'I suppose. I believe we all go somewhere after we die, and I can't imagine you and me going to the same place. Can you, Pastor? I mean, look, I've spent most of my life in prison, and, trust me, there's a species of mankind that's subhuman. These people were born mean. They're vicious, soulless, crazy men who cannot be helped. When they die, they gotta go to some bad place.'
The irony was almost comical. A confessed murderer and serial rapist condemning violent men.
'Was there a Bible in the house?' Keith asked, trying to stay away from the subject of heinous crimes.
'Never saw one. Never saw much in the way of books. I was raised on porn, Pastor, fed to me by Uncle Chett and kept under Darrell's bed. That's the extent of my childhood reading.'
'Do you believe in God?'
'Look, Pastor, I'm not talking about God and Jesus and salvation and all that. I heard it all the time in prison. Lots of guys get really turned on when they're locked away and start thumping the Bible. I guess some are serious, but it also sounds good at the parole hearings. I just never bought into it.'
'Are you prepared for death, Travis?'
A pause. 'Look, Pastor, I'm forty-four years old, and my life has been one massive train wreck. I'm tired of living in prison. I'm tired of living with the guilt of what I've done. I'm tired of hearing the pitiful voices of the people I hurt. I'm tired of a lot of shit, Pastor, okay? Sorry for the language. I'm tired of being some degenerate who lives on the edges of society. I'm just so sick of it all. I'm proud of my tumor, okay? Hard to believe, but when it's not cracking my skull, I kinda like the damned thing. It tells me what's ahead. My days are numbered, and that doesn't bother me. I won't hurt anybody else. No one will miss me, Pastor. If I didn't have the tumor, I'd get a bottle of pills and a bottle of vodka and float away forever. Still might do that.'
So much for a penetrating discussion on the subject of faith. Ten miles passed before Keith said, 'What would you like to talk about, Travis?'
'Nothing. I just want to sit here and look at the road and think about nothing.'
'Sounds good to me. You hungry?'
'No, thanks.' – Robbie left the house at 5:00 a.m. and drove a circuitous route to the office. He kept his window down so he could smell the smoke. The fire had long since been extinguished, but the odor of freshly charred wood hung like a thick cloud over Slone. There was no wind. Downtown, anxious cops were blocking streets and diverting traffic away from the First Baptist Church. Robbie got just a glimpse of its smoking ruins, illuminated by the flashing lights of fire and rescue vehicles. He took the backstreets, and when he parked at the old train station and got out of his car, the smell was still pungent and fresh. All of Slone would be awakened and greeted with the ominous vapor of a suspicious fire. And the obvious question would be, will there be more?
His staff drifted in, all sleep deprived and anxious to see if the day would take a dramatic turn away from the direction it was headed. They gathered in the main conference room, around the long table still cluttered with the debris of the night before. Carlos gathered empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, while Samantha Thomas served coffee and bagels. Robbie, trying to appear upbeat, replayed for the gang his conversation with Fred Pryor about the surreptitious recording from the strip club. Pryor himself had not yet arrived.
The phone started ringing. No one wanted to answer it. The receptionist was not in yet. 'Somebody punch 'Do Not Disturb,' ' Robbie barked, and the phone stopped ringing.
Aaron Rey walked from room to room, looking out the windows. The television was on, but muted.
Bonnie entered the conference room and said, 'Robbie, I just checked the phone messages for the past six hours. Nothing important. Just a couple of death threats, and a couple of rednecks happy the big day is finally here.'
'No call from the governor?' Robbie asked.
'Not yet.'
'What a surprise. I'm sure he lost sleep like the rest of us.' – Keith would eventually frame the speeding ticket, and because of it he would always know exactly what he was doing at 5:50 a.m. on Thursday, November 8, 2007. The location wasn't clear, because there was no town in sight. Just a long, empty stretch of I-35, somewhere north of Ardmore, Oklahoma.
The trooper was hiding in some trees in the median, and as soon as Keith saw him and glanced at his speedometer, he knew he was in trouble. He hit his brakes, slowed considerably, and waited a few seconds. When the blue lights appeared, Boyette said, 'Oh, shit.'
'Watch your language.' Keith was braking hard and hurrying to the shoulder.
'My language is the least of your problems. What're you gonna tell him?'
'That I'm sorry.'
'What if he asks what we're doing?'
'We're driving down the highway, maybe a bit too fast, but we're okay.'
'I think I'll tell him I'm jumping parole and you're my getaway driver.'
'Knock it off, Travis.'
The truth was that Travis looked exactly like the sort of character who would be jumping parole, right out of central casting. Keith stopped the car, turned off the ignition, straightened his clerical collar and made sure it was as visible as possible, and said, 'Don't say a word, Travis. Let me do the talking.'
As they waited for a very deliberate and purposeful state trooper, Keith managed to amuse himself by admitting that he was sitting beside the road, engaged in not one but two criminal activities, and that for some inconceivable reason he'd chosen as his partner in crime a serial rapist and murderer. He glanced at Travis and said, 'Can you cover up that tattoo?' It was on the left side of his neck, a swirling creation that only a deviant might understand and wear with pride.
'What if he likes tattoos?' Travis said, without making a move for his shirt collar.
The trooper approached carefully, with a long flashlight, and when things appeared safe, he said gruffly, 'Good morning.'
'Morning,' Keith said, glancing up. He handed over his license, registration, and insurance card.
'You a priest?' It was more of an accusation. Keith doubted there were many Catholics in southern Oklahoma.
'I'm a Lutheran minister,' he said with a warm smile. The perfect picture of peace and civility.
'Lutheran?' the trooper grunted, as if that might be worse than a Catholic.
'Yes, sir.'
He shined his light on the license. 'Well, Reverend Schroeder, you were doing eighty-five miles an hour.'
'Yes, sir. Sorry about that.'
'Limit out here is seventy-five. What's the hurry?'
'No real hurry. Just wasn't paying attention.'
'Where you headed?'
Keith wanted to fire back, 'Why, sir, is that any of your business?' But he quickly said, 'Dallas.'
'Got a boy in Dallas,' the trooper said, as if that fact were somehow relevant. He walked back to his car, got inside, slammed the door, and began his paperwork. His blue lights sparkled through the fading darkness.
When the adrenaline settled down and Keith got bored with the waiting, he decided to make use of the time. He called Matthew Burns, who appeared to be holding his cell phone. Keith explained where he was and what was happening to him at the moment and had trouble convincing Matthew that it was nothing but a routine speeding ticket. They managed to work through Matthew's overreaction and agreed to start calling Robbie Flak's office immediately.
The trooper eventually returned. Keith signed his ticket, retrieved his documents, apologized again, and after twenty-eight minutes they were back on the road. Boyette's presence was never acknowledged.
CHAPTER 18
At one point in his blurred past, Donte knew the precise number of days he'd spent in cell number 22F, death row, at the Polunsky Unit. Most inmates kept such a tally. But he'd lost count, for the same reason he'd lost interest in reading, writing, exercising, eating, brushing his teeth, shaving, showering, trying to communicate with other inmates, and obeying the guards. He could sleep and dream and use the toilet when necessary; beyond that, he
