The Last Mile

by David Baldacci

  night?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly, her frail shoulders quivering.

  Jamison reached out and put a comforting hand on the old woman’s arm. “Mrs. Ryan, it’s okay. I think that your husband was trying to do the right thing.”

  Ryan sniffled, reached for a tissue and blew her nose. “He was a good man. But he didn’t work with such good people.”

  “Did you know he posted bail, for five hundred dollars, for a man named Charles Montgomery?”

  She rubbed her nose with the tissue. “He told me about that. Money sure didn’t come from him. We didn’t have that sort of cash to throw around. Certainly not for posting bail for someone we didn’t even know.”

  “So he was told to do it? And given the money with which to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know by whom?”

  “He was assistant mayor. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

  “So Thurman Huey?”

  “Maybe his daddy gave him the money. I don’t know. Travis was a Dixiecrat,” added Ryan. “And he found good company in Washington. He almost derailed Thurgood Marshall being a Supreme Court justice, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Decker.

  “I didn’t follow things like that, but my husband did. He didn’t think much of the Hueys. But he lived in Mississippi and he kept his mouth shut. He went into politics to try to do good. But it was hard to do good in Mississippi back then if it meant doing good for black folks.”

  “That stance probably didn’t make him popular,” said Bogart.

  “If you wanted a career in Mississippi back then you toed the line. He had a family to support, but that doesn’t mean he believed what those others did. Because he didn’t.”

  “I’m sure,” said Jamison.

  “But he did things, little things to help folks. He did it under the radar, so to speak.” She looked at Mars. “He helped folks like you, to the extent he could.”

  “Sounds like a man ahead of his time,” replied Mars.

  She nodded. “Old LBJ lost the South when he got the Civil Rights Act passed. Southern Democrats turned their backs on him. Travis Huey sure as hell did. He was furious, Nathan told me.”

  Decker said, “You said that Travis Huey wouldn’t get his hands dirty by being involved in the bombing and you said you didn’t know if his son would, but do you think Thurman Huey might have been involved in the bombing?”

  Ryan looked over at her Bible, reached for it, and opened it to where she had been reading. For a few moments Decker thought she was not going to answer.

  “I will tell you that the apple doesn’t fall from the tree, certainly not with the Hueys.”

  Decker looked at the others. “So you do think Thurman Huey was involved?”

  “I don’t know, but I can tell you that Thurman had two very good friends. The Three Musketeers, folks called ’em back then. They were right famous in town.”

  “Why was that?” asked Bogart.

  “What else? High school football.”

  And despite Decker’s asking several other questions, those were the last words the woman spoke.

  CHAPTER

  58

  THEY ALL SAT in the car in front of Smithers’s house staring out the windows.

  Bogart spoke first. “The chairman of the Ways and Means Committee and possibly the next Speaker of the House. I have to admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”

  Jamison said, “He was one of the Musketeers. I wonder who the other two were.”

  Decker said, “Easy enough to find out.”

  “Where?” asked Jamison.

  It was Mars who answered. “High school football stars? Why don’t we start there?”

  Decker looked at him. “We’ll make a detective out of you yet, Melvin.”

  * * *

  Cain High School was smack in the center of town. They found the school office, made their request, and were quickly shuttled off to the library. There a young woman in slacks and a sweater greeted them.

  “The Three Musketeers?” she said in response to their question. “I have heard that. It has to do with—”

  “Football,” answered Mars. “Back in the sixties. Thurman Huey?”

  “Right, okay. I just started here a few years ago, but I can show you where all the yearbooks are.”

  They were led to a shelf on which were kept all the yearbooks for the school, dating back to the 1920s. They had already determined Thurman Huey’s exact age, so they knew when he probably graduated from high school. Jamison found the right volume, and they gathered around looking over her shoulder as she slowly turned the pages.

  Mars saw it first, probably because it was on the pages dedicated to the football team.

  “The Three Musketeers,” he said.

