By 10:00 a.m., the parking lot at Lamb & Son Funeral Home was full, and cars lined both sides of the street. The mourners, dressed in their Sunday best, formed a line that began at the front door and ran three and four abreast through the small lawn, down the street, and around the corner. They were sad and angry, tired and anxious, and uncertain about what was happening to them and their quiet town. The sirens, fireworks, gunshots, and urgent voices from the street had finally subsided not long before sunrise, allowing a few hours of rest. But no one expected the streets to return to normal on Friday or over the weekend.
They had seen the eerie face of Travis Boyette on television, and they had heard his poisonous confession. They believed him because they had always believed Donte. So much more of the story had yet to be told, and if Boyette really had killed the girl, then someone would pay a heavy price.
The Slone Police Department had eight black officers, and all eight volunteered for the assignment. Though most had not slept in hours, they were determined to pay tribute. They secured the street in front of the funeral home, directed traffic, and, most important, kept the reporters at bay. There was a pack of them, all neatly cordoned off and barricaded a block away.
When Hubert Lamb unlocked the front door, he greeted the first wave of mourners and asked them to sign the register. The crowd began to move slowly, in no hurry. It would take a week to bury Donte, and there would be plenty of time to pay proper respects.
He was on display in the main parlor, his casket open and draped with flowers. His senior class photo had been enlarged and sat on a tripod at the foot of his casket--an eighteen-year-old in a coat and tie, a handsome face. The portrait had been taken a month before he was arrested. He was smiling, still dreaming of playing football. His eyes were full of expectation and ambition.
His family stood near the casket, where they had been for the past hour, touching him, weeping, trying to be strong for their guests.
At the campsite, Robbie described the scene to Carlos and the others. Bryan Day wanted to get to the grave immediately and record everything before the police arrived, but Robbie wasn't so sure. They argued, though both knew Robbie would make the decision. Fred Pryor was on his cell phone trying to locate the sheriff of Newton County. Martha Handler was talking to Aaron on her cell phone and taking notes. Suddenly there was a shriek, an anguished cry, as Boyette fell to the ground and began trembling violently. Keith knelt over him, and the others gathered to watch helplessly. Quizzical looks were exchanged. After a minute or so, the seizure seemed to pass, and the shaking and jerking subsided. Boyette clutched his head and whimpered in pain. Then he seemed to die. His body went limp and was perfectly still. Keith waited, then touched his shoulder and said, "Hey, Travis, can you hear me?" Evidently, Travis could not; there was no response.
Keith stood and said, "He usually blacks out for a few minutes."
"Let's put him out of his misery," Robbie said. "One quick pop to the head. There's a grave not far from here that's about to be empty."
"Come on, Robbie," Keith said.
The others seemed to like Robbie's idea. They backed away and were soon occupied with other matters. Five minutes passed. Boyette had not moved. Keith knelt down and checked his pulse. It was steady but faint. A few minutes later, Keith said, "Robbie, I think this is serious. He's unconscious."
"I'm not a brain surgeon, Keith. What do you want me to do?"
"He needs attention."
"He needs a funeral, Keith. Why don't you take him back to Kansas and bury him?"
Keith stood and walked a few steps to where Robbie was standing. He said, "That's a little harsh, don't you think?"
"I'm sorry, Keith. There's a lot happening right now, in case you haven't noticed. Boyette's health is not one of my priorities."
"We can't just let him die out here."
"Why not? He's practically dead anyway, right?"
Boyette grunted, then shook from head to toe, as if an aftershock were rumbling through. Then he was still again.
Keith swallowed hard and said, "He needs a doctor."
"Great. Go find one."
Minutes dragged by, and Boyette was not responsive. The others didn't care, and Keith almost persuaded himself to get in his car and leave, alone. But he could not bring himself to ignore a dying man. The security guard helped Keith load Boyette into the rear seat of the Subaru. Fred Pryor walked from the direction of the creek and said, "That was the sheriff. I finally got him, finally convinced him that we're for real, and that we've found a dead body in his jurisdiction. He's on his way."
As Keith was opening his car door, Robbie approached him and said, "Call me when you get to a hospital, and keep an eye on Boyette. I'm sure the authorities here will want to talk to him. There's no open investigation at this point, but that could change quickly, especially if Boyette admits he killed the girl in this state."
"His pulse is almost gone," the security guard reported from the rear seat.
"I'm not planning on standing guard, Robbie," Keith said. "I'm done. I'm outta here. I'll drop him off at a hospital, God knows where, and then hustle back to Kansas."
"You have our cell numbers. Just keep us posted. As soon as the sheriff sees the grave, I'm sure he'll send someone to see Boyette."
The two shook hands, not sure if they would see each other again. Death binds people in odd ways, and they felt as though they had known each other for years.
As the Subaru disappeared into the woods, Robbie checked his watch. It had taken about six hours to drive from Slone and find the body. If Travis Boyette had not delayed, Donte Drumm would be alive and on his way to a quick exoneration. He spat on the ground and quietly wished Boyette a slow and painful death.
During the forty-five-minute drive from the campsite, complete with at least four stops to ask for directions, Boyette had not moved and had not uttered a sound. He still appeared to be dead. At the em............