“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, wiping hot tears from his eyes. “I know you will.”
When he reached the kitchen, he gazed at his partner. “Are you ready to carry out the last act of this law firm?”
Rick nodded. “Yes, sir, I am.”
Tom glanced at the clock on the microwave. 1:55 p.m. Then he looked back at his partner. “Let’s roll.”
Five minutes later, at exactly 2:00 p.m., Tom McMurtrie and Rick Drake walked side by side down the long driveway toward Highway 231. Rick wore the same gray suit he’d worn the past thirty hours, covered with a black overcoat. Tom had changed into loose-fitting khaki cargo pants and a crimson sweater. As the temperature was now hovering in the low forties, he, too, wore his charcoal wool overcoat.
When they reached the highway, Rick gripped Tom by the triceps as they waited for a car to pass by. “You OK, Professor?”
“Never better,” Tom said as they crossed to the median and then to the other side.
85
At 2:05 p.m., the Calhoun jet landed at the Madison County Executive Airport, in Meridianville. Late, Kat thought, cursing her pilot for tying on a hangover the night before and showing up at Bevill Field thirty minutes late. Once the plane came to a stop on the runway, Chuck’s groggy voice blared over the loudspeaker. “We’re here, Ms. Willistone. Did you want to get off the plane to stretch your legs?”
“No, Chuck, I’m fine.”
“When will our guests arrive?”
“We need to be ready to take off at two thirty.”
“Roger that,” Chuck said.
Kat undid her seat belt and removed the bottle of champagne she’d had chilling in the plane’s minifridge. It wasn’t the good stuff, but it would do. Thinking she should probably wait until Mr. Wheeler and Ms. Reyes arrived to let them do the honors, Kat snorted.
“Screw it,” she said out loud, popping the cork on the bottle. “I need a drink.”
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They are on their way.
JimBone looked at the text he’d just received from Manny. He’d told her to notify him as soon as she saw McMurtrie and Drake walking down the driveway. From Manny’s handpicked perch, she could see a mile in all directions.
JimBone turned and lifted McMurtrie’s grandson off the bench and placed him in an equipment bag he’d found in the locker room. As the boy squirmed, trying to get loose, JimBone laughed and zipped the sack closed.
“Go time, kid.”
87
Once they’d crossed Highway 231, Tom and Rick had to walk approximately a quarter mile across a long parking lot that serviced both the gymnasium to the right and the football field in front of them. Tom walked as fast as he could, but he knew he was slowing them down.
“Time?” Tom asked.
“2:04,” Rick said. “Relax. We’re good.”
Tom’s heart continued to race and the dizziness returned. As did the cacophony of voices, led by the one from the tower.
Football is a game of eyes, movement, and contact.
I want you to be agile, mobile, and hostile.
Tom shook his head, and the dizziness worsened. Next play, Tommy. Ray Ray’s voice now. Right in his ear. Next play. Eyes and ears open. Head up.
“God help me,” Tom whispered.
“Professor?” Rick’s voice sounded far off and like it was coming through a filter.
“I’m OK, son. These steroids have just got me messed up.”
When Gabriel is busy, God sometimes sends Ray Ray.
Tom laughed and caught Rick’s concerned glance out of the corner of his eye.
“Almost there,” Tom said out loud, trying to talk away the voices.
And that’s why I believe that if we come together eleven at a time, why . . . in four years, we’ll walk out of here national champions.
Two hundred yards, Tom thought, seeing the stadium where he’d made All-State come into view.
And I’ll tell you this. I expect nothing less.
Next play, Tommy.
Agile.
Mobile.
Hostile.
Tom gasped and felt Rick’s arm around him. “Time?”
“2:08.”
One hundred yards now, Tom thought, forcing his eyes to remain as wide as possible as he saw the red-and-gray-colored Trojan soldier on the side of the stadium.
Eyes.
Movement.
Contact.
Fifty yards. Tom now dragged his feet along. “Time?”
“2:10, Professor. Just a little while longer.”
We got class. We’re going to show it.
