Dead Wrong

PROLOGUE

October 1978

A sharp rap next to his ear awakened Bradley Evans out of a troubled sleep and plunged him headlong into the worst hangover of his life. Or maybe it was a pre-hangover. Even before he managed to open his eyes, the world began spinning. He felt sick. He was so parched his tongue and lips seemed ready to splinter into pieces. Every bone in his body ached, and he was cold as hell.

The second sharp rap was accompanied by an authoritative voice. “Unlock the door, son. Then place both hands on your head and step out of the truck.”

Bradley groaned. Step out of the truck? he wondered. What truck? What the hell am I doing in a truck?

“I’m warning you,” the voice said again. “Unlock the door, hands on your head, and step out of the vehicle!”

Less than six months out of the army, Bradley was still accustomed to following orders from someone in authority, so he did his best to comply, but when he finally managed to open his eyes all he saw was blood-clots of blood everywhere: on the windshield, the dashboard, the rearview mirror. And on him, too-smeared on his hands, shirt, pants, and shoes. Somehow he managed to unlock the door, but he was incapable of stepping out of the vehicle on his own. Instead, he leaned out of the truck and retched onto the pavement, splashing bright yellow bile that still reeked of beer onto the deputy’s highly shined pair of boots.

Suspended over the mess, Bradley tried to grasp what had happened. He remembered going to the bar and playing a couple of games of pool, but that was it. After he’d been given a DWI a year ago, he had promised Lisa that if he ever again had too much to drink, he’d call her to come get him, no matter what. Obviously he hadn’t done that last night. Instead, he had wrecked his truck and now this huge cop was about to haul his ass off to jail. When Lisa found out, she’d kill him-or leave him.

Finally, he tried to straighten up. “Anybody else hurt?” he managed.

“You tell me,” the cop returned. “Are you finished? Come on out now. Stand up. Hands behind your back.”

Off in the distance, Bradley heard the siren of a second arriving cop car, but he had no intention of giving even this lone officer any trouble. He stumbled to his feet and then stood weaving unsteadily while the cop snapped a pair of metal cuffs onto his wrists. When he was able to look back at his old GMC, he was astonished to see that the pickup showed no visible damage.

Must be on the other side, he thought. Maybe I veered off the road and sideswiped a telephone pole or a fence post.

The problem with that line of thinking was that he didn’t seem to be hurt, certainly not injured enough to explain that awful amount of blood.

“Who was with you?” the cop was asking. “Who else was in the vehicle?”

“I don’t know,” Bradley mumbled. “I don’t remember. I thought I was alone.”

He looked at the cop for reassurance. He was a balding, middle-aged, slightly portly man in a spotless stiffly starched khaki uniform and with a very large pistol strapped to a holster on his hip. The name tag over his shirt pocket identified him as Deputy Lathrop-Deputy D. H. Lathrop.

“I’d have to say you’re mistaken about that,” Deputy Lathrop returned with what Bradley recognized as a trace of an East Texas drawl. “And whoever was with you is hurt real bad or else he’s dead.”

Leaving Bradley standing alone, cuffed, and struggling to maintain his balance, the deputy returned to the pickup. Reaching in through the open driver’s-side door, he brought something out. When he held it up, Bradley could only stare in stricken silence. It was Lisa’s purse, the fringed dark leather one he had bought from a booth at the Cochise County Fair. He had given it to her on the spot even though her birthday was still weeks away.

“What’s this?” Lathrop asked.

For a moment Bradley was too stunned to reply. What’s Lisa’s purse doing here? he wondered. She wasn’t with me at the bar, or was she?

The deputy reached into the purse and pulled out a wallet- Lisa’s wallet. As he opened it, Bradley dissolved into tears, muttering, “Oh, God, what’s happened? What have I done?”