The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4)

by Robert Bailey

  93

  On Christmas Day, after the presents had all been opened but while there was still some daylight, Tom asked Jackson if he’d like to take a drive. Though Nancy and Tommy fussed over them, Tom insisted, and five minutes later they were in Tom’s Explorer and heading down a dirt road that took them to the north end of the farm. Since the kidnapping and the showdown at Trojan Field a week earlier, Jackson had been pretty quiet, and Tom wanted a few moments alone with him.

  When they reached the northern tip, Tom pulled the truck to a stop and looked at his grandson. “Follow me, Forty-Nine.”

  The boy nodded and hopped out of the vehicle.

  The McMurtrie family cemetery was a hundred paces away, but Tom didn’t stop. Instead he walked on toward the creek that made up the boundary between Tom’s property and the neighbors’. Finding a place on a couple of rocks to sit down, Tom patted a spot next to him, and his grandson did the same.

  For several minutes, neither of them said anything and the only sound was the gentle-moving water. For December, the temperature was warm and Tom was grateful for it.

  “So, how are you doing?” he asked.

  The boy shrugged. “OK, I guess.”

  “Why so quiet lately?”

  Jackson gazed at the creek without looking at him. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . I’ve never been that scared before.”

  “It’s OK to be scared,” Tom said. “Fear is a natural emotion. I was scared to death.”

  “You were?”

  “You bet I was.” He paused. “Anything else wrong?”

  The boy shrugged. “I guess I’m just worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything,” Jackson said, finally looking at Tom with eyes that had seen more than a thirteen-year-old boy should ever see. “I’m worried about Mr. Drake. He was really shaken up after Mr. Wheeler said he didn’t kill his dad.”

  Tom nodded. He, too, was worried about Rick, whom he knew was home today in Henshaw with his mother. Has he told her the truth yet? Tom wondered, feeling a wave of guilt pass over him. If I had just kept my mouth shut, Rick would have never thought that JimBone and Manny were responsible for his father’s death. Tom sighed. At the end of the day, he’d done what he thought was right. And that’s all a person can do.

  “Rick is a strong man,” Tom finally said. “He’ll recover from the shock of this. I know he will.”

  “I hope so,” Jackson said. “I’m also worried about Mom and Dad. Now that we’re living out here while the house is being repaired, they never allow me to go outside by myself.” He sighed. “They barely let me out of their sight, and sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, Momma is laying in the bed with me. I can hear her crying.”

  Tom felt heat behind his eyes, but he steadied his voice. “She thought she’d lost you, son. They both did. Give them some time. In a little while, things will get back to normal.”

  “No, they won’t,” Jackson said, and now tears had begun to fall down his cheeks. “Things will never be normal again. Things are gonna suck.”

  “They will, Forty-Nine, I promise you. In a few months—”

  “You’ll be dead,” Jackson cried, turning to Tom with eyes full of anguish. “You’re gonna die, Papa, aren’t you?”

  Now Tom couldn’t hold the heat any longer and he felt his own eyes begin to glisten.

  “You’re gonna die,” Jackson repeated, his voice quieter.

  “I am,” Tom said.

  “Soon, right?” Jackson asked as a sob escaped his chest. “A month. Maybe days.”

  “I don’t know, son.”

  “Well, you see what I mean, then, don’t you? Things aren’t going to go back to normal. You’re gonna die and life is gonna suck.”

  Tom placed his arm around the boy’s shoulder and Jackson leaned into him, finally letting it all go. “I don’t want you to die, Papa,” he said through his tears. “It’s not fair. You’re only seventy-three. My friend Todd’s grandpa is eighty and his great-grandpa is ninety-nine. They’re both still alive.”

  Tom smiled down at him. “You know, Forty-Nine, someone once told me that it’s not about the years.” He paused. “It’s about the miles. I may only be seventy-three, but there’s a lot of miles on this body.”

  “Are you saying you want to die?” Jackson pulled back from him.

  “No, but whether I like it or not, death is going to come anyway. I didn’t want your Nana to die . . . but she did.”

  “That’s not fair either.”

