“Sounds good. Hey, Kathryn,” Virgil asked, his tone now inquisitive. “Have you heard about Sheriff Patterson?”
“No, what happened?”
“He was murdered last night,” Virgil said. “He was found hanging from a beam at a cabin on the Flint River.” Virgil paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was just above a whisper. “A clerk in the courthouse told me that she heard his penis was cut off.”
Kat felt a deliciously cold shiver run down her arms. “Damn,” she said.
“Damn is right,” Virgil said. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See ya,” Kat said, and her mouth curved into a grin. The high sheriff is dead. Kat could feel some of the chains that bound her to Jasper breaking. She doubted Patterson had anything on her other than the tape recording that JimBone Wheeler had played earlier today. And that tape implicated DeWayne just as much as it did me. She doubted the sheriff had anything lying around his house that could hurt her, but even if he did, she didn’t plan to wait around to find out.
Kat trotted up the steps to her bedroom and began packing her bags. Once she was done, she called the number for the Walker County Airport.
“Bevill Field,” the voice on the other end of the line answered, referring to the airfield by its more commonly used name.
“This is Kathryn Calhoun Willistone. Can my jet be fueled up and ready to fly wheels up in an hour?”
“Well . . . ma’am, I don’t know. I’ll need to call your pilot.”
“Tell Chuck to be there in forty-five minutes ready to roll, or he’s fired. I pay him a hundred grand a year to be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, ma’am. Where will you be heading?”
“Saint John, in the Virgin Islands,” Kat said, hooking the phone between her neck and shoulder as she slipped on a pair of flats. “With one stop.”
“And where will you be stopping?”
Kat’s stomach tensed but she didn’t hesitate. “The Madison County Executive Airport. Meridianville, Alabama.”
79
The community known as Lick Skillet is located in northwest Hazel Green. The epicenter of the place—or as the locals call it, “downtown Lick Skillet”—sits at the intersection of Charity Lane and Butter And Egg Road. As a boy, Tom had gone to bluegrass concerts with his mom and dad at the four-thousand-square-foot building at the crossroads called the Music Barn.
At 11:15 a.m., Bo, Tom, and Rick pulled into a parking space outside the Music Barn. They saw an old man chewing on a piece of grass, leaning against the structure.
“Well, I’ll be dipped in horse manure,” Tom said, climbing out of the car on shaky legs. Bill Davis was still thirty minutes out, and Tom was in dire need of a steroid injection. “Logan?”
Logan Nathaniel Baeder pushed himself off the side of the building and approached with a steady gait. He was a shade over six feet tall and had arms that hung to his knees. Logan walked with his chest and elbows stuck out, just as he’d done in high school.
Still the cock of the walk, Tom thought.
“How ’bout it, Tommy Mac?” Logan asked, extending his hand, which Tom shook.
Despite his predicament, Tom couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t seen Logan Baeder in over forty years, but the man addressed him the same way he had in school. Shaking Logan’s hand was like squeezing hold of a brick. “It’s good to see you, Logan,” Tom managed.
“You too,” Logan said, continuing to chew on the blade of grass. “You sounded pretty shook up on the phone. What can I do for you?”
Tom took a step closer to his old friend, forgoing any pretense. “My grandson has been kidnapped, Logan.” He paused and felt heat behind his eyes. “And I think you might be the only person on the face of the earth who can help me.”
Logan scratched the back of his neck, and Tom noticed the deep creases in the man’s face, proof of a hard life of work and sacrifice. Then, flinging the strand of grass on the ground, he said, “Aiight, then. Tell me the deal.”
80
At noon, Kat Willistone sat in a leopard-skin recliner in the cabin of the Gulfstream on the airstrip of Bevill Field. The ground crew was busy fueling the plane up, and Chuck, her pilot, was on his way. They’d be wheels up in less than forty-five minutes.
As she expected, her cell rang at the turn of the hour. Again, the call came from a different number, but Kat knew who it had to be.
“The plane will be in Meridianville by one thirty. Ready and waiting.”
