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

by Robert Bailey

  DeWayne nodded. “I’m sure you’re right, ma’am. But think about this.” He paused and ran a boot over the dirt. “We still haven’t answered the question.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who killed Bully Calhoun?”

  Manny snickered. “Surely you don’t think Drake pulled the trigger.”

  DeWayne Patterson rubbed his chin and peered down at the killer. “I don’t know, OK? But I see the same look in that man’s eye that I do in you and Mr. Wheeler’s.”

  “And what is that, Sheriff? Is he a fearless chico?”

  DeWayne shook his head. “It’s more than a lack of fear,” the sheriff said. “Drake doesn’t care anymore. He’s playing for blood . . . and he doesn’t give a shit who gets in the way.”

  Manny Reyes gripped the sheriff’s forearm and gave it a firm squeeze. Then she smiled. “We’ll see how he feels about it after tomorrow.”

  21

  By 10:00 p.m., Rick’s eyes burned from fatigue, but the rest of his body hummed with equal parts adrenaline and frustration.

  “So that’s it?” Powell asked him, bringing a bottle of beer to his lips and draining what remained in one gulp. “You’re still gonna go?” They were seated on opposite sides of Rick’s conference room table at the office. Between them was a half-eaten bag of Golden Flake vinegar-and-salt potato chips and a six-pack of Miller High Life with only one beer left in the carton. Though Powell had brought the “refreshments” under the guise of celebrating Rick’s victory in the Simpson case, the room held no laughter or smiles. The tension was palpable. When Rick didn’t respond or break eye contact, Powell finally sighed and turned to the other man in the room. “Wade, please remind our friend of what he could be stepping in tomorrow.”

  Wade Richey, who was seated at the end of the table, pulled on his salt-and-pepper mustache and ran a hand through his similarly colored hair, thick and unwieldy. Combined with the black T-shirt and black jeans that he typically wore when he wasn’t in court, it gave the detective a striking resemblance to the Sam Elliott character in the movie Road House. He took a sip of beer and then pushed the bottle to the side. He placed both elbows on the table and formed a steeple with his hands, gazing at Rick with blue eyes that had investigated hundreds of homicide cases during thirty-some-odd years in the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office. “In a word . . . ,” Wade began, smirking, “shit. A huge pile of it. I can probably arrange for a deputy escort, but there’s only so much one officer can do. You’re in the open when you walk into the courthouse and when you leave. And even though there’s a metal detector at the entrance, those things can be untrustworthy.” Wade paused. “You need to postpone the hearing tomorrow, and you should probably ask for a continuance of the trial until JimBone and Manny are in police custody.”

  “Just file a motion to continue first thing in the morning,” Powell cut in, standing from his chair and beginning to pace back and forth. “You can say that you’ve been warned by law enforcement personnel that Manny Reyes is believed to be involved in JimBone Wheeler’s escape from death row and that you could be a target. Then call the judge’s judicial assistant and let her know the deal. Hell, I’ll call too. I doubt Judge Conner wants to bring that kind of threat into his courtroom. I’m sure he’ll grant the motion under the circumstances.”

  Rick shook his head. “You’re wrong. Conner’s already continued the hearing and the trial twice. He’s also transferred venue of the trial to Florence and has an agreement with Lauderdale County to let us try the case next week in front of other cases pending in that jurisdiction. I don’t think he’ll postpone everything because of the remote possibility that an escaped convict is going to come after me.” Rick paused. “I have to be in Jasper tomorrow morning.”

  “No, you don’t!” Powell pleaded, his voice booming so loud that Rick involuntarily placed his hands over his ears.

  Rick gave a weak smile, looking past his partner to the far wall. “Yes, I do. Same as how you and Wade have to go to Pulaski.”

  “That’s different,” Powell snapped. “Wade and I apprehended Wheeler the first time. We’re both in law enforcement. It’s our job to go.”

  “And it’s my job to represent the family of Alvin Jennings,” Rick said, slapping the table with both hands and standing. “It’s late, fellas, and I have to be in court by ten. It’s a good hour on Highway 69 to Jasper.”

  Powell again sighed, shooting another glance at Wade. “That’s another thing. They could take him out on the trip. 69’s not exactly the safest road in the state.”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Rick said.

