“DOC,” GROWLED THE VOICE ON MY PHONE SHORTLY after I had returned to my office, still processing the remarkable events of class. “Bubba Meffert. Listen, I’m just leaving the prison. Been talking to inmates about ol’ Satterfield. Found out some mighty interesting stuff. Got a minute?”
“Sure, Bubba, go ahead. Whatcha got?”
“Well, first off, Steve Morgan was tellin’ me—”
I couldn’t resist interrupting. “Steve’s an inmate now? About time. I knew he couldn’t keep scamming the TBI forever.”
Bubba chuckled, though the laugh sounded forced and feeble. I hoped he wasn’t pushing himself too hard so soon after chemo. “Nah, Steve’s still got his badge—he’s still half a step ahead of Internal Affairs. Anywho, I was swapping notes with Steve yesterday evening, and he said you’d asked him if there was anything up at Shiflett’s place that tied him to Satterfield.”
“I did ask him that.”
“At the time,” he went on, “Steve thought it was a weird question. Thought it came outta left field, or outta a certain lower part of your anatomy. Actually, though, it was a brilliant question.”
My Spidey Sense was starting to tingle. “Go on.”
“Turns out Satterfield and Shiflett were thick as thieves. They developed quite the bromance, apparently.”
I drew back and gave the phone a puzzled, questioning look. “They had a sexual relationship?”
“God, no,” said Meffert. “Not as far as I know, anyhow. Buddies. Brotherly love. Well, brotherly hate, more like it. They were both mixed up with skinhead groups, neo-Nazis, neo-Klan. It all kinda runs together, you know? Anything that helps the whites and hurt the blacks and the browns—the ‘mud people,’ they called ’em.”
“But how did Shiflett and Satterfield even meet? Satterfield was in prison for more than twenty years. Did Shiflett do time there, too?”
“No, but that’s where they met. They met through Satterfield’s cellmate. Guy name of Stubbs. Shiflett was in the army with Stubbs—they served in Afghanistan together, ten or twelve years ago.”
Now my Spidey Sense was shrieking. I sat bolt upright in my chair, then leaned forward, closer to the phone, as if by getting right next to it, I could hear better and therefore hear a different name. “Stubbs? Did you say Satterfield’s cellmate was named Stubbs?”
“Yeah. Stubbs.”
“Tell me you’re not talking about Tilden Stubbs. Militant racist? Doing time for stealing weapons from the army?”
“I am. He was,” said Meffert.
“Come again?”
“Was doing time. Did the time. Served five years. Got out a month ago.”
“Wait. He’s out? Crap. I hate to hear that, Bubba.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.” Meffert’s tone seemed to suggest that he had something else to say, but he was silent.
“Bubba? You got more bad news?”
“Yeah.” He drew out the word—easing into it on the front end, dragging out the vowels, trailing off reluctantly at the end. “This is where it gets creepy, Doc.”
“You’re saying that neo-Nazis, militias, and army heists aren’t creepy?”
“Not compared to this.”
“Hell, Bubba. You do know how to sugarcoat the pill, don’t you? Just spill it. What is it you’re so worried about telling me?”
“The Cooke County case—the murder by bear?”
“Yeah? What about it? Creepy, for sure, but I already know all about it.”
“No, you don’t. That was supposed to be you. Chained to the tree.”
“What?” My skin prickled, my hackles rose, and sweat popped out on my forehead.
“I heard it from two different inmates.”
“But that’s crazy,” I said. “I never heard of Jimmy Ray Shiflett. Why in hell would some Cooke County redneck want to chain me to a tree and feed me to a bear?”
“It wasn’t Shiflett.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shiflett wasn’t the one planning to do it to you. Wasn’t Stubbs, either.”
A wave of nausea crashed over me as his meaning sank in. “Satterfield,” I breathed.
“Satterfield. Satterfield must’ve told Stubbs about it. Maybe Satterfield told Shiflett, too. Or maybe Shiflett heard it from Stubbs on a prison visit. Doesn’t matter. It was completely Satterfield’s plan. For you.”