He cut off the thought and shooed Nancy into the passenger seat of his son’s SUV while Tommy put his shotgun in the back hatch. Once they were all inside the vehicle, Tom handed his son the nine-millimeter handgun, and Tommy stuck the weapon in the side of his jeans. Tom spoke softly through the open window.
“You’ll be escorted home by Officer Satterfeal.” Tom pointed to the closest sedan. “And there are deputies from the Huntsville Police Department and Madison County Sheriff’s Office stationed outside your home.”
Tommy nodded his understanding.
“No school tomorrow for the kids, OK?”
“OK, Dad. We’ve already discussed—”
“I know we have,” Tom snapped. “But I want to say it again. No school for the kids. You handle your morning surgery—one of the officers will drive you to and from the hospital. Once you’re back home, you stay put. And outside of the operating room, you keep that pistol on you at all times.” He pointed at the gun and coughed. “Nancy stays in the house, and you promise me that you’ll show her how to use the shotgun.”
Tommy smirked. “Dad, Nancy grew up in Cullman. She’s a better shot than me.”
At this revelation, Tom managed a laugh. All the rounds of chemo and radiation over the past year had fried his brain, and he had a hard time remembering details like his daughter-in-law’s background. “That’s good,” he said. “I hope she doesn’t have to prove it.”
“Me too,” Tommy said, reaching for his father’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “What about you, Dad? Who’s going to take you to your scans tomorrow?”
“Bill Davis has that covered, but I’ll have a police escort to CCI.”
“And tonight? Are you going to be OK by yourself?”
Tom scoffed and held up the shotgun. “I still know how to use one of these. Besides, I won’t be alone. I’ve got the General’s cavalry canvassing the yard and farm.” He smiled. “And Lee Roy will be here to back them up. Ain’t that right, boy?”
Tom gazed behind him, where his bulldog stood guard in the carport. The animal’s ears were up, and at the sound of his name, he let out a low, guttural, throat-clearing sound. Lee Roy had finally gotten used to the presence of the sheriff’s deputies, but the dog remained hyperalert.
“If you say so,” Tommy said, forcing his own smile. For a second, he blinked his eyes and gazed over the steering wheel. Then he peered at his father again. “You really think JimBone Wheeler is going to come after us?”
Tom squinted back at his son, seeing not the thirty-eight-year-old surgeon in his blue eyes but rather the ten-year-old boy who used to ask him whether the Crimson Tide was going to beat Auburn that year. What have I brought on my family? Tom pondered again, feeling a wave of fear and guilt wash over him. Gritting his teeth, he shook off the torturous thoughts and told his son the truth.
“Yes, I do.”
17
For the next fifteen minutes, Tom sat in his recliner in the den, with Lee Roy lying at his feet. He held his twelve-gauge in one hand and his cell phone in the other. While saying his goodbyes to his family, he had received a cryptic You OK? text from Helen, to which Tom had responded, Yes, though that was a bald-faced lie. Tom was far from OK. He was tired. He was worried.
Most of all, he was scared.
Tom McMurtrie could count on one hand the times in his life when he had truly been engulfed by fear: As a first-year law student in October 1962 driving home through the night to be with his parents as they waited out the Cuban Missile Crisis while the whole country braced for a nuclear holocaust. Six and a half years ago, in the oncologist’s office on McFarland, waiting for the results of Julie’s PET scan and knowing in his gut that the verdict wouldn’t be good. And two years ago in Pulaski, driving to Walton Farm after the trial—after he had figured it all out—and praying that he wasn’t too late. Praying that his best friend in the world, Bocephus Haynes, was still alive.
Bo.
As the thought entered his mind, his phone dinged and there was another text from Helen. Have you heard from Bo yet?
As he rocked back and forth in the recliner, he peered at the message, not wanting to answer it. Not wanting to admit that something was wrong.
But something is wrong, he thought.
