“Our mutual friend said that no one here would have any idea who I was. He said that wasn’t possible, and besides, even if someone here did know me, there was no other way to get his message to you. He lost his phone.”
Dr. Curtis stopped pacing and placed his hands on his hips. “Well, they are onto you, sweetheart. I don’t know how, but they are.” He sighed. “What’s the message?”
“That he is alive and ready to finish the game.”
“That’s it?” Curtis said.
“Yes. He said you would be pleased.”
Curtis brushed a lock of silver hair out of his eyes and began to pace again. “I am . . . I guess.” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes. Thinking of something, George quickly walked to the front of the office. When he saw the visitor list, he put his face in his hands. “You gave her your name!” George screamed, finally coming undone. “How stupid are you? You gave her your goddamn name!”
“Like I said”—the woman did not raise her voice—“our friend told me that no one here would have any idea who I was.”
George surveyed the visitor’s list. “Martha Booher” was written in Dabsey’s hand about midway down. Dabsey always insisted on writing the guest names herself so that she’d be able to read them when she called visitors back to see George.
Damnit, George thought. Dabsey wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, so maybe she wouldn’t pick up on it. Or maybe she already had . . .
“How did you get here?” George asked.
“The bus. I took a bus from Ethridge at eight this morning.”
George looked at his watch. It was twelve thirty. Dabsey would be back in a half hour.
“I was planning to take the bus back to Ethridge at five,” Martha offered.
“That’s too risky,” George said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “If no one recognized you walking from the bus station to here, they might when you walk back.”
He led her by the arm to the front of the office and looked through the blinds, seeing no one coming and no cars on the roadway. There were also no cars in any of the nearby driveways, except the dentist office that was caddy-corner, and he doubted any of the patients there would take notice. Quickly, he thrust the keys into Martha’s hand. “Listen, my house is two doors down from the office on the same side of the road. 1404 is the house number. As casual as you can, I want you to walk to my house and use this key”—he pointed to a large gold one—“to open my front door. Got it?”
She nodded.
“Lock the door behind you and don’t turn on any lights. Feel free to eat whatever you like from the fridge. Just don’t do anything that would draw attention to the house. OK?”
Again, Martha nodded.
“I should be over there a little after six, and we can come up with a plan for getting you home then. Got it?”
“Yes, I—”
“Go,” George said, pushing her toward the front door.
George watched Martha walk down the sidewalk and up the front walk to his home, his heart racing the entire time. Once she was inside, he slowly exhaled. Then he grabbed the phone and dialed the number.
Before the person on the other end of the line could even say hello, George was talking into the receiver, making no effort to hide the panic in his voice.
“We have a problem.”
46
Michael Capshaw was a patent lawyer in Birmingham at one of the largest firms in the state. Five years ago, after the kids had both graduated from college, Michael finally bought his wife and himself something he’d wanted his whole life.
A two-bedroom condo on the Gulf.
He had long been fond of Holiday Isle in Destin, having had several colleagues buy in the area, and the private-only complex on Gulf Shore Drive was exactly what he’d always wanted. Since in addition to a spacious parking lot the condominium provided a one-car garage for each owner, Michael had decided he wanted to leave wheels at the condo at all times. That way he and Lisa could fly down on a whim if they so desired and would have a car to drive when they arrived.
He’d bought the crimson Porsche a year after closing on the condo.
Michael also had his own plane, a twin-engine Cessna, and he and Lisa boarded it on Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m. They landed at the Fort Walton airport by 4:30, and a cab dropped them off in front of the condo at five.
Knowing a trip to the grocery store was in order—it had been over a month since they’d been to the condo—and secretly wanting any excuse to take the Porsche for a spin, Michael walked down the aisle of cars with Lisa until they reached the parking spot. Frowning, he looked to his left and right, making sure he was in the right place.
“Honey, where’s the car?” Lisa asked.
When Michael opened the storage unit and noticed that the key chain on the side hook was gone, he knew he had an answer to his wife’s question.
“It’s gone,” he said, already pushing the buttons for 911 on his phone.
