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

by Robert Bailey

  “When?” Bo asked, and his voice was no longer slurred.

  “Early this morning. JimBone feigned a life-threatening medical condition, and a rogue nurse helped him escape on the ambulance ride to the hospital.” Tom paused. “Helen told me about it right before the party, and that’s when we started trying to reach you.”

  Bo rubbed his chin and blinked down at the bar. Then he peered at Tom with eyes that blazed with intensity. “Any leads?”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah . . . Me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The nurse was found dead at a roadside gas station outside Triune, Tennessee.” Tom paused and took a tiny sip of water. “My name had been carved into her abdomen with a knife.”

  Bo shook his head. Then he peered down at the concrete floor that had been stained a dark brown. When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper. “He promised a reckoning.”

  “Yes, he did,” Tom said.

  Bo hopped off the stool and placed two twenty-dollar bills on the counter. Then he peered at Tom. “Triune is a little less than two hours from here. When did he kill the nurse?”

  “She was discovered around nine thirty this morning.”

  Bo ran both hands over the stubble on his head. “Damnit,” he said. “We need to arrange security.”

  “Helen has been working with the Giles and Madison County Sheriff’s Departments and the Huntsville PD. There are two officers stationed at your house and more deputies at my son’s home and a damn army at the farm.”

  Bo let out a sigh of relief. Then he squinted at Tom. “My house being where Jazz and the kids are, right?”

  “Right. We didn’t know about the divorce until tonight.”

  Bo nodded. “I understand, and that’s good. I don’t need any protection, but I want a thick blanket around Jazz, T. J., and Lila.”

  “We’re going to make sure an officer is with you too, Bo,” Tom said, grabbing his friend’s massive shoulders. “But I need you to be engaged. You’ve got to get back in the world, turn your cell phone on, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. JimBone Wheeler was in the Special Forces, and it looks like Manny Reyes assisted him and the nurse in the breakout. You remember Manny?”

  Bo nodded and gritted his teeth. Any trace of drunkenness had been drained from his body by the adrenaline that Tom knew was burning through the man’s veins. Tom, who should be asleep, felt it too. It was the only thing keeping him going.

  “They’re both trained assassins,” Tom continued. “And if they’re coming to bring the reckoning JimBone promised, they aren’t going to let a bunch of police deputies stop them. You know that better than me. You remember what happened to Ray Ray?”

  Again, Bo nodded.

  “We have to be ready for anything and everything, and even that may not be enough,” Tom said, hearing the dread in his voice and fixing his jaw. “Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  Tom glanced at the money that Bo had laid on the bar and then back at his friend. “Are you ready?”

  Bocephus Haynes glared at Tom with bloodred eyes. “Wide ass open.”

  19

  Following Bo’s directions, Deputy Shames parked in the driveway of a single-story cottage a quarter mile from the beer store.

  While Shames waited in the car and surveilled the house and surrounding area, Tom and Bo went inside. This time Tom brought Lee Roy with him, and the bulldog now lay under the kitchen table, snoring and occasionally clearing his throat. Past his bedtime, Tom thought. And way the hell past mine.

  As Bo brewed them both mugs of coffee in his Keurig machine, Tom was saddened by the emptiness he felt in the house. The breakfast nook was bare of photographs, and the adjacent den contained only an old leather chair. No pictures or paintings hung from the walls, and there were no Christmas decorations, not even a tree. The place looked like it was being rented by a college kid or an elderly widower.

  “Bo, what are you doing living in a place like this?”

  Bo shrugged as he placed a steaming cup of coffee on the place mat in front of Tom. “It’s close to Jazz and the kids. Lease was only for six months. And it’s walking distance to my favorite bar.” Bo faked a smile. “What’s not to like? Now, tell me everything you know about JimBone Wheeler’s escape.”

  Tom took a sip of coffee and felt the liquid burn his tongue. He rarely felt good enough for a cup of java anymore. The chemo had made everything taste bland, and ever since his last round had finished, he had not regained his love of coffee, which he used to drink every morning. Still, he was in survival mode and a jolt of caffeine would probably be good for him. He forced another sip down and peered at his friend across the table. Then, clearing his throat, he told Bo everything he knew.