  It was a photo of three young men in football uniforms. The caption below the photo read, “Thurman Huey, Danny Eastland, and Roger McClellan, the Three Musketeers.”

  Mars took the book and pointed to the three figures. “See how they’re lined up? Huey’s the QB, and the other two are the halfbacks. They’re running a version of the veer offense. Off that they can run the triple option. We used to do a variation of that at UT sometimes.”

  “And that formation came into being during the 1960s, when they were in high school,” added Decker.

  Bogart studied the pictures of the young men. “So, Danny Eastland and Roger McClellan? Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Already Googling,” said Jamison.

  She hit the keys on her phone, waited, and then studied the results. “Let me make sure this is the same Danny Eastland.” She hit a few more keys and the results came up. She read quickly.

  “Damn!”

  “What?” said Decker.

  “Danny Eastland has done well for himself. He’s the founder and CEO of a government defense contractor. It says here they used to build weaponry, but about five years ago moved more to intelligence gathering, which turned out to be a smart move. Last year it had revenues of more than five billion dollars, most of it with the DOD. It’s based in Georgia, but there’s an office in Jackson, Mississippi, too, among many others. This article says he has a net worth of over a billion dollars and his primary home is in Atlanta.”

  “How about the other Musketeer?” asked Bogart.

  Jamison did a search for Roger McClellan. “Holy shit!” she said when the results came up.

  The three men looked at her.

  “Well?” said Bogart.

  She looked up at him. “Roger McClellan is the current police chief of Cain, Mississippi.”

  Decker said, “Ironic, if he was part of a terrorist act against a church in the very same town.”

  Bogart said, “Okay, we need to start marching very lightly here. Folks here already know we’re making inquiries about the Hueys. And I bet Pierce from the police station has already reported our meeting to McClellan.”

  “And he’s probably already contacted Huey and Eastland,” said Jamison.

  “I’m sure he has,” agreed Bogart. “So we have to be very careful. The last thing we need is to get pulled off the case because the FBI director gets a call from a pissed-off Huey.”

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Decker pointed out.

  “Granted, but in D.C., Thurman Huey is an eight-hundred-pound gorilla.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jamison. “Do you think they’re the ones who kidnapped Davenport? That would make it a very recent crime.”

  Bogart shook his head. “I can’t believe Thurman Huey would be involved in something like that.”

  Decker said, “If Roy Mars has evidence that Huey was involved in the church bombing, and that evidence comes to light, Huey won’t just lose his career, he could very well end up in prison for the rest of his life. Given that, I think the man might be capable of anything.”

  Mars said, “What sort of evidence would my dad have?”

  “Whatever was in the
safe deposit box,” said Decker.

  In a shaky voice Mars said, “You think he was involved in the bombings?”

  “I don’t know, Melvin. But somehow he ended up with something that will bury some very powerful men. No wonder he went on the run and changed his name.”

  Mars tried to say something but nothing came out. He finally just shook his head.

  Decker returned the book to the shelf while the others headed to the door. He had a sudden thought, opened the yearbook to a certain page, scanned down it, and then ripped the page out and put it in his pocket. He did this one more time with another page. He replaced the book on the shelf and joined the others as they headed back to the car.

  They all climbed in and Bogart started it up. He said, “Okay, we have a lot of work ahead of us. But as I said before, we step lightly. I don’t want any specific details getting out to the locals.”

  “Oh crap,” said Jamison, who was looking out the rear window. “I think it’s too late.”

  They all turned.

  A police cruiser was pulling up behind them.

  CHAPTER

  59

  TWO MALE OFFICERS got out. They were both in their forties, a bit gray around the temples, a bit soft around the middle. They walked up, one on either side of the car.

  Bogart rolled down his window. He already had his FBI ID out.

  The officer leaned in. “How you folks doing?”

  “Just fine, Officer,” said Bogart.

  The man looked at the ID. “Right. We heard y’all were in town. It’s why we’re here. Chief McClellan wanted to know if there was anything at all that we could do to assist you in whatever you’re investigating?”

