The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4)

by Robert Bailey

  “I just got off the phone with the warden of the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution in Nashville.”

  Tom felt gooseflesh break out on his arm. “And?”

  When she spoke again, Helen’s voice was just above a whisper. “Early this morning, with the help of a prison nurse, James Robert Wheeler escaped from death row.”

  “What?” Tom said, not believing it.

  “JimBone Wheeler broke out of prison this morning. He’s a fugitive and is believed to be armed and dangerous. The investigation is still in its infancy, but the Nashville police think he has an accomplice. A brown-skinned woman, also thought to be armed and dangerous.”

  Tom felt his chest tighten. “Bully Calhoun’s Filipino enforcer.”

  Helen didn’t answer, keeping her eyes locked on to Tom’s. “Her identity has not been confirmed, but . . . that’s a reasonable and logical conclusion.”

  Tom gripped the blanket tightly between his fingers and tried to remain calm as his thoughts drifted to his last encounter with JimBone Wheeler at the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution.

  I’m going to bring a day of reckoning on you and everyone you hold dear, McMurtrie.

  Tom narrowed his gaze and forced himself to concentrate. From the front of the house, he could hear Lee Roy begin to bark again. Another car must be coming up the driveway. “Do they have any leads?” Tom asked.

  Helen nodded and pulled her cell phone out of her purse. She clicked a few digits and then handed the device to Tom. When she did, Tom noticed her hand was shaking.

  From the driveway, Lee Roy’s barking grew louder, with a few growls thrown in. Then there was the brief sound of a siren, followed by the shrill voice of a dispatcher from a police radio: “Have you reached the destination?”

  “Affirmative,” an officer blared back. “General Lewis is inside with the target.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows at Helen.

  “Backup,” she said, nodding at the phone in Tom’s hand. “Go ahead and look.”

  Tom blinked his eyes to focus and then gazed at the photograph on the screen. His breath caught in his throat as he saw a naked woman propped against a bathroom toilet.

  “That’s the nurse,” Helen said. “Her body was found this morning in the bathroom stall of a roadside gas station between Triune and Eagleville.” Standing up and leaning over him, she took the telephone and enlarged the photograph so that the image focused on the dead woman’s stomach.

  Just as eighteen-year-old Steve Cook had done approximately seven hours earlier, Tom read the letters out loud. “M . . . C . . . M . . . U . . . R . . . T . . . R . . . I . . . E.” Then he gazed at Helen, whose normally pale face was almost ghostly. “So . . . I’m the lead?”

  Again, Helen nodded. “Based on this photograph, the history of how he ended up on death row, and what you told me about your last communication with him, the logical conclusion is that Wheeler has a score to settle with you.” She paused and sucked in a quick breath. “And based on where this gas station is in relation to the prison . . . he’s heading this way.”

  “And if that nurse was murdered this morning . . .” Tom paused as the gooseflesh that had initially sprung up on his arms ran down his legs all the way to his feet.

  “He may already be here,” Helen said, completing the thought.

  11

  Tom kept his guns in a locked case that hung on the bedroom wall. As he fumbled for the key hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser, he heard Helen’s impatient voice behind him.

  “Mind telling me what you’re doing?”

  Tom tried to suppress his frustration as Lee Roy’s barking continued to fill the air outside, along with the occasional police gibberish from the dispatcher that resounded from the radio of one of the squad cars. Tom’s fingers finally closed around the teeth of the key, which had found a home between two pairs of boxer shorts. Sighing with relief, he pulled it out and undid the latch.

  His heartbeat, which had begun to race as he listened to Helen’s summary of JimBone Wheeler’s escape and viewed the gruesome photographs of the dead nurse on the General’s phone, steadied as he clasped the stock of a twelve-gauge shotgun. Tom removed the weapon and set it on the bed. Where did I put the shells? he wondered, turning back to the case and seeing Helen blocking his path. Her arms were folded, and her fierce green eyes, which had always reminded Tom of the emerald waters of the Gulf of Mexico, glowed with intensity.

  “Tom, I know you’re upset, but you need to calm down. There are two police cruisers in the driveway, and the house is being guarded by officers. Look.” Holding her position, she extended a hand to the window and opened the blinds.

