I didn’t kill him, JimBone thought, knowing that the bullets intended for Rick Drake had been absorbed by Alvie Jennings’s brother. Finally, though, JimBone smiled at himself in the rearview mirror. But I did enough.
He imagined Professor Tom McMurtrie as he’d seen him last. The old man sitting smugly across from him in the interview room of the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution. Then, thinking of the carnage he and Manny had reaped today, JimBone couldn’t help but chuckle.
“How do you like me now, old man?” he said out loud.
And I’m not done, JimBone thought. Not by a long shot.
44
At 11:45 a.m., Tom limped out of the imaging area and back into the waiting room. The scans were finally over, and now all that was left was to wait for the verdict, which would be given at 1:00 by Dr. Maples in the physician area on the other wing of CCI. Tom looked for Bill Davis and found his friend standing by the television, eyes glued to the screen. Tom gazed up at the tube and saw that a reporter was talking in front of what appeared to be Druid City Hospital, in Tuscaloosa.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked, but Bill didn’t say anything. Instead, he stepped forward and turned up the volume.
“Earlier today, on Eighth Avenue, two men were shot in an apparent drive-by. One of the men is believed to be a detective in the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office, and our sources tell us that the other was the district attorney for Tuscaloosa County, Mr. Powell Conrad.”
“Oh no,” Tom whispered, grasping for a nearby chair and falling into it before his legs gave way. He took out his phone, which he had checked repeatedly during the PET scan. He had gotten no calls or texts during the test, and the screen remained blank. No news is bad news, he thought. Awful news. Tom closed his eyes and tried to calm his heartbeat.
“You OK, chief?” Bill asked from above him.
“No,” Tom said, leaning forward and trying to catch his breath.
Bill squatted beside him. “Tom, it just says they were shot. We don’t know anything else. Those two boys are tough. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
“Bill, we’ve got to get out of here,” Tom said, rising to his feet and beginning to walk toward the door. Once he was in the hallway, he saw her. She was in the parking lot, approaching with a grim look on her pale face. When she entered the automatic doors, Tom could hear the clicking of her high heels on the tile floor. He found a bench against the wall and sat down, not trusting his legs. Please let them be alive, he prayed.
General Helen Lewis strode toward him and stopped a foot from the bench. She folded her arms across her chest and, for a couple of seconds, just gazed down at Tom.
“Are they alive?” Tom finally asked.
“You know?”
Tom cocked his head toward the imaging area. “We saw it on the TV. Helen . . . are they alive?”
She frowned and took a seat beside him, looking straight ahead. Across from them, Tom saw their reflections in the glass windows of the imaging waiting room. “Wade is dead. He was shot seven times and died at the scene. Powell . . . is still breathing. He was hit four times, and he’s in the intensive care unit of Druid City Hospital. Two of the bullets were glancing blows, but the other two found their mark. He went through surgery to remove them and he’s lost a lot of blood.” She paused. “He hasn’t regained consciousness . . . and his surgeon doesn’t think he will. The prognosis is fair to poor.”
Tom closed his eyes and placed his face in his hands. He felt Helen’s hand on his back.
“That’s not all, Tom.”
Tom felt his whole body go stone cold. “What’s not all?” he asked.
Helen again gazed at the glass window across from them. “There’s been a shooting in Jasper too. On the courthouse steps.”
“Is Rick—?”
“That’s all I know.”
Tom shot to his feet, and then his legs gave way, and he would have fallen if Bill Davis hadn’t caught him underneath his arms and helped him back into his seat.
“Easy, fella,” Bill said.
“Helen, is my family—?”
“They’re all fine and safe at home.”
Tom looked down at the floor and said a silent prayer of thanks, immediately feeling guilty for it. Then he heard something he had never heard before in his life. The General was crying.
He looked into her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She gazed at him with her emerald eyes. “Jasmine Haynes gave that speech at the civic center this morning.”
Tom felt a dagger of panic grip his heart.
