Sign Off (Caught Dead In Wyoming, Book 1)

Chapter Thirty

The shadow that had been slipping around the yard since I'd arrived had materialized into a matted, thin dog who stood at my hip. His lips were snarled back from an impressive set of teeth.

The fact that the teeth, snarl and growl were aimed at Brent rather than me was a major relief.

"Don't let your dog bite me. Call him off!" Brent pleaded.

I didn't let on how new-and tentative-this alliance was. "Answer my questions then."

"I did it 'cause you gotta stop nosing around. You gotta stop doing a story on Rog."

"It's not on Rog. I'm reporting on Redus' death." If the two overlapped . . .

"You can't ask any more questions." He'd started at threat, slid to bluster, and now he was nearer entreaty.

"Why, Brent?" I asked softly.

"They'll find out." He slumped against the garage wall.

I glanced at the dog. The snarl was gone, but he focused intently on Brent.

"Who'll find out? Your aunt and uncle?" His only answer was a muffled sound, like sorrow being swallowed whole and nearly choking him. "Brent, I think they know. At least your aunt. I think she's wondered for a long time, and now I think she knows Rog thought he might be gay."

"Not that. They'll find out . . . they'll find out it's my fault. It's my fault." He wailed the repeated words. "I told him . . ." He tried to take a deep breath. It turned into a hiccup that shook him. His face was mottled red and white with sorrow and strain.

"What did you tell him, Brent?"

"I told him to keep it quiet. I cut class and went out there the day after he was arrested, and he told me about Redus taking Frank home and how Redus and the Judge was thick as thieves. Redus told Rog it could go easier on him if Uncle Roger donated to some fund Redus had. Redus said he could make the whole thing disappear. Rog said it was blackmail, and his father wouldn't pay blackmail no matter what. That's when Redus hit him.

"Rog said he wouldn't tell his father. I told Rog he was stupid. He had to pay up or word would get all over about . . . about him. Rog said he didn't have money and he couldn't do that to his parents. He kept saying over and over how he couldn't do it to his parents. I told him to quit sniveling . . ." Brent sucked in a breath on a sob. "I told him he had to do what he had to do. But, oh, God, I didn't mean for him to hang himself. I swear, I didn't. I swear . . ."

The sobs were stronger than his words, and Brent Hanley bent double beneath their weight, the top of his head nearly touching the hands he still held one inside the other. The dog moved, and I shifted the shovel handle, hoping I wouldn't have to use it to protect Hanley.

But all the dog did was get his shoulder between me and Brent's slumped form.

A flash caught my eye between the lilac bushes and my neighbor's house. It was a patrol car, slowed nearly to a crawl, searching out an address. Someone must have called after hearing noise-either glass shattering or Brent howling. In another minute, representatives of the Sherman police force would join us. They'd take Brent away and, in the shape he was in now, he'd talk his head off.

I hadn't met any of the Sherman police yet, but if they were as closely connected to Claustel as Widcuff and his cohorts, could the boy be in danger?

To Brent it was a side issue, but to a lot of other people what Rog Johnson had told his cousin about Redus and Judge Claustel would be of paramount interest. Maybe the judge had sent Frank away not only so his son wouldn't be exposed to talk about him, but so he couldn't talk himself. Maybe the judge was determined enough to prevent talk to resort to murder.