Then for several minutes, he’d listened to Foster blubber the reason for the call and explain why it was imperative. Joe didn’t know the young man well, but Foster was an easy read. He was a nitpicker. He dealt with numbers. He thought in terms of exactitude, not fiction. He lacked the imagination to devise this story about Rusty Dyle’s treachery, as well as the audacity to spread it.
Joe had no difficulty believing everything Foster told him.
At this point in his shaky narrative, Foster paused to take a deep breath. “In addition to insisting that he and I hide the money tonight, he also says that we should have a scapegoat in place. And, uh, Mr. Maxwell, he means it to be you.”
Joe reached for his whiskey and took a slug directly from the bottle. “Let me get this straight. He plans to lay the burglary on me? He can’t do that.”
“He can. He will. He’s certain that Burnet will blow the whistle, and the rest of us will be screwed.”
“Burnet can’t blow the whistle without screwing himself.” Joe’s hand shook as he raised the bottle to his mouth again. “He won’t do that.”
“I don’t think he’ll betray us, either, because of the pact we made.”
Jesus, this guy was naïve. “Do you think that silly pact will carry any weight among a group of thieves, with half a million dollars at stake?”
Foster didn’t say anything, but Joe could tell that the young man saw how ludicrous it was to hang his hopes on the honor of his accomplices. Joe almost felt pity for the guy and hated being the one to disillusion him.
“Look, Foster, I don’t think Burnet will talk, either. Not because of a pact, but because he’s too smart. The kid’s been around. He’ll realize that being charged for possession of marijuana is Mickey Mouse compared to being charged with stealing half a million. He’d get more than a few months in juvie for that. So he’s not going to confess to the burglary. I just don’t think he will.”
Foster whimpered. “Well, it really doesn’t matter what you think. Or what I think. Rusty is convinced that Burnet will turn, and he’s taking precautions.”
“By setting me up as the fall guy.”
“Who better than the town drunk? I didn’t say that, Mr. Maxwell. Rusty did.”
Who better indeed? Rusty Dyle was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. “Did he say how he planned to go about it?”
“No. But it’s almost time for me to meet him. What should I do?” The accountant’s voice went shrill with near hysteria.
Joe rubbed his forehead. The whiskey had hit him hard, and it was probably the booze talking when he said, “You could call the cops yourself.” He couldn’t believe the words had left his mouth, but there they were, humming through their two cell phones.
“I thought of it,” Foster said. “Before I called you, I seriously thought about it.”
“Why didn’t you? The pact?”
“No. I’m clinging to the hope that we’ll actually get away with it, without…without somebody getting hurt.”
Joe didn’t think there was a chance in hell of that happening, but he didn’t share that pessimistic outlook with Foster, who had continued to talk around sucking in gulps of air.
“But the real reason I didn’t turn myself in,” he said, “is because, if I did, I wouldn’t live long. Rusty would kill me.”
“He wouldn’t—”
“He’d have it done. Even if I was locked up for my own safety. Deputies run the jail, you know, and they’re all under Mervin Dyle’s thumb. They’d probably stage my ‘suicide.’”
Joe didn’t doubt it, but he argued it anyway. “Rusty has browbeaten you into being paranoid and afraid of him.”
“You’re darn right I am. Aren’t you?”
Yes, he was. More than a little. Rusty would have his daddy and the whole corrupt sheriff’s department vouching for his son’s whereabouts tonight, paving his tracks with alibis that Mervin would make certain were ironclad.
Out of the four of them, only three would be made to pay for their thievery.
Thinking about the likely penalty, and the effect it would have on his already fractured family, Joe almost barfed up his whiskey.
“You’ve got to tell me what to do,” Foster wailed.
“Don’t do anything. Don’t show up at the meeting place. Leave the little bastard waiting.”
“He will come after me.”
The longer they talked, the faster Foster was unraveling. Joe had to keep a cool head, as hazy with liquor as it was. To panic was begging for a