The Red Zone Read online

  "What?" Major Slaughter said, squinting his eyes and pulling his lips off his front teeth as though he had heard the sheriff incorrectly.

  "I don't think he did it, Major," Emmit repeated apologetically.

  Slaughter snorted and threw his feet down so he could spin around and face the sheriff.

  "I hope you had to come into town to do some banking, son," he said, "because if you came here just to tell me that, you wasted your gas. Don't be a fool! The man confessed it to me personally! He signed a damn confession! Then he killed himself! What better proof could you ask for?"

  "Major," Emmit stammered, "it's just that I've known Caleb for most of his life. He's had some run-ins, but nothing like this. Those heads . . . that was something an insane person would do. Caleb was a drunk, and a loser, but he never hurt anyone and ..."

  Emmit fumbled with something in his breast pocket, then held forth a large ring for Slaughter to see.

  "I know I should have showed you this when I first found it, but"--Emmit's big round cheeks burst with color--"well, I didn't think it was anything then. I'm not sure if it is now, but maybe it is. I know Caleb didn't kill those people. He wouldn't, and if he did, he wouldn't have called me to tell me where to find them. It doesn't make sense . . ."

  The major ignored the ring and glared at Emmit. "Let me tell you something, son. I've got a solved murder here. I've been getting calls all morning from people congratulating me. That man was as nutty as a pecan pie. Now, I don't know what the hell your problem is, son, but you best keep it to yourself, because if I catch word that you're trying to tamper with my work . . . the only law enforcement job you'll be able to hold down will be the night watch at a factory someplace north of the Mason-Dixon line. Now get the hell out of here before I decide to crush your balls just for being so stupid!"

  Emmit's mouth fell halfway open, his face red enough now to have been blistered by the sun. He balled up the ring in his fist and turned to go, tripping on the carpet as he reached for the door.

  Chapter 27

  Martin Wilburn drove through the middle of West Palm Beach, past the Royal Palm hotel, and headed south on the intracoastal highway. After a while he made a sharp U-turn and pulled over to the ocean side of the road. A pay phone mounted on a concrete post faced the water. Wilburn got out of his new Jaguar and puffed warm air into his hands. The breeze coming in off the water made him chilly. He pulled his chocolate-colored suede coat close and scanned the area. He was just about right on time. He was three steps away from the phone when it started to ring.

  "Hello," he said, picking it up.

  "This is the wolf," said the voice on the other end.

  "This is the panther," Wilburn said quietly. His mouth was twisted disdainfully at the ridiculous pseudonyms. Suddenly, though, he froze. There was a lumpy form on the bench that he hadn't noticed until now.

  "Hang on," he said, setting the phone down on the dull chrome ledge of the box and walking around to the other side of the bench to get a better look. It was a bum wrapped in blankets. Only his tattered Converse sneakers, stuffed with newspapers, protruded from the nappy blankets that covered him. Wilburn brought his Bally loafer up off the sidewalk and nudged the bum with his toe until he stirred.

  "Hey," he said, extracting a twenty from his wallet and waving it in the toothless grimy face that appeared between the folds of the blankets. "Let me have this bench to myself and go get yourself a good bottle."

  The bums weepy bloodshot eyes widened at the size of the bill. A dirt-stained hand shot out from the blankets, and he hustled to his feet and tottered off mumbling incoherently

  "I'm back," Wilburn said into the phone.

  "What the hell was that about?"

  "Nothing. A bum. He's gone."

  There was silence, and then coldly, "We may have a problem."

  Wilburns blood raced. There had been so much careful planning. Things were going so well that bad news was almost inevitable.

  "What?"

  "I think your boy has lost control," the wolf said.

  "Hes not my boy," Wilburn protested. "Why?"

  "We got a call from the sheriff in Canal Point near Lake Okeechobee. It seems they found three heads on three poles at a campsite near the fishing cabin."

  "Holy shit," Wilburn muttered, his eyes squinting in disbelief. "Heads?"