  Through the opening, Tom saw an armed guard wearing a dark-blue uniform. The man held a walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke into it. Seeming to sense eyes on him, the officer turned toward the window and nodded at Helen, who returned the gesture. “There are four deputies from the Giles County Sheriff’s Department covering each side of the house, and I’ve dispatched four more to do a sweep of the farm.” She paused and forced a smile. “There’s also a very agitated English bulldog out there backing up those guys.”

  Tom didn’t smile. Instead, his eyes locked on to Helen’s and he spoke in a measured tone. “Thank you. Now . . . please get out of my way.”

  She glared at him but after a second’s hesitation stepped to the side. Peering into the case, Tom removed another shotgun. He handed it to Helen, who reluctantly placed the weapon beside its counterpart on the bed. Tom then took out a nine-millimeter pistol and a .44 Magnum revolver and lay them both on the mattress. He gazed at the firearms on the bed and then back at the case. The only guns he had yet to remove were a .38-caliber revolver and a Remington deer rifle. In his lifetime, Tom McMurtrie had only killed one human being, and he had used the rifle to do it. He stepped toward the case, but Helen beat him to it. She pulled out the brown-and-black Remington and peered at the weapon with admiration. “I seem to remember you saving my life with this one a couple years ago.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t have to do it again,” Tom said, taking the gun from her and adding it to the arsenal on the bed.

  “You won’t,” Helen snapped, placing her hands on her hips. “Tom, you are going to have to trust the law to do its job. We will get him. I promise.”

  “Can you arrange security for my son’s house in Huntsville?”

  “I already have. I contacted the Madison County Sheriff’s Office and the Huntsville Police Department on the way here, and there are officers posted outside your son’s house now.” She paused. “If Tommy and Nancy decide to go home with the kids tonight after the party, they’ll have a police escort.”

  Tom began to pace back and forth across the room, oblivious to the pain in his back. “Good,” he said. Then, stopping on a dime, he peered at her. “We need to tell Bo. And Rick, Powell, and Wade.” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. “JimBone threatened all of them too.”

  As he searched his contacts list, Helen placed both of her hands over Tom’s and gently removed the phone from his fingers. “I know, Tom, and I’m working on it,” she said. “I’ve already notified Powell Conrad, and he said he would warn Detective Richey. They’re going to try to make it up here tomorrow and join the search.” She paused and licked her lips. “I haven’t been able to reach your partner yet—all my calls go straight to voice mail—but Powell said that Rick was in the middle of a trial.”

  Tom closed his eyes. The Simpson case. In the chaos of learning about JimBone Wheeler’s escape, he’d forgotten about the trial. Rick had been calling him at the close of each day’s session with a summary. “I’m sure Powell will tell Rick,” Tom said, opening his eyes and peering at Helen.

  “He told me he would,” Helen agreed.

  “And Bo?”

  “I haven’t gotten him on the phone either—same thing, all calls go to voice mail—but the dispatcher with HPD said she would send a patrol car to his and Jazz’s house. Besides, Bo’s coming
to the party tonight, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then we can tell him then.” Helen slid the phone back inside Tom’s pocket and pinched his thigh through the fabric. “You are going to have to calm down and let me do my job.” She paused. “And for the love of God, don’t do anything crazy with these guns. After you’ve gathered yourself, please put them back in the case.”

  Tom sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. Helen took a seat next to him and wrapped an arm around his waist. After a couple of seconds, Tom placed his own arm around Helen and pulled her close to him. When he heard her chuckle, he looked into her green eyes. “What could you possibly find funny in all this?” he asked.

  “Nothing really,” she said, and her tone was sad with a hint of bitterness. “Just . . . this is the first time I’ve ever been on your bed.”

  Tom blinked his eyes, not knowing what to say. His and Helen’s relationship had evolved from adversarial to friendly to intimate over the course of the past two and a half years. But there was one boundary they had never crossed. Tom hugged Helen’s neck and looked past her to the dresser adjacent to the gun case. On it, he saw the framed photograph of his beloved wife, Julie, who had died six years ago. Though he had eventually stopped wearing his wedding ring, there were some bonds he had been unwilling to break. Perhaps if he hadn’t been diagnosed with terminal cancer and could have imagined a life with Helen, things might have been different.