  Twenty minutes later, Tom leaned his elbows on the table while Bo paced back and forth across the tile floor. “So, Rick, Wade, and Powell all know?” Bo asked.

  Tom nodded. “Yes, and they’ve promised to take every precaution necessary.” He paused. “What I’m most worried about right now is my family and yours, but I think, with Helen’s help, we’ve done everything we can to protect them.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. “Bo, I understand that Jazz is giving a speech at the Von Braun Center in the morning. Is there any way you can convince her not to go?”

  Bo finally turned and gazed down at Tom. “How did you know about that?”

  “Helen’s already quizzed Jazz about it and strongly advised her to cancel.”

  “Any luck?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “And you think she’ll listen to me?”

  “You have to try, Bo. Helen’s doing all she can do, but the civic center is a huge, open place. It’s going to be damn near impossible to guarantee Jazz’s safety.”

  “Didn’t you say the ambulance was found at an airfield and that JimBone may have flown the coop?”

  Tom gritted his teeth as a wave of pain rolled up his back. He was losing steam at a rapid pace. “My gut tells me that the ambulance is one of JimBone’s games. Shuck and jive. Trying to throw the authorities off the scent and burn resources chasing a dead end.” He let out a ragged breath. “Will you at least talk to Jazz? You know what JimBone and Manny are capable of.”

  Bo rubbed his chin. “The General really believes that Manny Reyes is running with Wheeler?”

  “Yes, and it makes sense. JimBone told me at the prison last year that he had helped Bully Calhoun hire a new hit man. We know from the Wilma Newton case that Manny was Bully’s enforcer. You’ve seen her up close, Bo. She’s Filipino with light-brown skin, right?”

  Bo nodded.

  “Well, that matches the description the police have for the woman believed to be Wheeler’s accomplice.”

  When Bo didn’t answer, Tom added in a low voice, “You remember what happened to Greg Zorn, don’t you? And Alvie Jennings? Manny is an assassin. And I don’t have to tell you how dangerous JimBone is. You’ve seen him up close too. You’d be dead if it wasn’t for—”

  “Ray Ray,” Bo interrupted, his voice sounding distant, as if his mind were traveling back through time and the events of the past few years. “Ray Ray Pickalew took the bullets meant for me.” He took his cell phone out of his pocket and pulled up Jazz’s number. He waited a few seconds and then shook his head. “A phone call ain’t going to do it, Professor. She’ll just hang up on me.” He sighed. “I’m going to have to go over there and talk to her in person.”

  “Want me to come with you?”

  Bo shook his head. “No, you get back to the farm. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  Tom nodded and rose from his seat. When he did, Lee Roy jostled awake and began to shake his small tail as he moved out from the under the table.

  “Don’t forget this,” Bo said, snatching the revolver Tom had set on the kitchen counter and handing it over.

  Tom returned the .44 to his jacket pocket. He hadn’t even bothered to remove his coat when he’d come inside because it was too much
work and he always seemed to be cold. He tapped the handle of the weapon and then walked toward the front door, with Lee Roy on his heels, Bo following behind.

  “Professor, can I tell you something?” Bo asked once they’d reached the door.

  “Of course,” Tom said, gazing into his friend’s dark eyes.

  “This doesn’t seem right to me,” Bo said, kneeling down and rubbing Lee Roy behind the ears.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that JimBone Wheeler and Manny Reyes are both contract killers. They kill for money.”

  “Bo, JimBone told me—”

  “I know what he told you. Threatened to bring a reckoning on you and everyone you love. I know all that. But . . . it still doesn’t seem right to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think a cold-blooded assassin like JimBone Wheeler would commit a revenge crime. Much less a rampage of them.”

