The Red Scream (41 page)

“No. It was a lie,” Molly said. “Because I started with a preconceived idea—that Louie did kill Tiny McFarland—and then made all my research fit into that mold. I accepted other people’s lies because they fit with what I wanted to believe. Louie says it best—he says when he confessed to Tiny’s murder down in San Marcos he was just telling the law what they wanted to hear. And he did the same with me—he just told me what I wanted to hear. I had my mind made up what the story line was and he went along with it and gave me what
I needed to write my book. There were danger signals everywhere that he was lying, but I was in a hurry to get the book written before the advance money ran out. I didn’t ask enough questions. I took the easy way.”

“You sure are hard on yourself,” Addie said.

“No, I don’t think so. Because the inevitable result of that lie and all the smaller lies is something truly ugly—the absolute Godzilla of all lies.”

Addie almost whispered it: “Letting a man die for a murder he didn’t do.”

“Yes. Remaining silent. And right before I called you I’d already decided that I’d done as much as I could to correct this, that it was an impossible situation. Not my fault. Not my responsibility. The only thing to do was just drop it and let the powers that be do what they will do.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Sister Molly, dropping something because it’s impossible. Anyway, it doesn’t sound like Louie’s assessment of you.”

“Oh, I’m persistent all right, but only on the things that fit my preconceptions. Everything else I conveniently overlook. But, Addie, the lying has to stop somewhere. It’s not saying much for me, but
this
is where I draw the line in the dirt. This kind of lie is enough to—” She couldn’t find an adequate end to the sentence and anyway she had run out of breath.

“To darken the world,” Addie Dodgin said. “I agree with you. It’s intolerable. So what are we to do?”

“Tanya says executive clemency is the only thing left.”

“That, or you and me trying to rescue him tomorrow night with guns blazing,” Addie said.

“Yeah,” Molly said, smiling at the image. “I think guns blazing has more chance of success.”

Sister Addie laughed, and Molly thought how very pleasing the sound was. God, a few minutes ago she’d been about to hang up because she found the same voice too sugary.

“I tried to call the governor’s office earlier,” Molly said, “but I couldn’t get through. I don’t know if it’s even worth trying.”

“Why not?”

“Well, she’s tough on law and order. She’s got to be. And politically
she has to support the death penalty. Stark and Boulton both had powerful advocates. And Stark got executed anyway.”

“Even so, it’s worth a try, I think,” Addie said, “and I might could help you get an appointment to see her.”

“How?”

Addie chuckled, and the click of the needles speeded up. “I’ve known Susan Wentworth, formerly Sue Ellen Haberman, since we were in the ninth grade.”

Molly was stunned. “You have?” The two women were like different species. But now that she thought about it, they were both from Waco and about the same age.

“Yes,” Addie said, “I know we seem like creatures from different solar systems, but we both grew up in Waco, went to different high schools, but we met when we competed against one another in a Future Homemakers of America bake-off. She did an apple streusel, her grandmother’s recipe, and I did an angel food cake, my own concoction. I won. Funny. The Lord really does move in mysterious ways. That loss probably made her governor. She switched from Future Homemakers to debate club, went on to win state her senior year. I got married and continued to bake prize-winning angel food cakes. And eat them.”

Molly found herself almost shouting into the phone. “Addie, why don’t you go see her? Since you’re old friends. Tell her what’s happened. Ask her to give us thirty days.”

“Oh, honey. I didn’t say we were old friends. I know her well enough that I might be able to get an audience, but you’re the one to do this. The request carries more weight coming from a cool customer like you, rather than a known holy roller like myself.”

“Cool customer?” Molly said, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice. “Is that how you see me?”

“Well, I’m just talking about the temperature at the skin level,” Addie said, “not way down at the heart and soul.”

“I sure don’t feel cool,” Molly said. “Lately I’ve been having these hot spells where I feel sheer panic creeping over me. I don’t know if it’s my conscience or a preview of menopause.”

Addie laughed. “Tell you what, Sister Molly. Give me a few hours to try and get hold of the governor. I’ll call you back.”

Molly put the phone down and tried to get up from the sofa. She needed to sit herself down at the keyboard and get cracking on this
latest installment of the Louie Bronk saga. But she couldn’t budge. Her body was pinned down, paralyzed. She let her head sink back to the sofa arm. It was too difficult. She was tired. And it was Sunday. The hell with it for today.

M
olly spent the next hour lying on the sofa working on the
New York Times
Sunday crossword puzzle, which, for some reason she didn’t understand, was an activity so riveting that it could hold her attention through a hijacking, or even Armageddon itself.

When the phone rang, she had finished the puzzle, all except for a few boxes in the lower left-hand corner. She sat up and grabbed the phone.

“Sister Addie here. The governor’s going out of town tomorrow, but she’ll see you at seven for coffee before she goes to the airport. She says you’ll have ten minutes to make a case and that it better be damned good.”

“How did you manage it?” Molly demanded.

“Don’t ask,” Addie said with a laugh. “She says to drive around to the back gate of the mansion on Lavaca Street and just holler your name into the intercom.”

“What do you think I should say to her?” Molly asked.

There was a pause during which the only sound was the click of knitting needles. “Well,” Addie said, “Sue Ellen Haberman was always a person who appreciated honesty and passion. Say what’s in your heart.”

“If I did that, Sister Addie, she’d run screaming.”

“I doubt it, my dear. Sue Ellen’s been through the fire herself once or twice. Will you call me afterward? Let me know what happened?”

“Yes.”

After she hung up, Molly went upstairs and took a shower. Standing naked, washing her hair under the hot spray, she thought not about Louie Bronk or the governor or the execution, but about Grady Traynor in the dark garage. As she was drying off, the phone rang.

