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

by Robert Bailey

  Kat crossed her arms and waited for the cruiser until it stopped right beside her. The window descended, and Sheriff DeWayne Patterson peered up at her. “We need to talk,” he said.

  “You’re damn right we do.”

  He nodded toward the house. “In there, OK?”

  Kat tramped toward the house, feeling the anger inside her bubbling over.

  Once they were safely inside, Kat wheeled on the wiry lawman, swinging a closed right fist at the sheriff’s face and connecting with bone. DeWayne’s nose erupted in an explosion of blood.

  “Just what in the fuck is going on, DeWayne?” she demanded. As the sheriff brought his hands to his face, Kat kicked him square in the balls, and the sheriff groaned in pain and dropped to his knees.

  Kathryn Calhoun Willistone was a petite, lean woman, but her muscles were toned from daily workouts, and since moving back home, she had begun taking Tae Kwon Do again. Though she was tempted to continue her ass beating of the man, she needed information. “Talk, moron.”

  “Mr. Wheeler says that everything is fine and that he is going to fulfill his contract.”

  “He better.” Kat spat the words out. “He was supposed to kill Drake and Twitty. Why did he go cowboy and start killing randoms?”

  DeWayne coughed and spat a loogie of blood on the floor.

  “If you spit on my hardwoods again, numb nuts, I’m going to kick you in the face so hard you’re gonna shit these leather boots, you hear me, DeWayne?” Kat said, pointing at her feet, and the sheriff nodded his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Wheeler promised McMurtrie in the prison that he was going to bring a reckoning down on him and everyone he holds dear. He thinks these killings will be interpreted as revenge murders, which won’t implicate you.”

  “If I’m not implicated, then why in the hell do all these police departments want to interview me?”

  “Due diligence, Kat. That’s all. You aren’t on the radar, but we have to cross off our boxes. That’s why my detectives interviewed you.”

  “It’s all bullshit, DeWayne, and I’m tired of it. I’ve paid a half-million dollars and all I have to show for it are a bunch of dead bodies that I don’t care about. Meanwhile, Rick Drake and Harm Twitty are still breathing.”

  “Harm’s gone,” DeWayne said. “He may be alive, but the shooting scared the crap out of him. He wants to live a little longer.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  DeWayne shrugged. “I don’t know, but his house is deserted, he’s not answering his phone, and none of his friends know where he went. The manager at C&G said the last he heard from him was Thursday after the shooting, when Harm called in and said he was taking a long vacation.”

  For several seconds, Kat peered down at the weak, bloody man below her. Finally, she managed a smile. “Did Drake subpoena him for trial?”

  DeWayne nodded. “He did, but . . .” The sheriff stopped and actually began to laugh. Kat thought about kicking him again but resisted the urge.

  “But what?”

  “I think Harm is gone. I believe the only reason he signed that affidavit is he thought there wouldn’t be any repercussions with Bully dead. Harm doesn’t have family in Jasper anymore. Hell, I don’t even think he has any family at all. He liked Alvie Jennings, but not enough to die for him.” DeWayne smiled up at Kat. “Harm’s flown the coop. He’s got a nice nest egg from owning C&G all these years, and my money is on him being in the Cayman Islands or the Caribbean.” He paused. “I’d bet both my testicles that he doesn’t show up in Florence this week.”

  “I’m going to remember you said that,” Kat said, but now she was smiling in earnest. Slowly, the sheriff climbed to his feet and dusted off his pants.

  “So how is Mr. Wheeler going to fulfill the contract?” Kat asked.

  DeWayne sighed. “Honestly, ma’am, I don’t know. And to tell you the truth, I’m glad.” He paused and wiped blood from his nose. “I don’t think either of us wants to know.”