  “I know it isn’t. Sometimes this world can be very unfair. But death . . . and sadness are unfortunately a part of life.”

  “I wish they weren’t,” the boy sobbed, and Tom pulled him close again, looking out over the creek.

  “Me too, son. But there aren’t any guarantees. That’s why you’ve got to grab hold of the wheel and live every day to the fullest.” He paused. “I am going to die, son, and I wish that weren’t the case. But while I’m still here, let’s you and I do something, OK?”

  The boy pulled back and looked at his grandfather. “What do you want to do?”

  “Live,” Tom whispered. “I want to live . . . right up until I’m gone.”

  Fresh tears filled the boy’s eyes, but he finally nodded his agreement. “Yes, sir.”

  For several minutes, the two McMurtries sat side by side in silence. Finally, Jackson looked up at Tom. “Hey, Papa.”

  “Yeah, Forty-Nine.”

  The boy choked back a sob and gritted his teeth, but he managed to get the words out. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, son.” Tom looked up at the sky, which was beginning to darken. “We best get back to the house before your mom calls the police.”

  The boy wiped his eyes. “Can we do one more thing first?”

  “What?” Tom asked.

  “Can you tell me the story about how Darwin Holt broke that player for Georgia Tech’s jaw again?”

  Thomas Jackson McMurtrie gazed into the courageous eyes of his grandson and smiled. Then, looking out over the creek where he’d fished with his own father as a boy, he spoke in a low voice. “Darwin Holt might have been the hardest-hitting football player I ever saw . . .”

  EPILOGUE

  Hazel Green, Alabama, four months later

  The three men met, as agreed upon, at the northern end of the farm.

  Powell Conrad brought a bag of vinegar-and-salt potato chips and a twelve-pack of Miller High Life. Powell still wore a patch over his eye, but his gait had improved and he no longer needed a cane.

  Rick Drake brought a pint of Black Label Jack Daniel’s, three shot glasses, and the same number of lawn chairs. He had taken the long way to the farm, stopping in Jasper to personally deliver a four-million-dollar settlement check to Mrs. LaShell Jennings. He’d also set a six-pack of Yuengling beer on Alvin Jennings’s grave and, next to it, a pint of Bombay gin on Santonio “Rel” Jennings’s tombstone. “We cut off the tail of the snake, Rel,” he had whispered, kissing his hand and placing it on the concrete marker just as he’d done to Wade Richey’s casket 120 days earlier.

  Bocephus Haynes arrived last but brought the best tidings of all. As he approached the cemetery, a white-and-brown English bulldog ran out in front of him and greeted Powell and Rick.

  All the men petted Lee Roy and scratched behind his ears. Then they sat in the lawn chairs and drank for a while in silence as the crickets chirped in the distance. Finally, Powell leaned forward and peered at Rick. “Was Mrs. Jennings happy with the settlement?”

  Rick nodded. “I think she was more relieved than anything, but that money will help her provide for her children for the rest of their lives. It doesn’t bring Alvie back, but . . .” He trailed off.

  “It was the best we could do,” Bo offered.

  “I still can’t believe we found that thumb drive on Wheeler with the recording of Kat and Sheriff Patterson,” Powell said, and the other two nodded their agreement.

  “Fitt
ing, isn’t it?” Bo asked, taking a long sip of beer. “The St. Clair Correctional Facility is where Jack Willistone spent his eighteen months. Now his widow gets to see what it feels like, but for a lot longer.” He looked at Powell. “I wish I could have been there for the arrest.”

  “It was quite a sight,” the prosecutor said, taking a sip of beer. “Sitting in that recliner in Bully Calhoun’s jet, drinking champagne out of the bottle.” He shook his head at the memory. “She was drunk as a skunk by the time she was cuffed.”

  “The criminal charges against Kat made everything about the wrongful death case against Bully’s estate fall into place,” Rick said, reveling in the memory. “A guardian ad litem was appointed to replace Kat as personal representative, and after talking with Lawson Snow down in Auburn, the guardian agreed that the case should be resolved.”

  “Four million, right?” Powell asked.

