The Liar

“Why don’t we go back and ask him? He was half drunk when Nobby and I went and got him, and tried to say he’d been home all night. The plow was still on his truck. Arlo gets paid to plow some of the private roads outside of town,” he explained to Griff. “Hardly much reason for a snowplow on his truck in May. White paint on it, too. And yellow paint, like the plow, on the back of Griff’s truck. Nobby and I informed him of those facts, so he claimed somebody stole his truck, put the plow on it.”

“Bullshit.”

“Knee deep in it,” Forrest said with a nod to Griff. “Not too much use arguing with a man half drunk, and chasing his tequila with a joint, so we just hauled him in. And we left him last night to sleep on the fact we’d be charging him with attempted murder this morning.”

“Oh my God.” Shelby shut her eyes.

“That’s the reaction we want from him. Attempted murder’s a stretch,” Forrest commented, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “But he’ll surely go down for hit-and-run, reckless endangerment and so on.”

“We can tie quite a few and-so-ons onto the package,” Hardigan said.

“Yeah, I expect so. He’s going to do a few years however it slices out. We’ve just been letting it sink in. The sheriff here, if I’m reading him correctly, thinks what’s sunk in may come rising up if he’s faced with the pair of you.”

“That’s a fine read, Deputy.”

“All right, then. Let’s see what we see. Y’all don’t mention lawyer, all right? He hasn’t gotten there yet in his pea brain.”

Forrest led the way back through a steel door and the three cells.

In the center one, Arlo Kattery sprawled on a bunk.

She’d gotten a look at him that night at Bootlegger’s—him and his pale-eyed stare. What she saw now didn’t look much different than the last time she’d seen him in full light years before. Straw-colored hair shorn short, face grizzly with the pale blond scruff. Those small snake eyes—closed now—long neck with a tattoo of barbed wire circling it.

On the short side, and stocky, with scarred knuckles from countless fights—most of which he’d instigated.

Forrest let out a shrill whistle that made her jump, and had Arlo’s eyes popping open.

“Wake up, darling. You’ve got company.”

Eyes so pale blue they seemed almost colorless, skimmed over Griff, landed on her, slanted away again.

“Didn’t ask for no company. You best let me out of here, Pomeroy, or your ass is in the fire.”

“Looks to me like it’s your ass smoking, Arlo. All Griff wants to know—and it’s a reasonable request—is why you rammed his truck and forced him into that old oak tree.”

“Wasn’t me. Told you that already.”

“Half-ton Chevy pickup, dark red, yellow plow on the front, bumper sticker on the bottom left of the tailgate.” Griff stared at him while he spoke, saw Arlo’s jaw twitch.

“Plenty fit that bill around here.”

“Nope, not with the details. Funny bumper sticker, too. It’s got a target on it full of bullet holes, and it says: ‘If you can read this, you’re in range.’” Forrest shook his head. “That’s sure a knee-slapper, Arlo. Add that paint transfer, and it’s all wrapped up. Nobby’s out there right now talking to those forensic people over in the lab. Might take a little time, but they can match that yellow paint to your plow, that white paint to Griff’s truck.”

“That lab stuff is bullshit. More bullshit like all the rest of this.”

“Juries set store by it, especially in capital cases, like attempted murder.”

“I didn’t kill nobody.” Arlo surged up now. “He’s standing right there, isn’t he?”

“That’s where ‘attempted’ comes in, Arlo. Tried and failed.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill nobody.”

“Huh.” Forrest nodded as if considering that, then shook his head. “Nope. Don’t see a jury buying that one. See, we do what we call ‘accident reconstructions.’ And it’s going to show that you deliberately and repeatedly rammed Griff’s truck. Took some skill, so you won’t be able to try for diminished capacity, saying you were drunk. That wouldn’t buy you much time off anyway. I figure you’re going down for about twenty here.”

“No fucking way.”

“Every fucking way,” Griff disagreed. “Forrest, hum a tune and close your ears while I tell this asshole I’ll swear on a mountain of Bibles in front of God and country that I saw him behind the wheel. I’ll swear I counted the bullet holes in that idiotic bumper sticker and got his license plate.”

“That’s a fucking lie. I had the plates covered with burlap.”

“You truly are a moron, Arlo,” Forrest murmured.

“He’s a fucking liar.” Incensed, Arlo jabbed a finger between the bars. “He’s fucking lying.”

“You tried to kill me,” Griff reminded him.

“I didn’t try to kill nobody. It wasn’t even supposed to be you. Was supposed to be her.”

“You want to say that again, son?” Forrest’s voice was quiet as the hiss of a snake, but Griff had already shoved forward, reached through the bars to grab Arlo’s shirt, yanked him so his head smacked the bars.

“Now, Griff, I can’t let you do that.”

But Forrest made no move to stop him as Griff repeated the action.