  47

  As a golden sun set over the black waters of the Flint River, JimBone Wheeler lay naked in a hot tub bubbling with scalding water. The Jacuzzi was the centerpiece of the back deck of DeWayne Patterson’s cabin, and JimBone was finally getting to enjoy it. Both of his arms were draped over the side behind him, and in his right hand he held an ice-cold beer. He brought the bottle to his lips and watched Manny Reyes walk toward him from across the wooden surface of the deck. She wore a silk robe but removed it when she was a couple feet from the tub. “Like what you see?” she asked, doing a mock twirl. Then she climbed into the tub until only the tops of her breasts peeked out of the water.

  “Beer?” JimBone asked, reaching backward into a cooler and pulling out another bottle of Coors Light.

  “No, thanks,” Manny said.

  “Suit yourself,” JimBone said, popping the top off the new beer while he finished the one he was drinking. Once the first bottle was empty, he flung it out into the grass that led down to the river. Then he took a long swig off the new soldier.

  “So, you gonna get drunk tonight, señor?”

  JimBone shook his head. “Nah, just buzzed. I thought I’d finish this one and then we could have another go.” He held his arms out wide. “Right here in front of God and everyone.”

  She smirked at him. “Aren’t you tired of all the sex? That’s about the only thing we’ve done for the past ten days.”

  “Manny, girl, that’s about the only thing in this world that I don’t get tired of.” He winked at her, but then his eyes went cold. “Did you learn anything on your trip into town?”

  “McMurtrie remains alive. He’s on the fourth floor of Huntsville Hospital, and his room is heavily guarded.”

  “And Haynes?”

  “Still in jail.” She paused and wrinkled her nose. “But should be released tonight.”

  “When is his wife’s funeral?”

  “No arrangements have been made yet.”

  JimBone gazed at her with admiration. “Some of your finest work, darling. Not only did you manage to kill the poor bastard’s bride, but you somehow got the police to put their focus on him.”

  “That was a stroke of luck. They were in the throes of a divorce, so our timing was good.” She paused. “And he went crazy after I killed her.”

  JimBone grinned and took a long sip of beer. “And what about the prosecutor?”

  “Still breathing, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. Prognosis remains poor.”

  For a long minute, neither of them spoke, and JimBone nudged her foot with his own and then began stroking her leg with his toenails.

  “What are we going to do about the trial?” Manny finally asked. “The sheriff called, and our benefactor is furious at how everything has gone down. What is the expression that you like to use? She . . . has her panties in a wad?”

  JimBone laughed. “That’s the one, darling. I hope you explained to DeWayne how the first phase of the war we’ve declared fits into the overall master plan.”

  She squinted at him. “I gave him the big picture, but he didn’t want the details. All he said was that Mrs. Willistone had paid good money for the trial to be put off and for Drake to be dead, and neither had happened yet.”

  JimBone gazed up at the roof that covered the deck. “Ah, impatience. One of her father’s and her husband’s greatest virtues. She’s also wrong. The trial was postponed a week.”

  “True,” Manny said. “But Mrs. Willistone had hoped for a longer delay. It starts tomorrow.”

  “And we have a plan,” JimBone said.

  Again, silence filled the air. Finally, JimBone set his beer on the ground and scooted around the tub until he was next to his partner. He stroked her black hair and then lifted her onto him. He slid inside her like a key going into a lock, and the only sound was Manny’s gasp when penetration occurred. “Did you do the other thing I asked you to do in town?”

  She nodded and began to rock slowly back and forth on top of him. “McMurtri
e had visitors at 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m.”

  “Family?”

  “And his doctor friend.”

  “What about Drake?”

  Manny shook her head and picked up the pace of her movement. “He was in Tuscaloosa today.” She groaned. “Burying the detective.”

  JimBone put his hand on her lips and she licked his fingers, now moving vigorously above him. “Any word from the Mexican? Was he able to put a tracking device on either of the sons’ vehicles? Is he keeping tabs on them?”

  She nodded and ran her hands through her hair, arching her back. “He placed the tracker on the wife’s van when they were at the hospital visiting the old man Friday. Posed as a maintenance man scraping ice from the parking garage.” She paused and moaned with pleasure. “According to Pasco, on Friday and Saturday the only place the family went was to the hospital and back.”

  “And today?”

