Greg and Cynthia were driving along Lake Tawakoni on FM-47. They would go east on FM-2324. They were both still shaken from their encounter with the Silverado and the 18-wheeler.
“So, it looks like Buford has added us to his hit list,” Greg said.
“Well, at least now we know your theory was right. Buford is the one who hired the killer. Or killers.”
“I hope there’s only one. And I hope he’s dead—back there in that pickup.”
“I don’t think that will stop Buford Bellowin. He’ll just hire another hit man. How are we ever going to be safe, Greg?”
It was a very good question.
Cynthia started analyzing the facts. “So, if Buford had Troy killed, and Dorothy Spokane, and possibly Arabeth Albertson —what was his motivation? Why would he want them dead? And I was threatened so that I would persuade you to get a ‘Not Guilty’ verdict for Kantrell Jamison. All of us were involved in the trial in some way.”
“That’s true. First, you were threatened, and you came to my office at the church, and tried to seduce me.”
“I’m still embarrassed about that.”
“Don’t be. I understand. Besides, I sort of enjoyed it.” Greg smiled at her.
“Hum. Now I wonder what that says about you.”
“Well, it did make me uncomfortable. So, there. Does that make me a little less of a horndog?”
“You’re no horndog, Greg. You couldn’t be one of those guys, even if you tried.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay, then. Now where were we? Oh, yeah—Buford wanted you to get him an acquittal.”
“But, wait a minute. You came to see me on Monday. But I wasn’t selected as a juror until Tuesday morning. How did he know I’d be on the jury?”
“Yeah. I wondered about that at the time. He must have been working with the defense attorney.”
“Either that, or he just took a chance, and got lucky. By the time you came to my office, they had already gone through the entire jury panel, yet only eight jurors had been selected. I was set to be on Tuesday’s panel. But how could he know I would be selected?”
“Unless he somehow knew the order of your panel.”
“Yeah. I was in seat three.”
“But even if he knew the order, how could he be sure you wouldn’t be rejected by one of the lawyers?”
“Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but—the judge told the lawyers they had both used all of their free strikes. You know—the peremptory strikes.”
“So, Buford would have known that, if he was in contact with the defense attorney.”
“Yeah, but I still don’t understand how he knew the order of my panel.”
“I don’t know. But then there was Arabeth Albertson.”
“Yeah. She told us she saw the defendant leaving the bicycle shop in a hurry on the night Sam was killed. But the defense lawyer tried to make us think Arabeth’s vision was an issue. He got the judge to send her for an eye exam—which she passed.”
“But before she could make it back to the courtroom the next day, she had an accident. Or was murdered.”
“I really think she was murdered. Somebody tripped her and made her fall down those stairs. Then Troy was next. Probably because he was swaying the jury to vote ‘Guilty.’ I was fighting him all the way—but he was winning.”
“And Buford couldn’t have that. So, he had him murdered.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just kill Kantrell Jamison?”
“Yeah. Why he didn’t do that? And what about Dorothy Spokane? She knew that Buford was the one who was behind the murders. But the killer got to her before she could tell her story to the D.A. At least she was able to give me Buford’s name before she died.”
Cynthia thought about that for a few seconds. “If Dorothy knew what Buford was up to, why didn’t she go to the police sooner? She waited until Arabeth and Troy had been killed.”
“I don’t understand that either. Maybe she believed Arabeth Albertson’s death was an accident. But then, after Troy was murdered, she realized Mrs. Albertson had been murdered too.”
“Well, I just hope the Coreyville police can protect us. Because we’re not going to be safe until somebody takes Buford down.”
**********
Greg and Cynthia were on FM-182, approaching Quitman. It would take at least two more hours to get home to Coreyville. Greg stopped at a convenience store, and started pumping gas. Cynthia walked into the store, and went into the bathroom.
Just as Greg had returned the nozzle to the pump, and was walking toward the store, Cynthia rushed out and stopped him. There was a look of fear in her eyes. ”We’re on the news.”
“What?”
She grabbed his arm, and directed him back toward the car, as she whispered frantically, “They’ve got a little TV in there. And the reporter was talking about two fugitives, wanted by the Coreyville Police Department. It was us, Greg! They’re showing our pictures! We’re wanted for murder!”
“No.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
They jumped in the car and sped away.
After she had caught her breath, Cynthia said, “You did pay for the gas, right?”
“Yeah. At the pump.”
“Good. If not, they’d be after us for theft as well.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t have paid with my debit card. Now the police can track us. What was I thinking?”
**********
John X was driving at the fastest speed that would not get him pulled over. He did not want to kill a cop. The officer would check the vehicle registration, and find out John X was not the owner. He would not allow himself to be arrested. But he didn’t want the heat that comes with being a cop killer. Over his brief career, he had done a good job of maintaining a low profile.
He had only driven a few miles when he checked the fuel gauge. It was nearly empty. He stopped at a convenience store, started pumping gas, and then went inside. He had just eaten a big pile of ribs. Now he wanted dessert for the road.
First, he’d do a quick survey of the pastry goods. Hostess Chocolate Frosted Donettes. One of his favorites. A little bit of donut, surrounded by a lot of delicious chocolate. He loved the way it felt when he bit into one of them. The chocolate coating was ’al dente’, like properly prepared pasta—firm to the tooth.
A state trooper entered the little store. John X saw him, but acted uninterested. As he continued to peruse the selection of pastries, he heard the trooper talking to a man who was standing in line at the counter.
“Is that your Mustang out there?” the trooper asked.
“No, Sir. It’s not mine,” the man replied.
Surely the car had not already been reported stolen. The trooper walked to the back of the store, to the refrigerated area, and reached in for a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Then he walked into the aisle next to John X’s, and grabbed a bag of Fritos.
John was ready. He was pretending to study the ingredients on the package of donuts in his left hand. But his right hand was in his pants pocket, holding a Kel-Tec P-32, semi-automatic pistol. At a mere five inches in length, it was always with him, no matter what other weapons he might be carrying.
The trooper started to walk off, but then he turned to John X and said, “Is that your mustang out there at the pump?”
John X slowly slipped the pistol out of his pocket. The trooper could not see the gun from across the top of the shelves.
“Yes, Sir. That’s my mustang. Is there a problem?”
He would hit the trooper with a couple of shots to the head in rapid succession. The cop would be dead before he had a chance to drop the Coke or the Fritos to go for his weapon.
“Yes, there is a problem—”
John wondered how many people he would have to kill to get away. He had seen a couple of men at the register, and a female clerk. Did he have enough bullets?
“—your right rear tire is low. Better put some air in it.” The trooper walked away.
John X breathed a sigh of relief as he slid the pistol back into his pocket.
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