Where You Once Belonged(48)

“Goddamn it, Arch. What in hell you think you’re doing? You want me to arrest you too? I had enough of this.”

“He’s not even sorry,” Withers said.

“What did you expect? Did you think he would be?”

“He don’t even care about any of us.”

“Listen, go home now, Arch. You’re through here. Understand? Go on home.”

But Withers seemed too exhausted to move. He appeared to be spent and defeated. It was as if he had been waiting for years for just this moment and now it had meant nothing at all: Burdette wasn’t even sorry. Finally Sealy had to take Withers by the sleeve and walk him out of the office and up the stairs toward the exit.

Outside, next to the courthouse, the local men were still standing in the shade in the November afternoon. When Withers appeared in the doorway they wanted to know what had happened. But he wouldn’t talk to them. He walked slowly past them, down the sidewalk. Their heads turned to follow his progress across the parking lot, past Burdette’s Cadillac and on toward his black pickup. They watched as he climbed into the vehicle and shut the door.

When he was gone one of them asked: “What happened down there, Bud?”

“Nothing happened.”

“But didn’t Withers talk to him?”

“Maybe. But Burdette wasn’t listening to him.”

“What’d he talk about?”

“What do you think he would talk about?”

“Of course. Well, he’s had enough time to think about it anyway. I bet he made a little speech to him, didn’t he?”

Sealy studied him for a moment, studied them all. “Look,” he said. “You boys better go on home too. There ain’t nothing going to happen here. Go on home and see if the wife’s got dinner yet. I seen enough of you for one day.”

After that nothing did happen for a while. For the rest of the week Burdette stayed in jail, lying on the cot in his cell, waiting, sleeping much of the time, his plaid shirt and his dark pants growing daily more rank and wrinkled, while in town along Main Street people talked endlessly about him, at the tables in the bakery and across the street in the tavern, and everyone seemed to know something about it.

But by the end of the week it became clear that something had been occurring elsewhere. Over in Sterling in the district attorney’s office something significant had been going on: the wheels of Colorado state law had been turning and what they had turned up was proof that Burdette was right. He couldn’t be held; the statute of limitations had run out. If he had been out of the state for five years, and if an additional three years had passed, he couldn’t be prosecuted. He was free to go.

Bob Witkowski, the district attorney, called Bud Sealy on Friday afternoon to inform him of that fact.

“What?” Sealy said. “What’s this? You mean, here that son of a bitch stole a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from people and now you’re telling me I can’t hold him?”

“That’s right. That’s what it amounts to.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You’d better believe it. That’s the law. And you’ll be breaking it if you keep him. You’ve already been acting illegally by locking him up for a week.”

“So you’re telling me now I have to let him go? That’s how the law reads?”

“That’s right. Release him, Bud.”

“Well, Jesus Christ Almighty. That son of a bitch. He knew all along.”

Sealy slammed the phone down and stared at the wall.

By nightfall, though, Bud Sealy had gathered his senses and had decided to act intelligently. To avoid any possibility of interference from people in town—there were a number of hotheads in Holt who might drink enough to think they ought to try something, and it was just the beginning of pheasant season so there were plenty of shotguns available in the racks behind the seats in the pickups—he and Dale Willard secretly moved Jack Burdette out of his cell and drove him out to the county line. It was long after dark. Sealy had handcuffed Burdette again and had shoved him into the backseat of the police car behind the protective grille. Burdette had objected, had cursed and shouted, thinking that Sealy was going to ride him out into the sandhills and kill him. But Sealy had told him to shut up and finally he had. Behind the police car Dale Willard followed in Burdette’s red Cadillac.

When they were across the county line they turned off onto a gravel road. Sealy got out and unlocked the back door. “Get out,” he said.

“Bud. Now listen.”

“Get out, you son of a bitch.”

“Bud. Listen to me. You better listen.”

“Goddamn you.” Sealy withdrew his gun and shoved it under Burdette’s chin. “Move.”

Burdette slid slowly out of the car and stood up onto the road. He began to rave. “Willard,” he said. “Willard, you’re here. You know that. You’re going to be involved if you let this happen. You know that, Willard.”

“Shut up,” Sealy said. “We’re all involved. Now turn around.”

“Willard. Don’t let this happen, Willard.”

“Unlock him,” Sealy said.

Willard removed the handcuffs. He handed them to the sheriff.

“Now,” Sealy said, “get the hell out of here, you son of a bitch. And don’t you ever come back.”