  But a future had never been in the cards.

  “I’m sorry,” Tom finally managed.

  “Don’t be,” Helen whispered. When she removed her head from his shoulder, he saw a lone tear on her cheek. She swiped at it and abruptly stood. “We need to brief Tommy and Nancy,” she said, her voice sharp and matter-of-fact. “I’m sure they’re wondering what in the world is going on.” She stepped toward the door. When she grabbed the knob, she turned toward him. “We also need to discuss something else.”

  “What?” Tom asked, rising from the bed and gritting his teeth as a dagger of pain clipped his lower back.

  Helen narrowed her gaze. “I’m worried about your partner.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after a tense conversation with Tom’s son and daughter-in-law, where Helen covered the facts she knew about JimBone Wheeler’s escape and the security measures taken both at the farm and at Tommy and Nancy’s home in Huntsville, Tom walked the prosecutor out to the driveway. The General’s government-issued Crown Victoria was black like her suit, which Tom thought was a perfect match. After he opened the door for her, she turned and gave him a kiss on the cheek. For a moment, they held each other as the sun made its final descent over the Hazel Green farm.

  “Are they OK?” Helen asked, pulling back and nodding toward the house, where Tommy and Nancy were talking in the kitchen.

  “Just shell-shocked,” Tom said. “It’s not every day you find out that an escaped convict might be on a mission to kill your family.” He paused and clasped her hand. “I wish you could stay . . .” He glanced over his shoulder to the house. “Though I doubt it’s going to be much of a party now.”

  Helen gazed at him, squeezed his hand, and then let go. “Me too, but there’s too much going on. I just got a text from someone in the state troopers’ office that an abandoned ambulance was discovered at a private airfield in Murfreesboro. A forensics team is investigating, but they think it must be the van Wheeler took to the hospital.”

  “How close is the airfield to the gas station where the nurse was murdered?”

  “Forty-five minutes maybe?”

  “Could Wheeler have gotten on a plane?”

  Helen held out her palms. “I don’t know, but I want to get over there and ask some questions.”

  “Shouldn’t you leave that to the detectives?”

  Helen smirked. “Perhaps. But I’m the one who convicted Wheeler and sent him to death row. He’s my responsibility. Now I’ve got to run.” She climbed inside the car and shut the door. After starting the vehicle, she rolled down the window and looked up at Tom. “Any word from Bo?”

  Tom felt his stomach tighten. He shook his head.

  “Shouldn’t he be here by now?” Helen asked, and Tom could hear the anxiety in her voice.

  “Probably just hit some traffic,” he said, but the words sounded hollow. Bocephus Haynes wasn’t one to be late and always called if he was running behind. Something is wrong, he thought.

  Helen pursed her lips. “If you don’t hear from him in the next thirty minutes, call me,” she said, putting the car in gear.

  “Wait,” Tom said, leaning down and placing his hands on the window seal of the Crown Vic to steady himself. “You said you were concerned about Rick earlier. Why?”

  Helen sighed and gazed over the wheel. “Because he’s obsessed with avenging his father’s murder.” She slammed the gear shift back in park and gazed up at Tom. “He’s burned my phone lines up for months asking for leads on Manny Reyes, and I know he’s done the same in Jasper, Henshaw, and Orange Beach. He’s also filed wrongful death lawsuits against the estate of Bully Calhoun in Walker, Henshaw, and Baldwin Counties in Alabama and named Manny individually in each of them. I’m sure you know about that.”

  Tom nodded. “I do, and . . .” He stopped and rubbed his back, which now throbbed with pain. Then he moved his eyes around the driveway and to the farmland beyond. It was now pitch dark, and Tom felt his pulse quicken at the thought of JimBone and Manny in the field to the north. Both were good with a rifle. He remembered the officers that Helen had assigned to the house and the farm, and he took a deep breath. Trust the law to do its job, he thought, echoing Helen’s words from the bedroom.

  “Helen, those lawsuits needed to be filed,” he continued, peering down at her. “I know I’m retired now, but I’m behind Rick a hundred percent. The victims and their families deserve justice.”

