Authors: Mary Willis Walker
The Red Scream
PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY
a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are trademarks of Doubleday, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 0-385-46858-X
eBook ISBN: 978-0-8041-5409-3
Copyright © 1994 by Mary Willis Walker
All Rights Reserved
v3.1
To Amanda and Suzanna, always.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
acknowledgments
For abundant help and information my heartfelt thanks to Liz Cohen of the Texas Resource Center, Charles Brown of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, Steve McCleery of the Travis County District Attorney’s office, Linda Cooper of the Austin Police Department, Mike Cox of the Texas Department of Public Safety, and especially to “The Trashy Paperback Writers”: Dinah Chenven, Susan Cooper, Susan Wade, and Jody Berls.
chapter
1
Believe me
Nothing’s free
My daddy told me.
He give me my life
And a hunting knife—
Nothing more.
He’s out the door
We’re left dirt poor.
Five bitches and me
Nothing’s free.
LOUIE BRONK
Death Row, Ellis I Unit,
Huntsville, Texas
D
efinitely a view to die for, Molly Cates decided—180 degrees of prime Texas hill country threaded by the sparkling blue ribbon of the Colorado River. Far below, three turkey vultures floated, never flapping a wing as they rode the late afternoon thermals along the undulating ridge. This was the king-of-the-mountain location in all of Austin, pick-of-the-litter real estate, the absolute high spot for twenty miles around. It was refreshing to see that some Texans could still live like this.
“Real pretty view, ain’t it? You ought to see it sometime with a norther blowing up.” The voice behind her was low and raspy, with an easy drawl, the kind of male voice Molly knew and liked best. If she closed her eyes and let herself float back in time, it could have been her daddy talking.
“Sure is. Real pretty,” she said, turning from the window to look at him and duplicating the languid vowels of his West Texas twang. She did it with ease because it was her native tongue, too.
He reacted with a slow grin as he took the hand she offered in both of his. “This is a pleasure, Miz Cates. I sure do appreciate you
coming here to visit with me.” He pressed her hand warmly and looked her square in the eyes. His hands still retained the roughness of the manual laborer he had once been. A large man, Charlie McFarland was about six feet tall, his body still thickly muscled, though around the torso it was starting to go slack. He wore a red plaid shirt, baggy old jeans, and expensive hand-tooled boots.
“It’s real gracious of you,” he said, “since I know you must be remembering all the times I said no to you.”
He was right; she
was
remembering. Back when she was covering the trial for the
Austin American-Patriot
ten years before and then later when she was writing the book, he had staunchly refused even to take her phone calls, much less give an interview. Of course, in her business you got used to people slamming phones down and she didn’t take these refusals personally. But she sure did remember them.
Without returning his smile, she said, “When my boss asks me for a special favor, Mr. McFarland, I try to do it.”
The grin faded slightly. “Yes, ma’am, I did have to lean on Richard a little to get him to ask you. I wanted to be sure you’d come. Hope you’ll forgive me for that.” He raised his heavy gray and ginger eyebrows to indicate he had asked a question.
She kept her face noncommittal; if he wanted forgiveness, let him work a little harder for it.
“Did he mention to you this was off the record?”
Molly nodded.
“Good. I wouldn’t want to see any of this appearing in print.” He gestured at his enormous showplace of a living room and said, “My wife just finished redecorating in here. As a wedding present I gave her a free hand. Only woman I know who can exceed an unlimited budget.” He chuckled. “But it was featured in
Southern Living
this month so I guess it turned out all right.”
Molly hadn’t heard he’d remarried. She surveyed the room quickly. The oatmeal-colored Berber carpeting, the two walls of solid glass, the beige suede and chrome sofas, the white grand piano. No books or magazines, no litter, no family photos. Cold. No draperies for the windows; at night they would be huge black voids out into space.
She looked him in the eye and took a chance. “Handsome, but I
sure wouldn’t feel comfortable pulling off my boots and reading the sports pages here. Where’s the room you
live
in?”
She was rewarded by a head-thrown-back laugh—a deep male whiskey-and-sex sound that reminded her of barrooms and hunting camps and visiting oil rigs with her daddy all those years ago. “Richard said you were a pistol.”
“Richard’s no slouch himself,” she replied, getting more curious by the minute to find out what this man wanted from her. Whatever it was, she knew he would trot out all the big guns in his arsenal, including his relationship with her boss, to get it. This made her uneasy because Richard Dutton, the editor of
Lone Star Monthly
, was one of the few people in the world who had any power over her.
Charlie McFarland reached out and touched her elbow. “Let’s go back to my office and talk, Miz Cates.”
As he led the way, she was surprised to see how slowly and painfully he walked. His pace was a slow shuffle and he held his back ramrod stiff.
She followed him along a hallway that was a picture gallery with paintings hung only inches apart—all landscapes, Texas bluebonnet scenes mostly. Molly liked bluebonnets as well as the next person, but, God, she was sick of all those murky pictures of the damn things everywhere she went—one of the curses of being a Texan.
He stood aside at the open door at the end of the hall. When she entered, she couldn’t help smiling with satisfaction. It was exactly the room she would have predicted for a West Texas good ol’ boy who’d made it big—a large, dark-paneled study with a ten-point buck’s head over the stone fireplace and a buck’s rump over the door. A gun cabinet with a beveled glass door stood to the right of the fireplace. One wall was packed with built-in electronic equipment: stereo, large-screen TV, VCR, and other gadgets. On the desk sat an IBM computer with a twenty-one-inch color monitor that she coveted on sight; it was big enough so you could see two full pages of fourteen-point type side by side.
The window out to the view was covered with tightly closed mini-blinds. How delightful, Molly thought, to be so rich that you could pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for the best view in Central Texas and then keep it covered.
He walked to a worn Naugahyde recliner, turned, and grabbed the arms so he could lower himself into it. With a movement of his
head he directed her to an armchair slipcovered in a hunting print. Molly was glad to see that the new wife who’d decorated the living room had not been allowed to make a statement in here.