Bo should have called by now. He should’ve answered his phone. Tom had also called Bo’s wife, Jasmine, and son, T. J., and neither one of them had answered or returned the voice messages he had left. He glared at the phone, trying to will his friend to respond. When his cell actually did ring, his body jerked and his gun fell to the hardwood floor. Fortunately, he had the safety on, or the weapon might have gone off. He propped the gun against the couch next to his chair and looked at the screen on his phone. The caller ID said “Tommy.”
He tapped the “Answer” button and held his breath.
“We’re home,” his son said. “There’s a deputy stationed in the backyard and two more in a sheriff’s cruiser parked on the curb in front of the house. Doors are locked. Alarm is on. I’ve got the pistol, and Nancy has the shotgun. I even let the dogs out of their kennels.”
“The toy poodles?” Tom asked, unable to suppress a grin.
“Oscar and Meyer have some fight to them,” Tommy fired back, but there was a tease in his voice and the two men laughed.
“Thanks for calling,” Tom said. “Give me an update in the morning, OK?”
“Ten-four,” Tommy said. “You do the same.”
They said their goodbyes, and despite his fatigue and the persistent pain in his back, Tom began to pace the house, every so often gazing forlornly at his phone. After one walk-through, he plopped on the couch and leaned his elbows on his knees.
He clicked on Bo’s number, and his call again went straight to voice mail. Had his friend turned his cell off? Was the battery dead? Tom shivered as he considered other alternatives for why the phone hadn’t rung. Could JimBone have gotten to him?
Shaken but undeterred, Tom again pulled up the number for Jasmine Haynes, whom Bo had always called Jazz. He was about to click it when the phone began to ring in his hand. The caller ID said “Helen.”
Tom sighed and answered the call. “I haven’t heard from him,” he said.
“I know.”
Tom felt his stomach constrict as he stood from the couch. “What?”
“I just got off the phone with Jasmine Haynes.”
“And? Is everything OK?”
“Jazz and the kids are fine. She was . . . a little perturbed at the whole situation. Especially the officers parked in front of the house. She’s worried what her neighbors will think. She also has a speech she has to give tomorrow morning at the civic center.”
“She’ll have to skip it.”
Helen snorted. “I’ll let you try to win that argument. I failed miserably.”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “Is there any way to arrange security for that?”
“The facility has guards on hand, and I’ll alert the Madison County Sheriff’s Office and the HPD. But . . .”
“But what?”
“Tom, I’m out of my jurisdiction and they have already cooperated a great deal. Both forces have deputies stationed at your son’s house and Jazz’s.”
“Good grief, Helen. An escaped death row convict is on the loose and Jasmine Haynes could be a target.”
“The convict could also be in the friendly skies heading toward Bermuda,” Helen chimed in. “I’m at this airfield in Murfreesboro. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt that the ambulance abandoned here was the one that transported Wheeler from the prison to the emergency room.”
“Did anyone see him get on a plane?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t. Private airfields don’t have the same surveillance and security that the international airports do. There have been thirty flights today, and the Feds are tracking them, but it’s possible he could have slipped through the cracks.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“No,
I don’t. All I’m saying is that there’s now another lead, which my office, the police in Nashville, and the FBI are all investigating. We have security in place for your family and friends, but we can’t guarantee their safety if they’re going to step out in the open.”
Tom closed his eyes, knowing she was right. “Surely Bo can talk some sense into Jazz. Where is he, for God’s sake?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Helen, where is Bo?”
More silence, followed by a sigh.
“Helen, what’s going on? Is Bo OK?”
“He’s alive and safe, Tom, and I think I know where he is, but . . .”
“Helen?”
“He’s not OK.”
18
Old Town Beer Exchange is a beer and wine store in downtown Huntsville. Located on the ground floor of an upscale apartment complex on Holmes Avenue, OTBX had ridden the tide of a craft beer explosion throughout the state of Alabama. Since 2005, breweries had opened in Florence, Gadsden, Birmingham, and Fairhope. The epicenter of this movement was Huntsville, where Straight To Ale and Yellowhammer were mainstays, and it seemed like a new competitor emerged every few months.