  “You think he’s gone then?” Tom asked, his voice weak. He needed to get home to his bed. “Took that plane in Murfreesboro and went to Mexico? The Caymans? Canada?” He paused. “Gone and not coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” Bo said. “I just don’t believe JimBone or Manny would come after us if there wasn’t a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  Tom leaned his forehead against the hardwood door. He closed his eyes, thinking it through for several seconds. Finally, he remembered something he and Helen had discussed before she had left the farm. “Maybe there is,” Tom said.

  20

  The cabin was made of logs and sat on a bluff above the Flint River. JimBone guessed that in the summertime the foliage and trees surrounding the dwelling would make it impossible to see the house from the road or the water. In early December, however, with the limbs on the trees bare and the vegetation dead, the cabin was probably visible, but only if you were looking for it. Twelve hours out from a prison break, JimBone knew he couldn’t ask for much better cover.

  Of course, the best protection was that the owner of the place wore a badge.

  JimBone gazed at the gold emblem now, not looking at the man who wore it. Stenciled into the badge in lighter gold letters was the word SHERIFF.

  “There’s enough food for a week,” the man said, his voice jittery. They were sitting in the front parlor of the cabin in two rocking chairs facing a large picture window. JimBone had cracked the blinds so that they had a view of the road a quarter mile down the dirt driveway. At 10:00 p.m., it was pitch dark outside and he could see nothing except the faint shadow of the lawman’s government-issued Chevy Tahoe parked out front. Perfect, he thought for at least the tenth time since he and Manny had arrived several hours earlier.

  “There’s also plenty of bottled water and coffee.” The man paused and smoothed out his mustache. “And I got the fifth of bourbon you wanted.”

  JimBone smiled. “Blanton’s.”

  The man nodded and stood. “I best bring in the rest of it.”

  “DeWayne?” JimBone remained seated and rocked deliberately back and forth in the chair.

  “Yeah?”

  “You can give me the briefcase now.”

  The sheriff had set the bag on the floor below his chair when the two men began to talk. He grabbed the handle and extended the case to JimBone.

  JimBone took it and clasped both of his rough hands around the smaller ones of the sheriff. He squeezed until he heard the lawman grunt in pain. “I’ll count all of it later. If there’s a single missing bill, I’ll cut off your cock and balls with a butter knife and force you to eat them.”

  JimBone released his grasp, and the sheriff stumbled backward a few steps, wringing his hands and rubbing them on his khaki pants. “The money’s all there,” DeWayne said. “The down payment, I mean.”

  JimBone undid the latches on the briefcase and peeked inside. He did a quick inventory in his mind, nodded, and closed the case. “Alright then. Bring in the rest.”

  DeWayne Patterson walked to the truck with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. They had begun to shake during his interaction with JimBone, and he could still feel his fingers twitching inside his khaki uniform pants. When the killer had grabbed hold of him, he had leaked a little piss in his pants, and he could feel the damp strand of urine in his boxer shorts. What in God’s name have I gotten myself into? he thought, peering into the darkness, knowing there was another killer, perhaps even more dangerous than JimBone, watching his every move.

  “Everything OK, Sheriff?” Her voice was alluring and had the power to arouse both fear and lust.

  “Fine,” DeWayne said, fumbling for his keys and clicking the button for the back hatch. It opened, and he gazed for a few seconds at the firepower requested by JimBone. Two sniper rifles, four handguns, and a sawed-off twelve-gauge that was illegal in most states, including Alabama.

  As he leaned over to retrieve the first of the rifles, he heard soft footsteps behind him and then felt warm breath in his ear. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?” she whispered. She reached between his legs and ran her fingers down his zipper until she reached his bulge. “Are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” DeWayne said, and despite how hard he tried to control his bladder, he felt another dribble of urine seep out. “I’m in way too deep to turn back.”

  “Sí,” Manny said, removing her hand from his scrotum. “You are.”

  DeWayne let out a shallow breath and slid the first rifle out of the back. He began to walk to the house but stopped at the sound of her voice.

  “I presume that the hearing in Jasper is still on for the morning?”

