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

by Robert Bailey

  Powell squeezed his friend’s cheek and felt his eyes burning with tears. “Don’t die, brother.”

  Wade blinked and focused his gaze back on Powell. He removed his left hand from under his chest and placed a blood-streaked index finger on the pavement. He moved the finger shakily across the stoop until he had managed to form four letters.

  W . . . C . . . S . . . O.

  Powell squinted at the message with his good eye, not understanding. His head was spinning and he felt the adrenaline draining from his body. I’m going to die, he thought for the first time. Too much blood. I’m going to—

  Movement interrupted his thoughts. Wade was motioning with his bloody finger for Powell to come close. When Powell was an inch from the detective’s face, Wade kissed him on the cheek. Then he brought his right hand around, and Powell could tell what the detective had been holding. It was the CD that Powell had brought him as a gift. The case had been destroyed, but the disc had somehow remained intact.

  “Mama . . . tried,” Wade said, and Powell was barely able to make out the words. Then the disc slid from Wade Michael Richey’s fingers.

  And the life went out of his body.

  32

  The ringing in his ears was the worst part.

  It didn’t matter whether they used earplugs, headphones, or both, the constant blare of the machine—like a lawn mower’s engine—was so loud that it easily made the MRI of the brain Tom’s least-favorite test and the one he dreaded the most.

  At 9:30 a.m., Tom was brought into the MRI room. He lay down on another hard table, cringing as the rough surface lurched toward a narrow, cylinder-shaped tunnel. Once his head had passed through the tubelike contraption, the table stopped. Though he knew it was coming, Tom still flinched when the engine-like sound blasted his eardrums, announcing that the procedure had begun. Tom’s only job during the scan was to remain as still as possible; any movement could hurt the quality of the images taken.

  Every so often, the roar of the machine eased momentarily with three sharp clicking sounds. Click, click, click. Then the loud banging of the engine was back. For the next forty-five minutes, this pattern was repeated more times than Tom could count, and as always, he found himself longing for the few precious seconds of click, click, click.

  The other thing Tom hated about the MRI of the brain was the sense of entrapment. His face and head were completely covered, so all he could see were the four sides of the machine. Tom had never been that bothered by enclosed spaces. Claustrophobia was not even on his radar. He had no problem in elevators or airplanes. But for some reason, once his head was in the cylinder, he felt trapped and scared.

  In these moments, he wondered if this was what death would be like. He had heard stories of people whose heart had stopped beating, and how they had seen a sharp twinge of light before doctors brought them back to life. Would he see the light when he died?

  Or would it be like this? Would he feel trapped, unable to move, as his ears pounded with the piercing sound of death?

  Thomas Jackson McMurtrie had been a Methodist his whole life, attending Hazel Green United as a child and teenager, and First United Methodist in Tuscaloosa all of his adult life. He believed in God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. He had read the Gospel. He had faith that there was a heaven as the Bible said.

  But it was easier thinking of these things when other people were involved. He wanted desperately to believe there was a place where all of his departed loved ones were waiting on him. A beautiful place. A safe and peaceful place filled with light and love.

  But if he were brutally honest with himself, he had his doubts. And they seemed to be increasing as he edged closer toward the afterlife. And now, with his friends and family threatened by an escaped killer, his brain seemed to be riddled with doubt.

  Realizing he’d been holding his breath to stay still, Tom slowly exhaled. He closed his eyes and then opened them, but the image in his mind was the same.

  JimBone Wheeler’s copper eyes.

  He flinched and then a voice rang out above the sound of the machine. “Stay still, Professor.”

  “OK,” Tom said, knowing they couldn’t hear him. He let out another ragged breath and felt his heartbeat picking up speed as the blaring noise mercifully softened for three short seconds.

  Click, click, click.

  33

  The Von Braun Center is Huntsville’s primary event location. In addition to a ten-thousand-seat arena, where hockey and basketball games take place, there’s also a performing arts auditorium and two halls, where high school proms, wedding receptions, and speeches can be held. The VBC has a parking garage and also two lots adjacent to the North and South Halls.