OTBX carried most of the local brews, along with a healthy selection of lagers, pilsners, ales, and porters from all over the world. It also had a taproom, where kegs, growlers, and crowlers of over thirty different types of draft beer were available for purchase. Customers were welcome to a free sample, and if the mood struck them, they could sit at the bar and drink a pint or two.
One of the officers guarding the house—a deputy named Shames—had driven Tom to the bar. The officer hadn’t been crazy about having Lee Roy in his cruiser, but Tom hadn’t had time to argue. If my dog can’t ride along, then I’ll drive my damn self. He knew he was probably being foolish, but he wasn’t keen on leaving the dog by himself after all the commotion of the evening. After making sure that Shames had cracked the window for Lee Roy, Tom climbed out of the sedan and trudged toward the front door, using a cane for balance and darting his eyes in all directions. The town was dead quiet, but that was what you would expect at 9:00 p.m. on a Wednesday night. With the hand that wasn’t carrying his cane, Tom felt in the pocket of his jacket for the cold steel of the .44 Magnum. Shames had tried to convince him not to carry the weapon, but Tom had refused. Tom knew that the security arranged by Helen wouldn’t stop JimBone Wheeler. The man had killed Ray Ray Pickalew in broad daylight in front of the Giles County Courthouse, which had been surrounded by cops. If anything, Tom figured that the crazy killer would relish the challenge.
Tom would have felt safer with his shotgun—he doubted if he could hit a bull in the ass with the revolver—but he knew his twelve-gauge was too big to take in the store and would arouse suspicion. He tapped his thumb on the handle of the handgun, feeling restless and a bit ridiculous. I’m an attorney and a professor. Not Dirty Harry.
When he reached the entrance, Tom leaned a hand against the door, which was adorned with a green Christmas wreath, and tried to catch his breath. He’d taken two oxycodone that morning, but despite the pain, he’d missed his evening dose in the chaos of learning about Wheeler’s escape. His back was throbbing.
Tom opened the door, and his nostrils filled with the pleasing scents of malt and barley. The sound of Elvis Presley’s melodic voice belting out “Blue Christmas” played softly on speakers somewhere in the taproom, and Tom remembered that the song was one of Julie’s favorite holiday tunes. He smiled despite his pain and, with the assistance of the cane, began to move toward a long wooden bar to the right, where he’d already spotted his friend.
Tom took a seat on the adjacent stool and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m looking for a man named Bocephus Haynes. Big, tall black fella. Played football for Bear Bryant in the ’70s. Used to be a successful lawyer in Pulaski, but he’s fallen off the grid for a while. Have you seen him?” Tom wanted to add more to the spiel but gave up, waiting for any sign of acknowledgment from his friend.
The man sitting next to Tom slowly turned his head. Both of his elbows were on the table, and he held an almost-empty pint glass in his right hand. His eyes were bloodshot and he had at least a week’s worth of beard on his face. The top of his head, which was typically shaved smooth, bore the same amount of stubble. But otherwise he was just as Tom had described him a few seconds earlier. Even slouched on a stool and half-drunk, Bocephus Aurulius Haynes looked every bit of his six feet four inches and 240 pounds.
“Professor?” Bo managed, his speech slurred but his mouth curving into a lazy grin. “What . . . ?” He looked behind Tom and then, despite his drunkenness, straightened himself on the stool. “How did you get here?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Tom said.
Bo raised his eyebrows. “Is everything alright?”
“No,” Tom said. “How many of those have you had?” Tom pointed at the glass.
“Four . . . I think,” Bo said “Maybe five. Was about to order another. What’s going on?”
“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Tom knew he should cut to the chase, but seeing his friend in this sorry state angered him.
Bo wrapped his hands around the pint glass and gazed at the long row of taps that lined the back of the bar. He didn’t say anything. Finally, he took a long sip, draining the last of the amber-colored fluid.