“There were at least six deputies guarding the interior and exterior of the building, and over a dozen additional security guards providing backup,” Helen continued, her voice trembling. “The HPD had canvassed Clinton Avenue as well, but it was impossible to secure the entire area.”
Tom swallowed and his mouth felt dry. “Helen, what—?”
“Jazz was shot leaving the Von Braun Center an hour and a half ago. Three bullets from a sniper rifle.” Helen bit her lip. “She died on the scene.”
Tom’s hands began to shake, as did his legs and arms. No, he thought. No, no, no.
He squinted up at Helen. “Is Bo—?”
“He’s OK,” Helen interrupted. “But, Tom . . . he saw it. He was right there. He’s . . . inconsolable.”
“Where?”
“The Madison County Jail.”
“What?” Tom asked.
Helen sighed. “He went . . . ballistic after the shooting.” She paused. “I’ve done all I can do, but I think they are going to hold him overnight and probably longer.”
For several seconds, they just looked at each other. “Tom, I’m sorry,” Helen finally managed, breaking eye contact and folding her arms across her chest once more. “I’m so sorry.”
With all the effort he could muster, Tom again rose to his feet. Images of Wade, Powell, Jasmine “Jazz” Haynes, and Rick flashed in his mind. He was having a hard time breathing.
“He’s doing exactly what he said he was going to do,” Tom said, gazing at Helen, whose tears had streaked a line of mascara across her face.
“We told the police . . . got the law involved . . . but it didn’t make any difference. Wade and Jazz . . .” Tom’s lower lip trembled as he remembered the young detective he’d befriended in the early 1970s who’d devoted his life and career to investigating homicides. Forty years we were friends. And then he saw Bo’s beautiful and charismatic wife in his mind, who had stoically stood by her husband during the trial in Pulaski two years ago. Jazz had been the mother of two children. She’d been in the prime of life.
“They’re both dead.” Tom’s breathing had become shallow and his voice was ragged. And Powell and Rick may be gone too. And Bo . . . Tom thought of how broken his best friend had appeared last night at Old Town Beer Exchange. The defeat he’d seen in Bo’s eyes because of the failure of his marriage. Tom knew that Bo had loved Jazz more than life itself. He watched her die.
A sob escaped Tom’s mouth, and his throat tightened. He coughed, trying to hold off the coming fit, but it was no use. He coughed again, louder and longer. And then again.
“Tom, please sit back down,” Helen advised, but Tom could barely hear her as he continued to cough. He turned to Bill, whose red-rimmed eyes were filled with concern.
“Easy,” Bill said again, placing his hand on Tom’s back and tapping it.
Behind the doctor, Tom saw someone else. He blinked, knowing the man leaning against the wall couldn’t be there, but Tom still saw him. The figure was wearing the same outfit he’d had on that morning. Shorts, flip-flops, and visor.
“Ray Ray,” Tom whimpered between coughs. “Why is this happening?”
Tom grasped his heart and the world went blurry.
“Tom!” Helen screamed, but her voice sounded like it was a mile away.
“Got us a knife fight in a ditch, Tommy.” The voice of Ray Ray Pickalew seemed closer than Helen’s. “What’s
our play, old boy?”
“Shut up,” Tom managed.
“Tom!” Helen’s face came in and out of focus. He heard nothing now, not even Ray Ray’s voice. He looked into Helen’s eyes, but they were no longer green.
They were copper.
Remember what I said, old man. Your day of reckoning is coming.
The killer’s voice filled Tom’s eardrums. Behind the voice was the sound of rushing water. Loud and getting louder.
“Tom!”
The roar became deafening. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He couldn’t feel anything.
Tom’s eyes rolled into their sockets. He shouldn’t have been able to see anything, but he could see.
He saw the maniacal grin of JimBone Wheeler, mocking him.
“This is all my fault,” Tom whispered. Then, mercifully, his field of vision went blank.
And there was nothing.
