A boat. The stripper had a boat. How could that be? He’d seen her enter the restaurant from the parking lot. How could he possibly have known she’d have a boat?
He ran down the dock, holding the gun at his side, his eyes darting in every direction. The other boats appeared to be empty. As the boat with Drake and the stripper left the dock and began to merge into the harbor, Bone pointed his weapon at them. With the silencer he might still be able to . . .
“Mr. Wheeler!”
The killer spun around at the sound of his name and saw a man with a salt and pepper beard wearing a black cowboy hat who was pointing a pistol at his chest.
“JimBone Wheeler, I presume?” The man was walking toward him. “Put the gun down and get on your knees.”
Bone cut his eyes wildly to his left and right.
“Nowhere to go, JimBone,” the man said. “Or do you prefer Bone for short?”
How could anyone possibly have found him? Bone wondered, forcing his mind to remain calm. “Who are you?”
“Wade Richey, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office,” the man said, holding up a badge. “And you’re under arrest.”
As the man stepped into the light, Bone saw that Richey resembled the actor Sam Elliott from his Tombstone and Roadhouse days.
“Not today, friend,” Bone said.
And then he jumped into Destin Harbor.
39
“I think I may have hit him,” Wade said, talking rapidly into the phone. “I got two shots off, and I think I may have nicked him on the leg.”
“Are you sure it was Wheeler?” Tom asked, his voice barely registering under the hum of police sirens. Twenty-five minutes had passed since JimBone Wheeler took a dive into the harbor, and the place was now crawling with officers from the Destin Police Department and deputies from the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Office.
“Positive,” Wade said. “I called him by his name, and he spun around immediately. He looked the part too. Same height. Had a beard. I didn’t get a good view of his eyes because he had his hat pulled down low, but it was definitely him.”
Out on the water, three police boats were moving slowly up and down the harbor. Officers on board were shining lights in every direction, and one man spoke into a bullhorn. “Mr. Wheeler, get out of the water. Mr. Wheeler, you are surrounded. Get out of the water now.”
“All right, keep me posted, Wade,” Tom said. “Wheeler survived a jump off the Northport Bridge last summer and was able to make it out of the Black Warrior River alive. He’s a survivor.”
Wade watched as police lights continued to flood the harbor in every direction. “I don’t see how he makes it out of this harbor, Tom. It’s covered with cops on both sides. Unless the son of a bitch is half fish, I just don’t see it. We’ll either apprehend him, or his body is drifting along the floor of the Gulf.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line as Tom took in the information. “What about Rick?” he finally asked.
“He left the harbor by boat with the stripper. They were out a ways when I shot at Wheeler, so I doubt they heard it.”
“He left with her by boat?”
“Yeah,” Wade said.
“Find him, Wade. If Wheeler somehow did survive . . .”
“Ten-four,” Wade broke in. “I’ll have him before the sun rises.”
40
As the sun began to peek its head above the eastern horizon, Rick Drake’s eyes shot open, and both hands grabbed for his left calf muscle. Cramp, cramp, cramp, he thought, holding in a scream of pain as he twisted and rolled off the cushioned seats of the boat and onto the floor. He tried to straighten his leg, but the muscle had completely seized up on him, and he writhed on the floor of the boat in pain.
“Kid, are you all right?” a voice came from behind him in the dark, and Rick turned, eyes wide, as adrenaline poured through his body. What . . . ? Who . . . ? He squinted, seeing a dark shape on the dock above, crouching to look at him as he lay on his back, holding his calf. He rubbed the muscle hard, but it was still seized, and Rick bit his lip.
“Cramp?” the voice asked.
“Yeah,” Rick managed, continuing to rub furiously on the calf as his leg slowly began to relax, the cramp gradually easing. Rick sucked in a quick breath. “Who are you?”
“Wade Richey,” the man said, flashing his badge. “Detective, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office.”
Rick creased his eyebrows. “Tuscaloosa?”
Wade nodded. “Our office has escalated its investigation into the whereabouts of JimBone Wheeler.” He paused. “Your partner suggested that he thought JimBone was following him and you, so I trailed you last night to Destin and”—he sighed—“I think we got him.”
