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

by Robert Bailey

  The other man nodded. “Escaped Riverbend yesterday morning.”

  “My sources tell me that Manny is suspected to be helping him.”

  “Mine tell me the same thing.”

  Rick crossed his arms and gazed down at the tile floor. “You know what’s crazy?” he asked. “When I heard that she might be involved, I”—he swallowed and felt the guilt envelop him—“I was glad,” he forced himself to finish. “I know that’s wrong.”

  “No, it’s not.” He put his large paws on Rick’s shoulders. “What it is . . . is natural.”

  “How so?”

  The man stepped away from Rick and began to pace around the bathroom. “She’s been a ghost for over a year. By aiding and abetting Wheeler, she’s showed her hand and is out in the open. She’s exposed herself.” Again, he paused and stepped back into Rick’s view. “I’m glad too.”

  “It’s wrong to be happy that a killer is on the loose,” Rick said, hearing the guilt and frustration in his voice.

  “Not when you’ve been through what we have,” the man said. “Not when you’ve buried your blood. The only way we can bring justice to the ones we’ve lost is to find Manny Reyes. By helping Wheeler bust out, she’s made that task easier.”

  Rick sighed and felt his heart beating hard in his chest. He took his phone out of his pocket and clicked on the screen. It was now 8:55 a.m., and he was supposed to meet his client in the courthouse at 9:30. “There’s a Tuscaloosa cop in the parking lot who followed me here. He’ll escort me to the courthouse and hang around outside until after the hearing.”

  “Piss in the wind,” the man said. “I’d say it’s better than nothing, but I’m not so sure that’s true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means I don’t trust the police.”

  “This guy is from Tuscaloosa, and Wade and Powell wouldn’t have assigned him to me if they didn’t trust him. And I know Sheriff Patterson hasn’t been helpful to our case, but I wouldn’t think he’d want a murder in the courthouse on his watch.” Rick rubbed the back of his neck. “Especially not after Bully Calhoun’s unsolved assassination last year.”

  The man scoffed and then began to pace again. “I guess not, but I don’t trust DeWayne Patterson. He didn’t seem very motivated to find Alvie’s killer. He . . .” The man trailed off and stopped pacing. He hunched his shoulders and gazed at the floor.

  “He what?”

  “Doesn’t matter. At least not today.”

  “Have you heard something from your guy in Auburn?”

  “I’d rather not say, OK, kid? It may be nothing—I’ve had leads that didn’t go anywhere before.”

  For several seconds, silence filled the restroom. Now that Rick had adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the other man’s skinny six-foot-seven-inch frame. It wasn’t hard to imagine him playing for the Philadelphia 76ers in another life. Rick cleared his throat. “Powell and Wade are worried that Wheeler and Manny might make a play against me today.”

  The man nodded but continued to peer down at the floor. “Because of what Wheeler told Professor McMurtrie in the prison last year.” He paused. “JimBone gonna bring the reckoning he promised.”

  “Something like that,” Rick said. “They wanted me to postpone the hearing and ask for a continuance of next week’s trial.”

  The other man shook his head. “But you didn’t.”

  “This case has gone on long enough. It’s time to let it ride. With the affidavit you were able to acquire from Harm Twitty, we ought to survive today. Judge Conner should deny the motion. On Monday, we should be teeing this thing up in Florence.”

  The man continued to stare at the floor, now rubbing the stubble on his chin. Finally, he glanced at Rick, his giant shadow looming behind him on the far wall. “You’re right about one thing, kid.”

  “What?”

  “Today is about survival.”

  Rick felt a cold shudder run up his chest. “Are you going to be there?” When the man didn’t immediately answer, Rick took a couple of tentative steps forward. “I know you’ve wanted to lay low, and up until now, I think that’s been the proper play. Having you in the shadows tracking down leads and evidence has been a successful strategy. But”—Rick set his jaw—“if they kill me today, then everything we’ve worked toward in the last year will be lost. My other cases . . . my father’s case . . . will be lost too. Everything.” He gazed down at the other man’s worn loafers. “Alvie will have died in vain.”

