Then he paused for two seconds to admire the gun, thinking again of the irony of it all. He was holding the same gun used to kill Andy.
As the front and back doors of George Curtis’s home on East Jefferson Street were kicked in, George put the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth. Sorry to disappoint you, boys, he thought.
Then he pulled the trigger.
83
Raymond James Pickalew was pronounced dead upon arrival at Hillside Hospital at 5:05 p.m. Tom watched the nurse place the white sheet over Ray Ray’s head, thinking how ironic it all was. Ray Ray, who had worn the sheet and hood of the Klan, had revealed the truth behind a four-decade-old murder today. He had figuratively pulled down their sheets and hoods to show everyone the awful, naked truth.
Now, as if to make the circle complete, he was having the sheet pulled back over him.
“God bless, old friend,” Tom said, touching the dead man’s arm.
Tom walked out of the trauma room in a daze and then down the narrow corridor of the emergency room hallway. He took a seat next to Rick, who was gazing forward with a blank look on his face.
“He’s gone,” Tom said, his voice low.
Rick gave a quick nod. Then he turned his head to look at Tom. The boy’s face was almost ashen. “My ears,” he began, his voice shaking, “they’re still ringing.”
“That’s just temporary,” Tom said. “It’ll go away. Listen . . . why don’t you let them check you out here?”
Rick shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I just . . .” He sighed, and Tom saw tears forming in the corners of the boy’s eyes. “I saw the whole thing. Ray Ray . . . saved Bo’s life. He stepped right in front of him.”
Tom sighed and put his arm around his partner. “I know, son.” Tom started to say more but stopped when he saw two uniformed officers burst through the entrance to the ER. Tom rose to his feet when he recognized Officer Springfield. Before Tom could even say hello, Hank was talking, his voice clipped and edgy.
“Is Bo here?”
Tom shook his head. “No, I—”
“Jazz says that she hasn’t seen him since just after the shooting. He walked her and T. J. to his office and then said he was coming over here to check on Ray Ray.”
“He was here for a few minutes but left after the doctor said there was no chance to save Ray Ray.”
“So Ray Ray’s . . .”
“Dead,” Tom said. “Pronounced five minutes ago.”
Hank rubbed his neck and exhaled. “Professor, did Bo say where he was going?”
“No. I assumed back to the office. Deputy, what’s—?”
“We found George Curtis dead on his couch ten minutes ago. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. He left a note confessing to Andy’s murder.”
“Jesus,” Tom said, feeling his legs begin to wobble again.
“Yeah, I know. It’s . . . a mess,” Hank said, looking down at the floor and shaking his head. “Listen, we haven’t been able to locate Larry Tucker yet, and I just want to make sure Bo’s in a safe place. JimBone Wheeler has already taken a shot at him, and if Tucker or someone else is involved they might try to finish it.”
Tom took out his cell phone and clicked on Bo’s number. Without even ringing, Tom heard Bo’s message come across the line: “You’ve reached Bocephus Haynes. I’m sorry I missed your call. Please leave your name and number, and I will call you back.” Tom spoke into the speaker. “Bo, this is Tom. Please call me as soon as you get this message. Thanks, bye.” Tom ended the call and looked at Hank.
“Deputy, I know you’ve probably already thought of this—” Tom started, but Hank’s voice cut him off.
“He’s not at the clearing. At least not yet. I checked there myself on the way here. He’s driving Jazz’s Sequoia, and it isn’t parked anywhere along 64 near the dirt road turn-in.”
“OK, I’ll keep trying him on his phone,” Tom said, feeling his heart rate quicken. “How about Wheeler? Is he talking?”
“Nothing so far. He’s yet to utter a word.”
Tom rubbed his chin. “Did Curtis implicate anyone else in his note?”
“No one. In fact, he said the whole thing was a ‘solo operation.’ That he planned Andy’s murder and he pulled the trigger.”
“Bullshit,” Tom said. “He’s covering for someone.”