Silence on the other end of the line. “Good,” JimBone finally said. “Glad to see you have a little of that Bully blood in you.”
“You have no idea,” Kat said.
“Tell the pilot to be ready for takeoff at two thirty. I have some business to attend to, and then myself and my partner will be on our way.”
“The business being the terms of the contract?” Kat asked.
“Yes indeed,” JimBone said. “By the time the plane leaves the Meridianville airport, all conditions will be satisfied,” he said, and there was a smile in his tone that caused Kat’s mouth to curve upward as well. “And then some,” JimBone added before ending the call.
81
Dr. Bill Davis arrived in Hazel Green at 12:30 p.m.
“About damn time,” Tom said as his fair-skinned friend entered the house, carrying his medicine bag in his right hand. Tom was sprawled out on the couch in the den, covered in blankets. “You bring some guns?”
“Everything I could put in the truck,” Bill fired back. Then, looking around the empty house, he asked, “Where the hell is everyone?”
“I’ll fill you in on everything, but first I need you to shoot me up.” Tom rolled up his right sleeve until the crook of his elbow was showing.
“I’m not going to put it there,” Bill said, placing his medicine bag on the coffee table by the couch and unzipping it. Seconds later, he pulled out a needle and a pouch of liquid. “It’s a shot, chief, not an IV.”
“Where then?” Tom asked.
Bill smiled. “Do you sit heavier on your right cheek or left?”
Tom thought about it. “Right probably.”
“Alright, then. Drop your drawers, and I’ll make sure I stick this in your left.”
Tom smirked at him. “Do you always have this charming a bedside manner?”
“Only in life-or-death situations,” Bill said. “Now drop ’em.”
Tom did as he was told and, seconds later, felt a hot sensation as the steroids were injected into his body.
“That should give you a pick-me-up in about thirty minutes. And if you’re still alive and want another one in an hour, I’ll rinse and repeat.”
“I’ll need another one,” Tom said.
“How do you know?”
Tom took the folded piece of paper that set out JimBone Wheeler’s instructions and handed it to Bill.
For almost a full minute, Bill squinted down at the note. Then he surprised Tom.
“Drop ’em again,” Bill said.
“What? Why?”
“Because I gave you a pussified dose that I thought might give you a little pick-me-up but not run the risk of any damage.”
“And now?”
Bill showed Tom a much bigger needle. “Now I’m going to give you the stuff the Oakland Raiders used in the ’70s.”
Tom grinned and pulled down his pants. “Just win, baby,” he said.
Bill Davis said nothing. Instead, he made the sign of the cross over his chest and stuck the needle deep into Tom’s left buttock.
82
In the men’s locker room of the Hazel Green High School gymnasium, JimBone Wheeler sat across from thirteen-year-old Jackson McMurtrie. The boy’s hands and feet were bound together with rope, and his mouth was covered with duct tape.
After offing DeWayne Patterson, JimBone and Manny had put the boy in back of the Tundra and raced away from the cabin, trying to find a suitable hiding place until they could put the final phase of the plan into place. Jim
Bone had chosen the high school gym because of its proximity to the McMurtrie farm and to the football field, where he would give the Professor his reckoning.
Since school had been let out for the Christmas holidays, hiding inside the gym was optimal, and JimBone had incurred no difficulty picking one of the locks and getting inside. For the past ten hours, he and the boy had camped out in the locker room while Manny performed reconnaissance on the outside. She’d parked the Tundra between some bushes on the farm adjacent to Trojan Field, and once McMurtrie, Drake, and the kid were handled, they should have a clean getaway and a five-minute drive to the airport in Meridianville. If Kathryn Calhoun Willistone was to be believed, the plane should be waiting, and JimBone had a feeling she’d be joining them on the trip.
But one challenge remained on the ground, and he’d waited two painfully long years for it. He gazed across the locker room, which reeked of jock odor and urine, and into the eyes of the boy. The kid’s eyes had narrowed into slits and he was glaring at JimBone.
“You mad at me, boy?” JimBone asked.