  “I’m all for justice,” Helen fired back. “I’ve been a prosecutor for over twenty years, and before that, I was a police officer. But I don’t agree with unnecessarily making yourself a target. Kathryn Calhoun Willistone has become a powerful woman since her father’s assassination. She’s also the personal representative of Bully’s estate. My sources tell me that she is beyond pissed at being sued all over the state of Alabama.”

  Tom looked down at the asphalt driveway, pondering Helen’s comments. Then, meeting her eye, he asked, “Do you think it’s possible that Kat could have had something to do with Wheeler’s escape? The case filed in Walker County . . . Jennings . . . is set for trial on Monday.”

  Helen blinked but held Tom’s gaze. He could tell that the impending trial was news to her. “All reports coming out of Riverbend are of an inside job orchestrated by a rogue nurse,” she finally said, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of her right hand. “But even if Kat were somehow involved, we can’t prove it. Just like the lawsuits your partner has filed. He can’t win. The murders that he seeks justice for were clean hits. There’s no direct evidence linking Manny or Bully Calhoun to any of those killings. Smoke? OK, there’s a good bit, I agree. But fire? None. Not even a spark. And the crimes have been unsolved for over a year. They are dead ends.”

  “You seem to know a lot about those murders,” Tom said, softening his tone.

  Helen sighed and gazed up at the roof of the Crown Vic. “I’m trying to help him, OK? And I think he’s right. I believe that the killings of his father, Greg Zorn, and Alvin Jennings were conspiracy-style mob hits. But you just can’t go after these people swinging haymakers. You have to be patient and you must have evidence.”

  “Rick has a better chance than you think, Helen,” Tom said. “Don’t forget that the cases he’s filed are civil lawsuits, not criminal prosecutions. He doesn’t have the prosecutor’s burden of proof that you always bear. He’s not tagged with proving the elements of murder beyond a reasonable doubt. In a wrongful death case, all he has to show is that it is more probable than not that Manny killed his father, Zorn, and Jennings while work
ing under the direction of Bully Calhoun. That’s a huge difference.” Tom stopped and leaned his hands back on the window seal. “Remember what happened with O. J.? The State of California lost the criminal prosecution, but the victims’ families won the wrongful death suit for millions. Take off your prosecutor hat for a second and see these cases through Rick’s eyes. He has a fighting chance, and history proves out the strategy. He just needs to get to the jury on one of them, and he’s four days away.”

  Helen peered up at Tom with a grim smile. “Spoken like the law professor you once were. Look, right now my main concern is putting JimBone Wheeler back where he belongs, and I’m very worried about your partner. Rick Drake’s been on a vendetta since learning his father’s death wasn’t an accident. I’m concerned that Wheeler’s escape and Manny’s suspected involvement could send him off the rails, and so is Powell. It was the first thing Powell said to me after I told him. ‘I’m worried what this is going to do to Rick.’” She licked her lips. “The kid’s volatile, Tom. This could be the match that ignites the gasoline.”

  Tom took a ragged breath and coughed. Then he cleared his throat and pierced Helen’s gaze with his own. “If JimBone Wheeler is coming to fulfill his promise to bring a reckoning on me and everyone I love”—he paused and looked down at the asphalt—“then I want my partner, volatile or not, in my corner.”

  “Why?” Helen asked.

  “Because he’s got skin in the game.” Tom coughed again and met Helen’s eye. “And he’s no kid anymore. He’s a man.”

  12

  Rick Drake stood in the well of the courtroom. He studied the eyes of the jurors, trying to hold each of their gazes for half a second before settling on the young woman in the front row. Nicole Beasley was a registered nurse on the pediatric floor at Druid City Hospital. Late twenties, short brown hair, brown eyes, and a kind smile. Since the moment jury selection began eight days ago, Rick had found himself looking at her when talking to the group. It was like that with trials. There always seemed to be one or two jurors who were into the case more than the others. He thought of his first trial in Henshaw three years ago. Judy Heacock, a retired schoolteacher at Henshaw High, had been his ideal juror. Then a year later, in Pulaski, during Bo’s trial, there was another teacher, named Millie Sanderson. He couldn’t believe he still remembered their names, but he could. He would never forget any details of those cases, his first two trials.