“Agreed,” Hank said. “I’ve known George Curtis all my life, and he was an old-school Southerner. Definitely not a rat.” Hank paused and then sucked in a quick breath. “He knew he was about to spend the rest of his life in prison, so he took one for the team.”
Tom was nodding along with him. “Makes sense. Helen would have seen to it that he fried for both crimes.” At his mention of her name, Tom thought back to his conversation with the prosecutor at the courthouse right before the gunfire erupted on the square. “Is General Lewis down at the station, Deputy?”
Hank let out a low whistling sound. “She was. But when I gave her the news about Curtis . . .” He shook his head.
Tom could only imagine. If Helen could have quickly charged George Curtis for the murders of Roosevelt Haynes and Andy Walton, she might have been able to spin her loss of Bo’s murder trial into a long-term victory. Staying the course and brushing herself off from defeat, General Lewis had brought the lynch mob who killed Roosevelt Haynes to justice and solved the Andy Walton murder to boot. Now . . .
“I’m sure she’s pretty upset,” Tom said, knowing his words were a vast understatement.
“She blew a gasket, Professor. I’ve never seen the General so angry.” Hank started to say more, but the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt sounded off and he grabbed it. “Yeah,” he blared into the handheld device. He listened for a few minutes before saying “Ten-four” into the speaker. Then he turned back to the Professor. “We need y’all to come down to the station to fill out statements about the shooting.” Hank paused and looked over Tom’s shoulder to Rick, who had remained seated in the plastic lobby chair. “He up for it?”
Tom walked over to Rick and kneeled down. “Deputy Springfield needs you to write a statement about what you saw on the square. Can you do that?”
Rick blinked and then he nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”
Tom turned back to Hank and gave the thumbs-up sign. “We’re right behind you.”
“Ten-four,” Hank said, walking toward the exit with the other deputy that came in with him right on his heels. At the doors he turned around and looked back at Tom, making the phone symbol with the thumb and pinky finger of his right hand. “Keep trying Bo.”
84
As the sun began to set over Walton Farm, Bo pulled into the gravel driveway leading up to the main entrance of the Big House. He pushed the buzzer out in front of the gate and waited.
Bo had spent the last two hours driving the back roads of Pulaski, thinking about what Ray Ray had said. About what it all meant.
Bo pushed the buzzer twice more and put his car in reverse. Just as he started to ease the car backward to leave the driveway, a clipped voice blared out of the speaker adjacent to the buzzer. “Who is it?”
“Bo Haynes, ma’am.”
Silence for a good five seconds. Then a faint chuckle. “You have a lot of nerve coming over here. What do you want?”
“To talk, ma’am. Just . . . talk.”
More silence. Then Bo was startled by another buzzing sound as the gate slowly began to creak open. Feeling a catch in his throat, Bo hesitated, knowing this was probably a bad idea. Regardless, almost without conscious thought he pressed the accelerator down and eased the vehicle forward. The compulsion to follow Ray Ray out the courthouse doors was moving him forward, and he found himself powerless to stop it. I have to know . . .
As the Sequoia wound up the hill, Bo’s mind filled with images of the day his father was killed. The day that had haunted every hour of his life since. The cross in the yard. The Klansmen surrounding the house. The smell of burning wood mixed with the fear coming from his father as he kneeled next to Bo and mad
e the boy promise to take care of his momma, to make something of himself and to not believe the reasons given for the murder. Forty-five years . . . Bo had gone to law school ultimately so that he could bring the men who killed his father to justice. He’d practiced in Pulaski these past twenty-five years for the same reason. He’d spoken with every living Klansman in the Tennessee chapter. His obsession in life had been to bring Andy Walton to justice. Andy Walton. The monster who had killed his father and made his mother disappear. “The monster . . .”
At the top of the hill the house came into view. As with most things you remember being so huge as a child, the Big House really wasn’t so big after all. Sure, it was a two-story rancher—a beautiful old relic of a day gone by—but Bo’s house in town probably carried more square footage.