  Manny grimaced. “They went to the hospital in the morning, and . . .” Another gasp escaped her lips and a stream of saliva ran out of her mouth that JimBone wiped away with his thumb.

  “And what?”

  “And the son took the boy to a rec center in south Huntsville called Fern Bell to play basketball.”

  “Was it a team practice?”

  “No.” Manny’s breaths were now coming shallow. She was close, JimBone knew. “Just the boy and his father.”

  “Security?”

  “One officer came in the gym with them and another watched the parking lot. The other guard in their detail stayed at the house to watch the family.”

  “Does the kid still have a game tomorrow?”

  With her eyes closed, Manny groaned a yes. “According to his travel team Facebook page, it’s at 6:00 p.m.” She paused. “At Optimist Park, off Oakwood Avenue.”

  “He’s missed his last three games,” JimBone said, placing his hands on Manny’s perky breasts and thrusting hard. “And it sounds like the family is getting restless.”

  Manny opened her mouth but didn’t say anything. Instead, she let out a barely audible scream as she reached climax.

  A few minutes later, after she’d stopped shivering, JimBone whispered into her ear. “Are you ready to finish this war?”

  She pulled back and gazed at him with her black eyes. “Yes, but . . .” She trailed off and JimBone stared hard at her.

  “But what?”

  “Do you think we are taking it too far? We could have already killed them. We could already be in my homeland, counting our money and having sex in a hot tub overlooking the Pacific Ocean instead of this snake hole.” She pointed behind her to the dark waters of the Flint.

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” JimBone asked.

  She remained silent for several seconds. Finally, she said, “No. But I think your desire to make McMurtrie suffer has clouded your judgment. The doctor and his wife are not going to expose their children.” She paused. “The boy will not play in his game tomorrow.”

  JimBone Wheeler reached behind him for the beer he’d set on the ground. He took a long swig and belched. “Maybe not,” JimBone said. “But every instinct I have tells me that they’re about to slip up. If not the game, then there’ll be something else. It’s the Christmas season after all, and those kids have been cooped up in that house for over ten days. The husband has already ventured out on his own with the son.” He pressed his thumb into the indention between her chin and mouth. “The wife is due an outing, don’t you think?”

  Manny brushed off his thumb and folded her arms over her breasts. “Perhaps.”

  “When that happens, we’ll be ready.”

  “What about their security?”

  “Three officers can probably hold us off if they stay in the house.” He took a long pull on the beer bottle. “At least until backup is called in.” He ran his tongue along the edges of his teeth. “But not in the open.”

  She scooted closer to him. “Why does it have to be this way? Why not just kill Drake now? That would end the lawsuits against our benefactor, which is all Mrs. Willistone cares about. Then, once McMurtrie is released from the hospital—assuming he doesn’t die there—we take him out. When Haynes gets out of jail, we kill him too. Why not piecemeal the murders?”

  “Because this isn’t just about a payday for me, sweetheart. McMurtrie put me in prison. He hasn’t suffered near enough.” He took another sip of beer and peered at her. “You knew the ultimate endgame when you signed up for this mission. It was never just about the money.” He gazed up at the night sky. “We’re going to draw them out. McMurtrie, Drake, Haynes.” He counted them off with his fingers. “When we do, it’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  For a long moment, the only sound on the deck of the cabin was the subtle breeze blowing through the barren tree limbs. Then Manny whispered in his ear, “What if your instincts are wrong? What if we can’t bait the targets out?”

  JimBone held the beer to his lips but didn’t drink. He peered at his partner and finally gave a swift nod. “We’ll watch them for two days. If they haven’t given us an opportunity by Tuesday evening, then we’ll go with your idea and take them out one by one, starting with Drake.” He turned the bottle up and drank the last of the beer, tossing it in the grass with the other empties. “But, Manny girl, the Bone’s instincts are never wrong.”

  She leaned forward and brought a hand beneath the surface of the water, running her fingers down his thigh. “Do you ever think that maybe you underestimate McMurtrie?”

