the gate swung open to let the SUV through.

If this was Texas hospitality, Lucy wondered what her reception would have been like if she wasn’t welcome. But Saylor had been sheriff for twenty-three years; she was sure he’d made his fair share of enemies in that time. Even so, she couldn’t envision Nick and Megan ever agreeing to live in an armed compound.

Lucy parked behind a pickup truck and SUV sheltered beneath a carport. She slowly exited her vehicle, leaving her bag inside, keeping her hands visible. “I’m Lucy Guardino. We spoke on the phone?”

The man on the porch was average height, in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a lanky build. Despite the heat, although it was cooler here near the river and beneath the trees, he wore jeans and a khaki work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Now she knew where Caleb Blackwell had gotten his fashion sensibility.

Saylor scrutinized her from his high ground eight feet up on the porch, then set his shotgun beside one of the canvas chairs and nodded for her to approach.

“Drew,” he said as she mounted the steps. “Drew Saylor.” He greeted her with an outstretched hand. She shook it and took the canvas folding chair he indicated with a minuscule nod of his head. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Guardino?”

As he settled into his own seat, the one beside the shotgun, she scooted her chair around so she could face him and the windows behind them. The curtains rustled; there was someone in the house watching. No doubt also armed.

“Maybe your wife could join us?”

“Don’t see that’s necessary. She runs the pediatric ICU at Mercy in Abilene, is getting ready for work.”

Lucy didn’t comment on the fact that it was already past nine in the morning, and with Abilene being over an hour away, it was a strange time for a nurse to be leaving for work. When she was still with the FBI—just a few weeks ago—she could have reminded a subject that under Title 18 it was a crime to lie to a federal agent during the course of an investigation.

Now she was just a civilian. And people like Saylor could feed her lies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and there was nothing she could do about it.

Didn’t mean she had to like it.

He smiled at her—knowing she knew he lied. Lucy smiled back. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, Sheriff Saylor.”

“Call me Drew. I haven’t been sheriff for a long, long time. I know who you are, Mrs. Guardino. Hunted down serial killers, saved a bunch of kids from a kidnapper—hell, you even took on the Zapata cartel and sent them running with their tails between their legs when they dared show up in your hometown. You’re at my home now, so do me a favor and cut the bullcrap. Why the hell are you trying to get Michael Manning out of prison?”

Lucy answered his question with one of her own. “What happened during the missing hour while you interviewed Michael? What happened during hour four that made him suddenly confess?”

He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, as if considering exactly how much of a threat she posed. “You know about that, do you?”

“That and the other over twenty-odd hours you didn’t bother recording. What was happening? Were you and your deputies taking turns beating Michael and his brother? When did you realize the only way you’d be able to keep your job was to find a couple of fall guys fast?”

Now he flushed and stood halfway out of his chair, fists bunched. Before he could say anything the door behind him burst open and a sandy-haired, reed-thin man ran through it. He hugged Saylor from behind, gleefully.

“Alan, no!” a woman cried as she followed him out. She glared at Lucy as if this was all her fault.

Saylor turned his back on Lucy to embrace the younger man, pat his hair. When the man looked up at Lucy, she saw he was at least in his mid-thirties, yet had the face of someone much younger. No lines or creases, and a smile so wide and toothy that it reminded her of Megan on Christmas morning years ago, when she still believed in Santa Claus.

“Alan?” she asked, getting to her feet. “Alan Martin lives with you?”

The woman bristled at that. “Alan
Saylor
.
Come along now. Let Dad talk in peace.” She took Alan’s arm and led him back inside, sending one final glare in Lucy’s direction.

Saylor stared after his wife and son, his back still to Lucy.

“I thought he was in a group home in Dallas,” she said.

“Was. Three years of hell. Took Beth and me that long to get him out, adopt him.” He turned back to Lucy. “I didn’t steal that transcript and tape to protect my career, Mrs. Guardino. I took it to protect my family.

THANKFULLY, DAVID’S FATHER
had been incarcerated at the Robertson Unit for the past eleven years. The drive to the facility on the east shore of Lake Fort Phantom Hill was much easier than some of the childhood trips his mother had dragged him on when Michael had been housed in the Polunsky Unit over in Livingston or the Connally Unit near Kenedy. On those trips, they’d leave as soon as his school ended and drive all night to get in line and wait hours for visitation.

Growing up with a father who was a prisoner in a maximum-security facility definitely did not provide the same developmental milestones that most children enjoyed. It wasn’t until David was four that he’d had his first contact visit with his father—a reward for Michael being a model prisoner.

First time he’d ever been held in his father’s lap. Almost made it worth the trips that ended in disappointment when they’d arrive only to find a lockdown had occurred or someone before them in the queue stirred things up, canceling visitation for everyone else.

Even when they did get in, it meant eating from a vending machine—after their food was inspected by guards, of course—and sitting at a cafeteria-style table, barely able to hear each other over the sound of all the other families that had been granted contact visits.

Yet Maria kept dragging him to one prison after another, week after week, month after month, until finally, when he was sixteen, David refused to go anymore.

He only went one time after that—alone, without Maria—after he’d graduated from high school and was ready to leave for college. One last time to tell his father he thought he was a low down sonofabitch for keeping Maria’s hopes and love alive, and that the next time David saw him would be at his funeral.

Guess he spoke too soon, David thought as the guards ushered him into a private consultation room—courtesy of the lawyers at the Justice Project pulling some strings.

The room was about what you’d expect: cameras monitoring and a window at the door for guards to observe; table bolted to the floor, a steel railing to secure restraints running across the top of it; two lightweight vinyl chairs, cinderblock walls, a caged light bulb overhead; and the stink of a thousand men who came before carrying their desperation like shackles.

David took his seat facing the door and waited. What the hell was he going to say to the man? He was only here for Maria. Only thing he wanted from the man was the truth. Could Michael Manning give that to his son?

He doubted it.

Finally, the door opened and the guards escorted Michael in. David was amazed at how little he’d changed in eight years—still the same bland expression, same stooped shoulders, same wrinkle-free face. David was only twenty-nine to Michael’s forty-six, yet he felt decades older than how his father appeared.