  For a long ten seconds, neither man spoke. Finally, Rick pressed on, his voice just above a whisper. “But if we survive today, I promise you that I’ll win next week.” He looked into the other man’s eyes. “So, how ’bout it? Are you going to be there today, Rel?”

  Santonio “Rel” Jennings chuckled and raised himself to his full six feet seven inches. “Bo was right about you, kid,” he finally said. “You’re a believer. My brother is lucky to have you representing his family.” He paused and the smile faded from his face. “I’ll be around.”

  28

  Tom lay on the metal table with his arms stretched over his head. He peered at the clock that hung on the side wall of the compact exam room. It was 8:59 a.m. Focusing on the second hand as it slowly made its pass toward the top of the hour, he braced himself for the warm sensation that the injection of contrast always brought on.

  “OK, Professor, here it comes,” Keisha said. Immediately, Tom felt the heat in his groin and, as usual, wondered if he was peeing in his pants. He knew he wasn’t, but that was what the shot felt like. A few seconds later, the table began to move forward through the cylinder-shaped CT machine. He’d already had fifteen minutes’ worth of scans without contrast, and now they were taking the pictures with the radioactive agent. Tom knew that the contrast enhanced visibility and would make whatever was going on with the mass in his lung show up better to the radiologist who interpreted the scan.

  With a lung cancer diagnosis, the CT of the chest was the most common diagnostic test, and Tom had lost count as to how many he’d undergone. But his familiarity with it didn’t make the scan any more comfortable. The only cushion on the rock-hard surface was a thin white sheet covering the table and a wedge pillow up under his knees. Neither did much for the throbbing pain in his back. He had taken his morning dose of two oxycodone, but after twenty minutes of lying still on the metal table, the effects of the opioids had already faded. And this is only the first test of three, Tom thought, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to focus on the conversations he’d had on the drive from the farm.

  He wasn’t sure what Rick had meant when he said he was bringing something for protection other than just the police escort to the hearing in Jasper, but he was glad his partner had a backup plan. Rick Drake had proven both resourceful and tough as nails during their partnership. Tom felt better about Rick’s situation after the call, and that was a relief.

  But the conversation with Powell Conrad bothered him. The prosecutor and former student of Tom’s had always seemed to have an innate sense of danger. His instincts were what had made him such a force in the courtroom. They had also served him well on the outside, especially in Pulaski two years earlier when Powell and Wade had apprehended JimBone Wheeler on the Giles County Courthouse Square. I’m worried, Professor, Powell had said during their short phone call. I think we’ve done all we can do. Everybody that needs to be aware of Wheeler’s escape has been notified and are taking precautions, but . . . He had trailed off and then grunted.

  But what? Tom had asked.

  I’m not sure it’s going to matter, the prosecutor had finished, and Tom had felt a chill in the cab of Bill Davis’s pickup truck. Tom had almost asked Powell what he meant but had stopped with the words on the tip of his tongue.

  I know what he meant, he thought as the table moved back and forth through the round CT contraption.

  Tom sighed, imagining JimBone Wheeler as he’d seen him last. The killer’s copper-colored eyes glaring at him with
white-hot hate from across the desk in the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution. It had been over twenty-four hours since JimBone’s escape, and according to the report Tom had received from Helen on the way over, the primary lead in the investigation was still the message that the psychopath had carved into the rogue nurse’s abdomen.

  Me, Tom thought. Me and everyone I hold dear.

  Tom squeezed his hands into fists as the pictures in his subconscious returned to the killer who, up until yesterday morning, had been locked away on death row. Powell Conrad’s last salvo on the telephone formed a question in his thoughts that he hated to even consider.

  Is it going to matter?

  29

  Wade Richey lived in a one-story rental house on Eighth Avenue. The home was just a few blocks from Bryant-Denny Stadium, and Powell enjoyed parking at Wade’s place on game days during the fall.