  JimBone again stared up at the sky, enjoying the feel of her touch. “I did before. But then, I was playing by other people’s rules.” He lowered his eyes to hers. “Now I’m playing by my own.”

  “Your turn?” she asked.

  “Sí,” he said, admiring her bronze body as she climbed on top of him. Then, thinking of the twenty-six months he’d spent on death row, the hell he’d brought on Tom McMurtrie in the past ten days, and how he would turn the heat up even higher very soon, he grinned with satisfaction, whispering under his breath, “My turn.”

  48

  At 6:45 p.m. on Sunday evening, the iron doors of the cell clanged open. “Alright, time to go,” a guard said.

  Bocephus Haynes sat on the concrete floor with his back propped against the cinder-block wall. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. He wore the orange jumpsuit they’d given him after he was booked ten days earlier.

  “Haynes, let’s go!”

  Bo looked up at the man with disdain, but using the wall for leverage, he climbed to his feet. “Who posted bond?” Bo asked.

  The guard ignored the question and gestured for Bo to walk ahead of him down the long corridor of cells. As they made their way to the exit, Bo heard catcalls from the other inmates and breathed in the stale scent of the place, knowing he must reek himself.

  He was brought inside a holding cell, and the guard tossed a laundry bag on the floor at Bo’s feet. “These are the only clothes we have for you.” He paused and put his hands on his hips. “Just knock when you’re ready.” The officer slammed the door shut.

  Bo trudged toward the sack, feeling his heartbeat begin to pick up as snapshots from the morning at the civic center invaded his mind.

  Jazz reaching her bloody fingers toward him, almost touching his own, crying his name before her head . . .

  Bo reached inside the sack and pulled out the button-down and jeans. His wife’s blood had caked into the front of the shirt and, over the course of the last week and a half, the fabric had turned a dark pink. He pressed the shirt to his nose and grimaced as the images overcame him.

  Jazz flying backward as a rifle shot sliced through her forehead . . .

  The sound of blood rushing to his ears and face as he shook his dead wife’s arms, trying in vain to will her back to life . . .

  Turning in a circle as an army of faceless officers converged on him . . .

  Bumping into the nearest car—an SUV of some kind—and beginning to beat his fists into the windshield until the s
ound of shattered glass peppered the air.

  Dropping to his knees as he ran his ruined knuckles through the stubble on his face and head, feeling the prickle of glass fragments dig into his skin . . .

  Gazing forward at his wife’s lifeless corpse as the faceless men put her body in a bag . . .

  And then . . . nothing.

  The next thing he could clearly remember was opening his eyes and sitting on the hard floor of a jail cell. According to the night shift guard, who had gotten his information from one of the deputies who had been standing next to Jazz at the time of the shooting, Bo had gone catatonic, not speaking and barely blinking as he was first taken to the hospital to have his injuries addressed and then brought to the jail. He was held overnight for observation and questioning related to his erratic behavior in the aftermath of the shooting. There were also reports from bystanders of an altercation with the victim just before she was murdered, where her dress was torn. The following morning, after he had failed to answer any questions, he was charged with criminal mischief and domestic violence.

  Bo hadn’t come out of his funk for seventy-two hours. The only thing he could decipher from those three days was the steady hum of Jazz’s voice playing in his mind, repeating her last words to him.

  “I hate you.”

  Over and over and over.

  “I hate you.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I hate you.”

  When he had finally regained some sense of self, he’d used his one phone call to dial his father-in-law, Ezra Henderson. Their conversation had been tense and brief. Ezra blamed Bo for his daughter’s death and said there was no way he was going to let the police drop the domestic violence charge, nor would he relinquish custody of T. J. and Lila. He also said that he had reported Bo to DHR. Finally, he said he didn’t want Bo at Jazz’s funeral, and that he’d have him arrested again if he tried to show up.

  Bo hadn’t argued as the old man ranted. When Ezra finished, Bo made his request. “Take care of my children, Ezra, and tell them I love them. Are there officers watching your house?”

  Ezra had said there were.