The boy nodded and he tried to murmur something through the tape that JimBone couldn’t make out.
“Promise not to yell if I take the tape off?”
The boy moved his head up and down and JimBone walked over to him. “If you’re lying, I’m going to do more than spank you, got it?”
The boy’s eyes widened and he nodded again.
“Good,” JimBone said, and ripped the tape off Jackson’s mouth.
The boy yelped but didn’t say anything else as JimBone returned to his seat across from him. “So . . . ,” the killer said. “How ya doing?”
“I’m hungry,” Jackson said.
“Me too,” JimBone said. “But that’s tough shit for both of us. Unfortunately, the gym here doesn’t have a food court.”
“There’s a McDonald’s in Meridianville,” Jackson said.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Finally, Jackson gazed down at the tile floor. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
JimBone shook his head. “Nope. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already.”
“You’re going to kill my papa.”
“He deserves it. He’s been a thorn in my side for several years.”
The boy’s face flushed red. “He was just doing his job.”
“And it kept me from doing mine, and I got sent to prison. Now I’m going to give him his.”
The boy smirked. “You really think so, don’t you?”
Up until that precise second, JimBone Wheeler had been enjoying this interaction. Now he felt a tingle of agitation. “I know so.”
“Uh-huh,” the boy said, his tone sarcastic. “Just like you got the best of him in Tuscaloosa. Oh, wait, no. My uncle Bo grabbed you by the nuts and you had to jump off a bridge to escape.”
JimBone removed a knife and file from his pocket and began to sharpen the blade. “Papa been telling his grandson lots of stories, I see.”
Jackson’s lip trembled ever so slightly, but his tone stayed the same. “Just like you got the best of him in Pulaski, right? Beat him up pretty good, didn’t you? Thought it was over, didn’t you?” The boy swallowed. “But it wasn’t over. Papa won the case and you went to prison.” He glared at JimBone. “Where you belong.”
“You sure have a smart mouth, boy,” JimBone said, putting the file back in his pocket and standing up. He held the knife by his side and again approached Jackson and sat beside him. He brought the tip of the blade to the boy’s neck and pressed forward.
“Oww!” Jackson yelled as the skin broke. JimBone released the pressure and ran his finger along the boy’s neck, wiping off the resulting blood and then sticking the finger in his mouth.
Jackson grimaced in horror and JimBone smiled.
“I’m going to taste a lot of McMurtrie blood today, son. Yours and your papa’s.” He smiled and leaned over to the floor, picking up the tape he’d ripped off earlier. “I think I liked you better when your mouth was closed.”
83
In the archives room of the Tillman D. Hill Public Library, Logan Baeder showed Bo, Rick, and Tommy the system of pipes and tunnels that distributed water from the well on the McMurtrie farm to the rest of Hazel Green proper.
“There are three tunnels that sprout from the well,” Logan said, pointing at the map with the tip of a number two pencil. “There’s this one that runs from the farm all the way to the end of Charity Lane.” Logan paused to make sure everyone was following. “And then there’s this one here that runs parallel to 231 for about a hundred yards south and then takes a right turn and actually runs under this library building and west another two miles.” He stopped again and set the pencil down. Then he tapped his index finger on another set of lines. “And then there’s this one here. Because the school uses so much water, the county wanted to make damn sure it could get to those pipes. This tunnel runs east from the farm underneath Highway 231 for about three miles.” He licked his lips and looked at each of the other three men. “The tunnel has three exit points, and one of them is right here.” Logan held his finger on a box marked on the map.
“I’ll be damned,” Bo said.
The box had two words written above it in small type to designate the location, and Rick Drake whispered them in awe: “Trojan Field.”
84
In his dream, Tom saw the tower and the shadow of the Man. He wasn’t wearing his trademark houndstooth hat. The fedora was only for games. On the practice field, the Man wore a baseball cap, stood tall on his tower, and barked instructions from a megaphone. The world knew Paul Bryant as “the Bear.” But to his players he was either “Coach Bryant” or “the Man.”