  At 10:05 a.m., Bocephus Haynes waited in the North Hall parking lot, on Clinton Street. As he had promised, he’d followed Jazz to the event, and despite her protests, he, along with two officers from the Huntsville Police Department dressed in street clothes, had walked beside her as she had entered the building an hour and a half earlier. One of the lawmen went inside to scope out the area. According to the deputy who stayed behind to watch the front entrance, there were four other officers inside the hall as well as the entire security detail for the VBC, which consisted of over ten guards.

  Despite the battalion of officers, Bo had asked Jazz to text him when she was finished so he could escort her back to her car, but she had rolled her eyes at him.

  The breakfast had started at 8:30, and Jazz had been slated to speak at nine. Adjournment was at ten.

  Bo peered at the clock on the dash inside the Sequoia. 10:06 a.m. He glanced at his phone. No text yet from Jazz, and he wondered if she would follow his instructions.

  I doubt it, he thought, shaking his head and grabbing the door handle. He climbed out of the vehicle and scanned the lot, which was packed to capacity. There had to be over fifty cars in this area alone, and Bo had noticed that the security guard at the gate had directed the overflow to an adjacent lot for the South Hall in the back. She got what she wanted, he thought, smiling and beginning to walk toward the entrance.

  For December, the weather was balmy and warm. It couldn’t be much less than sixty-five degrees. This was typical for North Alabama and South Tennessee, where you could have a winter day in the seventies as easily as you could have one in the thirties. Bo slid his sunglasses off the top of his head and over his eyes to shield himself from the light. He took out his phone and glanced at the screen. 10:08 a.m.

  In front of him, people began to exit the building, and Bo breathed a sigh of relief. He noticed that the plainclothes officer at the door was holding a cell phone to his ear and talking into the microphone. Three other members of the civic center security crew had spanned out to cover the parking lot. Gazing over his shoulder and looking past the vehicles to Clinton Avenue, Bo wondered if maybe he was taking JimBone Wheeler’s escape too seriously. He’s a cold-blooded killer. A revenge rampage doesn’t fit the profile.

  Bo leaned against one of the concrete pillars on the landing in front of the building, nodding as the patrons left the event, almost all of whom were African American. Alabama A&M was a historically black university, and Bo had always had a lot of admiration for the school. One of his football heroes had been John Stallworth, the Hall of Fame wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers and former Alabama A&M graduate. Bo had met Stallworth, a Huntsville resident, a few times over the years and found him to be just as impressive in the business world as he had been on the football field. Wondering if his childhood hero was in attendance, Bo continued to scan the faces, finally seeing his soon-to-be ex-wife talking to a group of people in the lobby.

  Bo sighed, glancing again at his phone. 10:10 a.m. He took several steps toward the parking lot and placed his right hand above his forehead, looking for anything that might be suspicious. Across Clinton Avenue, there were a couple of buildings catty-corner to the right, and Bo squinted at them, noting nothing out of the ordinary. Cars in lots. People walking inside. Christmas decorations. H
e glanced upward and saw that on top of the nearest building there appeared to be an officer looking back at him with binoculars. Bo took a deep breath, grateful for the police presence that had materialized on such short notice. Based on what the officers who had accompanied Jazz into the North Hall had said, there was a crew of Madison County deputies watching Clinton Avenue for anything abnormal.

  Bo turned back to the exit and saw Jazz coming through the door, accompanied by a light-skinned black man wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit. The man stood just over six feet tall and had the lean build of a runner.

  Bo knew the man. They had met once at a school function that Jazz had dragged him to. He was Dr. Todd Erwin, the dean of the art history department. Bo had instantly taken a disliking to Erwin, not appreciating the way the other man peered at his wife.

  Erwin noticed Bo first. Bo saw him nudge Jazz with his elbow, and the gesture sent a razor wire of jealousy down Bo’s spine. He glanced down at his own clothes. Bo was wearing the same jeans, boots, and white button-down in which he had slept in the car last night. For the first time since his arrival, he felt self-conscious and disheveled.