The voice on the tower had faded somewhat, but Ray Ray’s was now louder. Next play, Forty-Nine.
Then another voice. One Tom hadn’t heard in decades. He would never forget Coach Bryant’s voice, but how could you with it blaring from the jumbotron at Bryant-Denny Stadium every Saturday? And he’d seen Ray Ray Pickalew just two years earlier. Their voices were distinct and unmistakable.
But so was this one. Quiet. Understated. The voice of a humble man who had raised a son who’d become an Alabama football player, a law professor, and an attorney. Tom’s father, Sutton Winslow McMurtrie, whom everyone called Sut.
We can do this.
Tom felt tears sting his eyes as he saw the people he had loved most in his life flash through his mind like a fast-moving projector.
We can do this.
Sut McMurtrie had fought at Bastogne under the worst of conditions. Many of his brothers-in-arms had died, but he had lived to marry the love of his life. Sut and Rene McMurtrie had wanted lots of children, but God had only given them one.
We can do this.
Twenty yards. “Time?” Tom croaked.
“2:12.”
We can do this.
Ten yards.
You can do this, son.
Five yards. The voice from the tower was back in his ear. Loud. Like an eighteen-wheeler speeding down a gravel road.
Eyes.
Movement.
Contact.
Tom reached out and put both hands on the side of the stadium and leaned into it, breathing heavily. His eyes blurred with tears and he wiped them clear. He turned to Rick Drake, whose face was tense, his eyes tight. The look reminded Tom of the way quarterback Pat Trammell used to peer at his teammates from inside the huddle.
“Time?” Tom asked.
“2:14,” Rick said.
Tom nodded toward a chain-link fence to the right. “There’s the gate,” he said, wrapping his arm around Rick and letting his partner help him to and through the entrance to Trojan Field.
Tom and Rick walked with purpose toward the sideline nearest them. When they reached it, Tom moved his eyes around the field, seeing nothing. “Time?”
“It’s 2:15, Professor.”
In his pocket, Tom’s phone began to ring.
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JimBone Wheeler relished the sound of the old man’s weak voice.
“Yeah.” McMurtrie answered the phone on the first ring.
“Walk out to the middle of the field and stand on the fifty-yard line.”
“OK.”
When both men began to head that way, JimBone snapped, “Just you, McMurtrie. Drake stays on the sideline.”
Fifteen seconds later, the old man reached midfield. “Where’s my grandson?” he asked.
JimBone closed his eyes and enjoyed the next few seconds more than any in his life. “Remember what I promised you?”
A ragged breath was the response on the other end of the line, followed by “Where’s my grandson?”
“Answer the question, McMurtrie. Do you remember what I promised you?”
“Yes.”
“Say it. Say the word.”
“A reckoning,” McMurtrie finally said, his tone haggard.
“Today’s the day,” JimBone said as two rifle shots lit up the air.
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Tom felt the air go out of his chest as the sound of gunfire rang out over the field. Involuntarily, h
e dropped to his knees. A trap, he thought, remembering how Helen had scolded him. I walked right into it.
“No!” a kid’s voice shouted.
Tom turned to the far sideline and saw his grandson running toward him.
“Papa!”
“Professor!” Rick Drake’s voice carried from behind him, followed by three more cracks from a high-powered rifle. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw his partner fall to the ground.
Tom tried to stand up but couldn’t move. He heard his grandson’s footfall and he looked up to see number forty-nine heading for him, tears streaming down the teenage boy’s face. “Papa!”
Tom reached for him and felt the boy’s arms envelop him.
Eyes.
Movement.
Contact.
Next play, Tommy.
Behind Jackson, Tom saw a shadow approaching. He held his grandson tight to his body and watched as the silhouette grew larger and then stood over him.
JimBone Wheeler grinned as he looked down on Tom and Jackson. The killer’s copper eyes glowed with equal parts fury and satisfaction as he placed the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun into Tom’s forehead. Then, chuckling, he moved the gun to the boy’s temple.
“No,” Tom gasped.