“McMurtrie, gotta pick it up, boy. Need you here, Forty-Nine.” Tom gritted his teeth and dug his knuckles into the grass. At the sound of the whistle, he launched out of his stance and the pads popped. It was hot. So incredibly hot, and the Man’s voice was loud.
“That a baby, Forty-Nine. Here we go. Next play.”
“Next play, Tommy,” said the voice of Ray Ray Pickalew.
Next play.
Next play.
Tom opened his eyes and felt his heartbeat racing. He sat up from the couch and gazed around the den. Bocephus Haynes sat on the chair next to him. “You ready, dog?”
“What time is it?” Tom asked.
“One forty-five,” Bo said.
With all of his strength, Tom rose off the couch. He felt better. Stronger. But strange. His mouth had a funny taste, and he was dizzy. He glanced around the room, seeing Tommy, whose face was tight. Worried. Next to his son was Bill Davis, holding a glass of brown liquid over ice in his hand. Bill was an alcoholic and, to Tom’s knowledge, hadn’t had a drink in twenty-five years.
“Bill?”
“Don’t judge me, you ornery son of a bitch,” Bill said, smirking at Tom. “Your body is so full of drugs, Elvis would be jealous.” Then, as the grin left the doctor’s face, he added, “If I’m going to die in the tunnels below Hazel Green, Alabama, then by God I’m going to die with a bellyful of Dewar’s Scotch.”
Tom nodded at his friend. “Thank you, Bill.” Then, realizing something was wrong, he wrinkled his face and moved his eyes swiftly around the room. “Where’s Lee Roy?” he asked, hearing the panic in his voice. With so much going on, he’d completely forgotten about his only housemate. “Where’s my dog?”
“He’s with us, Dad,” Tommy said. “With Nancy and Jenny and Julie. After you were admitted to the hospital, I came and got him.”
Tom’s heartbeat had gotten out of control. He glared at Bill. “What in the Sam hell did you give me?”
“What you asked for,” Bill fired back, taking a long sip of Scotch.
Tom took a deep breath and tried to get himself under control. In the background, he could still hear the voice from the tower. That a boy now, next play. He closed his eyes and then opened them, trying to get his bearings.
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“It’s 1:50 now, Professor,” Bo said. “Are you ready?”
Tom looked into the eyes of his best friend. “Bo . . . will you take care of Lee Roy when I die?”
Bo smiled, but his eyes were sad. “Of course, sir. You know I will. Are you OK, Professor?” Then he also fired a glance at Bill Davis. “What did you give him?”
“A boatload of steroids,” Bill replied. “In his condition, there was no way he could drive over to that field, much less walk, without them.”
Bo held Dr. Davis’s gaze, but the physician didn’t back off. Bo finally turned back to Tom. “You need your phone.”
Tom leaned down and took the device off the coffee table, checking the charge. It had half a bar, which would be enough. “Did Logan show you boys the tunnel?”
Bo nodded. “We’re good, dog.”
“What about guns?” Tom asked.
Tommy gestured to Dr. Davis. “Doc set us up. We could start a revolution with what we have.”
Tom smiled and swayed on his feet, catching his balance after a side step to the left. “I’m OK,” he said, still hearing the voice from the tower, but this time closer. In the locker room in Knoxville. I know it doesn’t feel like it, boys, but we got them right where we want them. Now, when we start the second half, the defense is going to go out and stop them. When the offense gets the ball, we’re going to score. We got class and we’re going to show it.
Thomas Jackson McMurtrie blinked tears from his eyes and looked around the room. He’d eaten egg custard pie that his mother, Rene, had made in this same room. He’d signed a letter of intent to play football for the University of Alabama at the same kitchen table where Rick Drake had just plopped down, lost in his thoughts. He’d told his momma and daddy that he was going to marry Julie Lynn Rogers at about the same spot in the den he was in right now.
We got class and we’re going to show it.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for being with me until the end.”
He gave them all embraces, holding his son’s a little longer. “I’ll bring him back,” Tom whispered. “I swear to God I will.”
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 28