“Sorry, can’t help you with that.”

The coach’s brow furrowed. “OK, so what do you want?”

“The night you played Kipling last fall, there was a fire.”

“Yeah?” he replied slowly. The coach’s gaze narrowed.

James realized he was going to have to win the guy over quickly. He took a step further inside the office. “This is gonna sound weird, but would you have any record of what time that game ended? Something official.”

“What? I don’t know. Why?”

“I’m just doing some follow up.”

“I thought they got that crazy fella on that. It was a done deal.”

Yeah, that’s what everyone thought—even Travis. “Yes, well…”

“I don’t understand what you’re after then. You a cop, a reporter?”

“No, but I’m a minister, if that helps.”

The coach took a moment to literally look James up and down, and James wondered what there was to assess. Did his calling shine from him like a halo? He very much doubted that.

“No, nobody keeps that kind of information, but I will tell you this much: Game started a little late on account of we couldn’t get one of the bank of lights to go on. So instead of a seven o’clock kick off, we got going somewhere just before eight. Town ordinance says games are meant to be over and crowd dispersed by ten o’clock; I know we were a little past that.”

“How far past it?”

“Not much. Maybe fifteen minutes give or take a few.”

“So, the game was over by 10:15, that night? You’re sure of that?”

“As sure as the fact we kicked Kipling’s butt that night and that if we took any longer to do it, they’da kicked us out anyway. The one thing this town likes more than their football and hockey is their sleep.”

James and the coach shared a laugh at that well-known truth, and then James headed out. Something wasn’t right. The game was over at ten-fifteen, but according to Ed Beaujot, the fire had started at ten-twenty-six. That was only an eleven-minute window. Could Travis, on a bicycle, have made it from Taft to the Pearce farm in eleven minutes?

James didn’t think so. And he planned to prove it.

11

“What if I can prove all this?” James picked up his pace to keep up with Paula Roggin as she raced down the hall.

The public defender stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “Mr. Moore, number one: You’re not supposed to be back here. Number two: This is no longer in my hands.”

“This is crazy! You’re supposed to be defending him.” James couldn’t believe it. When he’d figured out the time window, he was sure the PD would take the reins and help Travis.

“Was defending him, now I’m defending ten other people who deserve more than one overworked civil servant at Christmas who doesn’t have the time or manpower to give them what they deserve either. Forget the demands of my own family.”

“So that’s it?” James hated the defeat that sounded in his words. He should have more resolve. More faith in the system. But then again, he’d lost his faith. So really, where did that leave him?