“Before I finish you off and send you to hell, McMurtrie, you’re going to watch your grandson die.”
With every bit of strength he had left in his body, Tom lunged for the weapon, catching the barrel with the palm of his hand and pressing up with all of his might.
Then a blast sounded in his ear so loud that the world began to spin. Tom glanced to his right and saw that Jackson was unharmed. The shot had missed.
JimBone Wheeler scowled at Tom and brought the butt of the shotgun down on his forehead.
“You stubborn fool,” the killer said. Then, standing, he pointed the gun at Jackson again.
Tom brought up his hands in a feeble attempt to protect the boy. He looked up into JimBone’s copper eyes and knew they’d be the last thing he’d see in this world.
But just before JimBone Wheeler could pull the trigger, the killer’s chest exploded.
And the sound of gunfire erupted on Trojan Field from every direction.
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Manny Reyes knew something had gone horribly wrong the second she heard gunshots that didn’t come from her rifle. Manny had been firing her sniper’s weapon from the press box of the stadium and now saw JimBone dropping his shotgun and keeling over.
Always quick to react, Manny didn’t wait around to see whether her partner would recover. She had to get to the truck, which was parked behind the football field a half mile away. Then she’d need to make it to the airfield in Meridianville. Manny glided out the exit to the press box toward the steps that would take her to the bottom. Holding her rifle with both hands, she was halfway down when she saw her path blocked by a sandy-haired man holding a pistol in one hand and a cane in the other. The man’s right eye was covered with a black patch.
“You’re under arrest, Ms. Reyes,” said Ambrose Powell Conrad.
Manny stopped and threw her rifle at the prosecutor, simultaneously reaching into the side of her pants for her Glock. She had grasped her hands around the handle when she felt the impact of a bullet hit her stomach. Manny dropped to her knees but still tried to raise her weapon. Then her shoulder popped as a bullet pierced her humerus. She fell over on her back, still managing to hold her Glock as the prosecutor’s heavy feet trudged up the steps. A second later, he was standing over her and pointing his weapon at her nose.
Mahalia Blessica Reyes decided in the next second that she didn’t want to go to prison. Looking up at the heavyset prosecutor, whose ruined eye was covered with cloth, she smiled. “You are an ugly man, señor,” she said, swinging the Glock around toward him.
Powell Conrad fired two bullets into Manny Reyes’s forehead before she ever got off a shot. As he watched the life go out of the killer’s hollow eyes, he lowered the gun to his side and knelt beside her, glaring at her dead face.
“Mama tried,” he whispered.
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Tom lay on top of Jackson, covering the boy, until the firing stopped. He had closed his eyes but now opened them. Jackson trembled below him and Tom patted his back. “It’s OK, son,” Tom said. “You’re OK.” He glanced to his right and saw JimBone Wheeler sprawled out on his back. The madman’s chest was covered in blood, but Tom could see that he was still gasping for air.
Sucking in a gust of oxygen, Tom crawled on his hands and knees toward him. When he got within a few inches, Tom saw JimBone’s mouth curve into a grin. “At least I got you and Drake, you son of a bitch.”
“Wrong, asshole,” Rick said, standing above them.
JimBone’s eyes darted toward Rick. He opened his mouth but no words came out as Rick unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a bulletproof vest. On the ground below him, Tom did the same.
Bill Davis had brought more than guns and ammo.
“You were wrong about something else, you bastard,” Rick said, his voice rising, as he squatted in front of the killer. “You didn’t get your reckoning. I did.” Rick paused and Tom heard the emotion in the boy’s voice. “You killed my father. You hired Manny Reyes to run him off the road.” Rick paused and lowered his mouth to JimBone’s. “Today is the day that I balance the scales.”
For a long moment, the killer gazed wide-eyed at Rick. “Is that what you think, boy?” He glanced at Tom. “Did you tell him that, McMurtrie?”
“It’s what you told me at the prison,” the Professor said. “That Billy Drake was just an appetizer before the main course.”
