over. Sentencing’s done. There’s no hope for me now.”
“There is hope, Oscar.” Pete spoke with as much confidence as he could muster to make up for Oscar’s lack. “The judge is willing to look into your claim about another person doing the shooting. You just have to tell us what you know about him.” He lowered his voice, grasping his brother’s knee. “I know you told Libby you didn’t know who the man was, but that wasn’t the truth, was it? You wouldn’t partner up with a complete stranger to rob a store. That doesn’t make sense.”
Oscar sat in silence, staring straight ahead.
Pete squeezed his brother’s knee. “Go ahead. Tell the truth. Jackson can help you if you tell the truth.”
Oscar mumbled something Pete couldn’t understand. He leaned in closer. “What did you say?”
He covered his face with his hands. “I can’t tell you.” The words came out on a snarl.
“Sure you can.” Pete gave his brother’s knee another reassuring squeeze. “Jackson will find the man and make him tell the authorities that he’s the one who shot the clerk, but we need a description . . . a name.”
“I said I can’t!” Oscar lunged from the bed, pushing past Jackson and cowering in the opposite corner. He hid behind his upraised arms, his body heaving.
Jackson rose and took a step toward Oscar. “Oscar, did the man threaten you? Because I can protect you.”
A moan sounded from behind Oscar’s arms. He turned his back and hunched into the corner with his arms wrapped around himself. “Ain’t me needs protectin’. I can take care of myself. But if I tell, there’ll be no one to—” He sank against the cinder-block wall, and for a moment Pete thought he’d collapse into a heap on the floor. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he unfolded to his full height.
He turned slowly and looked at Pete. “It was good of you to come tell me good-bye, Petey. Glad to know you’re doin’ good, even if you are a cripple. I’ll always remember you came. But you . . . you better go now.”
Oscar crossed the floor, passing between Pete and Jackson without looking at them, and dropped onto the cot. Pete stared at the boy, uncertain what to do, until Jackson put his hand on Pete’s arm.
“Pete, would you step outside for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to Oscar alone.”
Although Pete had so much more he wanted to say to his brother, he didn’t argue. Maybe Jackson could use his lawyer skills to pry more information from the boy. He called to the guard to let him out, and Pete paced the small hallway while listening to the low, unintelligible voices behind the door.
Finally Jackson emerged, his face unreadable. He thanked the guard and ushered Pete toward the stairs. “I’m going to stay in Clayton at least another two days. I’d like to put you on a train back to Chambers—Isabelle will have many choice words for me if I don’t at least encourage you to return to school.”
Pete heaved himself up the final step and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going anywhere until my brother is released.”
Jackson nodded. “Figured you’d say that. And to be honest, Pete, I could probably use your help.”
As they stepped out onto the wide portico that led to the street, Pete swung to face Jackson. His heart beat double time. “So Oscar told you the name of the killer?”
Jackson shook his head. “The judge was right. He’s the most tight-lipped boy I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t give me a name. But it doesn’t matter. I know who it is.”
As soon as her classes ended Monday afternoon, Libby walked to the office of the Boone County Daily Tribune to find out whether the editor had read her article. If he didn’t plan to print it, she’d take it to the next editor, and then the next, until she found someone who would make Oscar’s situation known to the public. She also intended to suggest changing the names to protect Petey’s reputation. Surely the editor would be willing to acquiesce to her request when he understood Petey’s position as a ministry student.
The receptionist sent her straight to Mr. Houghton’s office when she arrived, and Libby’s heart pattered hopefully as she slipped into the chair facing the man’s messy desk.
“Miss Conley . . .” He snatched up her pages from a stack at his right elbow and tamped them together. “I’ve read your article. Four times.”