  “Really?” Powell glared at him, his eyes on fire with intensity. In law school, Rick and Powell had studied for exams together, and when this side of Powell came out, Rick liked to call him “Ultra Intense Guy.” Under normal circumstances, Rick probably would have smiled or maybe even laughed at how red his friend’s face had turned. But not now.

  Powell slowly walked around the table and stood in front of Rick. “Remember how they got your dad?” he asked.

  Rick crossed his arms and pressed them tight to his chest. He said nothing.

  “Manny ran him off the road and left him for dead, right?” Powell squinted. “Not so ridiculous then, is it, to think she might do the same thing tomorrow with you on Highway 69?”

  Rick licked his lips, trying to stay calm. He’d always had a hot temper, and the inability to control his emotions had caused him a lot of problems early in his career. Oddly, though, he didn’t feel all that mad at the moment. Something else was going on with him.

  I’m glad he’s out. Rick heard the thought in his mind and was unable to squelch it. The feeling had been festering through Powell’s entire summation of what had taken place at the prison in Nashville. JimBone’s escape with the help of nurse Charlotte Thompson . . . The woman seen in the ambulance who resembled Manny Reyes . . . The murder of Thompson at the gas station outside of Triune, Tennessee . . . and even the message left for those who found her.

  M . . . C . . . M . . . U . . . R . . . T . . . R . . . I . . . E.

  I’m glad.

  Rick felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder, mercifully interrupting his thoughts. He looked up into Powell’s concerned gaze. “Sit this one out, brother. At least until we know more.”

  Rick looked past the prosecutor to Wade, who remained seated at the table. The detective was gazing at him intently, his hands still steepled together. “There’s no percentage in tempting the devil, son,” Wade croaked. “Powell’s right. Sit this one out.”

  Rick moved his eyes back and forth between Wade and Powell. Then he sighed and crossed his arms. “I’m sorry, fellas, but I can’t. I have a hearing tomorrow morning in Jasper, and I’m going to be there.”

  On the street outside the office, Wade and Powell leaned against the passenger side of Powell’s black Dodge Charger and split the last bottle of beer. Both men gazed up at the second-floor office of McMurtrie & Drake. Finally, after taking a long sip, Wade handed the bottle to Powell and growled, “We did all we could do.”

  The prosecutor’s only response was a grunt.

  “You think he’s right about Conner?” Wade asked. “That he wouldn’t continue the trial?”

  Powell took a sip and grunted again. “Maybe.” Then, with the sound of defeat creeping into his tone, he added, “Probably. I forgot about the transfer of venue to Florence.” He turned the beer up and drank the last of it. When he finished, he hurled the empty bottle toward a green trash can on the sidewalk and it clanged against the inside of the dispenser.

  “Nice shot,” Wade said.

  Powell ignored him and walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side. “Can you get him an escort in the morning?”

  Wade grabbed the handle to the passenger-side door and pulled it open. “I think so.”

  “Then do it,” Powell said, opening his own door. “It’s probably a waste of time, but I want to at least try.”

&nb
sp; Once they were both inside the Charger, Powell cranked the ignition, and the haunting voice of Merle Haggard singing “Mama Tried” seeped from the speakers.

  “I love this song,” Wade said. “Is this on the greatest hits CD?”

  Powell smiled and nodded. “Track one.”

  For a moment, the two men gazed out the front windshield, listening to Merle and lost in their own thoughts. The shadow of the Tuscaloosa County Courthouse and the attached sheriff’s office loomed in the distance. Finally, Wade cleared his throat and spoke in a low drawl. “You think JimBone and Manny are really going to make a play?”

  Powell continued to peer through the glass. When he spoke, the intensity was back in his voice. “I don’t know, but I have that same feeling I did that night in Lawrenceburg when we were chasing Wheeler the first go-round.”

  “And what’s that?”

  Powell turned and looked at the detective. “That something’s about to go down.”

  PART THREE

  22

  At 3:59 a.m. on Thursday, December 5, 2013, JimBone Wheeler opened his eyes and sat up in bed. He reached over and grabbed the alarm clock, which he’d set to ring at 4:00, and turned it off. Smiling, he wondered when was the last time he’d heard the shrill sound of an alarm buzzer. He’d always seemed to have an internal system that woke him at precisely the time he needed to get up—in the prison yesterday morning . . . during contract kills . . . and on reconnaissance missions as an Army Ranger. It didn’t matter the job, JimBone Wheeler’s body knew when it was time to go.

