"Looks like a bigger version of Roy Rogers," Dwayne said.
"Who's Roy Rogers?" Chuck said.
Frank and Chico had flown to Omaha to find Bo Cantrell. Dwayne and Chuck had driven the one hundred seventy miles from Lubbock to Wink to find Darrell Jackson. They had. On the Lazy River Ranch outside town. Darrell rode up on a big white horse just as they pulled up to the ranch house and got out of the rental. He did look like a male model.
"Help you?" Darrell said.
"Nice looking horse," Dwayne said.
"You a rancher?"
"Cop. Ex-cop."
"What brings you out here?"
"Dee Dee Dunston."
Dwayne almost hoped that Darrell would yank on the reins and gallop off. Because then William Tucker's life would be saved. Which would save Frank Tucker's life. If the boy went to prison, Frank would never be free. He was a good man and a good friend, and Dwayne Gentry was down to three friends in the whole world. He couldn't afford to lose one.
"We understand you knew her," Dwayne said, "in the Biblical sense."
Darrell dismounted. He jingled.
"Wow, cowboys really do wear spurs," Chuck said with a kid's grin.
Darrell frowned at Chuck then turned to Dwayne.
"I knew her. But I didn't kill her, if that's why you're here."
"It is."
"I thought William Tucker confessed?"
"Nope. He didn't kill the girl."
"Paper said his blood was on her."
"It was on you, too," Chuck said.
"You an ex-cop, too?"
"Coach."
"An ex-cop and an ex-coach."
"You wore number fifty-two back then, didn't you?" Dwayne said.
"Yep."
"William was bleeding at the end of that game. When you tackled him, his blood got on John Smith, Bo Cantrell, and you."
"How do you know?"
"Game film," Chuck said. "Got a real neat zoom feature."
"Did you shower after the game?" Dwayne said.
Darrell recoiled and seemed a bit amused.
"Odd question."
"Mind answering it?"
"Yeah, I showered after the game. Always did. I may be a cowboy, but I'm not a cow. I got a degree in engineering, and I know how a shower works."
Dwayne and Chuck exchanged a glance. Darrell pushed his hat back on his head.
"So you two fellas came all the way out here to ask if I showered after the game? Hell, you could've called."
"What about Bo Cantrell? He shower after the game?"
Darrell laughed. "Bo Cantrell was a half-crazy, juiced-up coon-ass from Louisiana who suffered one too many concussions. And he stunk worse than cow shit. His idea of bathing was swimming in the swamp."
"Tell us about him."
"We came up together, started all four years. He was middle linebacker, I was outside. He was dead set on going pro, but he was only two-thirty. Pro linebackers are two-sixty. So he got on steroids junior year. Made him meaner than a rattlesnake. And the concussions didn't help his disposition."
"You didn't partake?"
"Nope. I never figured on going pro. I'm a cowboy. I had this ranch to come back to. Bo, he didn't have anything waiting back in Louisiana for him. If he didn't go pro, he was back hunting gators in the swamp. I always figured I'd read about him in the paper."
"Sports pages?"
"Obituaries. Figured he'd commit suicide, like those other brain-damaged pro players." He shook his head. "Well, I'd better go look for some cows."
Darrell Jackson stuck a cowboy boot into a stirrup and mounted the big horse. He jerked the reins as if to gallop off, but didn't. He turned back to Dwayne and Chuck.
"By the end of our senior season, Bo's head just wasn't right. The juice, it made him paranoid. You go looking for Bo, you watch yourself. He started carrying a gun."
Bo Cantrell had been taken by Omaha in the third round of the NFL draft two years before. He was now a starting linebacker for the Wranglers. He sported a shaved head and tattoo sleeves on both arms. When he walked out of the Wrangler's training facility after their Tuesday practice, Frank called out to him from across the parking lot.
"Bo!"
He glanced their way but kept walking and yelled over his shoulder, "No autographs."
Frank and Chico caught up with him.
"We don't want your autograph."
Still walking. "Good."
"We want to ask you about Dee Dee Dunston."
Bo stopped. He turned and looked them over. And Frank looked him over. His head seemed oversized, his neck was thick, and his shoulders were wide and lumpy with muscles. He had acne. He was not a handsome human being. He wore a Wrangler T-shirt, sweat pants, and sneakers. Grass was in his hair; his thick arms were matted with dirt and sweat. His body odor was stifling.
"You cops?"
"I'm Frank Tucker. William Tucker's father."
Bo maintained his stern expression, but Frank saw something in his eyes. Guilt.
"Way I hear it, your boy's done confessed to killing Dee Dee."
"You heard wrong, Bo. He didn't kill her."
"Then who did?"
They locked eyes. Dwayne had reported in on their meeting with Darrell Jackson. Only one suspect remained.
"You did."
Bo's massive neck muscles clenched. His breathing came faster, and his face flushed. He was the killer.
"You didn't shower after practice, Bo."
"So?"
"Habit. You didn't shower after the UT game two years ago either."
"So?"
"So William's left elbow got cut at the end of the game, when you and Darrell Jackson and John Smith tackled him. He bled down his arm. His blood got on their arms and your arms. But they showered after the game, washed the blood off. You didn't. His blood was still on your arms when you raped and murdered Dee Dee that night out back of the Dizzy Rooster."
"Prove it."
"We can. We can prove that you killed Dee Dee. It's over, Bo."
Bo Cantrell stepped toward Frank as if to hit him.
"Fuck you."
He turned and walked fast to a jacked-up four-wheel drive pickup, got in, and sped off. Chico took a photo of the license plate with William's cell phone. Then Frank called Dwayne. When he answered, Frank said, "You and Chuck drive to Midland, fly to Omaha. It's Bo Cantrell."
"How are we going to get Bo to confess?" Chuck asked.
Frank and Chico had picked up Dwayne and Chuck at the Omaha airport that night and driven back to the hotel.
"We're gonna haunt his ass," Dwayne said. "When you know who the bad guy is, and the bad guy knows you know, you gotta get in his head, let him know you're watching him, make him look over his shoulder, get him scared."
"Of us?" Chico said. "An ex-lawyer, ex-cop, ex-coach, and ex-con?"
"Good point," Frank said.
"I've dealt with his kind before," Dwayne said. "He ain't the brightest bulb in the box, see, but he figures he got away with murder. And rape. Now it's two years later, and he likes his life. Wants to keep it. He'll do anything to keep it. Even kill again. 'Cause he's got nothing to lose."
"Kill again?" Chico said. "That would be us?"
"It would," Dwayne said.
"That calls for a drink."