  “Mr. Haynes,” Erwin said, extending his hand, which Bo reluctantly grasped, gripping it a bit firmer than he normally would and piercing the other man with a look that eventually made Erwin avert his eyes.

  “Why are you still here?” Jazz asked. She was dressed in an elegant cream dress, which Bo thought created a beautiful blend with her complexion. She crossed her arms and waited.

  “You know why,” he said. “I just want to make sure you get home safe.”

  “Is something wrong?” Erwin asked.

  “This isn’t your concern,” Bo said, shooting him another glare.

  Erwin’s gaze narrowed, and Bo took a step toward him, invading his space. “I’m not messing around, OK? There’s a dangerous situation involving an escaped convict in Tennessee who wants to hurt my family, and the best and safest thing for you to do would be to walk to your car and get the hell out of Dodge. Do you hear me?”

  Erwin glanced at Jazz, and Bo saw out of the corner of his eye that she gave him a swift nod.

  “Alright then,” Erwin said. “You’re scaring me, man.”

  “You should be scared,” Bo said.

  As the other man turned to go, Bo noticed that the police officer on the building across Clinton was now facing frontward and appeared to be peering over the edge, as if to look directly below him. Does he see something? Bo wondered, feeling his heartbeat pick up. A pain in his rib cage interrupted his focus, and he turned to see that Jazz was pinching him.

  “What was that all about?” she whispered through clenched teeth.

  “Just warning your friend that he could be in danger if he walks out with us,” Bo said, forcing a smile. “It seemed like the neighborly thing to do.”

  “You acted like a horse’s ass,” she said.

  Bo’s face tightened. “The papers on the divorce won’t be dry before that prissy bastard is going to be calling asking you out.” He paused. “Unless he already has.”

  “So you’re going to add jealous to overprotective and stubborn. That it, Bo? I work with Todd. He’s my boss. I don’t like him in that way.”

  Bo gazed back toward the parking lot, where Todd Erwin was sliding into a maroon Escalade. Past the vehicle, Bo again noticed the officer on top of the building across the street. Now he was standing up and appeared to be watching the cars pass by on Clinton Avenue below.

  Bo turned back to her. “Well, Doctor Erwin sure likes you in that way, and it’s obvious.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Jazz said, pushing past him toward the lot.

  Bo reached out and grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Jazz, I want you to wait inside. I’m going to bring my car around and get you, OK? Please, honey.” He glanced over her shoulder and saw both plainclothes officers heading toward them and breathed a sigh of relief. He waved them forward with his other hand.

  “Take your hands off me, Bo, or I’m going to scream bloody murder, you hear me?”

  Bo tightened his grip. “Please, Jazz. Please just listen to me today. That’s all I’m asking. There are officers here to protect you, but we can’t be too cautious.”

  For a second, Jazz’s eyes softened, and he thought he had reached her. Then she yelled loud and strong, “Help!”

  Bo loosened his grip and Jazz pulled away from him. When she did, the sleeve on her dress tore.

  She opened her mouth and gazed at her ripped clothing. Then she scowled at him and tears welled in her eyes. “I hate you,” she said. Folding her arms, she walked out into the sunshine.

  On the roof of the bank across the street, Manny Reyes reached behind her and grabbed the sniper rifle she had used to kill Greg Zorn in Orange Beach, Alabama, a little over a year earlier. She had hidden the gun in an equipment bag when she walked into the bank an hour earlier, telling the branch manager she was with Smith Roofing Company, which was the name she’d been given the week prior when she’d called and asked who installed the roof. She’d informed the manager that Mr. Smith had instructed her to come by and make some adjustments, and he had shown her the way.