PART FOUR
45
On Sunday, December 15, 2013, ten days after he was murdered, Detective Wade Michael Richey was laid to rest at Memory Hill Gardens Cemetery, in Tuscaloosa. He was buried next to his deceased wife, Rita, and his mother, Lois. The funeral was attended by all members of the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office and every employee of the district attorney’s office save one.
The lone absentee, the district attorney himself, remained in critical condition in the intensive care unit at Druid City Hospital. After the graveside service was concluded, Rick Drake approached the tent where the family had gathered, wishing to pay his respects. He found Eleanor Richey, Wade’s sister, standing by the casket. She was a tall woman with silver hair and appeared to be in her early seventies.
“Ms. Richey, my name is Rick Drake. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Drake?”
Rick nodded.
“I’ve heard my brother mention you. Wade helped you and Professor McMurtrie in Pulaski a few years ago.” She paused. “Is it true that the man Wade arrested in Pulaski is who killed him?”
Though JimBone Wheeler had been rumored for days to be Wade’s killer, there had been no official statement made by the sheriff’s office. Just following protocol, Rick thought, figuring that law enforcement didn’t want to cause a panic by linking the shooting to Wheeler unless they were one hundred percent sure.
Rick was bound by no such restrictions and told Wade Richey’s sister the truth. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure of it. He also tried to kill me in Jasper.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No, ma’am. A friend was struck by the bullets meant for me.”
Eleanor smiled sadly. “Is your friend OK?”
Rick shook his head.
“Do you think it would be appropriate if I visited Mr. Conrad in the hospital?” Eleanor asked. “He and Wade were so close. I . . .” Her lip started to quiver and Rick felt a pang in his heart.
“I’m sure that would be fine, ma’am, but Powell is still unconscious in ICU. They will let family and friends visit, but only for a few minutes at a time.” Rick paused and clenched his jaw. “He’s not doing well.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“I don’t know,” Rick said.
“What about Professor McMurtrie? I know Wade was very close with him over the years. Is he OK?”
Rick shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
Now Eleanor Richey began to cry in earnest. “This is all so awful. My brother should have stayed retired.”
“He loved his work, ma’am.”
“And it killed him,” Eleanor said, grasping Rick by the shoulder. “Don’t let it kill you, son.”
Rick nodded at her as another attendee pushed past him and embraced Eleanor. For a moment, he stood by the coffin, placing his hand on the hard mahogany surface.
Feeling tears well in his eyes and remembering a similar scene at the Drake farm when his father was buried the year before, Rick kissed his hand and placed it on the casket. “We’ll get the SOB, Wade. As God is my witness, we will.”
46
At the same time that Wade Richey was being buried in Tuscaloosa, the ushers at the Episcopal Church of Jasper were collecting offerings. When the plate stopped on the pew where Kathryn Calhoun Willistone sat, she placed an envelope with a check for one thousand dollars in it. Just as she had done one Sunday a month since moving back home. Just as her father, Marcellus “Bully” Calhoun, had done almost one Sunday of every month his whole life. It’s always nice to be in the good graces of the Church, darling, and twelve thousand bucks makes for a nice tax write-off.
Kat nodded at the usher, who took the plate from her, but her thoughts weren’t on God, the Church, or taxes. She was thinking about JimBone Wheeler and the deal she had struck a month earlier when it became clear that Rick Drake might actually get his crusade against her to a jury.
He who has the gold makes the rule, her father had always said.
There were few times in his life when Bully Calhoun’s life philosophy had been wrong. But this might turn out to be one of them, Kat thought, standing with the congregation to sing the closing hymn.
Over the past ten days, she had endured lengthy interviews with the sheriff’s offices of Walker, Tuscaloosa, and even Madison Counties. She had told each of them that she was at home during the times of the murders of Santonio Jennings, Wade Richey, and Jasmine Haynes. That she had not been in contact with James Robert Wheeler and, in fact, had never spoken to the man. Likewise, she had never talked with or even seen Mahalia Blessica Reyes. It was the truth, every bit of it, and she had no problem selling it.
