Chapter 26
Clint felt numb.
Parts of two outer walls were about all that was left of his home. The fire was out, but the air was still filled with the smell of smoke.
Vultures from the various media outlets within a fifty-mile radius had arrived. A couple of Ray’s officers were keeping them away from the house and yard. But zoom lenses would capture more than enough.
The paramedic had wanted Clint to go to the hospital for further evaluation because of the smoke inhalation, but he had refused.
The week had caught up with him last night.
The vandalism, the way the whole community treated him, all of it had come crashing down around him just like Ray warned Clint it might.
But mostly it was her. All this time, all this pain, and she still made him want her.
So he’d drunk himself as close to oblivion as a twelve-pack of cheap beer would take him, but he was stone-cold sober now.
He would be dead . . . if it hadn’t been for her.
His gaze settled on Emily Wallace where she huddled against a squad car as Ray questioned her.
A shudder rocked through Clint.
He’d been dead to the world. Nothing would have awakened him . . . if she hadn’t.
His eyes started to burn again. From the smoke probably.
He wasn’t surprised by someone’s attempt to kill him. Hell, he’d expected it. He just hadn’t anticipated he’d live through it and lose every damned thing else.
He’d moved his car once the water had started to contain the fire. Hot-wiring it had been necessary, since his keys had been inside the now-destroyed house. At least he still had his car. He had no idea if there was insurance for this. He hadn’t gotten that far yet.
Clint scrubbed his hand over his face and wondered why the hell he even cared. Because he was a fool. He’d told himself that when and if he got out he would come back here and prove his innocence. More for his mother’s sake than his own.
He’d been back five days and the only thing he’d proven was that the whole damned town hated him and believed just as deeply as ever that he was guilty.
His attention settled on the charred remains of the house that his mother had worked so hard to keep.
Maybe this was a reaction to his prods. He’d punched Marvin Cook’s buttons and he’d assuredly told all his buddies. Then Clint had gone for Sid.
Oh yeah, Clint should have seen this coming and been better prepared. He’d let the bullshit get to him instead of staying focused, and this was the result.
Whoever set this fire wanted Clint dead. Maybe the culprit thought he deserved to die because of the murder rap or maybe because someone wanted Clint silenced forever.
He knew he was innocent.
Heather Baker’s real killer knew it too.
“Clint.”
Ray’s voice hauled Clint from the past. The smell of smoke lingered in his lungs and the reality tore at his gut. Everything was gone.
“Clint, I have to ask you some questions now.”
He turned to face the other man. Clint looked past him to the road where Emily Wallace’s car still sat.
“Where’s . . .” Clint swallowed in an effort to soothe the burn in his throat.
“Officer Fitzpatrick took her to the Valley Inn. She didn’t want to go home.
” Ray glanced at the news vans. “I guess she was afraid they would follow her. She doesn’t want her parents upset.
We’ll see that her car gets to her later today.
” He turned back to Clint. “Why don’t we do this in the barn? ”
Suited Clint. He wasn’t going to make this easy for those damned reporters.
Ray contacted one of his men via his radio and ordered him to push the media to the opposite side of the road.
When Clint and Ray reached the barn, he dropped into a crouch and flipped to a clean page in his notepad.
He tucked his flashlight under his arm, directing its beam at the paper.
“Let’s start with what time you came home last night.”
Clint had no idea just how exhausted he was until he sat down on the ground and leaned against the wall.
He watched the chaos around his house, the idea of what it all meant startling him all over again.
He answered Ray’s questions, provided any additional details he could think of, including the fact that he’d drunk himself into oblivion.
Ray chose not to judge, but if he had Clint was too tired to care.
Dawn started its slow creep across the horizon. Pinks and purples streaking the dark sky as the firemen started to pack up their gear. An investigator from the fire marshal’s office would be here later this morning to look for evidence.
Five days. Clint had been released less than a week and already he’d lost everything.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
“Just one more question.” Ray pushed to his feet, stretched, and made a sound that said he was about as exhausted as Clint.
Taking that as his cue, Clint got up, did some stretching of his own. Felt like he’d been sitting there for hours.