  At just after 9:00 a.m., Powell pulled his Charger into the driveway and hopped out of the car. He was holding a steaming to-go bag from the Waysider with two buttermilk biscuits inside in his right hand and a brand-new compact disc in the left. As he strode up the cobblestone path to the front door, Powell hummed the tune to Robert Earl Keen’s “Merry Christmas from the Family,” which he’d been listening to on the drive over, and smiled to himself. He normally would honk his horn, but since he was carrying a present that the detective might not want to bring on this trip, he decided to knock on the door. As he walked, he caught movement out of his right eye and noticed a police car approaching from the north. It was a white SUV with the gold crest of the sheriff’s office along the side. Backup, he thought, nodding his head at the vehicle and trotting up the three steps to the front stoop. Just before his knuckles touched the wooden frame, the door swung open.

  Wade gazed back at him with bloodshot eyes. The detective appeared to be wearing the same black T-shirt and jeans he’d had on yesterday and was putting on a black leather jacket.

  “You look like crap,” Powell said, handing him the plain white sack of food.

  “Thanks,” Wade said, hovering his nostrils over the sack and breathing in the scent of the biscuits. He stepped out onto the stoop and shut the door, bringing a key to the knob.

  “Before you lock it, you might want to put this inside,” Powell said, grinning and handing him the compact disc. “Early Christmas present. I saw it at the Chevron on Hargrove. Five freakin’ bucks. Bargain if you ask me.”

  Wade glanced at the disc but didn’t take it. “Merle’s greatest?” he asked, but his eyes were now looking past Powell to the road.

  Powell nodded. “Come on. Take it. I’ve already got all these songs on my iPod in the car. You—”

  “Get down!” Wade screamed, stepping in front of the prosecutor and pulling a pistol out of the front of his jeans. Before he could pull the trigger, the rapid patter of a semiautomatic rifle engulfed the morning air.

  Powell ducked and turned, seeing Wade drop to his knees in front of him. The gun fell from the detective’s outstretched hand, and the biscuits spilled out of the sack and down the steps.

  “Wade!”

  Powell lunged forward to cover his friend, but before he could get there, his left knee exploded in pain, followed by a shearing snap of his right shoulder. Instinctively, he brought his hands up for protection as another bullet pierced his rib cage. Then his face and eyes were covered in a shower of sharp plastic daggers as the CD case that he was holding in his left hand was blown apart by another round of gunfire.

  Powell screamed in pain and staggered sideways. He fell off the stoop and landed on his stomach. He felt the breath go out of him and his head fill with stars.

  The world went black.

  30

  JimBone Wheeler calmly placed the AK-47 back in its case. “You can roll up the window now, DeWayne.”

  In the front seat, Sheriff Patterson gripped the wheel with two shaking hands. Without looking back at the killer, he clicked the button inside the door and the back passenger-side window slowly ascended. “You g-g-get them?”

  “The detective is dead as a doornail. I hit him with at least five, maybe seven, bullets in the chest.”

  “And the prosecutor? C-C-Conrad?”

  “I got him in the knee, the stomach, and the shoulder. I had one tracking the bastard’s head, but it must have ricocheted off something he was holding. I don’t think it connected.” JimBone paused and rubbed his chin, calculating the damage. “He may not be dead immediately, but there’s no way he’ll survive.”

  “M-m-mission ac-ac-accomplished, then,” the sheriff managed, and JimBone caught a whiff of urine coming from the front seat.

  “Yeah. We’ve done our part. It didn’t go down exactly like I thought,” he said, speaking more for his own enjoyment than DeWayne’s listening pleasure as the sheriff turned left onto Fifteenth Street. “I figured Conrad would honk and we’d get the detective walking to the car. Then that would draw out the prosecutor, and we’d either shoot him getting out of the car or through the windshield.” JimBone smiled. “Conrad made it easy pickings by walking to the door.”

  “Better to be lucky than good, I guess,” DeWayne said, and JimBone noticed that the lawman’s hands were still shaking.

  “No,” JimBone said. He leaned forward and slapped the sheriff on the side of the head with an open hand. “You guess wrong. I’m very good. And when you’re good . . . you get the breaks. You hear me, shit for brains?”