Her contact was and always had been DeWayne Patterson. She’d leaned on DeWayne to make the deal with Manny and Wheeler, because she was afraid of losing the millions she’d inherited from her father. She’d already had to split half of her late husband’s life insurance proceeds with his ex-wife and retarded son by virtue of a settlement of the case Barbara Willistone had filed against her last year. She wasn’t going to lose any of her daddy’s money, and she damn sure wasn’t going to lose because of Tom McMurtrie and Rick Drake. She blamed the two lawyers for both her husband’s and father’s downfalls.
All they were supposed to do was kill Drake and Harm Twitty.
That would have ended the case. The lead attorney and the star witness both dead. The lawsuit would then be continued by Judge Conner, and no fool would be crazy enough to step in after Drake and Twitty were dead. Certainly not McMurtrie, who was battling terminal cancer and basically dead already.
But that was not how it had gone down. Wheeler had flown off the reservation. He had failed to kill Drake and, as far as she knew, hadn’t even attempted to kill Twitty. Instead, he’d shot the prosecutor and detective who arrested him in Pulaski two years earlier, and apparently Manny Reyes had assassinated Bocephus Haynes’s wife.
Leaving one gaping mess, Kat thought as she remained standing for the benediction.
Kat shook hands with a few of the men in the congregation and gave several hugs to women she knew as she left the church and stepped into a stretch limousine. During the ride to the Calhoun mansion, on the edge of the Sipsey Wilderness, she tried to let her mind rest, but it was impossible. All she could think about was how out of control the situation had become.
And the trial is still going forward, she thought, knowing that was the worst consequence of all. After the shooting, Judge Conner had set an emergency conference call the next morning, where he asked Rick Drake if he needed or wanted a continuance. Kat had been in Virgil Flood’s law office, listening to the call, and she had heard Drake’s crazy voice. “I want to go forward on Monday, Judge. My client wants to go forward. Santonio Jennings would have died in vain if this case doesn’t proceed to trial.” Kat had burned a hole into Virgil’s eyes, holding out her hands for him to do something, and the old fossil had given it his best effort.
“Judge, the defendant would like a continuance, at least until this fugitive Wheeler is in police custody. Based on what I’m hearing, he managed to murder pe
ople in Tuscaloosa and Jasper yesterday and perhaps had something to do with the killing in Huntsville. If Mr. Drake is a target of this psychopath, then that makes us all a target, and between me and you, Judge, I’d kind of like to be at home on Christmas this year and not in a pine box.”
Conner had taken a full minute to think about it. Then, finally, he let out a long sigh. “I already checked with the presiding judge in Lauderdale County, and he said they had set aside two weeks for us. So, if we don’t go forward on Monday, we could push the trial back a week to December the sixteenth if y’all think you can be finished in five days. Otherwise, the earliest we could get the case reset would be June. That’s how backed up they are.” Conner paused. “Mr. Drake, given everything that’s happened, I thought for sure you’d want to postpone until June.”
“I don’t, Your Honor,” Drake had said without hesitation. “My client and I still want to tee it up. We’re fine with starting the case on Monday, but given everything that’s happened, an extra week would be helpful. I can’t imagine this case taking longer than four days to try, much less five. We don’t want to wait another six months.”
Again, Conner had taken his time before answering. When he spoke, there had been a stubborn resolve in his voice. “OK. Then we’ll postpone the trial by a week and I’ll see everyone in Florence on Monday morning, December the sixteenth.”
As the limousine pulled to a stop in the driveway of the mansion that she’d lived in as a girl and which she now resided in alone, Kathryn Calhoun Willistone went over the reality of the situation in her mind, still not believing it.
I’ve spent a half a million dollars to avoid this trial. Three people are dead. Two more are in the hospital . . .
. . . and the trial is still on.
As she stepped out of the car, she saw a police sedan pulling up the long drive. Kat flicked her hand, and the limousine driver, a squat redheaded man named Anson, parked the stretch in the garage.
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 18