“You ought to get out of those school clothes,” Shooter said. He glanced at Biggs and lifted his eyebrows. “You know how boys are. Always ruining their good things. Go on and change, Wesley. We’ll wait.”
Captain headed toward the hallway, his head down, but as he tried to get past Biggs, Biggs reached out and grabbed him by his coat sleeve.
“This won’t take long,” he said. “I need to ask some questions and then get back to the courthouse.” He said to Shooter, “You understand.”
“Well, at least let the boy take off his coat.”
Biggs let go of Captain’s sleeve and said, “Sure. No harm in that. Go on, son. Make yourself comfortable.”
Captain lifted his head and found Shooter’s gaze upon him. Captain opened his eyes wide, asking his father what he should do, and Shooter gave him an almost imperceptible nod, but it was enough to tell Captain to go ahead and take off his coat. He slipped his arms out of the sleeves and then folded the jacket across his arm, bunched it up into a wad that he hugged to his stomach.
“You got a belly ache?” Biggs asked him.
Captain shook his head no, and then he sat down on the couch, the coat still clutched to him.
“Wesley.” Shooter sat down beside him and put a hand on his back. “Tell the sheriff what you saw the night Della’s trailer burned. That’s what he’s come to hear.”
At the courthouse, the deputy said to Ronnie, “You know what it looks like, don’t you?”
“Looks like what you all want it to look like,” said Ronnie.
“Bought a can of gasoline the morning of the day the trailer burned and another can that night. We found that can in Brandi’s shed, almost a gallon still in it, and she said you used it all up in her car that morning. Looks to me like you used that can again later.” The deputy listed all the evidence that seemed to be adding up to Ronnie’s guilt. “Footprints that match yours found behind the trailer. A T-shirt smelling of gas. Shooter Rowe’s story. And now this? Ronnie, do you know what’ll happen if a jury finds you guilty?”
“Lock me up, I expect.”
The deputy nodded. “For a good long while. Forever, if the State’s Attorney can prove premeditation. And, Ronnie, if you ask me, that won’t be hard to do. I doubt you’ll ever see the outside again.”
It was then that the deputy noticed the first sign of emotion from Ronnie. His lip quivered, and his eyes got wet, and he tipped his head back, his nostrils flaring, as if he were fighting as hard as he could to keep whatever he’d held secret all those weeks balled up inside him.
The deputy said, “Your kids? They’ll come to see you in prison sometimes if they can bring themselves to forgive you for what you did, and if they can manage for someone to drive them down to Menard, which is where you’ll end up. Or maybe they’ll never come and it’ll just be you and those walls and all that time to know the way you ruined them by killing their mother and their sisters and their baby brother. You think they’ll ever be able to get the picture out of their heads of how those kids clung to Della in the flames and the smoke, or what their charred bodies looked like when all was said and done?”
That’s when Ronnie covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I swear.”
“All right then,” the deputy said. “Tell me why we should believe you.”
He was outside that night, Captain said, because he was worried about the goats. “We tried to patch the fence for Della, but they kept busting out.”
He kept his eyes down, focusing on the boots Biggs was wearing. The toes were stained with road salt. Biggs stood in front of the couch, listening to the story.
“So you were outside and you went back behind the trailer to check on the goats?”
Captain nodded.
Biggs said, “Tell me everything you saw.”
“He saw Ronnie’s car,” Shooter said, but Biggs wouldn’t let him go on.
“I want to hear the boy tell it. Let him say what he’s got to say.”
“Ronnie drives a Firebird,” Captain said. “It was parked along the road. That car can go fast. I helped him work on it when he still lived with Della. He said I was his right-hand man. You know what kind of carb that car has? A Barry Grant Six Shooter with a three-deuce setup. Sugar tits! Now that’s something.”
Captain was getting worked up, and Shooter rubbed his back and said, “Wesley, just tell the story. Tell it plain and simple for the sheriff.”
“Ronnie was behind the trailer,” Captain said. “He had a fivegallon gas can. He was sloshing gas all along the back of the trailer. And he reached into his pocket and jerked out a book of matches.” Captain looked up at Biggs for the first time. “He had a book of matches. He lit one up.” Captain was rocking back and forth a little. “He had a gas can and a book of matches. The whole trailer went whoosh. That’s what I remember. That big whoosh. And Ronnie ran away.”
Biggs was quiet for a while. Then he squatted down in front of Captain so the boy would have to look him in the eye.
“You felt pretty close to Ronnie, didn’t you, son? Like you said, you were his right-hand man.”
“I like Ronnie,” said Captain. “He always treated me good.”
“You wouldn’t want to see him get in trouble if he didn’t do anything wrong, would you?”
Captain squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head from side to side until, finally, Shooter had to take him by his shoulders and tell him to stop.
“He had a gas can and a book of matches,” Captain said again. “He lit one up and everything went whoosh. That’s what I know.”
Shooter stood up from the couch. “You got what you need?” he asked Biggs. “Captain always thought the world of Ronnie. This hasn’t been easy for him.”
The words came from Captain’s mouth in chunks, like they were made of steel and hard to bite off. “I always — thought the world — of Ronnie — sugar tits.”
“Wesley, don’t talk like that,” Shooter said. “It’s not proper.”
Biggs said to Shooter, “Why’d you wait so long to tell me your story?”
“I was thinking about Wesley. Things have never been easy for him. And this?” Shooter couldn’t go on. He laid his hand on Captain’s head and stroked the blond hair with a tenderness that almost made Biggs uncomfortable to see it, this moment that should have been private. “But I know what’s right and what’s wrong,” Shooter said, “and I know I have to teach Wesley as much. So what I’m telling you is the right thing to do. I know that for sure now, no matter how this ends up.”
Angel was surprised to see her grandmother in the emergency room waiting area. “Grams?” she said.
“Oh, honey.” Lois got to her feet and put her arms around Angel, gathering her in. “It’s your gramps. He fell and hit his head.” She let go of Angel just enough to hold her at arm’s length so she could get a good look at her. “Honey, are you all right?”
Angel nodded. “I’m fine, Grams. Is Gramps going to be okay?”
“I’m waiting to hear, honey. Missy’s been sitting with me. She just now went out to call Pat. Guess she wanted some privacy.”
Angel saw her then, Missy. She was standing outside the glass doors to the emergency room with her back turned. She had her head down, and Angel could see her nodding as if she were agreeing with what Pat was saying in response to what she’d called to tell him. Then she dropped her cell phone down in her purse.
Angel told her grandma she’d be right back. Then she went out through the doors to where Missy was standing, and she told her everything that Brandi had told her about the high blood pressure and the baby and bed rest.