  DeWayne Patterson rubbed his head with his right hand while keeping his left on top of the wheel. “Yes. I’m sorry. I—”

  “Just shut up and drive,” JimBone said. “We need to be somewhere in an hour.”

  “You promised to let the Mexican handle Drake,” DeWayne whined as he took another left onto McFarland Boulevard. “With my officer’s help.”

  JimBone didn’t respond. Instead, he saw the familiar sights of Tuscaloosa. When the SUV passed the old Ultron Gasoline plant, the Bone gave a mock salute to the new structure that had replaced the warehouse he’d burned down for Jack Willistone four years earlier. Some of my best work, he thought.

  Five minutes later, at 9:15 a.m., the sheriff’s vehicle passed a white-and-black sign indicating the junction for Highway 69. DeWayne turned on his right-turn blinker. “Mr. Wheeler, you’re going to let my deputy and Pasco handle Drake, right? That was the plan.”

  JimBone held his eye through the rearview mirror as the Tahoe pulled onto Highway 69. “That’s correct, DeWayne. But sometimes plans have to be adjusted.” He paused. “Let’s hope your guy doesn’t get cold feet.”

  “He w-w-won’t,” DeWayne said, glancing at the road and then peering back at JimBone in the mirror.

  Through the windshield, the killer saw a green sign. “Jasper. 48 MILES.” Then he ran his hand along the case of the assault rifle. “We shall see.”

  31

  It was the taste in his mouth that brought him back. Iron. Blood . . . Wade . . .

  Powell opened his left eye. He tried to open his right, but the lid wouldn’t budge. His face was pressed against something rough and his ears were ringing. “Wade.” He tried to say the word, but he wasn’t sure if it came out or not. He couldn’t hear anything but a high-pitched tone. Like the alarm the television used to make when they interrupted normal programming and then a monotone female voice would say, This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test. But here there wasn’t a voice mercifully interrupting the alarm. Instead, the tone persisted, pounding Powell’s eardrums with its steady intensity.

  He blinked his open eye, and with all the effort he could muster, he raised his head a few inches off the ground. He was lying in a bed of mulch, and his right arm was twisted underneath him. He attempted to move it and cried out in pain. The limb wouldn’t budge. Broken, he thought. He moved his left hand along the mulch, relieved that he still had one good arm, and felt for the concrete stoop. When he grasped it, he tried to pull himself up, but he wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t bend his le
ft leg. He gazed down, saw that his kneecap was covered in blood, and remembered the searing pain. Using his right leg and left arm, Powell pulled himself up on the stoop.

  Wade Richey was lying on his side and gazing at him with blank eyes. No, Powell thought, gritting his teeth and beginning to crawl along the bloody concrete toward his friend. Out of his still-functioning eye, he saw three police cars pulling to a stop along the curb. Their blue and red lights were flashing. Powell knew the air had probably filled with the blaring of sirens, but all he could hear was the alarm tone. This is only a test, he thought. In front of the police vehicles, Powell saw an elderly woman waving her hands and pointing toward the house. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Next to her, there was an overweight man holding a leash while his dog thrashed below him, trying in vain to run toward the bodies on the porch.

  Powell pulled himself along the stoop with his left arm until he was a foot from Wade. His friend was lying on his right shoulder with his right hand outstretched, grasping hold of something that Powell couldn’t see. The detective’s legs were extended straight out and his cheek was on the concrete. Underneath the detective’s body was a puddle of blood that was slowly spreading out and away.

  Biting his lip, which was trembling, Powell touched his friend’s face.

  Wade’s eyes flickered and Powell saw his mouth move.

  “What?” Powell said, crawling closer. The tone in his ears was growing fainter, but he still couldn’t make out any other sounds.

  Wade’s mouth again moved, but Powell couldn’t hear him. He pulled to within a couple of inches of the other man’s mouth. “What?” he asked again.

  Wade’s eyes rolled back into his sockets, and Powell grabbed his cheek. “Wade?” Above them, Powell saw movement. People were approaching and the tone was fading. He thought he heard a voice. It was a man’s. Words came in and out like a radio that was losing its frequency. “Walking . . . machine gun . . . police car.”