47
The Sleepy Head Inn was not Lawrenceburg’s finest hotel. Not by any stretch. But Bone had done the owner a favor a few years back and in return been granted a free room for the rest of his life. As there were no security cameras in the place, it made for a good arrangement.
Rarely did Bone trade his services for anything but money, but a place to stay when he ran into a snag was a valuable commodity. And like several times in the past, it was paying dividends tonight.
There were twelve rooms at The Sleepy Head, and all were decorated with the same decor. Queen-size bed, an archaic desk with a wobbly chair, and a bathroom. All units were saturated with the smell of lemon disinfectant.
Bone sat in the chair, watching Dr. George Curtis, who stood by the door. He was a thin man with pale skin and soft and pasty features. He wore glasses, and his hair was balding on top with a thin layer of silver on the sides. Dressed casually in jeans and a golf shirt, the doctor looked awkward and nervous. Adding to this impression was the fact that George’s hands were shaking so bad that he had to grab his left with his right every few seconds.
“Doctor, it is nice to finally meet you. Larry speaks highly of you.”
“L-L-Larry shouldn’t have spoken of me at all,” George said.
Bone shrugged. “Well, maybe he didn’t. I can’t remember what I hear and don’t hear anymore.” He paused. “Tell me what happened.”
George pointed toward the bathroom, where the door was closed and the sound of running water could be heard. “Sssh . . . she showed up this morning, asking to see me. She talked to my receptionist, and Dabsey wrote her name down on the guest list.” George paused, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. “The police have been going by stores and offices, showing her picture and telling us all to be on the lookout for a lady named Martha Booher. If my receptionist wasn’t overworked and ditzy as hell, I’m sure she would’ve caught it. She didn’t mention anything today, but I won’t be surprised if it eventually hits her.” George rubbed his eyes, which Bone noticed were bloodshot from either stress or sleep deprivation. Probably both, he surmised, stifling a smile. George Curtis was clearly not someone who had spent a lot of time talking to people like the Bone.
“Anyway,” George continued, “Martha hid at my house the rest of the day, which luckily is just a couple doors down from the office. Once it was dark and most of the lights were out on the street, we headed this way.”
“Do you know how Martha got on the police radar?” Bone asked, thinking he knew the answer but wanting confirmation.
George shook his head. “No. But they’ve been passing her name and picture around for a few weeks.” He swallowed. “They’ve also been passing around your name and picture.”
Bone smiled. “Does mine look like this?” he asked, gesturing at himself with two thumbs.
George shook his head. “No. You have hair in the photograph. And you look younger in the picture.” When his right hand began to shake again, Curtis clasped it with his left and took a deep breath. “Mr. Whee
ler, I think it’s time to call everything off. Things have gotten . . .” He swallowed again, staring down at the green vinyl carpet. Bone again stifled a smile. “Out of control. The police are so close now, I think it may be time to abort the mission.”
Bone slowly shook his head. “I’m not going to abort. I’ve come too far and expended too much energy.”
George shook his head violently, stepping closer to Bone. He almost sat on the bed, then hesitated and remained standing. “Bo is going down anyway, Mr. Wheeler. Helen Lewis is going to convict him of capital murder, and he’ll eventually be lethally injected in a few years. You were just an insurance policy, and I think it’s time we abort.”
“No can do, Doc,” Bone said, standing from the chair. “Bocephus Haynes has cost me a lot of money over the last fourteen months, and he’s going down. And with any luck I’m going to kill his lawyers. Drake and McMurtrie. I owe them one too.”
“Mr. Wheeler, you are a contract killer. We hired you. You work for us, and I’m telling you to abort.”
“Wrong, Doc. The Bone works for himself, and you agreed to pay me for something I was planning to do anyway. I am not going to walk away.” He paused and pulled his .38 out of his waist and pointed it at George Curtis. “Now . . . you can help me finish the game we started, or”—he cocked the pistol—“you can see what’s at the other end of this barrel.”
