I just couldn't let you die. Arthur's smile was sad, knowing. That's a choice.
The ambulance door slammed shut and Caleb stood in the middle of the highway covered in another man's blood with a leather roll full of secrets burning against his spine. Vernon grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise. We're going home. Right now. You're going to give me that thing and I'm going to burn it.
He said, I don't care what he said. Vernon's voice cracked. You think the Hells Angels are the scary part of this, Caleb? Sheriff Dalton runs this county. He runs the whole damn region.
If he's dirty enough to run a man down in broad daylight, what do you think he'll do to a 19-year-old kid who has evidence against him? Caleb pulled his arm free. Then maybe someone should have that evidence. Someone who? Vernon laughed, but it was bitter and afraid. The state police, the FBI.
You think they're going to believe you over a decorated sheriff? You think they're going to protect you? He stepped closer and Caleb could smell the fear sweat on him. That biker told you to hide it because the only people who can touch it and survive are Hells Angels. You're not a Hell's Angel, Caleb.
You're just a kid who fixes cars.
The walk back to the auto shop felt like miles instead of yards. Caleb's trailer was parked behind the main building, a rusted-out single-wide that leaked when it rained and baked like an oven in summer. Vernon owned the shop and the trailer came with Caleb's job. Had been home since his parents died 3 years back. Inside, Caleb locked the door and pulled out the leather roll with shaking hands.
His fingers fumbled with the cord, but finally it came loose and the contents spilled across his tiny kitchen table. Papers, dozens of them. Photocopies of ledgers, bank statements, shipping manifests, photographs of Sheriff Dalton shown shaking hands with men whose faces Caleb didn't recognize, but whose eyes were cold and dead. Pictures of trucks crossing the border, license plates clearly visible. Lists of names, dates, dollar amounts that made Caleb's head spin.
And there paper clipped to a page of handwritten notes was a photo of Dalton standing beside a black Silverado, the same truck that had run Arthur down. Oh God, Caleb whispered. Oh God, he wasn't lying.
A knock at the door made him jump so hard he nearly fell off his chair. Caleb. Vernon's voice was quieter now. Let me in, son. I'm okay, Uncle Vernon.
Just need a minute. We need to talk about this, really talk. Caleb gathered the papers quickly shoving them back into the roll. His hands left bloody fingerprints on the edges. Tomorrow.
We'll talk tomorrow. Silence. Then he's going to come, Caleb. Tonight, tomorrow, soon. Dalton's going to come looking, and when he does Vernon's voice dropped to barely audible.
When he does, I can't protect you. I won't. I got a business to run, a life here. I can't go down with you. The words hit harder than Caleb expected.
You're my uncle. And you're just like your daddy, too damn stubborn to know when to run. Vernon's footsteps retreated across the gravel. I'm sorry, kid. I really am.