“My partner?” Rick scratched his head and tried to stand, putting both hands on one of the seats and pulling himself up. He stumbled when he tried to put any weight on his left leg. “The Professor asked you to trail me?” Rick blinked his eyes, adjusting to the dark, which was becoming lighter by the second as the sun slowly rose behind them. Peter Burns was still passed out on the seat across from him, snoring loudly and oblivious to anything that was going on.
“Yeah, it was Tom’s idea. And it worked. Wheeler was here, and I . . . think we got him.”
Rick felt his body go cold. “He was here. You mean . . . ?”
“He was watching you and the girl. When y’all stepped into the boat, he ran down the dock and was about to shoot at you, but I got there first.”
“Jesus,” Rick said. “I didn’t have a clue. I . . .” He felt his calf begin to seize again, so he plopped down on the seat below him, rubbing the muscle with both hands. “JimBone Wheeler was here,” Rick said, still not believing it.
“He was.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“Because I called his name on the dock and he turned around. I spoke to him using his name, and he didn’t try to correct me.”
“What happened? Where is—?”
“He jumped in the harbor,” Wade interrupted. “The city and county police have been patrolling the area all night, looking for him.” Wade pointed, and squinting out over the water, Rick could see several police boats moving back and forth.
“Any word?”
Wade shook his head. “None. I think I may have shot him, so—”
“He might be dead,” Rick offered, involuntarily shivering.
“Maybe,” Wade said. Then, correcting himself, “Probably. I just don’t see how he could not have turned up by now, and I never saw his head come up out of the water.”
“I can’t believe we didn’t hear the shot,” Rick said, scratching the back of his neck.
“With the breeze coming off the Gulf, it’s hard to hear anything. I wouldn’t sweat that. Listen, where is the girl? Before we go, I need to warn her about Wheeler.”
Rick pointed toward a small duplex that fronted the dock and stood on wobbly legs. “In there.”
41
Rick watched as Detective Wade Richey briefed Darla on JimBone Wheeler and the attempt on their lives the night before.
“We will arrange for a security detail to watch you for a few weeks, Ms. Ford, just as a precaution,” Wade concluded. “Like I said, we think Wheeler is probably dead, but just to be safe we’ll have someone with you until we know something for sure.”
“Thank you,” Darla said, her voice distant.
“You’re going to be OK,” Rick said, but he heard the unease in his own voice.
Wade set his coffee cup on the steps and stood. “Give you a ride back to your car, kid?” he asked, his voice containing a sense of urgency that made Rick also stand.
“Yeah.”
Darla Ford remained seated on the steps and placed her chin in her hands. Rick squatted so that he could look her in the eye.
“We’re gonna have to call you as a witness at trial,” he said. “About the confession and who you told.”
Darla nodded. “So be it,” she said, her voice cold. �
�If I’m called to testify, I’ll tell the truth.” She gave her head a quick shake and stood. “I have to go to work now,” she said, brushing past Rick without saying good-bye.
He watched her go and then felt a hand squeezing his arm. “Time to go, kid,” Wade said, releasing his grip and heading away from the dock.
Rick sighed and closed his eyes, wishing for a breeze off the harbor that wouldn’t come. Instead, the air was hot and sticky, and he sucked in a humid breath.
I’m lucky to be alive, he thought.
But all things told, the trip had been a success. Darla Ford could be a key witness for the defense, provided they could obtain more evidence linking Larry Tucker to the murder of Andy Walton. So the nine hours in the car, the three-hundred-dollar bar bill at The Boathouse, the exhaustion at having barely slept for forty-eight hours, and the cramping in his left calf that was making it difficult to walk had all been worth it.
The defense of Bocephus Haynes for capital murder had improved. An alternative theory was beginning to take shape.
He knew he should feel grateful for his good fortune.
But as he began to limp away from the dock, Rick Drake felt neither grateful nor fortunate. Truth be known, the events of the last forty-eight hours had left him numb. His instincts had proved to be both successful and almost fatal. His persistence had been rewarded, but it had almost resulted in him and an innocent bystander being shot and killed.