Bo had not been invited to be on Walton soil since he was five years old. Two weeks after the murder and a day after his mother had disappeared, he’d moved in with Aunt Mable and Uncle Booker, who lived in the parish next to Bickland Creek Baptist Church. He had never been invited back.
He opened the car door and walked toward the house, his body fueled by adrenaline. Given what he’d been through that day—the trial and then the shooting—Bo should be exhausted. But he felt nothing, his feet propelled forward by a four-decade-long obsession. I have to know . . .
As he trotted up the steps of the porch, Bo saw the note. It was a yellow sticky pressed to the front door. He tore it off and brought it close to his eyes.
“At the clearing. Walk, don’t drive.”
Bo crumpled the note and swept his eyes over the farm, seeing the orange hue of the sun beginning to descend over the western horizon. It was beautiful, he had to admit, and the memory of other sunsets flooded back to him. His mother and father’s house had been on the north side of the farm. “House” was really an overstatement. It had been a two-bedroom shack. Less than a thousand square feet. But for Bo it was home. He remembered his father liked to smoke a pipe and sit in a plastic chair under a tree near the front of the house, watching the sun make its slow descent. Sometimes Bo would stand next to him, asking questions that little boys ask. “Daddy, why does the sun rise and fall? Does it go to sleep at night too?”
Bo wiped a tear from his eye and headed north on foot toward the clearing. It had been forty-five years since he’d walked this farm, but he knew the way. He could find it blindfolded.
I have to know, he told himself. I have to know . . .
85
The sheriff’s office was a madhouse.
Between the shooting of Ray Ray Pickalew, the arrest of JimBone Wheeler, and the suicide of Dr. George Curtis, the parking lot had become ground zero for a plethora of television and print news reporters, all hoping for more information on any of these events.
Tom and Rick had piled into the back of Deputy Springfield’s cruiser at the hospital so as to avoid the hassle of trying to park and wade through the cameras. Hank pulled to the front of the building and whisked them all inside. A few minutes later Rick was in an interrogation room being questioned by one of the younger deputies about what he had seen on the square.
Tom waited in the lobby and continued to try to reach Bo, with no luck. Each call went straight to voice mail. He called Jazz and Booker T., and neither had heard a word from him since just after the shooting. Where the hell could he be? It didn’t make sense for Bo to disappear. Unless . . .
Tom gave his head a quick jerk and began to limp around the lobby, his thoughts becoming more and more troubled. Andy Walton was dead. Ray Ray Pickalew was dead. George Curtis was dead. Larry Tucker was missing. Bo was missing.
The doors to the interrogation area flew open, and Deputy Springfield ushered Rick through them, his hand on the boy’s arm to steady him. Once Rick was seated, Hank turned to Tom, his eyes burning with intensity. “Any word from Bo?”
Tom shook his head. “Nothing. What about Helen? Have you heard—?”
“No,” Hank interrupted. “She left right after we told her about Curtis, and no one has seen her since. Not answering her phone, and not replying to texts.” Hank paused and wiped his forehead. “She needs to be here. There’s no one better in a crisis than the General.”
Tom took a deep breath and tried to calm his mind. Think, old man.
Think . . .
86
It took less than ten minutes for Bo to get to the clearing. Though the distance was just over a mile, Bo found himself running most of it, a couple of times stumbling on uneven ground and falling on the dirt road. I have to know, he kept telling himself. I have to know.
By the time he reached the familiar trail that led to the pond, it was almost dark. Two vehicles were parked side by side at the edge of the trail, and Bo squinted his eyes, trying to focus. One of the vehicles was a Chevy Tahoe, probably silver, though the lack of light made it tough to tell. The other one was a two-cab Chevy Silverado truck. Darker. Probably green. As Bo approached, he saw the shadow of a man in the front cab of the pickup truck. He froze, reaching for his pocket and realizing that he had brought no weapon. Usually, he brought his twelve-gauge or his pistol to the clearing, but the state had seized all of his guns.
