McCallum was in Estevan’s store the night Ramón got himself killed, I didn’t see him.”
Nevada stepped closer to the bed. “But you lied and helped send him to prison ten years ago. Why?”
A muscle worked at the corner of Caleb’s jaw. He blinked rapidly.
“Why?”
The old man’s eyes regained their fervor, and his lips pulled back into an ugly snarl. “Because he’s a mean sum-bitch, and even if he didn’t kill Ramón, he needed to be put away.”
“So you lied.”
“I wouldn’t do it today.”
Nevada shook his head slowly. “Y’know, Caleb, the only reason a man would lie about something like that and frame someone for a crime he didn’t commit would be to save his own sorry neck—”
“I didn’t kill the old wetback and you know it!” Caleb was suddenly agitated, his pasty face showing signs of color.
“—or if they were paid by someone else to lie.” He stared straight at the old man. “I’ve heard some talk around town, Caleb, talk that you’re sellin’ your story to a reporter of some kind.”
Caleb’s face fell.
“I was wonderin’ if you were gonna tell the reporter some pack of lies just to make some cash.”
“You’re a sorry bastard,” Caleb sputtered.
“No doubt.”
“Get out, Smith,” the old man hissed. “I’m sick and dyin’ and I decided to clear my conscience before I meet my maker. That’s all there is to it. Now leave here before I call the nurse and have you thrown out.”
There was nothing more to be accomplished. Caleb Swaggert was going to take whatever secrets he had to the grave with him. “If your memory clears up any more, call me.”
“Get out.”
Nevada walked to the door.
“And Smith?”
He turned and found a sickly smile curving Caleb’s thin, dry lips. “May the Lord be with you.”
Chapter Four
Bang!
The doors of the prison clanged shut.
Ross McCallum was finally a free man.
About time.
It had been ten years of his life—eight actually behind bars but ten long years of this nightmare—a decade of his life he could never retrieve. One part of him wanted to find the nearest bar and a hot-blooded woman. A fifth of José Cuervo and a cheap motel would round out the night. Another part of him wanted vengeance and wanted it bad.
He drew in a deep breath of fresh air. God, it felt good. Looking over a shoulder, he flipped off the guard in the watch tower and thought fuck you to every last sorry-hided inmate, every shit-head of a guard and especially fuck you to the bastard of a warden who ruled the place like he was some kind of a goddamned king.
“Stop it,” he growled under his breath, then spat hard on the pockmarked concrete of the drive. He was out. That was all that mattered. He’d never go back. He’d promised himself that each and every morning when he woke up and found himself staring at the ceiling and smelling the stench of the place. Nope. He’d die first.
Hauling a grimy duffel bag filled with his meager belongings, he swaggered to the beat-up station wagon that idled in the shade of the tower wall. Behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette and listening to some whiney-ass country song sat the one person on this earth he could count on: Mary Beth Looney, his twice-divorced younger sister. With the fingers of one hand she was tapping out time on the steering wheel, while the other held her cigarette. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. That was probably good news, considering her taste in men.
“ ‘Bout time,” she said through the open window. Her hair was the color of straw and cut in shaggy layers round her face, but it was shiny and soft-looking, no hint of a dark root showing, and she watched him through a fringe of bangs.
“Hey—the government don’t move fast. How’re ya, Mary Beth?”
“Tired.”
“You look good.”
A ghost of a smile crossed apricot-tinged lips as she tucked her cigarette into the comer of her mouth. “Wish I could say the same for you.”
He threw his duffel bag
Nevada stepped closer to the bed. “But you lied and helped send him to prison ten years ago. Why?”
A muscle worked at the corner of Caleb’s jaw. He blinked rapidly.
“Why?”
The old man’s eyes regained their fervor, and his lips pulled back into an ugly snarl. “Because he’s a mean sum-bitch, and even if he didn’t kill Ramón, he needed to be put away.”
“So you lied.”
“I wouldn’t do it today.”
Nevada shook his head slowly. “Y’know, Caleb, the only reason a man would lie about something like that and frame someone for a crime he didn’t commit would be to save his own sorry neck—”
“I didn’t kill the old wetback and you know it!” Caleb was suddenly agitated, his pasty face showing signs of color.
“—or if they were paid by someone else to lie.” He stared straight at the old man. “I’ve heard some talk around town, Caleb, talk that you’re sellin’ your story to a reporter of some kind.”
Caleb’s face fell.
“I was wonderin’ if you were gonna tell the reporter some pack of lies just to make some cash.”
“You’re a sorry bastard,” Caleb sputtered.
“No doubt.”
“Get out, Smith,” the old man hissed. “I’m sick and dyin’ and I decided to clear my conscience before I meet my maker. That’s all there is to it. Now leave here before I call the nurse and have you thrown out.”
There was nothing more to be accomplished. Caleb Swaggert was going to take whatever secrets he had to the grave with him. “If your memory clears up any more, call me.”
“Get out.”
Nevada walked to the door.
“And Smith?”
He turned and found a sickly smile curving Caleb’s thin, dry lips. “May the Lord be with you.”
Chapter Four
Bang!
The doors of the prison clanged shut.
Ross McCallum was finally a free man.
About time.
It had been ten years of his life—eight actually behind bars but ten long years of this nightmare—a decade of his life he could never retrieve. One part of him wanted to find the nearest bar and a hot-blooded woman. A fifth of José Cuervo and a cheap motel would round out the night. Another part of him wanted vengeance and wanted it bad.
He drew in a deep breath of fresh air. God, it felt good. Looking over a shoulder, he flipped off the guard in the watch tower and thought fuck you to every last sorry-hided inmate, every shit-head of a guard and especially fuck you to the bastard of a warden who ruled the place like he was some kind of a goddamned king.
“Stop it,” he growled under his breath, then spat hard on the pockmarked concrete of the drive. He was out. That was all that mattered. He’d never go back. He’d promised himself that each and every morning when he woke up and found himself staring at the ceiling and smelling the stench of the place. Nope. He’d die first.
Hauling a grimy duffel bag filled with his meager belongings, he swaggered to the beat-up station wagon that idled in the shade of the tower wall. Behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette and listening to some whiney-ass country song sat the one person on this earth he could count on: Mary Beth Looney, his twice-divorced younger sister. With the fingers of one hand she was tapping out time on the steering wheel, while the other held her cigarette. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. That was probably good news, considering her taste in men.
“ ‘Bout time,” she said through the open window. Her hair was the color of straw and cut in shaggy layers round her face, but it was shiny and soft-looking, no hint of a dark root showing, and she watched him through a fringe of bangs.
“Hey—the government don’t move fast. How’re ya, Mary Beth?”
“Tired.”
“You look good.”
A ghost of a smile crossed apricot-tinged lips as she tucked her cigarette into the comer of her mouth. “Wish I could say the same for you.”
He threw his duffel bag
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