He felt like he was walking a tightrope with no net beneath him.
And he was scared. For the first time since Wilma Newton changed her testimony during the trial in Henshaw the year before, Rick Drake was scared.
42
“You look different with a beard,” Helen said, her eyes flashing with amusement. “More rugged.”
“It’s not by choice,” Tom said, managing a smile as he rubbed the purplish bruise on the side of his face.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “A mugging is extremely rare for Pulaski.” She lowered her voice. “I told you not to get involved.”
“So you admit that the attack on me is related to our defense of Bo?” Tom crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on hers.
Sheriff Ennis Petrie sat next to Helen, but he had yet to utter a word, and outside of shaking his hand, Tom had not looked at him. Tom had called the sheriff’s office that morning, saying he had news with respect to JimBone Wheeler. Two hours later he was here, meeting with Helen and the sheriff. In the center of the conference room table was Tom’s cell phone, which he had turned to speaker so that Wade Richey could also attend.
“No,” Helen said. “I admit nothing. Your wallet was stolen, so a mugging is the correct call. But”—she tapped her fingernail on the table—“I don’t believe in coincidences. You show up in town to represent Bo, and you become the first victim of a mugging in downtown Pulaski since I’ve been DA . . .” She stopped, shaking her head. “I will admit that it is very strange.”
“Big of you,” Tom said, his voice hard.
“You said you had new information,” Helen said, placing her elbows on the table.
Tom nodded. “I do. My partner, Rick Drake, went to Destin, Florida on Friday to meet with Darla Ford, the dancer at the Sundowners Club who Andy Walton saw the night of the murder.”
Helen gave a slight twist of her head, and for a split second her eyes darted at the sheriff’s. Tom could tell she was unaware that Ford had left the county. “OK . . .”
“He was followed,” Tom said. “JimBone Wheeler, a suspect in several felonies in the state of Alabama, followed Rick to Destin and tried to kill him and Ford.”
Helen raised her eyebrows. “Tell me.”
On the speakerphone Wade’s voice came in loud and clear. Introductions had already been made, so Wade got right to it, explaining in detail his tailing of Rick to Destin, concluding with Wheeler’s leap into the harbor.
“Has he been found?” Sheriff Petrie asked, his first words since introductions were made.
“No,” Wade answered. “The Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Office and the Destin PD have been patrolling the harbor for the past fifty-six hours, and they have found nothing. They have also scoured the Holiday Isle section of Destin, which is located on the other side of the harbor and where Ford lives in a duplex, but so far nothing has turned up. The preliminary conclusion is that Wheeler drowned.”
Helen slapped her hands. “So that’s that. He drowned. Good work, Officer Richey. You have taken care of a significant problem. We appreciate you all letting us know.”
“It’s not that simple, Helen,” Tom broke in. “First of all, Wheeler managed to survive a fall off the Northport Bridge in Tuscaloosa last year, and he did not drown in the Black Warrior River, which was the preliminary conclusion in Tuscaloosa. We think it is a bit presumptive to think he is gone at this point.”
Helen shrugged. “OK. So if he’s alive, he’s in Destin, and the authorities there are looking for him. What do you want us to do?”
“We have two requests,” Tom said, knowing they had finally reached the point of this meeting. As per their strategy session beforehand, Wade explained the first.
“General Lewis,” Wade began, “though we were unable to apprehend Wheeler, Tom’s idea worked. Tracking Drake led us to Wheeler. We would request that the Giles County Sheriff’s Office assign a security detail to Rick and Tom.”
Helen laughed. “Let me get this straight,” she started, looking at Tom and crossing her arms. “You are asking us to assign officers to follow you around as you conduct your mission-impossible task of trying to defend Bocephus Haynes on a charge of which he is one hundred percent guilty.”