  “We appreciate that very much,” said Bogart. “But right now I can’t think of anything.”

  Decker was staring out the passenger window at the officer parked there staring back at him. One of the man’s hands rested on the butt of his service pistol.

  Decker gave him a nod and a smile.

  Neither was returned.

  The officer at Bogart’s window said, “Just as a matter of professional courtesy do you think y’all could find the time to come meet with the chief? He prides himself on knowing all that goes on here, and I think you might find him an asset to help you in whatever it is that brought you to our fine town.”

  Though it was spoken as a request, the tone of the words suggested that a refusal would not be very welcome.

  “Certainly,” said Bogart.

  They followed the patrol car back to a different station from the one where they had met Pierce, parked, and then the officers escorted them inside and down the hall. One of them rapped on a door that was fronted with a plaque reading Roger G. McClellan, Chief of Police.

  “Come on in,” said a firm voice.

  The officer opened the door, motioned the four in, and then shut the door behind them.

  The office was large, twenty by twenty, with fine paneling and shelves holding a lifetime of awards and commendations in the law enforcement field. One wall was the photo wall of fame, showcasing McClellan in the company of various dignitaries, professional athletes, and famous singers, mostly country and western. In one area of the space were leather chairs and a comfortable couch and a coffee table with an assortment of magazines on it, predominantly cop and gun publications.

  The state flag of Mississippi stood in a holder behind the enormous, intricately carved desk.

  There was no sign of the Stars and Stripes.

  Sitting behind the desk was a tall man who, despite his advancing years, looked fit and trim. He was wearing his dress uniform, the chest festooned with medals and ribbons. His gray mustache was trimmed and his thinning hair was slicked back. His face looked like a slab of granite that had been worked over by rushing water for a couple of centuries.

  He rose and put out a hand. “Chief McClellan,” he said, shaking hands with each of them. “Please, take a seat.” He came around the desk and directed them to places among the couch and chairs before sitting down across from them.

  “Y’all want something to drink? Coffee ain’t half bad, but we got some bottled water too.”

  They politely declined.

  McClellan sat back and looked them over. “I appreciate you coming on in. Sure you can understand that when the FBI comes calling I prick up my ears.”

  “Absolutely. I take it you talked to Ms. Pierce?” said Bogart.

  “Hell, I didn’t need to rely on that. Fact is, in a small town, news travels fast. Eyes and ears everywhere.” He reached over with a long arm and picked up a mug off his desk and took a sip from it.

  Decker noted that the cup was imprinted with the words Virtute et armis.

  McClellan saw him looking and said, “Official motto of the great state of Mississippi.”

  “‘By valor and arms,’” said Decker.

  “You read Latin?”

  “No, I just remember seeing it somewhere.”

  McClellan put down the mug. “So what brings you folks here?” He gazed around until he stopped on Mars. “Now, I know you. But you’re not FBI.”

  “No, I’m Melvin Mars.”

  “Damn, yes you are. Watched you play football when you were in college. Now, I’m an Ole Miss grad, played ball for ’em too. Glad I never had to tackle you. Like a Mack truck with a Ferrari engine. Helluva player, son.”

  “Thanks.”

  Decker closed his eyes while McClellan was talking, and then a light seemed to click on in his head as he made the relevant connection.

  Ole Miss.

  He opened his eyes.

  McClellan said, “And I heard about your, um, situation. Glad you’re out now. Seemed like quite an injustice.”

  “I saw it that way,” said Mars tersely.

  McClellan swiveled his attention back to Bogart. “So, anything you can tell me?”

  “We’re just looking into some things from the past that may have bearing on a more recent case.”

  McClellan nodded. “Look, I’m not going to waste your time, Agent Bogart. I’m busy and I know you’re busy. I know you’ve been making inquiries about the bombing of the church that took place here in 1968. As you know, no one was ever arrested. Damn