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After a long nap, Red went into the living room and found Billy Don and Garrett focused on the TV.
“This shit’s getting weird, Red,” Billy Don said from his usual sunken spot on the couch. Garrett was seated beside him. Wise man, not taking Red’s recliner. “Almost woke you up.”
“What shit?” Red said.
Billy Don nodded at the TV, like that would explain it all.
There was a lady on the screen, talking in front of a house, but she’d just finished saying whatever she’d been saying.
“That lady was saying some wild stuff about Albert, but you just missed it,” Billy Don said.
“Remember how you can back it up?” Red asked.
That was one of the features of their DVR—the ability to rewind what you were watching. Billy Don always forgot, and when he remembered, he seemed to think it was some kind of mystical, magical voodoo trick. How could he operate an iPhone but fail to understand a DVR?
“Oh, yeah,” Billy Don said, and he rewound it about a minute.
Now that woman—probably in her late forties, with thick brown hair and a hell of a nice body—was talking about some guy named Miguel, which confused Red at first, until he realized Miguel was Albert Cortez.
“Albert was banging this lady years ago,” Billy Don said.
“Yeah, I figured that out,” Red said.
“Even though she was married,” Billy Don said.
“I pieced that together when she said she was married,” Red said.
“And then he took off,” Billy Don said. “He’s been hiding out for nineteen years.”
“I’m watching the same clip you are,” Red said.
Red took a seat in his recliner, and from this vantage point, he could sneak a look at Garrett, who had his eyes glued to the TV set. It was hard for Red to read his expression.
Now the lady on the TV was saying she wasn’t going to say anything else, but she was glad Miguel was okay. Then she said she didn’t know anything about the body at the zoo, but they should talk to her ex-husband.
“Miguel means Michael,” Billy Don said to Garrett. “That’s the Mexican word for Michael.”
“Billy Don is always good at taking these complex issues and boiling ’em down for us simple folk,” Red said.
He expected to get a laugh or at least a grin from Garrett, but the kid didn’t react. He was too focused on the TV.
“Play that back again,” Red said.
“Which part?” Billy Don asked.
“All of it.”
Red wanted to watch Garrett more closely. As the interview played again, Garrett appeared almost hypnotized by it.
“Can’t believe they still don’t know who the dead guy is,” Red said. “Ain’t like it would be that hard to figure it out. Just run his fingerprints through one of them databases.”
“Not everybody’s in there,” Billy Don said.
Red knew that, of course, because he was a seasoned investigator, but he wanted to see how Garrett might react.
Red said, “Yeah, I know, but if he ain’t in there, somebody’s bound to report him missing eventually.”
“Think the ex-husband sent him down here?” Billy Don asked.
That idea hadn’t occurred to Red yet, so he said, “Well, sure. That seems obvious.”
If that were the case, there was a good chance Albert killed the guy in self-defense, which would mean Garrett had nothing to do with it.
“Can’t believe they haven’t even shown us a picture of him yet,” Billy Don said.
“They usually don’t do that until they can notify the kinfolk,” Red said.
“Or maybe they can’t show a picture, because he got shot in the face with a shotgun,” Billy Don said.
Garrett said, “That’s not—” But he stopped in mid-sentence.
“What?” Red said.
“Huh?” Garrett replied.
“What were you gonna say?”
“I was just saying that he probably wasn’t shot in the face.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I think I heard he was shot in the neck.”
“Heard it from where?” Red asked.
Garrett kept his eyes on the TV.
“I can’t remember. I think I read it online. Or I saw it on the news.”
“I don’t remember seeing that,” Red said. “Did you see that, Billy Don?”
Red and Billy Don locked eyes for a few seconds, and even Billy Don was smart enough to read the message in Red’s eyes. How does Garrett know where the man was shot?
“Lotta rumors getting spread,” Billy Don said. “Can’t trust most of it.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Garrett said. “I probably just heard a rumor.”
Now Red was more confused than ever.
Trevor Larkin was fifteen years old the first time he heard the name Charles Starkweather. He—Trevor—had been flipping through the cable channels and happened to stop on a grainy black-and-white photo of Starkweather from the late fifties.
There was something compelling about that photo—that face, those wide-set eyes, that terrible flattop haircut—that stopped Trevor cold before he even knew why Charles Starkweather was famous. Then the narrator told him exactly why.
The photo wasn’t just a casual snapshot or class picture, it was a mugshot. Starkweather had been arrested after going on a murder spree in Nebraska and Wyoming in 1958. Killed ten people in eight days.