  He glanced behind his shoulder at her and nodded. “Ten a.m. They should finish by eleven or eleven thirty.”

  “And . . . barring some tragedy, the case remains set for trial on Monday?”

  There was a tease in her voice, and DeWayne felt a chill run over him that had nothing to do with the temperature. “Kat’s lawyers have filed a motion for summary judgment that will be heard tomorrow. If that motion is denied, then yes. The case would presumably proceed to trial on Monday.” The sheriff paused and squinted at her. “Barring some tragedy.”

  Manny smiled in the moonlight. “And what about the criminal investigation?”

  DeWayne forced a chuckle. “That crazy prosecutor from Tuscaloosa calls twice a week asking whether we’ve found any leads as to your whereabouts.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I say no. I also remind him that there’s no evidence linking you to the murder in Jasper. I can’t speak for the car accident in Henshaw or the shooting in Orange Beach, but the lawn mower incident in Jasper is an unsolved crime.” He paused. “And as long as I’m the sheriff of Walker County, it’s going to remain that way.”

  Manny Reyes approached the sheriff. She appeared to almost glide as she walked. Her gait reminded DeWayne of a coral snake slithering on sand. As she got closer, he felt another dribble of urine drip into his underwear.

  “Do you think I killed Jennings?”

  DeWayne blinked and gazed down at the red clay road. “I don’t know, ma’am. All’s I know is that there was no direct evidence linking you or Bully Calhoun to Alvin Jennings’s murder.” He gave his head a quick jerk. “If you did kill him, you sure covered your tracks well.”

  For several seconds, neither of them spoke. The woods surrounding the cabin were dead quiet, and the sheriff could hear the labored sound of his own breathing. Finally, DeWayne slowly raised his eyes. “Can I ask you a question, ma’am?”

  “Sí.”

  “Did you kill Bully Calhoun?”

  She smiled and took a step closer. “What do you think, Sheriff?”

  DeWayne slowly exhaled. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Hell, this whole thing was like walking across an ice-covered river. One false step could cause a fissure that would lead to his and his family’s immediate doom. But still . . . the murder of Marcellus “Bully” Calhoun also remained unsolved. If he was to survive the chaos of the next f
ew days, he’d eventually have to close the Calhoun case. The populace would demand it. When the richest man in town is assassinated playing a round of golf on Christmas Eve morning, people want answers. “I don’t think you killed him,” he said, speaking the God’s honest truth.

  “Why?”

  “Because if Kat thought you did, she’d be coming after you.”

  “You think that much of Bully’s chica?”

  DeWayne smirked. “Kathryn Calhoun Willistone isn’t stupid. She’s a survivor. Her husband and father were both murdered in a span of six months, she’s been investigated by the FBI and the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Department, and she’s been sued all over the state of Alabama, both individually and as personal representative of her father’s estate. And somehow she’s walked away from it all as a multimillionaire.” He ran his thumb over his lips and bit down until the pain made him pull back. He wiped the thumb on his shirt and squinted at the killer. “Kat doesn’t think you killed Bully, so neither do I.”

  “So that leaves the question open,” Manny said, taking another step closer to the sheriff and tapping her index finger on his chest. “Who did kill him?”

  DeWayne took a step backward and swept his eyes around the woods. “I don’t know, ma’am. I figure that Kat blames the folks we’re about to declare war on for her father’s and husband’s murders, and Mr. Wheeler has his own reasons for wanting them dead. But . . .”

  “But what, Sheriff?”

  “I wouldn’t underestimate them. I haven’t been around McMurtrie, but I’ve seen Drake up close, and that rascal scares me.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because whether you killed his father or not, Drake believes you did.”

  “Belief will only take a person so far,” Manny said, gliding forward and running her smooth fingers up the handle of the sniper rifle that the sheriff had clasped over his shoulder. “Action will be required to defeat us. And I don’t mean filing frivolous lawsuits and begging the law to investigate.” She snickered. “A bunch of lawyers and detectives are no match for me and the man in that cabin.”