“I just got off the horn with Farley Butler, head of the boosters. He’s offered to host a little get-together at his place tonight, five o’clock. It’s a closed party, just for the parents of the dead kids, maybe a couple kids on the student council or something. I think it’d be fittin’ for you to say a few words. That is, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Hickham hung up on him, waited for a tone, then dialed Savannah’s cell.

CHAPTER 26

I SAID, who the fuck are you two?”

Thedford Blunt stumbled into Cole’s view. The rancher held the shotgun at waist level, the twin barrels pointed at Savannah’s back. Savannah didn’t turn toward him, but kept her eyes on Cole.

Cole took his hands off the steering wheel and raised them high just as music began to play from somewhere inside the barn.

“Fuck’s that racket?” Thedford spat.

“Ring tone,” Savannah answered, her voice trembling. “My cell phone.”

Cole looked at the square bulge in the front pocket of her jeans. They listened to the tinny melody until it stopped, only to start again seconds later.

“Turn that shit off!” Thedford took another step toward Savannah.

“I have to answer it.”

Cole shook his head, but she ignored his warning and took the phone out of her pocket.

Thedford came forward again, bringing the shotgun to within inches of Savannah’s back.

She flipped open the phone and brought it to her ear with a shaky hand. “Hello? … Dad, calm down. Everything’s fine . . .”

Coach Hickham sounded anything but calm. Cole could hear his panicked voice through the speaker.

“Dad, don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” The tremble in Savannah’s voice had disappeared. Given that there was a shotgun at her back, she sounded not only composed but almost blasé. “What? . . . And this is tonight? All right, then, if I don’t see you beforehand, I’ll see you there.”

She closed the phone, returned it to her pocket, and brought her eyes back to Cole.

Thedford said, “I’m ’onna ask one more time what in the blue fuck this is all about ’fore I start shootin’.”

Cole had no doubt that he meant it. He guessed that Thedford had probably drunk himself into a stupor overnight and passed out in the barn. The man looked like hell warmed over. There was a whiskey stain on the breast of his thermal-underwear top. His ball cap rested low and crooked on cauliflower ears. Another stain darkened the crotch of his overalls where he’d pissed himself.

He was clearly still drunk—certainly drunk enough to pull the trigger, whether by accident or with the intention of actually killing someone.

Thedford set the gun at his shoulder and brought a jittery finger to the trigger.

Cole talked fast. “Mr. Blunt, it’s me, Cole Logan. The Jackrabbits’ quarterback.”