the years passed, though, the local reporters lost interest. She often visited alone, sometimes with Wallis trailing along behind, always on her daughter's birthday and usually on December 4, the day she disappeared. But this vigil was far different. There was something to celebrate. Fordyce-Hitting Hard! was represented by a two-man crew with a small camera, the same one that had been following Reeva and a weary Wallis for two days now. There were two TV news crews and half a dozen print reporters. The presence of so much attention inspired the worshippers, and Brother Ronnie was pleased with such a large turnout. Forty miles from home!
They sang a few hymns as the sunlight faded, then lit small candles and passed them around. Reeva sat in the front row and sobbed nonstop. Brother Ronnie could not resist the opportunity to preach, and his flock was in no hurry to leave. He dwelled on justice and relied on an avalanche of scripture to support God's commands for us to live as law-abiding citizens.
There were prayers by deacons and testimonials from friends of Nicole's, and even Wallis, after an elbow in the ribs, managed to stand and offer a few words. Brother Ronnie finished things up with a lengthy plea for compassion and mercy and strength. He asked God to walk the final mile with Reeva and Wallis and their family as they went through the ordeal of the execution.
They left the pavilion and moved in a solemn procession to the makeshift shrine closer to the river's edge. They laid flowers at the foot of a white cross. Some knelt and prayed again. Everybody had a good cry. – At 6:00 p.m. on Wednesday, Keith walked through the front door of Anchor House with every intention of corralling Travis Boyette and having a serious confrontation. The execution was exactly twenty-four hours away, and Keith was determined to do whatever he could to stop it. The task seemed utterly impossible, but at least he would try. An associate minister was handling the Wednesday night supper at St. Mark's.
Boyette was playing games, or maybe he was dead. During the day, he had not checked in with his parole officer, and had not been seen again at Anchor House. He was required to do none of these, but the fact that he seemed to have vanished was troubling. He was, however, required to check in for the night at 6:00 and could not leave until 8:00 the following morning, unless he had permission. He was not there at 6:00 p.m. Keith waited an hour, but there was no sign of Boyette. An ex-con named Rudy was manning the front desk. He mumbled to Keith, 'You'd better go find his ass.'
'I wouldn't know where to start,' Keith said. He left his cell phone number with Rudy and started with the hospitals. He slowly drove from one to the other, killing time, waiting for a call from Rudy, watching the streets for any sign of a fortyish white weirdo limping along with a cane. None of the downtown hospitals had admitted a Travis Boyette. He was not loitering around the bus station, and he was not sharing a drink with the winos down by the river. At 9:00 p.m., Keith returned to Anchor House and sat in a chair at the front desk.
'He ain't here,' Rudy said.
'What happens next?' Keith said.
'If he comes in later tonight, they'll cuss him but let it slide, unless he's drunk or drugged and then it hits the fan. They'll give you one screwup. But if he stays out all night, they'll probably revoke him and send him back to the pen. These guys are pretty serious. What's Boyette up to?'
'It's hard to say. He has trouble with the truth.'
'I heard that. I got your number. If he shows, I'll give you a call.'
'Thanks.' Keith hung around for half an hour, then drove home. Dana heated up lasagna, and they ate on TV trays in the den. The boys were already asleep. The television was on mute. They said little. Travis Boyette had consumed their lives for the better part of three days and they were tired of the man. – After dark, it became apparent that no one wanted to leave the train station. There was little legal work to be done, and nothing of any consequence could be thrown together at that hour to help Donte Drumm. The Texas Court of Criminal Appeals had not ruled on the insanity claim. Fred Pryor was still loitering on the outskirts of Houston, hoping for another drink or two with Joey Gamble, but that looked doubtful. This could well be the last night in the life of Donte Drumm. And his legal team needed the comfort of each other.
Carlos was sent to get pizza and beer, and when he returned, the long table in the conference room was used for dinner. When Ollie arrived later, a poker game materialized. Ollie Tufton was one of a handful of black lawyers in Slone and a close friend of Robbie's. He was shaped like a bowling ball and claimed to weigh four hundred pounds, though it was not clear why he wished to take credit for this. He was loud and hilarious and had huge appetites-food, whiskey, poker, and, sadly, cocaine. Robbie had rescued him from near disbarment on two occasions. He made an occasional buck with car wrecks, but the money always disappeared. When Ollie was in the room, most of the noise came from him. He assumed control of the poker game, appointed Carlos as dealer, established the rules, and told his latest dirty jokes, all while sipping a beer and finishing off the cold pizza. The players were Martha Handler, who usually won; Bonnie, the other paralegal; Kristi Hinze, who was still afraid of the game and even more terrified of Ollie; and a part-time investigator/runner named Ben Shoots.
Shoots had a pistol in his jacket hanging on the wall. Robbie had two shotguns in his office, loaded. Aaron Rey was always armed, and he moved quietly around the train station, watching the windows and the parking lot. The firm had received several threatening calls during the day, and they were on full alert.
Robbie took a beer to his office, left his door wide open, and called DeDe, his live-in partner. She was at yoga, blissfully unconcerned about the pending execution. They had been together for three years, and Robbie was almost convinced they had a chance. She showed almost no interest in whatever he did at the office, and this was beneficial. His journey to find true love was littered with women who could not accept the fact that life with Robbie was heavily tilted in Robbie's favor. The current girl went her own way, and they met in bed. She was twenty years younger, and Robbie was still smitten.
He called a reporter in Austin but said nothing quotable. He called Judge Elias Henry and thanked him for calling the governor. They wished each other well, both knowing that the next twenty-four hours would be remembered for a long time. The clock on the wall seemed stuck at ten minutes after nine. Robbie would always remember that it was 9:10 p.m. when Aaron Rey walked into his office and said, 'The First Baptist Church is burning.'
The Battle of Slone had begun.
CHAPTER 15
If Keith had fallen asleep, he wasn't aware of it. For the past three days, he had slept so little, and at such odd hours, that his routines and rhythms were out of sync. When the phone rang, he could have sworn he was wide- awake. Dana, though, heard it first and had to nudge her husband. He finally grabbed it after the fourth or fifth ring. 'Hello,' he said, in a daze, while Dana flipped on a lamp. It was 11:40. They had gone to bed less than an hour earlier.
'Hey, Pastor, it's me, Travis,' the voice said.
'Hello, Travis,' Keith said, and Dana scrambled for a bathrobe. 'Where are you?'
'Here, Topeka, at a diner somewhere downtown, not far from Anchor House.' His voice was slow, his tongue thick. Keith's second or third thought was that Boyette had been drinking.
'Why are you not at Anchor House?'
'It doesn't matter. Look, Pastor, I'm really hungry, nothing since this morning, and I'm sitting here with just a cup of coffee because I don't have any money. I'm starving, Pastor. Any ideas?'
'Have you been drinking, Travis?'
'Couple of beers. I'm okay.'
'You spent money on beer but not on food?'
'I didn't call to fight with you, Pastor. Can you help me get something to eat?'
'Sure, Travis, but you need to get back to Anchor House. They're waiting for you. I talked to Rudy, and he says they'll write you up, but nothing serious. Let's get something to eat, then I'll take you where you belong.'
'I ain't going back there, Pastor, forget it. I want to go to Texas, okay? I mean, now. I really want to go. I'll tell everybody the truth, tell them where the body is, everything. We gotta save that boy.'
'We?'
'Who else, Pastor? We know the truth. If you and me get down there, we can stop this execution.'
'You want me to take you to Texas right now?' Keith asked, staring into the eyes of his wife. She began