He’d killed his first person, a gas station attendant, two months earlier and had gotten away with it. That changed everything for Starkweather. He’d found a way to transcend the bullying and poverty he’d endured as a kid. A way to express the rage that burned inside him.
Trevor could relate.
On January 21, 1958, Starkweather went to pick up his girlfriend, 14-year-old Caril Ann Fugate, but her parents didn’t want him around their daughter. They argued. So he shot them. Simple as that. He hid the bodies for a few days, but family members became suspicious, and Starkweather and Fugate went on the run. Even to this day, there was debate as to whether Caril Ann was a willing participant or a hostage. Trevor always figured—always hoped—that she was happy to be along for the ride. It made a better story that way. The two of them against the world.
Starkweather killed eight more people, most at random, and according to him, Fugate participated. They got caught after a high-speed chase. Caril Ann Fugate got a life sentence and ultimately served seventeen years. Starkweather got the electric chair, but so what? He’d had his blaze of glory. His moment in the sun. A lot of people knew his name.
After watching that documentary, Trevor felt as if he’d discovered a fallback plan for his life. It was something he could keep in his back pocket in case things didn’t work out, and he’d always found it oddly comforting. He never knew when, how, or if he’d act on it. One thing for certain, though—he’d always assumed it would be under his control. He would choose the time and the place and the exact conditions. He didn’t expect it to just happen.
But that’s the way it had unfolded. It started with the game warden yesterday. Trevor was in a bad mood at the time—still mad at Bryce—so he’d lost control and pointed the rifle at the warden. It was amazing how good it felt. Came this close to pulling the trigger. Could have cut that game warden down easily.
Then he realized what a mistake that had been, because he hadn’t followed through, and he would get arrested, and his fallback plan would be ruined.
Luckily, he’d gotten away in Bryce’s uncle’s truck, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the cops came for him. Then what? Nothing would be under his control anymore. That was the worst possible scenario.
But they never came. Not last night and not this morning. Maybe he’d gotten away with it.
Then Bryce showed up at his house, telling him even more stuff that made him angry, and this time, he totally lost it.
Boom. Amazing.
Also unplanned, but he had some time to think afterward and form a plan.
Now he was parked at the Church of Christ next to the Dairy Queen, trying to work up the nerve to go inside.
He was antsy as hell. Mind racing. Doing his best to keep it under control. Panic was his enemy. He had to keep it in check.
A passing thundershower was dumping rain on Blanco right now, but it would pass soon, and then he’d make his move.
Go get Caitlin. Sweet Caitlin. She laughed at his jokes sometimes. Made him feel as if he belonged. But she also had a rebellious streak in her that he liked. He knew she liked to party, because she sometimes told him what she’d done over the weekend. Other times she mentioned how strict her parents were. They wouldn’t even let her date yet. Caitlin resented that. She was mature enough to make her own decisions, wasn’t she? She was sixteen. Almost an adult.
Would she want to go with him? He hoped the answer was yes. It would make a better story that way.
I felt like I was lost on a deserted island.
Sylvia had to have said that on purpose. Albert felt sure of it.
After all, he and Sylvia had loved the movie Cast Away, and as their time had come to an end, the story had become a bittersweet metaphor for the relationship; they were forced apart by circumstances out of their control.
So he downloaded the Facebook app to his new phone and opened a new account under the name Chuck Noland.
He listed his profession as a systems engineer and his employer as Federal Express.
He indicated that he was in a relationship with a woman named Kelly Frears.
He said his hometown was Memphis, Tennessee.
He used a stock shot of a Wilson volleyball for his profile photo.
Surely that was enough to tip her off. Surely Sylvia would see his friend request and understand who he was. She would accept it, right? What if she didn’t? Albert had to prepare for the possibility he might be wrong about all this. She might not want anything to do with him now. She might even turn him in.
But if she did accept it...then what? Would it be safe to communicate with her via Facebook messages? Law enforcement wouldn’t have grounds to monitor her private communications. Right?
Now it occurred to him that after her appearance on national TV, she would be swamped with all sorts of people, including weirdos, sending friend requests. Hundreds or even thousands. She’d go through them rapidly and delete them, right? Would she even look at his fake profile long enough to understand who he really was? Would she recognize the name Chuck Noland after all these years?
He hovered his finger over the Add Friend button.
Biggest decision he’d made in years. Could be his downfall. Hell, he could be signing his own death warrant. One killer had already come for him, and Albert had gotten away, and now, did he want to put himself at risk all over again? For what? One slim shot at rekindling a long-lost love? That was downright crazy. Where would they go? How could they ever be together, considering his past?
He touched the button.