Law kept his mouth shut and his eyes on Rick.
“Say something.”
“OK,” Law said. “I will. Rel Jennings didn’t want me to testify in your case.”
Rick wrinkled up his face. “What? Why else would he be coming down here?”
A tight smile played on Law’s face. “Rel was interested in something more than just winning Alvie’s case. He wanted to find Manny Reyes.”
Rick flung his hands up in the air and walked away. “Well, so do I. But she’s a trained killer and she’s been just a little bit difficult to find.”
“I know where she is.”
The words made the hairs on both of Rick’s arms stand on end. “What?”
“At least . . . I think I know.”
Rick cocked his head at the former sheriff, waiting.
“Remember my cabin? When I told Bully I was going to retire as sheriff, he said he didn’t want to lose his safe house for meth deals.”
Rick felt a tickle in his brain as the pieces of the puzzle began to fit in their proper places. “So what did you do?”
“I sold it.”
“To who?” But Rick thought he already knew.
“Who else? The man who took my place,” Law said, spitting tobacco juice on the grass. His mouth curved into a grin, but his eyes remained cold as ice. “Mr. DeWayne Patterson, the high sheriff of Walker County, Alabama.”
64
It was all Rick could do not to run back to Law’s car, but he forced himself to walk alongside the older man. “Where’s the cabin?” Rick asked.
“It’s along the Flint River in Maysville, Alabama.”
“Where is that?”
“About five miles east of Huntsville. Bully liked the location because it was between Jasper, where he lived, and Sand Mountain, where his primary distributors were.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Because I didn’t want to expose myself. Bully obviously knew that I knew about the cabin. Hell, it was mine.”
“Why not say something after Bully was killed?”
“I really wasn’t sure Manny would be there. It seemed like a long shot, and I didn’t want to open myself up to any kind of investigation of my time as sheriff.”
“Why now then?”
Law sighed as they reached his pickup truck. “Because even though the bastard blackmailed me, Rel Jennings was otherwise honest and fair. He came here five times asking for information about Manny Reyes, but he never threatened to tell anyone about my . . . orientation even though I knew he was desperate to find his brother’s killer.”
“Don’t make him out to be a saint,” Rick snapped. “You weren’t the sheriff anymore. You basically said yourself that no one here cares who you sleep with.”
Law shrugged in reluctant agreement.
“Why now, Law?”
“Because of the fugitive,” Law finally said, piercing Rick with his gray eyes. “Wheeler would need a safe place to stay if he wasn’t fleeing the country. And based on the shootings I’ve heard about on the news, he appears to be sticking around.”
“So you think your old cabin is where they are.”
“It’s the perfect setup. Central to every place they’ve hit. Two and a half hours from Tuscaloosa. Two hours from Jasper. Fifteen minutes from downtown Huntsville.”
As they climbed in the truck, Rick nodded his agreement, feeling a jolt of adrenaline and fear shoot through his veins. “You really think that’s where they are?”
“I’d bet a gold nickel on it,” Law said, cranking the ignition.
“Then that would make Sheriff Patterson an accomplice to multiple felonies.”
“Yes, it would.”
The truck lunged forward onto Magnolia Avenue. “That seems hard to believe.”
Lawson Snow laughed. “Not to me.”
65
Fifteen minutes later, Rick Drake was on I-85 headed toward Montgomery. When he hit the state capital, he’d take Highway 82 to Tuscaloosa. Though his heart yearned to see his mother and Henshaw was on the way, he knew it was too late and he didn’t have time. He needed to see Powell.
He looked at the time on the dash. It was almost midnight. His conversation with Lawson Snow, counting dinner at Momma Goldberg’s, had taken almost two hours.
Then he gazed at the folded sheet of paper he’d placed in the passenger seat. Law had given it to him when he’d dropped Rick off at Toomer’s Corner. “The address for the cabin,” Law said.
“Thank you,” Rick said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Don’t get yourself killed, kid,” Law said, and then he pulled away before Rick could answer.
Now, as Rick passed a green sign saying “Montgomery. 30 MILES,” he picked up his cell phone and set the piece of paper in his lap, unfolding it so that he could read the listing.
If these were normal times, he’d call Powell or Wade with this news. Powell was a district attorney and Wade was a homicide detective. Either of them could have made some calls and gotten some officers out to DeWayne Patterson’s place on the Flint River.
But these aren’t normal times. Wade was dead, and Powell was in critical condition at Druid City Hospital. Thinking it through, Rick knew he only had one choice.
And it’s probably the best option of all of them. Keeping one eye on the road and the other on his phone, he thumbed through his contacts until he found the number. He looked at the dash. 12:00 a.m. on the dot. Rick clicked on the name that lit up his screen.
His call was answered on the first ring.
“Please tell me you have some good news.” The voice was sharp, alert, and on edge.
“General, are you OK? What—?”
Rick heard several short breaths and then Helen Lewis’s voice crackled through again. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Tom’s grandson, Jackson, was kidnapped tonight at Tommy and Nancy McMurtrie’s home in Huntsville. Two of the three security officers guarding the house were shot and killed and the other one died in the fire.”