  He slid his legs off the bed and looked over his shoulder. Manny Reyes lay naked with her back facing him. She had yet to stir, but JimBone knew that his partner was awake too. As if to confirm his suspicion, he heard her voice—soft—whisper, “It is time.”

  JimBone smiled and rose from the bed, stretching his arms to the sky. He was also nude, and as he watched Manny glide to the restroom, he felt another tingle in his loins. It had been several years since JimBone had been thoroughly laid—he didn’t count his rape of Charlotte Thompson yesterday, because that was business. Not since his sessions with Martha Booher in the Amish country of Ethridge, Tennessee—in the weeks before he tried to kill Bocephus Haynes on the Giles County Courthouse Square and ended up sending Ray Ray Pickalew to his grave instead—had he felt so satisfied. If he was honest with himself, which he always was—the Bone didn’t lie to the Bone—he would agree that last night’s sex might have been the best of his life.

  He walked around the bed, peeked his head into the bathroom, and watched Manny apply soap to her breasts and legs in the glass-covered shower. Might have, hell, he thought, shaking his head. It wasn’t even close.

  JimBone slipped on some underwear and a pair of jeans that Sheriff Patterson had gotten him on his supply run and walked, shirtless, out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee drifted down the hallway and JimBone breathed it in.

  “Glad to see you up and at ’em, DeWayne,” he said as he plopped down in a chair at a table in the breakfast nook. A large bay window looked out on the Flint River, which, at this time of the morning, was nothing but shadow through the cracked blinds.

  DeWayne Patterson stood in front of the kitchen sink, sipping from a steaming mug. The sheriff of Walker County was dressed in his full uniform and even had his gun belt attached to his waist. Every few seconds, he shifted his weight from his right to his left foot and then back.

  “Coffee?” DeWayne asked.

  “Please,” JimBone said, placing a foot on one of the empty chairs and stretching his leg out.

  As the sheriff placed the cup on the table, JimBone grabbed him by the forearm. “You need to relax, DeWayne. You’re making me nervous.”

  When DeWayne tried to pull out of his grasp, JimBone let go, and the sheriff sprawled backward. But for the island in the middle of the kitchen, he would have fallen down. “Damnit,” DeWayne said. “Aren’t you even the least bit anxious about today? I mean . . . what we’re trying to pull off is . . .” DeWayne trailed off, and JimBone began to rub the sandy-blond hair on his chest.

  “I don’t get anxious, DeWayne. It’s not in my DNA. Anxious men have a hard time getting their dick up. They can’t complete a task because they’re worried they won’t be able to perform. Whether it’s pleasing a woman or shooting a rifle, they’re too busy worrying to get the job done.” He paused and moved his hand up to the stubble on his face. “Let me guess. You need Viagra to get a boner, don’t you?”

  DeWayne ignored the question. “We need to leave in thirty minutes if we’re going to get there in time.”

  JimBone took a sip from his mug and squinted up at the sheriff. “I trust you have my outfit for today’s events ready?”

  DeWayne grimaced. “It’s on the couch in the living area. Ironed, pressed, and ready to go.”

  “And the hat?”

  “On top of the shirt and pants.”

  JimBone rubbed his chin. “Excellent.” Then, after taking another sip of coffee, he stood and walked over to the sheriff. “Do you believe in God, DeWayne?”

  The sheriff looked down at the floor in defeat.

  “I do,” JimBone said, his voice just above a whisper. “But not the God of Israel or Jesus or any of those foolish stories in the Bible. Those are just old wives’ tales written down by a bunch of pansies to try to keep men from realizing their own godlike power.” He paused. “Do you know what that power is, Sheriff?”

  DeWayne Patterson continued to gaze down at the floor.

  “Free will,” JimBone said. “The exercise of free will to change the course of history. That’s what we’re going to do in these next few hours. We’re going to make history.” He smiled and leaned closer to the sheriff’s ear. “Embrace the moment, DeWayne,” he whispered. “We get to be God today.”