Though he’d said he had another question, Ray closed his notepad and stuffed it into his pocket. “Do you think Emily Wallace started this fire?”
Means, opportunity, and motive. It was all there.
Anyone who’d sat through Clint’s two trials knew the necessary elements evaluated when considering a crime.
Still, he and Ray were talking about Emily Wallace.
They both knew she wasn’t capable of anything like this.
Clint studied Ray a moment, tried to assess whether he was serious or not.
Evidently taking Clint’s continued silence for a mixed response, Ray went on, “I searched her car, searched the area around it. If she brought any accelerants, there’s no indication. But we’ll look a little closer just to be sure.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“She didn’t?” Ray kept his face clean of whatever he was thinking.
Clint had a feeling Ray was more interested in gauging his reaction to the fire than in determining if Emily Wallace had committed arson.
“I’ll tell you who didn’t do it,” Clint said, deciding that he would just say what was on his mind. “All these good citizens who believe I killed Heather Baker and who want to see justice done.”
Ray didn’t interrupt.
“None of those folks are criminals.” Clint knew criminals. Had spent the last ten years with the worst kind.
“So,” Ray ventured, “what’re you saying?”
This was the kicker. “I’m saying that whoever did this is the person who killed Heather Baker.”
The silence thickened for a handful of seconds that turned into a full minute heavy with tension before Ray reacted. “You can’t know that.”
Clint’s gaze narrowed at the defensive tone. “I know I didn’t kill her.”
More of that throat-grabbing silence.
“You have to let this go, Clint. Things will only get worse if you don’t. We’ve talked about this already. Poking around in the past is going to get you nowhere fast. Folks around here have suffered enough. It’s time to move on.”
Maybe it was the total lack of emotion in Ray’s words or the dull, flat look in his eyes, but what he said made Clint sure of one thing. “I will find the truth. No one, not even you, is going to stop me.”
Ray exhaled a blast of fatigue. “Look at what you and Emily are doing. Her folks are all torn up. The Bakers are worried sick about her. They just want her to let it go. The whole town is in an uproar, Clint. It’s my job to keep the peace, to take care of the citizens of Pine Bluff, and you’re both making my job damned difficult.
You’ve got to put the past behind you and stop trying to make it right.
It won’t ever be right, no matter what you do, and that’s the God’s truth. ”
Clint laughed, the sound a perverse mockery of amusement. “So I’m just supposed to pretend it never happened. Just sit back and let whoever did this do it again?” He stared out at the pile of rubble that used to be his home.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” Ray promised. “We won’t let anything like this happen again. You have my word.”
Ray wasn’t going to change his mind. That left Clint with only one option. He looked Ray square in the eye and let him in on the revelation: “I want to see the case files.”
Ray choked out a laugh. “What?”
“You heard me. I want to see the files on the Heather Baker murder investigation. I have the right to request a look.” He’d learned that in prison.
Legally, Ray couldn’t refuse. He could delay approval, but he couldn’t refuse.
He’d seen some parts of it during the second trial—enough to know the investigation had been a joke.
“And what in the hell do you hope to accomplish, Clint? Just tell me. You know there wasn’t a trace of evidence to indicate anyone else was in the room.
Going through those files won’t help you find what you’re looking for.
” Ray held out his hands, palms up. “And what if you did find something?” he pressed.
“Something Ledbetter overlooked, which, as you know, isn’t likely.
Your appeal overturned the conviction. We don’t have anything new to take you back to trial. No one is even trying.”
“My conviction being overturned,” Clint argued, “isn’t the same as being declared innocent.”
Ray exhaled another big sigh. “Even if you could prove your innocence, you know as well as I do that the folks in this town will always see you as guilty. You can’t go back to the way things were, Clint.
There’s nothing you can do about any of this but live with it.
Things will get better; people will forget . . . if you’ll just let them.”
“Sounds like you’re the one worried, Ray.” Clint let Ray know with a look that he was dead serious. “I want to see for myself. All of it. Seems like you’d want this as much as I do. I’m innocent; that means a murderer is still out there.”