“The fire?”
“Yeah,” Helen said. “The bastards burned the house too.”
“Oh my God,” Rick said, envisioning thirteen-year-old Jackson McMurtrie in his mind.
“Where the hell are you?” Helen asked.
“I’ve been in Auburn, General. Chasing a lead.”
For several seconds, there was silence. Then, in a calmer tone, General Lewis asked, “Well, you called me, Drake. Whatcha got?”
“I know where they are,” Rick said. “Wheeler, Manny, Jackson. All of them.” He glanced down at the sheet of paper Lawson Snow had given him and read the address to the General. Then, for the next five minutes, he summarized his conversation with the former sheriff of Walker County in the shadow of Jordan-Hare Stadium.
“It’s ingenious,” Helen finally said after several seconds of silence.
“It’s more than that,” Rick said, remembering how Law had described the cabin. “It’s perfect.”
66
When Rick reached the turnoff for Highway 82, he hesitated, but he didn’t turn his blinker on. Powell would understand, he knew. He’d do the same thing, Rick thought. Finding the Professor’s grandson is the priority now. Rick doubted he’d get back to Huntsville in time for the raid of the cabin, but he wanted to be there as soon as he could.
Despite the late hour, he decided to call Sandra Conrad to let her know his plans had changed.
Unlike with the General, this time the phone rang seven times before it was answered. Rick was about to hang up when the call was finally picked up.
“Hey, brother.” The voice was so weak that Rick could barely hear it.
“Powell?”
“Momma’s asleep. So was I, but her damn ringtone is so loud it woke me up.”
“Sorry,” Rick said. “It’s good to hear your voice, man. I thought . . .” Rick’s voice began to shake, and the fatigue and emotion took over.
“I know,
” Powell said. “But I’m on the other side now. They’ve upgraded me to fair and I should be in a room tomorrow. I’m going to make it.”
“Your mom said you needed to see me.”
“Yeah,” Powell said, and the volume of his voice, if Rick wasn’t mistaken, had risen ever so slightly. “Before I was shot, I remember seeing a cop car coming down Eighth Avenue. I figured it was a police escort.”
“Makes sense that Wade would line that up.”
“It does, but he didn’t.” Powell coughed, and Rick held the phone away from his ear until the fit ended. “After I was shot, I crawled across the porch and tried to talk to Wade before he died.”
Rick again felt heat behind his eyes and could hear the anguish in his friend’s weak voice. “What did he say?”
“A lot, but my ears were ringing so bad all I caught were his last two words.”
“What were they?”
“Mama tried.”
Rick gripped the wheel and thought of his friend Wade Richey, who’d saved his life outside the Boathouse Oyster Bar, in Destin, Florida, during the investigation of Bo’s case two years earlier. “Fitting,” he managed.
Powell grunted. “I couldn’t hear him say anything else, but Wade wrote something in blood on the porch before he died. My brain’s been a little scrambled since I’ve been at the hospital, but earlier this morning I remembered the message.”
Rick shivered at the image of the old detective writing something in his own blood just before death took him. “What, Powell?”
“W . . . C . . . S . . . O.”
“What?”
“W . . . C . . . S . . . O,” Powell repeated. “Do you get it?” The question was snapped out in Powell’s ultraintense tone, and Rick squeezed the wheel again as the last piece to the puzzle slid into its slot.
“Walker County Sheriff’s Office,” Rick said, snapping his fingers and knowing Lawson Snow’s golden nickel was safe.
“Powell, have you told anyone?”
Coughing on the other end of the line before Powell’s voice blared through, seemingly growing stronger with each word. “I told our sheriff about three hours ago.”
“And?”
“And he’s about to unleash the hounds of hell on DeWayne Patterson.”
67
JimBone Wheeler knew something was wrong the second he saw the sheriff’s Tahoe pulling up the driveway. It was just past midnight, and JimBone was sitting in the living area that faced the road, thinking through the last piece of his plan to balance the scales, once and for all, with Tom McMurtrie. The kidnapping of the old man’s grandson couldn’t have gone any better. He now had the bait that would draw them out.
“Manny, is the kid still out?” he asked.
From the back of the cabin, Manny yelled, “Yeah. That Dilaudid shot ought to keep him down for four or five hours.” Her tone changed as she entered the small sitting room. “What is he doing here?” she asked, her voice a combination of irritation and surprise.
They watched as the sheriff parked out front and hopped out of the truck, walking toward the house with a lean. He appeared to have something on his face, but JimBone couldn’t make it out. Manny got to the door just as DeWayne was about to knock.
“Sheriff,” she said, ushering him in with her right hand, “is that a nose guard you’re wearing?”
“Where is he?” DeWayne asked, ignoring her question and adjusting the splinted contraption that covered his face. The panic in the man’s voice was obvious.
“I’m right here, DeWayne,” JimBone said, forming a tent with his hands and swaying back and forth in the rocking chair. He peered at the lawman for a few seconds and then focused his eyes on the window. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you? And why do you look like someone beat the hell out of you?”
