“Then, Earl Jackson said he called in the fire as soon as he saw it. He was outside having a cigarette. So Earl calls the fire in at 10:26 or right about there. Travis leaves the game at 10:15. Ride takes fifteen minutes at best. Add it up, that’s 10:30! Duane, he wasn’t there, at least not when Earl called it in. Couldn’t’ve been. Even if everybody’s off by a couple a minutes.” James took a cleansing breath and filled his lungs with the air his rant had restricted.

Duane lifted himself out of the chair, his expression one of schooled patience that hovered somewhere between annoyance and patronization.

James remained silent and tried not to read too much in to Duane’s body language.

Duane looked James in the eye. “I asked you to stop, but clearly you haven’t, and I can’t legally make you do anything to stop. So unless you do something stupid and make it my business, I’m just gonna step back and let you dig your own grave.”

Rage traveled the length of James’s body like a spark eating up real estate on a fuse. It exploded out his mouth. “Open your eyes!” He snatched the note paper from Duane’s hand and headed for the door. On his way past the counter, he slapped the paper down and then gave Duane a heated look.

He stormed out the door. Nothing he could do about Duane right now, but maybe if the sheriff looked at the paper later, he’d come to his senses.

Yeah…right!

12

12

Silverware clinked against the ceramic plate as James cut into his meat. He glanced up at his father and shook his head. A few hours had passed since his encounter with Duane, and he still hadn’t seen his heart rate return to normal. Each time he tried to let it go, something would remind him that time was running out for Travis. He couldn’t even think about Travis’s mother. Her acceptance of his fate was heartbreaking.

“It’s good to finally hear some resolve in your voice,” his father said. He took a drag off the cigarette and then slowly blew it out. “So, why do you suppose Travis would make up story like that?”

“I don’t know.” James chewed on a steamed carrot.

“OK, well, if not Travis, who did it?” His father’s voice remained even and calm, a perfect opposite to the storm raging in James’s gut.

“Maybe it was an accident. From what I understand, it was pretty dry.”

“I thought they determined it was started with a cigarette. That’s what the paper said anyway. Isn’t that how Travis said he started it?”

James nodded and swallowed a bite of food. “Yes sir. That part all adds up.”

“Well then, the way I see it, you need to spend less time on the why and how and start focusing on the who.”