  "Yeah."

  "That fucking psycho," Wilburn said, shuddering from a chill. "I said he was no good."

  "I warned you," the wolf added.

  "It wasn't my call, man! Shit!" Wilburn slipped ever so slightly into his street dialect. He did that whenever he was on edge.

  "Chase is dead," Wilburn reminded them both. "That's the important thing."

  "Whats important now is that this whole thing doesn't blow up."

  "It won't," Wilburn said with a confidence he didn't feel.

  "Anything could happen with him."

  "Hey, man," Wilburn protested, his voice approaching the pitch of a whine, "this ain't my fault!"

  The wolf let that ride a moment before he said, "You got him out."

  "I got him out," Wilburn said in disgust. "Everyone knew I was getting him out. I was told to get him out. . .

  "What am I supposed to do about it?" Wilburn asked. "I can't control him."

  "But you know who can."

  "Hey, I can't control either of them at this point. I want that to be clear," Wilburn said.

  "I just want you to know that you are the one being held responsible," the wolf said in a somber tone that was neither malevolent, nor a threat. That made his message all the more intimidating to Wilburn, because he knew the wolf meant every word.

  "I'll see what I can do," he said with another slight shiver. "I have to go."

  "Good luck."

  "Good luck," Wilburn muttered after he'd hung up the phone. "Good fucking luck!"

  Chapter 28

  The Texas night was turning brisk and a wind whipped dust and straw wrappers through the air in a mad swirl. Foam cups spun and clattered along the ground, and crumpled hamburger papers blew like tumbleweeds. The sky above the huge banks of artificial light was as black as a crows wing. Madison pulled her windbreaker tight around her and dipped her chin. Things looked hopeless. It was the game that would determine who got to play for the county championship. Cody's West Lake Hills Cougars were down by thirteen points, and there was a minute and a half left to play. Just to be in the hunt for the championship was incredible. Cody Grey had turned the team around in a single season. But, as Cody had reminded Madison, when it came to football in Texas, winning was the only thing.

  Jo-Jo sat next to her in a gray hooded sweatshirt, his hands clenched, gnawing on the back of a knuckle. She could sense the same degree of tension in the ten thousand other people who had jammed themselves into the stadium to see the Friday night high school game. Madison couldn't believe the numbers, or the emotion. With so many things going on in the world all around them, how ten thousand people could turn out for a high school game in this cold was a marvel to Madison.

  She searched for Cody on the sideline. His hands were on his knees and he was bent over, cap on his head, staring at his team with the intensity of a man about to sink a championship putt. He knew that despite the progress his team had made, most of the ten thousand fans would be disappointed all winter if he lost this game. He had almost done too well too soon, raising everyone's expectations.

  The Cougar offense went to the line and set up. The opposing defense did the same. The Cougars suddenly shifted their formation, then shifted again. A wide receiver went in motion. The confusion of the defense trying to figure out how to play the changing formation was obvious. Even Madison knew enough to see that the opposition had left a split back out on the perimeter of the field completely uncovered. Without thinking, she held her breath.

  The quarterback took the snap and dropped straight back five steps before launching the ball. He threw it high and long, well ahead of the wide-open receiver. The spli
t back seemed to have a turbocharge. The boy accelerated toward the ball and just got there, catching it with his fingertips as he shot across the end zone. The stadium erupted.

  Madison screamed wildly and hugged her son, who was jumping up and down with the rest of the crowd. After the cheering died down, Madison took her seat again and tried to compose herself. She blushed at her own outburst, then reminded herself that her husband was the coach. That was a better excuse for enthusiasm than most people had.

  The Cougars lined up now for an onsides kick. The kicker was the key. He had to kick the ball ten yards for it to be a live kick. His own team could then recover it and put themselves right back on offense. Both teams knew that the kicker would boot the ball ten yards diagonally toward the sideline. This allowed his men to reach the ball at the same time as the opposition. For the kick to work, the kicker also had to put a top spin on the ball to make it bounce up into the air at the last second before it went out of bounds. If it did go out of bounds, it became the receiving teams ball. That critical bounce, if done right, turned the play into a jump ball between twenty-one heavily padded football players.