JimBone blinked his eyes and coughed. Blood began to run out of his mouth and ears, but he was now smiling. Then he laughed long and hard before abruptly stopping and piercing Rick with a glare. “I lied. I don’t know who killed your father, Drake. Hell, it could have just been an accident for all I know.” He laughed harder. “Even in death the Bone gets the last laugh.”
Rick Drake took several steps backward, finally dropping to his knees, as JimBone turned his attention to Tom. “I was just trying to get your attention, old man. And I got it, didn’t I?” He licked his lips. “I can’t take credit for Billy Drake, but I can for your detective buddy, Wade Richey. And the nigger’s wife, Jasmine. And Santonio Jennings. And let’s not forget your old friend Ray Ray Pickalew.” JimBone laughed again as blood continued to pour out of him.
Next play, Tommy.
Tom heard the voice of his friend in his ear and he glared at the killer. Then, crawling forward until he was an inch from the other man, Tom spoke in a low growl. “You failed. You killed all of those people trying to get to me, and you failed. Cancer . . . might kill me one day,” Tom said, speaking through clenched teeth, “but not you.”
JimBone Wheeler’s laughter eased and his mouth tightened. He reached a hand for Tom, and just as fast it fell limp to the ground. Seconds later, his face went blank as he breathed his last.
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“Is he dead, Papa?” Jackson asked, walking over to Tom.
Putting his arm around the boy, Tom nodded. “Yeah, son. He is.”
“I’m glad.”
“Me too.”
Jackson looked around Tom to Rick, who was now sitting Indian style on the fifty-yard line. “Is he OK?” the boy asked.
Tom peered at Rick, feeling his heart ache for him. “He’s in shock.”
Tom heard movement behind his partner. He looked up to see Powell Conrad limping toward him, wearing a black patch over his right eye.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Tom managed as Powell came within a few feet. “You kinda look like Rooster Cogburn.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Powell said.
“When did you get here?”
“A couple minutes after you and Rick began Pickett’s Charge.”
“Where is everyone else?”
Powell nodded to the north, where Bocephus Haynes was walking as fast as his limp could take hi
m, with Bill Davis following behind. Out in front of both of them was Tommy, who ran to Jackson and picked him off the ground. Then father and son cried in each other’s arms.
When Bo finally arrived, Tom stuck his hand out, and his friend pulled him up and into a bear hug, which caused Tom to yelp in pain.
“Sorry, dog.”
“It’s OK. Thank you.” Tom turned to all of them. Powell, Bo, Dr. Davis, and Tommy. “How’d you do it?”
“The tunnel came out about fifty yards to the north of the stadium,” Bo said. “When we climbed out, we first had to deal with a Mexican fella that was apparently a lookout for JimBone and Manny. He was stationed on the roof of the field house with binoculars. Dude was so focused on the highway, he didn’t pay enough attention to what was happening right next to him. Tommy snuck up behind him and grabbed his arms, and Powell handcuffed him to the ladder.” Bo rubbed his beard and nodded at Tommy McMurtrie, who still had Jackson gripped in a bear hug. “You’d’ve been proud of your boy, Professor. Once that was done and we saw you, the three of us”—Bo pointed at Tommy, Bill, and himself—“took stances around the north and east sides of the stadium, and Powell covered the west.” He paused and glanced at Powell. “Was Manny in the press box like we thought?”
The prosecutor grunted. “Now she’s in hell.”
Tom let out a ragged breath. “And then the rest of you took down Wheeler?”
Bo shook his head. “No. We didn’t have the best view from the north and east. You and Jackson’s bodies were in the way. We provided cover . . . but we didn’t kill him.”
Tom creased his eyebrows. “Who did then?”
“The person covering the south end,” Bo said, pointing.
Tom turned and saw a figure leaning against the goalpost. The person wore a black fleece sweat suit and a black cap. It wasn’t until she started striding toward him that Tom recognized her.
General Helen Evangeline Lewis walked with a rifle strapped to her shoulder. When she got within a few feet, she removed her hat and gave Tom a wry grin. “I thought it was time the law showed up.”
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 29