  JimBone slapped the sheriff on the back and strode down the hallway. “Now, make us some breakfast, boy. God can’t work on an empty stomach.”

  DeWayne Patterson took no notice of the fact that he had slightly wet himself again while the psychopath was talking. He felt his heartbeat pounding in his chest, and he figured that at any moment the organ might burst. In truth, he wished that would happen. A quick and clean death was probably his best endgame at this juncture.

  We get to be God today.

  The sheriff had hoped without hope that the crazy bastard might change his plans. That a good night’s sleep might bring on some hesitation. No dice, DeWayne thought. If anything, Wheeler seemed even more determined. He wondered if the madman meant anything that he had just said or if he was just trying to scare DeWayne.

  DeWayne unclipped the badge from his shirt and gazed at the word chiseled into the gold. SHERIFF. He was supposed to be the protector of innocent people in his county. The long arm of the law. Seeker of truth and justice. DeWayne chuckled bitterly. In a few short hours, he wouldn’t be upholding the law. He’d be unleashing hell.

  We get to be God today.

  DeWayne shivered and rubbed his thumb over the badge. He hadn’t always been dirty. There was a time when he was just a deputy trying to make his way up the ranks in the department. Then, about seven years ago, he arrested Marcellus “Bully” Calhoun driving home from the Jasper Country Club going a hundred miles per hour in a forty-five-mile zone. The woman in the passenger seat was completely naked and didn’t even stop giving Bully a blow job when DeWayne approached the car. “What seems to be the trouble, Officer?” Bully growled, dangling ten one-hundred-dollar bills out the window.

  DeWayne had at least hesitated. He asked Bully for his license and registration and politely requested that he step out of his Cadillac Escalade.

  “I’m busy, son,” Bully said, pointing at the woman’s head bobbing up and down in his lap. Then he reached across the cab of the SUV and undid the glove compartment. When he took a wallet out of the hatch, DeWayne thought Bully was abiding by his request. But instead of his driver’s license, Bully pulled out five more Benjamin Fra
nklins and stuffed them into DeWayne’s outstretched hand along with the original ten. By that time, Bully’s passenger had removed her head from his lap and lit up a cigarette.

  “Are we good now, Officer . . .” Bully hesitated as he read the name on DeWayne’s lapel. “Patterson?”

  Again, DeWayne hesitated. Selling your soul, at least for the first time, was a hard thing.

  “I assume that you know who I am, son?” Bully asked, raising his eyebrows.

  DeWayne nodded but was unable to speak. His boss, Sheriff Lawson Snow, had told him all about Marcellus “Bully” Calhoun. Owner of half the land in Walker County and at least a dozen different businesses. And also the methamphetamine king of Alabama, Law, as everyone in the sheriff’s office called him, said with a twinkle in his eyes, before adding, not that we could ever prove it or would even want to. DeWayne hadn’t understood why the department would knowingly allow a drug operation on the scale of Bully’s, but he didn’t question Sheriff Snow.

  “Well, then, I’m going to go now,” Bully had said, jarring DeWayne from his thoughts. “Layla here”—he pointed over his shoulder—“needs to finish what she started, and you need to get back on patrol.” He smiled. “A lot of dangerous criminals out there.” Then he laughed, but before rolling up his window, he added, “I remember the folks who are good to me, Officer Patterson. Are you my friend?”

  Before DeWayne could answer, the Escalade pulled away, leaving him standing alone on Highway 78 holding fifteen hundred dollars in cash.

  The next morning, DeWayne received an envelope at the station with five more hundred-dollar bills and the same question written in blue ink on a napkin. “Are you my friend?”

  DeWayne Roderick Patterson, who had grown up in Winston County and married his high school sweetheart, a bucktooth country girl named Annie, going on to have two bucktooth daughters before moving to Jasper in 2004, had spent his life up to that point grinding out any money that he made eight hours at a time, nine to five, Monday through Friday. He had never seen a thousand dollars in cash, much less two thousand. And all he had to do to keep it was look the other way. At that moment, as he remembered the naked woman in Bully Calhoun’s Escalade and the look of absolute uninhibitedness in the rich man’s eyes, DeWayne had made his decision.