  The Cougar kicker teed up the ball while his teammates clustered tightly on the opposite side of the field, facing an intimidating number of opposing players ten yards away.

  "Mom," Jo-Jo said, grabbing her arm and shaking her so hard it hurt, "watch Kevin Delaney! Watch number eighty! See him, Mom! Cody hid him. Hes right by the sideline near the kicker! Watch him!"

  Madison knew that even though her son was only nine, he probably had a better understanding of what was going on than ninety percent of the people watching, maybe one hundred percent since he got the inside strategies straight from Cody. Madison did as her son said.

  The kicker held up his hand and just as he did, the other Cougar players near where Delaney stood stepped back well clear of the sideline. The referees whistle blew, but instead of kicking the ball toward the cluster of Cougars, the kicker ran laterally past the ball before turning to kick it back down the field toward the near sideline where Delaney had been hiding. The ball skittered twelve yards before Delaney caught up to it and threw himself down to recover the kick. Whistles blared in the air and the opposing coach stormed onto the field, shrieking at the officials. The crowd drowned out anything he might have been saying. Ten thousand West Lake Hills residents were bellowing and hooting as if they'd won a war.

  Three plays later the Cougars were in the end zone and Cody Greys name was on the lips of the entire town. Madison blushed and Jo-Jo beamed as they made their way with the rest of the throng toward the stadium exit. People were congratulating the two of them as if Cody had just been elected president.

  As silly as it all was to Madison, she was very proud of her husband. She knew all the time and preparation he put into his team, and into their winning. And there was something she'd seen tonight that stuck with her, an idea that wouldn't go away. It was a simple thing, a cliche: Cody won because he refused to give up. He never gave up, even during the week, when there were no crowds looking on. It was the behind-the-scenes perseverance that counted. The trick play on the kick, and the crafty formation shifts, those were things that took determination as well as creativity. They were plays that had to be run over and over, beforehand, so the players-could execute them the right way when the game was on the line.

  Madison nodded and smiled at people as she walked. That's when things really counted, she thought, when no one was watching, just yourself.

  Chapter 29

  Luther boarded the charter plane and walked through first class. Everyone got quiet. Martin Wilburn was there with some of his friends. The coaches were there, and some of the media, too. No one met Luther's eyes as he towered past them behind a pair of funky dark gold-rimmed sunglasses, but when he passed, he felt their stares. He kept his chin held high and walked toward the back, thinking about how he'd like to just take them all out, every last one of them, staring at him like he was some kind of circus animal. In the front of the coach section, a federal marshal sat among the trainers and equipment managers. The marshal nodded curtly to Luther. He passed through the middle of the plane where most of the white players sat. They got quiet, too.

  It wasn't that they hadn't seen him; they had. Luther had been at practice on Friday, and besides having to push his way into the locker room through a throng of media, the day hadn't been that much unlike any other Friday. But that was practice, where everything was routine and every minute was accounted for. The plane ride to San Francisco was a social gathering. Players talked and played cards and rolled dice. The whole trip took on a festive air. Luther felt like a rain cloud hovering over a reunion picnic.

  When he got back to where most of his black teammates sat, he felt a little of the tension ease.

  "Luther," one of the big defensive ends barked, "my man."

  Luther nodded. Other black players acknowledged him, too. They knew it wasn't unusual when some shit went down to have everyone point a finger at the nearest black man. As far as they were concerned, the white man was prosecuting him for one thing only: screwing the owner's wife. And for that, with the exception of a few holy rollers, his brothers on the team lauded him.

  "Luther."

  "Hey, Luth."

  "Blood, what's up?"

  Luther felt the tension rush out of him like the air from a slashed tire. .