“Another, Mr. Haynes?” A bartender had approached from the back. He had a scruffy beard and black hair tied up in a ponytail.
Bo nodded and scooted his empty glass across the bar. A few seconds later, a full pint of beer was placed in front of him. “How’d you know I’d be here, Professor?”
“Helen talked with Jazz.”
Bo’s arms tensed. He turned and glared at Tom. “What’s the General doing calling my wife?”
“She called when you didn’t show for my birthday party and weren’t answering anyone’s calls. Eventually she got Jazz, who provided your new address and said if you weren’t at home you’d probably be here.” Tom paused. “Bo, why didn’t you tell me that Jazz had filed for divorce?”
Bo turned back to his glass and raised his eyes to the digital menu above the taps, which showed all the different flavors of beer. On the bar’s speakers, Mariah Carey broke into a stirring rendition of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Finally, he sighed and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday party, Professor. I just . . . didn’t want to bring everyone down.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Bo? You come out to the farm every week. You take me to most of my appointments at CCI. We shoot the bull, and you never once even mentioned that y’all were having problems again. Why?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with my issues, Professor.” He opened his eyes, finally meeting Tom’s harsh glare. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“I’m dying,” Tom said, speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m not dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Bo said, sighing and rubbing his bleary eyes. “I would have gotten around to it eventually.”
For several seconds, there was silence, and the bartender approached them again. “Last call, gentlemen. Can I get you anything?” He looked at Tom.
“Water,” Tom said, his voice hoarse with fatigue.
The barkeep nodded and turned to Bo. “How about you, Mr. Haynes. Crowler for the road?”
Bo glanced at Tom and then squinted at the bartender. “I better not.”
A minute later, Tom stirred his bottle of water with a straw and watched his friend, who took a long pull off his pint glass. One of the things Tom missed most about being healthy was the ability to chug water when he was thirsty. Now, if he took in too much liquid, it led to a coughing fit, so he’d begun drinking everything through a straw.
“Any chance at reconciliation?” Tom asked. “Y’all seemed to be doing so well last year after the Newton case.”
Bo shook his head. “Not this time.”
Tom couldn’t think of the right
thing to say, and even if he could, he was losing energy. He coughed and took a sip of water through the straw.
“Why are you here, dog?” Bo finally asked, turning in his stool to face Tom. “I doubt the General was calling Jazz trying to find me just because I missed your party, and I know you didn’t come all the way into town with stage four lung cancer to console me while I cry into my beer. What’s the deal?”
Tom started to speak, but then the coughing fit he was trying to avoid overtook him. He doubled over on the stool and pressed his fist firmly against his lips to fight back the ripples of pain that each cough caused.
“He OK?” Tom heard the bartender’s faint voice from above. He didn’t hear Bo say anything, but when he opened his eyes, his friend was holding a bottle of water in front of him.
Tom shook his head and waved Bo off. After at least two full minutes, he felt his throat and chest finally relax and he took in several ragged breaths.
“Fits getting worse?” Bo asked.
Tom nodded. His body now throbbed with pain.
“Next scans are tomorrow, right? Dr. Davis still taking you?”
Again, Tom nodded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, and Bo took a sip from his glass. Finally, Bo began to talk, and Tom knew his friend was just trying to make the situation less awkward until he gathered himself. “You ever try these India pale ales, Professor?” Not waiting for an answer, Bo continued. “I swear they should have to sell this stuff by prescription. My favorite is Bell’s Two Hearted. It’s from a brewery up in Michigan. Smooth with plenty of hop—”
“JimBone Wheeler escaped from prison today,” Tom finally managed. He looked at Bo, who had stopped dead still with the pint of beer pressed to his lips.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other, neither man moving a muscle. Tom saw the veins at Bo’s temples stick out and the muscles in his forearms and biceps tense. Finally, he set the glass down without drinking from it.
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 8