thirty-three

We lead the deputy to McCall’s body. My talk with Slate gets off to a bad start when he calls for backup to help cut McCall down and I say, “You’ll need a doctor, too.”

“For what? To confirm he’s dead?” Slate smacks McCall’s corpse. “Yep, pretty sure ol’ Owen’s not faking it.”

Jude stares like he’s wondering if Slate has been drinking tonight. Sadly, there isn’t so much as a whiff of alcohol fumes.

I tell my story, starting with the list. I’m not sure if Slate is even listening. He rips the note from McCall and reads it, lips moving, earning me an Is he for real? look from Jude.

When I finish explaining, Slate turns to Jude. “Did you put her up to this?”

“Up to what?”

“This story about finding Marty’s body under Owen’s pot field?”

“It’s there,” I say.

“Of course it is. Says so right here.” He waves the note and then looks at Jude. “Bet that put a damper on your night, huh? Get one of our pretty girls into the forest, think you’ve hit the hick-town jackpot, and bam, dead body hanging from a tree. Really spoils the mood.”

Jude’s mouth opens just enough to say “Do you know who I am?” and there’s strain there, as if it’s a tactic he’d really rather not resort to but this is the only solution if we don’t want to be here all night.

“Yeah,” Slate says. “Some vagrant who’s convinced Winter he’s the governor’s son.”

“Congressman,” Jude says, his voice tight. “Peter Bishop is a congressman. The state representative for Kentucky district six.”

“Show some ID.”

Jude goes still.

“I said, show me your ID. That’s not a request. I’m an officer of the law, and if I ask for your ID—”

“I don’t have to present it unless you’re charging me with something.”

“You want to be charged?”

“All right. Forget who I am. In fact, forget what Winter said. You don’t believe she found that kid’s body? Fine. She’s officially reported it. Winter? Let’s—”

“Hands against the tree,” Slate says.

Jude sighs. Apparently I’m not the only one who makes his life so very difficult. “There’s no need for that, Deputy. I’m leaving, and I apologize for any misunderstanding—”

“Turn around. Hands up.” Slate pulls his gun. “Now.”

Jude does not sigh. His eyes narrow. His jaw tenses. It’s only a split-second reaction before he relaxes, but it’s enough for me to catch a glimpse of a very different guy. One who is not nearly so imperturbable, not nearly so inclined to respond with a soft sigh of resignation.

Then that calm look returns, and Jude raises his arms over his head and turns around.

Slate lowers the gun and reaches for Jude’s back pocket, where I can see the bulge of a wallet.

“I presume you are checking my identification,” Jude says. “It’s fake. I’ll say that up front. My birth date is actually correct on the ID, though, which means I’m not using it to sneak into bars. That would be illegal.” He pauses. “Technically, so is the carrying of fake ID. As is the obtaining of it….”

“Are you trying to be a smart-ass, son?”

“No, just honest. You’ll realize it’s illegal so I might as well admit to that. If you want to press charges—”

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

Jude purses his lips. “Not particularly. But if that’s another way of asking if I’m trying to be a smart-ass—”

Slate cuts him off by waving Jude’s ID in front of me. “Jude Hardy. Not Bishop. Hardy. And this isn’t a fake ID. I know the difference.”

“It’s a good forgery,” Jude says. “However, you’ll note on the license that—”

Slate throws the wallet and cards at Jude. “Save your stories for pretty girls. Girls from other towns. I catch you around here again, Mr. Jude Hardy, and I’ll let Winter’s daddy deal with you. And let me tell you, Robbie Crane is one ugly-ass drunk who don’t like no one messing with his baby girls. So get the hell out of my town. And, Winter? Get home before I do tell your daddy what kind of trouble you’ve been up to.”

“Jude Hardy?” I say as we loop back into the forest.

“It is a fake ID.” He holds out the license. “See the—”

“I’m not questioning who you are. I saw enough photos online. But Hardy? Really? I suppose you thought you were being obscure.”

He gives a snort of surprised laughter.

“Yes, I got the literary reference,” I say. “It’s not that obscure.”

“Your deputy didn’t get it.”

“Our deputy can barely read the Sunday comics.”

We circle past a stand of trees and he says, “I will admit, I thought you were exaggerating about the local law enforcement.”

“And now you know.”

“If you can give me a lift home,” I say as we walk, “I’d be grateful. Normally I don’t mind walking through the woods….”

“Definitely not tonight. In fact, I’m going to strongly suggest you stay clear of them as much as possible.”

“I will. The problem is that around here, it’s all woods. So I’d appreciate a lift. I can direct you down back roads if you’d rather not cut through town.”

“I…” He checks his watch. “Oh. Yeah. It’s late.”

“Yep. If that means you don’t have time to drop me off, I can walk.”

“I’m not exactly running on a schedule. It’s just…” He checks his watch again, as if the result has miraculously changed. “No, yeah, it’s late.”

“Spit it out.”

“Okay, yeah, I was hoping we could talk, but your dad wouldn’t appreciate you bringing a guy over at two a.m. Especially not after what that deputy said.”

“That deputy is full of shit, in case you didn’t figure that out. But no, bringing you home would be a very bad idea. My father might not be home, but if he is…” I shrug. “It isn’t a good idea.”

“Is he likely to not be there? You shouldn’t be alone. I’ve got a motel room. You’re welcome to stay with me. Call your father and tell him you’re spending the night with a friend.” He grabs the helmet from the bike as we reach it.

“Your motel room?”

“Right.” He looks over, brow furrowing in genuine confusion as he sees my expression. “Oh. Yeah. I guess that might sound a little weird. I’m…” He gives a distracted wave. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I know.”

I can’t imagine there are many eighteen-year-old guys who’d invite a girl to spend the night in their motel room and not realize that could sound suspicious. But Jude really is that guy, and maybe it’s just because he’s temporarily distracted, but I get the feeling he’s been very distracted for a very long time. Or maybe not so much distracted as focused, like me. He has certain things on his mind and they preoccupy that mind to the exclusion of everything else.

“Let’s go to your motel room and talk,” I say. “By the time we do, it’ll probably be morning anyway.”