  Rick nodded and took a pull off his beer bottle. “And though the evidence wasn’t as strong in the Zorn case in Gulf Shores, the guardian still agreed to settle that one for a little over two million.”

  “That’s pretty much the whole estate, isn’t it?” Powell asked.

  “More than half, and Bully had no heirs other than Kat. I guess at her death the state will get the rest.”

  “That’s also fitting justice,” Bo said. “Bully Calhoun spent his whole life lining his own pockets and, in turn, hurting the state of Alabama by encouraging the drug trade. Only right that the state eventually reaps the remainder of his fortune.”

  Rick opened the pint of Jack Daniel’s and poured them all a shot. “To justice,” he said, holding out his glass, which the other men toasted.

  “Justice,” Bo said.

  “Justice,” Powell agreed, his voice the loudest of all.

  They turned up their glasses and then Lee Roy let out a low growl. There was a rustling sound coming from the south. “Who goes there?” Powell asked, pulling a pistol out of his pants.

  “You boys mind if I crash your sausage fest?”

  Powell let the gun drop to his side and smiled. “General?”

  Helen Evangeline Lewis strode into the middle of the men. She wore a plaid flannel shirt tucked into tight jeans, and her jet-black hair was tied in a ponytail. “What are we drinking to?” She held out her hand for the pint of whiskey, and Bo passed it over.

  “Justice,” Powell said.

  Helen chuckled and pressed the bottle to her lips, which were painted her customary crimson. “Justice,” she said.

  “I’m glad you could make it, General,” Rick said.

  “Well, thanks for inviting me. Seems like you’re always inviting me to the party, Drake. If it weren’t for your constant texts on the day of the showdown at the football field, I would have never made it to the farm to help out.”

  “And JimBone Wheeler would have had his reckoning,” Powell said.

  “Maybe not,” Helen said. “But I’m sure glad I didn’t miss that event.” Then she turned to Bo and said in a teasing voice, “As for tonight, I would have thought that Mr. Haynes over here, him being from Pulaski and all, would have shown me the courtesy.”

  “I’m sorry, General,” Bo said. “I should—”

  “Forget it. I’m here now.” She paused and, without prompting, took another sip from the bottle and gazed at the biggest tombstone in the cemetery. “I sure wish he was.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly, and the men averted their eyes.

  “To the Professor,” Powell Conrad cried, taking the bottle and pouring himself, Bo, and Rick another shot.

  “The Professor,” they all said in unison.

  “Tom,” Helen whispered.

  For a few minutes, they all stood around the tombstone. Below them, Lee Roy lay at the foot of the grave.

  “So, Mr. Drake,” Helen finally said, taking a beer from the cooler Powell had brought. “What’s next for you?”

  Rick peered down at the ground. “Now that the Jennings and Zorn cases have been settled, I’m going to close the firm.”

  “Really?” Powell asked, the surprise in his voice palpable. “You’re gonna shut down McMurtrie & Drake?”

  Rick squinted through the growing darkness at his friend. “It just . . . doesn’t feel right there without him. Especially now . . .” He gestured toward the headstone with his beer.

  “So what are you going to do?” Helen asked.

  “I’m going home to Henshaw,” Rick said, nodding to himself as if he’d just decided. “My mom and Keewin need help with the farm, and . . . if it takes the rest of my life, I’m going to find out who killed my father.”

  Helen took a step closer to Rick. “Let me know if I can ever help you on that score, OK?”

  “Will do,” Rick said.

  Helen took a sip from the beer bottle. “And how about you, Mr. Conrad? You gonna keep putting bad guys away?”

  Powell flipped a chip into this mouth. “No, I’m not,” Powell said. “Don’t get me wrong. I love being a prosecutor, but there’s something the Professor told me after the Wilma Newton trial that I keep chewing on.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That he thought I’d make a hell of a judge.”

  Helen smiled and touched Powell’s arm. “You would.” Then, turning to the last man in the group, she gazed into the haunted eyes of Bocephus Haynes. “And what about you, Bo? What’s next?”

  Bo sighed and looked at the tombstone. “I don’t know, General. Right now I’m fighting for custody of my kids.”