DeWayne swallowed. From a foot away, the sheriff’s breath and clothes smelled sour, and JimBone wondered how many times DeWayne had vomited and pissed his britches so far that day. “Kathryn Calhoun Willistone broke my nose,” DeWayne said, his voice haggard. “She was”—he sighed—“pretty upset that you veered off script and didn’t kill Drake and Twitty.”
JimBone smirked. “I told you to give her my reasoning.”
“I did, but not before she lost her temper,” DeWayne said, pointing at the fiberglass contraption that covered his face.
JimBone finally returned his gaze to the sheriff, whose face was a pasty pale underneath the nose guard. “Looks like Kat inherited her father’s lack of patience.” Then he leaned forward in the rocker. “Why the hell are you here, DeWayne?”
The sheriff sucked in a quick breath. “Because that prosecutor . . . Conrad . . .”
“What about him?”
“He woke up. You shot him four times, but the stubborn fool is still alive.”
JimBone shrugged. “So what? So he’s alive. I doubt he’s going to be turning any cartwheels soon.”
“He remembers seeing our police car.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” JimBone scowled up at the lawman. “Your cruisers look almost identical to the ones in Tuscaloosa. There’s no way.” JimBone licked his lips. “Besides, Conrad had his back to us when he walked up the detective’s driveway, and he was behind Richey when the bullets started flying.”
DeWayne Patterson took a step closer and squatted so that he was eye to eye with JimBone. “It wasn’t Conrad who saw. The detective was looking right at us when you shot him.” DeWayne exhaled, and the pungent odor of bile wafted into JimBone’s nostrils, causing the killer’s eyes to water. “He wrote Conrad a message in his own blood before he died.”
JimBone’s head flew back and he howled in laughter. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“W . . . C . . . S . . . O.”
JimBone squinted at him. “Stop talking in tongues, boy. What are you saying?” But JimBone finally believed he understood. That tough son of a bitch, he thought, remembering the dead detective’s uncanny resemblance to Sam Elliott.
“Those are the letters on the squad car,” DeWayne said, leaning closer. Now the smell of vomit and urine was too much for JimBone to bear. “They stand for—”
JimBone grabbed the sheriff by the throat.
“It . . . wasn’t . . . my . . . fault,” the sheriff said, speaking with great effort as his throat constricted.
JimBone released his grip and the sheriff fell to the floor, sprawling over on his back and gasping for breath. When he had gathered himself enough to sit up, he gazed at JimBone with terrified eyes.
“How did you learn all of this?” JimBone asked, looking down on DeWayne with disdain. “If true, I would have figured that the police in Tuscaloosa would have wanted to be stealthy about it and not mention anything until they could talk with you.” He paused. “And there are a lot of deputies in your department, DeWayne, with the identical cruiser that you drive. If they did come, it seems like you could have deflected them by saying you would investigate the matter yourself.”
DeWayne blinked up at him. “I have a mole over in the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office. He called me about three hours ago saying that Sheriff Crowe was headed my way with a posse of patrol cars.” He sighed and shook his head. “And my guys were already getting suspicious of me after the shooting on the square last week. That crazy Mexican didn’t kill anyone in the basement because Rel Jennings showed up and redirected Drake. But the bastard fired a couple shots at the exit door before the attorney passed through it.” DeWayne rubbed his neck, which was red and raw from JimBone choking him. “Let’s just say my second-in-command, Roger Hillis, thought it was weird that I would direct Drake and the Jennings family to an exit where someone fired a gun seconds after they should have left the building.” He paused and ran a hand over the splint covering his face. “And my broken nose has only cast further doubt on me.”
JimBone glared at the weak man. He’d always known that the sheriff
’s safe house here on the banks of the Flint River, which was less than twenty miles from Tom McMurtrie’s farm in Hazel Green, was too good to be true. “So you ran?” JimBone asked.
DeWayne gazed at the hardwood floor. “I didn’t think I had a choice, and I wanted to warn you in case someone made the connection about the cabin.”
“Bullshit,” JimBone said, standing from the rocker and hovering over the other man. “You panicked, DeWayne. You should’ve stayed put and faced the fire. If you’ve followed my instructions, there should be nothing that anyone could have on you that would directly link you to me.”
“You’re staying at my cabin.”
JimBone smiled. “It was Lawson Snow’s place before yours, and Manny already had a key. You could have talked your way around that and blamed the whole thing on your predecessor.” He paused. “If you had one brain cell.”
“I had no choice,” DeWayne whined.
“Neither do I,” JimBone said, reaching down and grabbing the small man and pulling him up by the crotch.
The sheriff squealed in pain and, when JimBone let go, he felt moisture on his fingers. “Do you just have a continual stream of piss flowing down your leg?”
DeWayne didn’t answer. “I made a recording,” he finally blurted. “The other night, when I spoke with Kat. She was so riled that you didn’t kill the people you were supposed to kill.” The sheriff paused and reached into his pocket, bringing out a thumb drive. “Here, take a listen. I’ve got another copy of it saved in a safe place.”
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 24