The bathroom door squeaked open, and Martha Booher stepped out. George’s eyes, wild with fear, glanced at her and held as she walked past Bone and lay on the bed. She was naked. “Doctor,” she said, “I believe I would like that physical now.”
“I’d like to go,” George said, turning back to Bone.
“Not before we come up with a plan,” Bone said. “I can’t take Haynes while he’s sitting in a jail cell, and it’s too risky to follow him, because he’ll likely have a police escort to the courthouse and anywhere else he’s taken over the weekend or during trial. I can’t risk being seen downtown either, as while that photo isn’t great, it’s good enough that someone might make the connection. Plus Pulaski is a small town, and I’m a stranger.” Bone paused. “Any ideas, Doc?”
“Abort,” George said, the words coming out just above a whisper. Martha Booher scooted to the edge of the bed and put her hands on George’s belt buckle. Slowly, she undid the loop. “What are you . . . ?” he started to protest, but he felt the cold steel of Bone’s pistol on his forehead.”
“Just leave Martha be and answer the question, Doc,” Bone said as Martha Booher undid George’s belt and the button on his pants.
“I . . . I . . .” George fumbled for the words as his pants and underwear dropped to the floor.
Martha grabbed hold of George’s stiffening penis, and Curtis closed his eyes, now dizzy.
“Thank you so much for working me in at lunch today, Dr. Curtis. I’m sorry I couldn’t pay, but I hope this will in some way make up for it.”
As the feel of Martha’s fingers was replaced by her mouth, moist and wet as it moved back and forth, George’s knees became weak, and Martha had him sit on the bed as she continued her work.
“Dr. Curtis, is this how you treat all your patients who don’t have insurance?” she asked.
George’s eyes shot open at the sound of the word “insurance,” and the sight in front of him almost made him puke. Bone continued to hold the gun, but in his other hand was a small phone with the camera lens pointed right at the doctor.
“No!” George shot up off the bed, but Bone stepped forward and pressed the gun again into the doctor’s forehead. Bone smiled and began talking in a television news anchor voice.
“Dr. George Curtis, longtime family physician in Pulaski, Tennessee was arrested today on charges of assault and battery and third-degree rape as a tape surfaced of him trading medical services for sexual favors. Dr. Curtis is under investigation by the Tennessee Board of Medical Examiners, and it is believed that he may lose his medical license. His reputation, once pristine, is now beyond repair.”
“You son of a bitch,” George said as Martha walked back into the bathroom and closed the door.
“And then some,” Bone said. “Now, I want you to tell me how I can get close enough to Bocephus Haynes to put a bullet in his brain.”
“It’s impossible,” George managed, fumbling for his underwear and his pants. “You said it yourself.”
“Think, Doc. Come on. How can I get close to Haynes and not be seen?”
George blinked when it hit him, and Bone smiled. “You already know,” George said.
“That I do, Doc. It came to me when I was listening to the news about the trial on the way here. But I wanted you to come to it on your own.”
“You can get close, and you’ll never be seen. It’s—”
“Perfect,” Bone said, completing the thought. “However, I will need one thing from you to make it work.”
“I’ll get it,” George said. “I’ll give it to you in return for the video you just recorded.”
“Deal,” Bone said, extending his hand.
George Curtis’s body trembled with a mixture of fear and relief, but he managed to shake Bone’s hand. “Deal.”
48
By the time the Giles County Courthouse opened for business at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning, the square was covered in white. At least three hundred members of the Ku Klux Klan surrounded the courthouse, all wearing white robes and hoods. Many held signs saying “Justice for Andy Walton,” or the shortened “Justice.”
Inside Reeves Drug Store, Emma Jean Waites could hardly believe her eyes. She had lived in Pulaski all her life, long enough to have seen Klan rallies that were organized and well attended. Most of those rallies had centered around some kind of Confederate or Klan tradition. For a few years there was one on General Nathan Bedford Forrest’s birthday in July. Forrest had been the first Grand Wizard of the Klan. In other years the Klan had marched on General Robert E. Lee’s birthday in January. Emma Jean couldn’t remember a time the Klan had rallied in front of the courthouse during a trial. If they had, it was nothing like this.