  Amazing how easy it is sometimes, she thought. Of course, this assignment had become more adventurous when the sheriff’s deputy had surprised her on the roof ten minutes earlier. But fortunately for her he hadn’t been as alert as he should have been. When he asked for her ID, she fumbled in her wallet and was able to knee the man in the groin when he looked away. Then she’d swiftly pulled out a pistol and shot him in the side of the head. Because of the silencer, the only sound was a muffled pop that was disguised by the traffic from the cars on Clinton Avenue below. She’d dragged the officer’s body to the small electrical room on the roof and changed into his uniform. Because the man was thin and wiry, her new threads fit well enough to not arouse suspicion.

  They were also the perfect disguise, provided that no one began to miss the fallen officer. Manny figured that when someone did notice his absence, she’d be long gone. Dust in the wind.

  She had learned about the breakfast speech by doing a simple Facebook search for Jasmine Haynes. Manny was always amazed at how much you could learn about a person by perusing their Facebook page. During the year or so she’d been hiding since carrying out her duties for Bully Calhoun in the Wilma Newton case, she’d successfully robbed at least a dozen people by checking their Facebook pages and finding out where they lived and when they would be out of town.

  For the past week, Jasmine Haynes had been sharing nonstop posts on her page, trying to bolster attendance at the breakfast, which was meant to raise money for the art history department of her university. Manny literally knew every detail about the event.

  She lay flat on her stomach and looked through the scope of the rifle. The face of Bocephus Haynes appeared in the crosshairs. For a half second, Manny thought about pulling the trigger. They were going to kill the lawyer eventually. Why not take him out right now?

  Those aren’t my orders, she thought, hovering her right index finger over the trigger as she focused the scope on the woman Haynes was arguing with.

  “Ah, a lover’s spat,” Manny whispered, seeing the woman pull away from the attorney’s grip. Then seconds later, Jasmine Haynes broke into the open, walking briskly toward the parking lot.

  Manny Reyes smiled. Amazing how easy it is sometimes.

  As Jazz marched away, Bo sighed and waved at the plainclothes officers to follow her. Both deputies immediately changed direction and sprinted toward Jazz. They caught up to her within seconds and then walked on each side of her. Turning toward the entrance door, Bo saw a group of men and women looking at him, the disapproval palpable in their eyes. Down the sidewalk, one of the security guards was hustling toward him, guided by a woman who was pointing in his direction.

  Great, he thought. He spun back toward the lot, seeing that Jazz and the two officers were now halfway to her car. Bo stepped out from under the cover
ed landing and began to follow them.

  “Wait right there, sir,” he heard the guard say behind him, but Bo kept walking. He glanced across the street and saw that the officer on the roof . . .

  Where is he?

  Bo picked up his pace and focused as hard as he could on the top of the building. Moving his eyes back and forth, he finally saw him. The man was lying on his stomach on the roof and holding a—

  “Jazz!” Bo screamed her name at the same time that he heard the crack of the rifle.

  “No!”

  He ran toward her and saw her wheel around to face him. For a moment, their eyes met. He saw that her cream dress with its ripped right sleeve had blood splattered across the front. Her hands had gone to her chest. Removing them, she gazed at her bloody fingers and then into her husband’s eyes.

  “Bo,” she cried.

  He was just a few feet away from her, running as fast as he could.

  He reached out his hands just as the next rifle shot pierced the air.

  34

  The final test was the PET scan.

  The PET, which stood for positron emission tomography, was by far the most comfortable of the three imaging studies. As opposed to a hard table, Tom lay in a recliner chair similar to the ones in the treatment area where he had received chemotherapy months earlier. His only instructions were to lie still.

  Also different was the darkness. Prior to beginning the scan, the lights in the room were turned off.

  Though physically comfortable, the PET was the most anxiety provoking of the tests. It was this scan that determined if the cancer had spread.

  Though he had to be alone in the dark room, he was allowed one creature comfort while the scanner worked its magic. He was able to have his phone, which he now gripped in his right hand. Glancing at the screen, he noticed that it was 10:20 a.m. Since his first test had begun almost two hours earlier, Tom had received no messages or missed calls.