  "Hi, Luther," Bob Jenks said, looking up from a copy of The New York Times. Jenks was a big rangy tight end who wore round tortoiseshell glasses and who graduated magna cum laude from Stanford. He was one of the few whites who sat anywhere, sometimes with the brothers, sometimes with the whites. On the field, a player was just a player, but on the plane, in the hotels, or anywhere off the field, whites and blacks tended to segregate. Jenks was a rare bird.

  Luther removed his glasses and winked at Jenks before sitting down across the aisle next to Antone, who was busy stabbing away at an electronic Gameboy. Luther wasn't crazy about sitting next to Antone, especially under the circumstances, but Luther, unlike Jenks, was a creature of habit. This had been his seat on the plane for the past eight years now, and he wasn't about to change it just to avoid Antone.

  "Luther, my man!" Antone said, happy just to be there, as he should be.

  "Hey, Antone," Luther said, taking a copy of Sports Illustrated out of the seat pocket in front of him and burying his nose in it to cut off any further conversation.

  The brothers around Luther returned to normal and the volume of goofing began to pick up. Up front, the first-class passengers and the whites seemed to have trouble regaining their equilibrium. It didnt surprise Luther. They were always that way.

  Chapter 30

  After a weekend of celebrating her husbands big victory, and a rigorous Monday at the office, Madison returned to Florida on Tuesday morning with Chris. They weren't going to get the discovery material until Wednesday, but they needed to talk with Luther. On Friday, after they'd met with Mark Berryhill, they caught a plane back to Austin and hadn't had time to stop and see Luther. Madison could have called him, but on Saturday morning Luther flew with his team to San Francisco. She wanted to talk with him face-to-face anyway, not over the phone. She needed to get some things straight. She wasn't going to give up, but neither was she going to work with her client lying to4 her outright. Hidden truths were part of her business. She didn't like them, but she could accept them. Blatant, stupid lies were insulting. Luther must have seen the parking ticket on his car the morning of Chase's death and known that people would find out he'd actually been there.

  Again, they met him at his home. This time, only three television trucks were waiting outside the security gates. Mercifully, the indictment had come down from the grand jury on Friday and the ensuing media storm had blown itself out over the weekend. Like all murder trials, Madison knew that unless someone was intimately connected to the case, they didnt give it a second thought unless it was force-fed to them on the nightly news or the front page. She
also knew that, barring any abnormalities, people would stop talking about Luther and his indictment for murder within a couple of weeks. Even in the O. J. Simpson case, the scandalous speculation settled down considerably between the time of the indictment and the actual trial. It was a good thing for clients Madison had to defend. The best thing they could do while they waited for the trial was to stick as close to their normal routine as they could.

  For Luther, that probably wouldn't happen until the end of the season, when he was no longer exposed to the media on a daily basis as a matter of course. She did believe the attention would subside, however, and sitting once again at his kitchen table, that's what she told him.

  "Luther," Madison said after offering her opinion on the media, "before we talk about anything else, I've got to be completely honest with you." She stared flatly at him. "You lied to me, and I'm damn mad about it. I actually thought about withdrawing from this case--"

  "Hey," Luther began, his face clouding instantly with anger.

  She held her hand up, and with her sternest look got him to let her finish. "I said thought about it. And I'd have good cause, too. Don't make it worse by acting mad at me. I'm not the one who wasn't honest! Did you really think no one would find out that your car was at MacCarther National Park the morning Chase was killed? How could you even hope the police wouldn't know? And even if you could, why wouldn't you tell me?"

  "I--" Luther started to say.

  "Please!" Madison said. "Just listen for a minute, Luther. You need to listen to me. This is what I do. I know how all this works. You told me a few weeks ago that football was your world . . . Well, you're in my world now. This is the law, and I know it. You have to tell me the truth. I will defend you. That's my job, my sworn duty. No matter how bad things look, I will defend you with whatever means I can."

  Luther's face softened, and he looked at her with a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty.