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

by Robert Bailey

  The answer was yes. He was Bully Calhoun’s friend.

  That choice would have consequences that DeWayne could not possibly have foreseen. Initially, the return was all positive. He had advanced to lead deputy in the department within a year. And once Bully began to involve him in the meth trade, making deliveries in his squad car, it didn’t take long for DeWayne to amass quite a war chest. When Law had decided not to run for reelection in 2010, DeWayne became his handpicked successor. With Bully’s financial backing, he won in a landslide.

  Once DeWayne had risen to the office of sheriff, everything had been hunky-dory until Bully’s son-in-law, Jack Willistone, a trucking tycoon in Tuscaloosa, was murdered on the banks of the Black Warrior River in May 2012. The subsequent investigation by the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Department shone a bright light on Bully and, in turn, everyone on Bully’s payroll, including DeWayne. The murder of Alvin Jennings in his front yard in August 2012 only intensified the scrutiny of the sheriff’s department. But when Bully himself was assassinated last Christmas Eve, the pressure actually let up, and DeWayne thought everything might go back to normal. Bully had been in the crosshairs of the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office and the FBI, but his death seemed to take the wind out of the two agencies’ sails. Even better, Kathryn Calhoun Willistone, Bully’s daughter, had made sure the gravy train DeWayne was riding kept chugging along.

  Then Rick Drake filed wrongful death suits against Bully’s estate all over Alabama, putting the ten-million-dollar life insurance proceeds that Kat received at her father’s death in jeopardy.

  At first, the lawsuits appeared groundless and without merit in law or fact, especially the cases filed in Orange Beach and Henshaw.

  But the case in Jasper filed on behalf of Alvin Jennings’s family had grown some teeth, and Kat was terrified that Drake might be able to sway a jury into ripping away her fortune and giving it to Jennings’s family. Based on reports from Tuscaloosa that Drake had obtained a jury verdict against JPS Van Lines for twenty-two point five million dollars last evening, DeWayne couldn’t say that Kat’s concerns were unwarranted. Anything could happen in front of a jury.

  If Drake were able to get past Kat’s motion for summary judgment—which would be decided in approximately six hours—he would have a chance in front of a jury.

  Kathryn Calhoun Willistone was determined not to let that happen. And like her dead father, she was used to getting her way.

  When Kat had proposed the plan involving JimBone Wheeler and Manny Reyes during lunch at Black Rock Bistro, in downtown Jasper, DeWayne refused. Of course, he would help in any way he could, but he couldn’t just aid and abet two known fugitives in committing multiple murders. There was a line there somewhere, and DeWayne couldn’t cross it.

  Undeterred and acting as if she wasn’t surprised, Kat had slid a package across the table. “Think about it and call me in the morning.” When DeWayne got back to his office, he locked the door and opened the large manila envelope. Inside, there was a thumb drive. He slipped the disc into the USB port on his computer, and the only thing on it was a folder entitled “Sheriff Patterson.” He clicked on the folder, and there were seven images and one video. After looking at the first photograph, DeWayne didn’t bother viewing the rest. Instead of calling her, he drove out to the Calhoun mansion on the edge of the Sipsey Wilderness. A security guard led him into the fitness room, where Kat was running at a steady pace on a treadmill.

  “Change your mind already, DeWayne?”

  He met her eye in the wall-length mirror that hung opposite her and simply nodded.

  Staring at the badge he’d worn for the last four years at his cabin on the Flint River in Maysville, Alabama, DeWayne Patterson again considered his options. If he backed out now, odds were that JimBone would kill him before he made it out of the house, much less to his Tahoe parked in the driveway. If in some pipe dream he could escape the cabin—which he might have pulled off while the two killers were screwing each other’s brains out last night—he knew they would still go through with the plan, his involvement would most certainly be leaked, and no one would believe him when he said he had backed out at the last minute. Aborting the mission would accomplish nothing, and Kat would no doubt release the photographs and video on the thumb drive she’d given DeWayne at Black Rock. It didn’t matter that the girl in these shots looked twenty-five then and actually was nineteen years old now. She had been fifteen at the time DeWayne Patterson had his thirty-day tryst with her. He had committed statutory rape, and the charge and conviction would ruin his career and his life.

  I’m trapped, DeWayne thought for at least the hundredth time in the last eight hours. His hand shook as he reattached the badge to his shirt and pulled three cereal bowls out of a cabinet. In a few short hours, he would help two contract killers exact bloodshed all over the state of Alabama.

  And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. DeWayne opened a box of cornflakes and poured the cereal into the bowls. Then he filled them with milk and set them at the kitchen table. As he took three spoons out of the silverware drawer, he cleared his throat and yelled, “Breakfast is served.”

  Then, taking a seat and bringing a spoonful of flakes to his mouth, he said a silent prayer. God forgive me.

  After a quick shower, JimBone took the outfit that DeWayne had arranged for him to wear and dressed in front of the bathroom mirror. Manny watched him with her arms folded. A smile played on her lips. “How was the high sheriff?”

  “Scared. He looks like he’s doing all he can do not to piss himself every second.”

  “Will he follow through with his end of the bargain?”

  JimBone fastened the last button on his shirt and straightened it in the mirror. “He doesn’t have a choice. Not unless he wants all of Walker County to know about his attraction to underage girls.” JimBone moved his eyes from his reflection to Manny. “A desperate man is a dangerous one. The sheriff is a first-rate pussy, but he’s also desperate to save his ass.” JimBone paused and began to comb his hair. “He’ll follow through.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  JimBone caught her gaze in the reflection. “Shoot.”

  “Why not send me to Jasper? If stopping the trial is our number one goal, then shouldn’t killing Drake be our top priority?”

  “That’s two questions, my dear,” JimBone said, turning to face her. “But I’ll oblige. First off, Jasper may be a no-go. If the summary judgment motion filed by Bully’s estate is granted by Judge Conner and the case is thrown out, then killing Drake—at least right away—is unnecessary. So sending you to Jasper would be a waste, and we can’t afford to have you sitting on the sidelines today. Second, if Conner denies the motion and action must be taken, all we need is an incident to get the trial postponed. Even if your Mexican friend fails to kill Drake, the shooting”—he paused and smiled—“and everything else that happens in the next few hours will delay the trial.”

  For a moment, silence filled the bedroom. Then JimBone felt her hands on his shoulders and her voice in his ear. “Why do you hate him so bad?”

  JimBone wrinkled his face. “Who?”

  “Professor McMurtrie.”

  “He’s cost me a half a million dollars, and he and his cronies sent me to death row. No one’s ever gotten the jump on me before.”

  “So this is all about payback? Sorry, but I don’t believe that.”

  JimBone stepped away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the bed. As he began to slip on his boots, he chuckled. “Well, it’s also about a payday. A million dollars split two ways will give us a nice start back in your homeland.”

  She walked over to the bed and knelt beside him. “That’s still not all of it.”

  JimBone finished lacing up his boots and glared down at her. “No.”

  “What then?”

  “There are people in this world who never have a chance to live out their dreams. That grow up without a father and watch their mother get tag teamed by
rednecks all day long, every day, so that they can eat. People that only know survival.” He paused. “People like me.”

  “And McMurtrie?”

  “He grew up in Hazel Green on a farm about ten miles from this cabin. Had a momma and daddy who loved him. Was good at football and got a scholarship to play for the God Almighty Bear. Won a national championship. Was a lawyer. Then a professor. Then a lawyer again. Along the way, he married a woman, had a kid, who grew up to be an orthopedic surgeon, a couple of grandkids, and made friends that stood by him.” JimBone paused and spoke through clenched teeth. “Two of those friends took me down on the square in Pulaski a couple years ago.”

  “So life isn’t fair and you got the short end of the stick. Is that what you’re saying, señor?”

  “No, darling. That’s not it. The Bone has known that life wasn’t fair since he was three years old. I never had a dream in this world. I live to survive, and that attitude got me through childhood, the Army Rangers, and working for Jack Willistone and Bully Calhoun. I don’t pity myself and I’m not envious of the folks like McMurtrie who have had every advantage and who have lived the American dream. But”—he stopped and moved his eyes to the window—“that son of a bitch got the jump on me. I had a chance to kill him once in downtown Pulaski, but under orders from my employer all I did was wound him. Most men would have quit after the beating I gave him, but McMurtrie didn’t. He came back, won the case, and managed to keep me from killing his nigger friend Haynes.” He licked his lips and turned to Manny. “And I ended up on death row in Nashville. Not killing Bocephus Haynes and getting myself arrested was the first time I ever failed at anything I tried to do.”

  “But you didn’t quit either.”

  JimBone felt a heat wave of anger roll down his chest and legs. “No. That sandy-haired prosecutor and his detective friend had their chance to kill me, and they put their faith in the law to put me down.” He snorted. “They’ll find out today what a mistake they made.”

  “So this really is all about payback.”

  “It’s more than that, honey,” JimBone said as he attached the last part of his costume—a gun belt just like the one the sheriff was wearing in the kitchen. “This is a reckoning.” He glanced at his watch and nodded. “And it begins now.”

  23

  The hallucinations had started a couple weeks earlier, but Tom hadn’t told anyone about them. Perhaps “hallucination” was too strong a word, but Tom didn’t know what else to call them. He was seeing things—or rather, a person—who simply couldn’t be there.

  Normally, they came on when he was dozing in his recliner in the den. To his knowledge, the only person to witness one of these episodes was Bo. When Tom had snapped out of it, Bo had asked him if he knew he had been talking in his sleep. Tom had lied and said no. He didn’t want his best friend to think he was losing his marbles.

  Now, as the last vestiges of a restless sleep began to leave him, Tom saw a figure in the corner of his bedroom. The man wore a plain gray T-shirt, khaki shorts, and a crimson visor with a script A threaded in white across the front. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He looked at least fifteen years younger than the last time Tom had seen him. His skin was tanned a golden brown, and flip-flops adorned his feet. A hell of an outfit to wear in December, but, of course, the man wasn’t real.

  “You gonna answer the door, Tommy, old boy?” the man asked. When he smiled, his lips seemed to curl up past his cheekbones. Coach Bryant had always called Raymond James Pickalew “Joker” because of the grin. The rest of the man’s family and friends, including Tom, had called him “Ray Ray.”

  “You look better as a ghost than you did in real life, Ray Ray,” Tom said, hearing a muffled sound that he couldn’t make out in the background.

  “You look like a pile of warmed-over dog shit that’s been pissed and vomited on,” Ray Ray said. The sound in the distance was growing louder. More clear. Was someone hammering a nail?

  “You need to get up, Tommy boy. Big day.” The sound was now louder. “Come on, big ’un. Next play.”

  Tom blinked his eyes and rose in the bed. He recognized the sound now. Someone was knocking on the door. He swung his legs off the bed and stepped on Lee Roy’s hind legs as he stood up, causing the dog to yelp. “I’m sorry, boy,” he said. Tom leaned his hand against the same wall where he had seen the ghost of Ray Ray Pickalew just a few seconds earlier. Of all the dead people to see in a recurring hallucination, why in the hell does it have to be Ray Ray? Why not Julie. Or Mom or Dad? Or Coach Bryant? When Tom did finally die of cancer, he had a growing list of grievances that he needed to discuss with the Almighty.

  “Coming!” Tom yelled after he had caught his breath and adjusted to the pain and soreness in his bones brought on by his ride to Huntsville and back last night. That was crazy, Tom thought as he walked down the hallway of his house, through the den, and into the kitchen. He cracked the door and peeked through the opening between the lock chain.

  “Expecting someone else?” Dr. Bill Davis said, holding up a white McDonald’s sack and giving Tom a sheepish grin. In his younger years, Bill had been a redhead, but his once-fire-colored hair had been reduced to two white patches on the side and a bald top. He had a ruddy complexion, and a pair of glasses covered his face. At seventy-five years old, Bill was older than Tom but looked a decade younger. He was semiretired from his urology practice, working one weekend and one “call” a month, and wouldn’t do that if it weren’t for the money, which he said was too good and easy to pass up. When he wasn’t working, he spent most of his time entertaining his eight grandkids at his house on Lake Tuscaloosa, shooting his collection of handguns at a target range in Northport that he co-owned, and taking Tom to the occasional doctor’s appointment. Bill and Tom had met in the late 1960s after Tom had gone to see him for groin pain that turned out to be a long-undetected hernia, which Bill repaired. Over forty years of friendship, they had been through a lot together. Bill had three daughters, all grown now, and Tom had attended each of their weddings. Likewise, Bill and his first wife, Trish, had hosted a party for Tommy and Nancy when they got married. When Trish succumbed to ALS ten years ago, Tom had been a pallbearer at the funeral. And Bill, along with Bocephus Haynes and seven members of the 1961 National Championship team, had carried the casket at Julie’s burial.

  It was Bill Davis who had delivered Tom’s bladder cancer diagnosis three years ago after Tom had seen blood in his urine. And in late October 2012, it had been Bill who informed Tom he had stage four lung cancer in front of Coach Bryant’s statue on the Walk of Champions.

  Tom smiled and undid the latch on the lock.

  “Don’t dress up for me or anything,” Bill said as he stepped through the opening, and Tom realized that he was only wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts.

  “Sorry. Overslept,” Tom said as Bill set the sack of food on the kitchen table.

  “You weren’t kidding about an army of squad cars,” Bill said, pointing through the picture window. On the way into Huntsville last night, Tom had called Bill and filled him in on everything that was going on. Tom had suggested that his old friend sit this one out and let an officer take him to CCI, but Bill had refused, and Tom hadn’t pressed the issue.

  Tom squinted through the glass and saw the three police cruisers parked on the edge of the driveway just as they had been yesterday evening. Then, shaking his head, he grimaced and eased into one of the chairs. While Tom appreciated the protection being offered him, he had hoped they would assign more officers to his son’s house and to Bo and Jazz today. When he had told the deputy such, he just shrugged and said he had his orders. “You’re the target, sir.”

  I’m the target, Tom had thought. A broken-down, just-turned-seventy-three, stage-four-cancer-fighting dead man walking. He didn’t like it, but there was no use arguing.

  “Did you find Bo last night?” Bill asked, still standing by the door. “He OK?”

  “Yes and no,” Tom said, sighing and
trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. “It’s a long story, and I’ll fill you in on the drive to CCI.”

  “Well, hop to it,” Bill said. “Your first test is at eight thirty and”—Bill took off his glasses and gazed at his watch—“it’s seven fifteen.”

  Tom gave a mock salute and trudged out of the kitchen. As he passed into his bedroom, he tapped the wall where he’d seen the image of Ray Ray Pickalew.

  “Next play, Joker,” he whispered, feeling a cold chill of trepidation as he thought about the three scans he would receive today. CT of the chest at eight thirty. MRI of the brain at nine thirty. PET scan at ten thirty. Then he would see Dr. Maples at one for a verdict that, based on his increase in back pain, more frequent headaches, and now the occasional hallucination, he knew wouldn’t be good. He grabbed his cell phone from the bedside table and clicked on the screen, hoping he might have received a call or a text from Rick, Bo, Powell, or Helen while he was asleep.

  He hadn’t. The screen showed no missed calls or text messages. Tom set the phone down and sighed. JimBone Wheeler was still out there, which meant his friends and his family were still in danger.

  Tom closed his eyes and said a silent prayer asking God to watch after the people he loved. After he whispered “Amen,” he opened his lids and forced his legs to move toward the shower.

  “Next play,” he said again.

  24

  Bocephus Haynes watched the house from inside the cab of the Sequoia. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard—it was 7:20 a.m.—he knew that the lights in the kitchen would be turned on any . . .