  “Jazz’s father hasn’t relented at all?”

  Bo shook his head. “If anything, old Ezra is fighting harder than ever.”

  “Where are you living now?”

  Bo smiled. “Now that he and his family are back in their own home, Tommy’s gonna let me rent the farmhouse for a while. At least until things settle down.” He paused. “I’ll probably move in next week.”

  Helen’s eyes misted over as she, too, looked at the grave marker. “He would have loved that.”

  For a long moment, the voices stopped, each of them lost in their memories of the man they had come to celebrate.

  “You’ve asked all of us, General,” Bo finally said, “so it’s only fair that you get the question. What’s next for you?”

  Helen’s eyes narrowed and she took a few seconds looking at each of the men before returning her gaze to Bo. “I’m the district attorney general of Giles County, Tennessee.” She turned up her bottle of beer. “What can I say? It’s all I know.” She leaned down and planted a kiss on the concrete headstone. Then she turned and began to walk away.

  “General?” Bo said, and she stopped and looked at him over her shoulder.

  “Would you mind answering one more question?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you ask me to deliver JimBone’s message to the Professor in the hospital?” He paused. “Why didn’t you do it?”

  Helen peered down at the ground for several seconds. Finally, she raised her head and met his eyes. “Because if Tom didn’t make it to the farm, his grandson was going to die. I . . . knew you could get him there.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because, after his family . . . Tom loved you the most, Bo. He loved you like a son.”

  Bo started to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Helen made eye contact with each of them. Though tears now streaked both sides of her cheeks, she made no move to wipe them. “Let me know if I can ever help you gentlemen in Giles County.”

  As she strode back to her vehicle without waiting for a response, the three men watched her. Finally, Powell Conrad grunted. “That is one hell of a woman.”

  “No, dog,” Bo said, regaining his composure and finding his voice. “That’s the General.”

  Thirty minutes later, Rick, Powell, and Bo said their goodbyes at their respective vehicles, which were parked along the dirt road that led to the cemetery. “Now that you’re moving back home, do you think you could finally get a
decent car?” Bo teased Rick, and they all laughed.

  Powell left first, making them both promise to stop in Tuscaloosa for beers and wings at Buffalo Phil’s the next time they were in town. Rick and Bo agreed.

  Then it was Rick’s turn. “You take care of yourself, Bo,” he said, climbing into the Saturn. Before leaving the farm, he rolled down the window and gazed up at his friend. “You know the General was right. He did love you like a son,” Rick said.

  Bo tried to respond but couldn’t.

  “I know things are hard for us now,” Rick said, and his voice shook with emotion. “But if I learned anything from the Professor, it was to never quit.” He stuck out his hand, and Bo clasped it. “Don’t quit, Bo. Ever.”

  Bocephus Haynes smiled down at Rick. “Wide ass open.”

  Ten minutes later, darkness made its final descent on the Hazel Green farm. Bo sat in the lawn chair and drained the remaining shot of whiskey, while Lee Roy still lay at the foot of the grave.

  Finally, Bo approached the headstone and put his hand on top of it, forcing himself to lower his eyes. He ran his fingers along the ridges of the name, and then, sucking in a ragged breath, he read the words out loud.

  “Thomas Jackson McMurtrie. December 4, 1940, to March 3, 2014.”

  The cancer had taken him three months after JimBone Wheeler had failed.

  Below the grave, Lee Roy whined, and Bo knelt down and rubbed the dog’s ears. “I know, boy. God, I know.”

  And then, bowing his head, Bocephus Aurulius Haynes cried.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I wrote this story for my father.

  You see, Dad loved westerns and war movies. “Shoot-’em-ups,” as he liked to call them. In his life, Dad was a banker, a farmer, a builder, and a developer. He lived big and he loved even bigger. He was known as Randy to my mom, his cousins, and his friends; Dad to my brother and I; and Papa to his four grandchildren. He was my hero, and he was larger than life.

  He died on March 3, 2017, of lung cancer. At the time of his passing, my wife, Dixie, was also being treated for cancer, and she ended up having surgery to remove most of her right lung exactly a month after Dad died.