“Kinda reminds me of that Grisham book A Time to Kill,” she said out loud.
“Me too,” a voice came from beside her. “At least they’re not chanting ‘Fry Bo.’”
Emma Jean turned to the voice. “Why hi there, Dabsey. Where’s Dr. Curtis today?”
“He’s not seeing patients this week, so he sent me to drop off the prescriptions. I think he wanted to avoid this circus too.”
Emma Jean nodded and turned back to the window. “Don’t blame him. It’s got to be hard. Is he going to watch the trial?”
Dabsey shook her head. “Can’t. He’s been subpoenaed as a witness. Witnesses are excluded from the courtroom.”
“Really?” Emma Jean asked, again turning to look at Dabsey. For the first time Emma Jean noticed that Dabsey appeared distressed about something. Her brow was furrowed, and she seemed lost in thought.
“Yep,” Dabsey said, still watching the Klansmen through the window.
“Hey, you OK, girl?” Emma Jean asked. “You look pale.”
“Fine,” Dabsey said. “Just a little spooked by this. Normally, when the Klan does their marches I try to stay out of downtown.”
“We all do,” Emma Jean agreed. “But those rallies are usually one-day ordeals. This thing may last a week. We can’t just shut the town down for a week.”
“You’re right,” Dabsey agreed, still watching through the window. She was holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee, but she had yet to take a sip.
“You sure you’re OK?” Emma Jean asked.
“I’m fine, Emma Jean,” Dabsey said, drinking from the cup. She took too big a sip and almost cried out as the scalding coffee hit the back of her throat. Coughing, she began to walk toward the door. “I have to get back to the office now.”
Before Emma Jean could say anything more, Dabsey was out the door and on the sidewalk. Dr. Curtis’s practice was on East Jefferson, just a block away,
so Emma Jean expected to see the receptionist take off in that direction.
But Dabsey didn’t walk toward Curtis Family Medicine. Instead, she turned down First Street.
Where is she going? Emma Jean wondered. Then, feeling an intuitive nudge, Emma Jean whispered the words she was thinking out loud. “Something is wrong.”
Dabsey Johnson felt her heart beating hard in her chest. Something had been bothering her all weekend, but she hadn’t known what it was until thirty minutes ago. At fifty-eight years old, Dabsey was having more and more senior moments, where she forgot what she was about to say or couldn’t remember what she’d done the day before. Something about last Friday had bothered her, but she hadn’t figured it out until she arrived at work that morning.
When she looked at the sign-in sheets, she noticed that Friday’s page was gone. In fact, it appeared that Dr. Curtis had replaced the entire sign-in booklet with a clean one. Which made no sense. The sign-in booklets contained forty pages and were typically thrown out monthly or when they ran out of pages. There had still been a number of pages left to work with for September, but Dr. Curtis had thrown the whole thing out.
Then it came to her. The walk-in, she thought, remembering the woman who had come to the office Friday morning. Dabsey had written the name down, and something about it had seemed familiar. Martha . . . Martha something. She had forgotten about it then, because the morning had been so busy. It was cold season, which meant Dr. Curtis’s office was crawling with patients, most of them young mothers whose kids were in kindergarten or preschool. Dr. Curtis had said he would work the woman in at lunch, but by the time Dabsey had come back after a sandwich at Reeves Drug Store, she was gone. When she had asked Dr. Curtis about the woman, he had just shrugged and said he didn’t have room for another patient.
So why hadn’t he told her that when she had first walked in the door? Dabsey had figured it was because the woman was attractive. Though Dr. Curtis was a lifelong bachelor, there was never any doubt, at least not for Dabsey, that he was heterosexual. She saw the way he admired women’s backsides when they left the office, or the way he would glance down their cleavage when he was doing an examination. The woman from Friday had been attractive. She could see Dr. Curtis at least wanting to talk to her before he showed her the door. So why had it bothered her all weekend?
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