“I’m parked across the street,” Grady said, “and I am craving barbecued ribs and a Shiner Bock. Always happens to me after a drive-by. Will you join me?”

“Oh, yes,” Molly said. “Give me five minutes to dry my hair and get dressed.”

“Sure. Let me in and I’ll help you.”

Molly pulled a big T-shirt over her head and ran downstairs to let him in, her heart thumping. In spite of everything, he was back for more.

When she opened the door and saw him across the street, leaning against the battered white Ford Tempo, her heart gave a sudden lurch. She stopped in the doorway and pressed a hand over her heart to quiet it, but underneath her fingers it gave a mighty kick. She was alarmed by the power of it until she remembered that many years ago that very thing used to happen frequently.

She grinned. That was the worst sign of middle age she’d experienced yet: to worry you’re having a heart attack when you’re merely falling in love.

chapter
22

You’re the one

Who used the gun,

Had hisself some fun.

Tell us, they said,

You made them dead.

No use denying.

No more lying.

I might.

All right.

I’ll bite.

I confessed

To all the rest.

I’m the best.

LOUIE BRONK
Death Row, Ellis I Unit,
Huntsville, Texas

M
olly arrived at the back entrance to the governor’s mansion fifteen minutes early, so she pulled her truck to the curb on Lavaca and slumped down to wait. She didn’t want to listen to the radio and she hadn’t thought to bring the paper along. She let her head rest back on the seat and stared at the white-brick wall and the back of the Greek Revival mansion that had served as home to Texas governors since 1856.

It was six forty-five and the sky was lightening in the east. She lifted her eyes up, above the wall, above the flat roof of the mansion, and above the treetops to the rose-colored dome of the state capitol a block away. The repairs to the dome had finally been completed, along with the new underground addition. At the very top of the dome stood the recently restored Goddess of Liberty. In her right hand she held a sword and in the left, a gold star, which she raised aloft, 309 feet into the Texas sky. As Molly watched, the morning sun caught one of the star’s points and made it wink, once, twice,
and then the whole star was suddenly illuminated, sending out golden rays against the slatey sky. Molly felt a little quiver in her chest. If she were a person who thought in terms of signs and omens, this might mean something for her.

Molly Cates didn’t have many heroes, but one of them was Susan Wentworth. Once an alcoholic housewife with four children and a philandering husband, in her forties Wentworth got sober, divorced her husband, and went to law school. In her fifties, she won a seat in the state legislature and then ran for governor.

During her first term Susan Wentworth became one of the most popular governors in the history of the state and was reelected four years later in a landslide. She achieved national recognition with her witty keynote address at the Democratic Convention and was often mentioned in the national press as a possible candidate for president. Molly’s magazine had recently done a cover by superimposing the governor’s head on a model dressed as Wonder Woman lassoing the state of Texas with one hand and the United States with the other.

At two minutes to seven Molly pulled her truck up to the closed gate in the brick wall, easing up to the intercom speaker. The instant she spoke her name, the gates swung open. She drove around the brick-paved circle drive and stopped under the porte cochere behind a white Caprice Classic with three antennas on the back. She glanced around for guards but saw no one. Then she noticed that she was surrounded by security cameras, hidden in azalea bushes and up in trees and next to pillars.

A man in a dark suit emerged from the white carriage house at the gate and approached the truck. “Follow me please, Mrs. Cates,” he said. They entered the back door and he ushered her into the first room on the right. A large room with two full walls of windows, it was decorated all in yellows and beige. The first rays of morning sunlight seemed to bring it all to warm, glowing life. A huge octagonal table occupied the center of the room.

“Please sit down,” the man said. “The governor will be right along.”

Molly waited for less than a minute before Susan Wentworth entered, her three-inch spike heels tapping the hardwood floor at the doorway with an energy that made Molly stand and stare.

Though Molly had never actually met Susan Wentworth, she had
seen her in person several times at press conferences and speeches. So she thought she was prepared for the vitality of the woman’s physical presence. But when the governor entered the room—wiry and spring-loaded, frosted blond hair coifed within an inch of its life, wearing a vivid red suit and matching lipstick—Molly found herself staring in awe. She was—just for a moment, unexpectedly, amazingly—star-struck.

The governor carried a manila file folder which she set down on the table with a slap. “Morning, Miz Cates,” she twanged. “You’re right on time and that’s good because I have to leave for the airport in just ten short minutes.”

A man entered behind her with a tray bearing a silver coffeepot and two cups.

“You’ll join me in some coffee, I hope,” she said, pulling a chair out and sitting down at the table. “Sit down.”

Molly sat. “Yes. Thank you.”

The man put a china cup and saucer in front of the governor and one in front of Molly. He poured each a cup and walked out silently, pulling the door shut behind him.

The governor picked up her cup and took a sip, studying Molly over the brim. Her bright blue eyes were framed by scores of deep wrinkles radiating out from the corners. She set her cup down and said, “Miz Cates, I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“No, ma’am,” Molly said, her throat dry and scratchy.

“I have read some of your pieces in
Lone Star Monthly.
I particularly liked the one some years back about the archaeologist who investigated those old bones that got dug up during the construction downtown. Made me feel I missed a bet by not becoming an archaeologist.”

“Me too,” Molly said. “I felt that way every time I talked with Dr. Carrue. He died a few months ago. On a dig in Big Bend.” Her voice cracked at the end of her statement. Molly took a sip of coffee to clear her throat.

The governor opened the file folder in front of her and rested her long, delicate fingers on either side. “Miz Cates, I have to tell you I’m real familiar with this case. I followed it closely back in ’82. I was interested because I knew Tiny McFarland slightly—from the Planned Parenthood Board. And I have known Charlie for years; he’s been a generous supporter of mine. I’m grieving for him now,
what with losing another wife. You should know this has a personal dimension for me.”