Tom smiled. “Actually . . . yes. We obviously disagree with your conclusions, but . . . yes. That’s what we’re asking. If JimBone Wheeler is still alive, then we have no doubt that he will come back to Pulaski. If so, the best way to catch him would be to have someone close to me and Rick.” Tom paused. “If you catch Wheeler, you will likely be able to apprehend whoever it is paying Wheeler to try to hurt or kill me and Rick. Find that person, and you will find the true killer of Andy Walton.”
Again, Helen laughed. “You’ve been a law professor too long, Tom. This whole thing sounds like an incredibly complicated law school fact pattern, but I’m not buying any of it. If JimBone Wheeler is following you and Drake around, it’s because you two almost caused his death last year in Tuscaloosa. We see no connection between Wheeler and the murder of Andy Walton. On the contrary, all of the evidence points toward your client as the killer.” She paused, shaking her head and sighing. “As much as I would love to assign an officer—heck, a whole team of officers—to follow you and your partner around, we simply don’t have the manpower here for that kind of goose chase. Do we, Ennis?”
Petrie was looking down at the table. “No, ma’am.”
“What is your other request?” Helen asked.
“OK,” Tom began, undaunted by Helen’s rejection. “We know that Wheeler was seen with Jack Willistone, a trucking magnate from Tuscaloosa, at the Sundowners Club last summer. Willistone is now serving a prison sentence at a correctional facility in Springville, Alabama. Though Willistone denies that Wheeler ever worked for him or his company, it is our contention that Willistone likely owes Wheeler money in light of his arrest and his company’s subsequent bankruptcy. In looking at the visitor’s log at the Springville prison, a name came up that we didn’t recognize.” Tom paused. “Martha Booher.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
“So, Willistone says that Booher is just an old friend. He said he met her in Nashville years ago.” Tom paused, licking his lips. “We think it’s possible that Booher may be a friend of Wheeler’s. Perhaps she was sent to the jail to deliver a message to Willistone.”
“You’re reaching, Tom,” Helen said, scratching her chin. “You’re back in law school fantasy conspiracy land.”
“Maybe,” Tom admitted, smiling. “But it is a rock we haven’t turned over yet.”
&nb
sp; “Sheriff Petrie,” Wade said, breaking in on the speakerphone, “we’d like the Giles County Sheriff’s Office’s cooperation in trying to locate Martha Booher. Our preliminary investigation has turned up an address in Nashville, but the phone number is disconnected, and we have no other leads. Willistone says he met Booher at Tootsie’s bar, so we plan to talk to the people there, but we haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Our office cannot—” Helen started, but the sheriff cut her off.
“We’ll assist in any way we can, Officer Richey,” Petrie said, his voice firm.
Helen shot him a look, but Petrie gave it right back to her. Tom watched, knowing that while the sheriff would obviously listen to the district attorney general, it was the sheriff’s decision whether to cooperate with Tom’s requests. Tom was glad to see Petrie take a stand on Booher.
“Is there anything else, Tom?” Helen asked, making no effort to hide her exasperation.
“Yes,” he said, smiling again. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee?”
43
They sat at a table at Reeves Drug Store, two full mugs of steaming black coffee in front of them.
“You really do look different with a beard,” Helen said, smiling at him.
Tom shrugged, involuntarily scratching the white whiskers that now grew on the sides of his face. “You have a nice smile,” he told her. “You should use it more.”
“He needs to plea, Tom,” Helen said. Smile gone. Back on subject. “Life in prison. It’s better than the alternative, and it would save the town a lot of bad publicity.”
Tom shook his head. “Never.” Glancing around the store, Tom saw several kids enjoying ice-cream cones and an elderly lady working on a Coke float with a spoon. “I like this place,” he said.
“Pulaski or Reeves?” Helen asked.
Tom shrugged. “Both. Reminds me of home.”
“Tuscaloosa?” Helen asked, her voice incredulous.
Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “No. Tuscaloosa is my home now, but I was thinking more of home when I was a kid. I grew up in Hazel Green. Right on the border. When I was young, my parents would take drives on the weekend to pass the time, and I would tag along. On a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, we’d just get in the car and drive somewhere. A lot of times we went up to Fayetteville and would have lunch or dinner at Rachel’s.”
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