John Grisham - The Confession

Boyette was in the front seat, rubbing his head and straining to see something familiar. He pointed to his right—he was sure the grave was to the right of the trail—and said, “This might be familiar.” The area was a dense patch of weeds and saplings. They stopped, got out, and grabbed two metal detectors. For fifteen minutes, they scoured the thick undergrowth looking for clues and waiting for the detectors to make their noise. Boyette limped along, whacking weeds with his cane, followed by Keith and watched by everyone. “Look for an old tire, a tractor tire,” Boyette said more than once.

But there was no tire, and no noise from the detectors. They retook their positions in the truck and moved slowly onward, inching up the incline on a logging trail that gave no indication of having been used in decades. Strike one.

The trail disappeared, and for twenty yards Fred Pryor inched the truck forward through vegetation, flinching as it was scraped by branches and vines. Those in the rear of the truck ducked for cover as limbs whipped about. Just as Fred was about to stop, the trail appeared again, vaguely, and Boyette said, “Keep going.” Then the trail split. Fred stopped as Boyette studied the fork and shook his head. He doesn’t have a clue, Fred said to himself. In the rear, Robbie looked at Keith and shook his head.

“Over there,” Boyette said, motioning to his right, and Fred followed his direction.

The woods became thicker, the trees younger and closer together. Like a bloodhound, Boyette raised his hand and pointed, and Fred Pryor turned off the ignition. The search party fanned out, looking for an old tractor tire, looking for anything. A beer can aroused one of the metal detectors, and for a few seconds the tension spiked. A small airplane flew low overhead, and everyone froze, as if someone were watching. Robbie said, “Boyette, do you remember if the grave is under the trees or in an open area?” The question seemed reasonable. Boyette replied, “I think it was more out in the open, but the trees have grown in nine years.”

“Great,” Robbie mumbled, then continued stomping around, crushing weeds, gawking at the ground as if the perfect clue were just one step away. After half an hour, Boyette said, “This is not it. Let’s move on.”

Strike two.

Keith crouched in the back of the truck and exchanged glances with Robbie. Both seemed to say, “We should’ve known better.” But neither spoke. No one spoke because there was absolutely nothing to say. There were a thousand thoughts.

The road turned, and when it straightened, Boyette pointed again. “This is it,” he said as he yanked open the door before the engine was turned off. He launched himself into a clearing of weeds waist-high as the others scrambled to follow. Keith took a few steps and tripped over something, falling hard. As he scrambled to his feet, brushing off bugs and brush, he realized what had tripped him. The remains of a tractor tire, virtually buried in vegetation.

“Here’s a tire,” he announced, and the others stopped moving. Boyette was only a few feet away. “Get the metal detectors,” he said. Fred Pryor had one, and within seconds it was clicking and buzzing, giving all indications of being highly agitated. Aaron Rey produced two shovels.

The terrain was strewn with rocks, but the soil was soft and moist. After ten minutes of furious digging, Fred Pryor’s shovel struck what clearly sounded like metal.

“Let’s stop for a second,” Robbie said. Both Fred and Aaron needed a break.

“All right, Boyette,” Robbie said. “Tell us what we are about to find.”

The tic, the pause, then, “It’s a metal box used for hydraulic tools, heavy as hell, almost ruined my back dragging the damned thing over here. It’s orange in color with the name of the company, R. S. McGuire and Sons, Fort Smith, Arkansas, painted on the front. It opens from the top.”

“And inside?”

“Nothing but bones by now. It’s been nine years.” He spoke with an air of authority, as if this wasn’t his first hidden grave site. “Her clothing was wadded together and placed next to her head. There’s a belt around her neck, should be intact.” His voice trailed off, as if this were somehow painful for him. There was a pause while the others glanced at each other, then Travis cleared his throat and continued. “In her clothing, we should find her driver’s license and a credit card. I didn’t want to get caught with them.”

“Describe the belt,” Robbie said. The security guard handed Robbie a video camera.

“Black, two inches wide, with a round silver buckle. It is the murder weapon.”

The digging continued as Robbie captured it on video. “It’s about five feet long,” Boyette said, pointing, indicating an outline for the box. With its shape clear, each shovelful of dirt revealed more. It was indeed orange. Deeper, the name “R. S. McGuire and Sons, Fort Smith, Arkansas,” became visible.

“That’s enough,” Robbie said, and the digging stopped. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor were sweating and breathing heavily. “We won’t be removing it.”

The toolbox presented an obvious challenge, one that had gradually become more and more evident. The top lid was secured by a latch, and the latch was secured by a combination lock, the inexpensive kind found in every hardware store. Fred did not have the proper tools to cut the lock, but there was little doubt that they would somehow snap it free. After coming this far, they would not be denied a look inside. The six men huddled close together and gawked at the orange toolbox and the combination lock. Robbie said, “So, Travis, what’s the combination?”

Travis actually smiled, as though, finally, he was about to be vindicated. He lowered himself to the edge of the grave, touched the box as if it were an altar, then gently took the lock and shook dirt from it. He turned the dial a few times to clear the code, then slowly turned to the right, to 17, then back to the left, to 50, then to the right, to 4, and finally back to the left, to 55. He hesitated and lowered his head as if to hear something, then he pulled sharply. There was a soft click, and the lock was open.

Robbie was filming from five feet away. Keith couldn’t suppress a grin, in spite of where he was and what he was doing.

“Don’t open it,” Robbie said. Pryor hustled to the truck and returned with a package. He passed out sanitary gloves and masks, and when everyone had put them on, Robbie handed him the camera and told him to start filming. He instructed Aaron to step down and slowly open the lid. He did so. There was no corpse, only bones, the skeletal remains of someone, Nicole they assumed. Her hands and fingers were laced together below her ribs, but her feet were near her knees, as if Boyette had been forced to fold her to fit her in the toolbox. Her skull was intact but a molar was missing. She’d had perfect teeth; they knew that from the photographs. Around the skull there were strands of long blond hair. Between the skull and the shoulder, there was a length of black leather, the belt, they assumed. Next to the skull, in the corner of the box, there appeared to be clothing.

Keith closed his eyes and said a prayer.

Robbie closed his eyes and cursed the world.

Boyette stepped back and sat on the edge of the tractor tire, in the weeds, and began rubbing his head.

With Fred filming, Robbie directed Aaron to gently remove the roll of clothing. The articles were intact, though frayed along some of the edges and stained in places. A blouse, blue and yellow with some type of fringe, and a large ugly hole made by either insects or decaying flesh. A short white skirt, badly stained. Brown sandals. Matching bra and panties, dark blue. And two plastic cards, one her driver’s license and one a MasterCard. Nicole’s things were placed neatly on the side of her grave.