Slowly, trying to make as little sound as possible, Bo approached the truck. The driver’s-side window was down, and the man behind the wheel was slumped against the center console, his head turned away from Bo. Asleep? Bo wondered. The adrenaline that had carried Bo this far had now cranked into overdrive.
Something wasn’t right about this scene.
“Hey,” Bo said, clearing his throat. Nothing. The man, wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with a ball cap on his head, still leaned away, making no movement at all. Though Bo had yet to see his face, there was something familiar about the man’s profile. “Hey,” Bo repeated, reaching into the truck and shaking the man’s arm. When he did, the man slumped toward him, and Bo saw the face framed below the orange UT ball cap.
Larry Tucker, Bo knew, though the gunshot hole just above the man’s right temple made it harder to tell. Dried blood caked the right side of what was left of Larry’s face, and he gazed at Bo with dead eyes. “Jesus Christ,” Bo whispered, dropping Larry’s arm and stumbling backward away from the truck.
“Larry was always such an idiot.” The harsh voice came from directly behind Bo, and he fell to the ground as he tried to turn toward it. “I think it was a humanitarian gesture to put him out of his misery.”
“Ms. Maggie?” Bo asked, rising to his feet as the voice came closer. It was now pitch dark, and Bo could see nothing but the faint outline of the pine trees above him. Even the stars, it seemed, had stayed away on this dreary night. Bo blinked and took a cautious step forward, squinting in the direction of the voice.
The roaring of a shotgun blast sent him to his knees. Heart pounding and ear drums ringing, he ran his hands along his body, searching for a wound and then looking at his palms for blood.
“You’re not hit,” the harsh voice said. “Not yet. Now get up and open the back door to Larry’s truck, or the next shot goes in your ear.”
Bo, still unable to see her, stood on shaky legs and did as he was told. The interior light inside the truck came on, and Bo turned back toward the voice.
Maggie Walton was standing three feet in front of him, pointing the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun at Bo’s head. “Got your bearings?” she asked him, and Bo, unable to speak, nodded.
“Good. Now walk along the path toward the pond.”
When Bo’s feet hadn’t budged, Ms. Maggie spoke again, her voice devoid of emotion. “Go on now, Bocephus. You came out here to talk, didn’t you?”
Again, Bo nodded his head.
“Well, we’re going to have our talk by the pond.”
Bo tried to move his feet, but they seemed to be stuck in the ground. The adrenaline rush that had carried him to this point was gone. He was so tired.
“Go, Bocephus,” Maggie said, her voice softer.
“You’re going to kill me too, ar
en’t you?” Bo asked, a rhetorical question given the circumstances.
“Yes, Bo. I am,” Maggie said. “But not before I tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Bo asked.
In the glow from the interior light in Larry Tucker’s pickup, Bo saw Maggie Walton’s lips curve into a smile. “Everything.”
The walk to the pond took less than two minutes, but for Bo it seemed to last two lifetimes. Pictures from his past danced across his mind like reels in an old projector-style movie. Was it possible that he had been wrong about so much for so long? He had seen with his own eyes what had happened at this clearing forty-five years ago. He had recognized Andy Walton’s voice. Andy had kicked the horse, and Bo’s father’s neck had snapped. The Ku Klux Klan, led by Andy Walton, had killed Bo’s father, and Bo’s mother had left because she did not want to suffer a similar fate. Right?
Bo’s arms hung limp at his sides as he walked. He made no move to escape. Truth be known, he didn’t want to escape. He wanted to know. I have to know . . .
Bo walked to within a few feet of where the water met the rocky sand, and stopped.
“Turn around,” Maggie said, and Bo did as he was told.
In the darkness, though she was only three feet away, Maggie looked like a shadow.
“Why did you kill Tucker?” Bo finally asked, unable to shake the image of the dead man with the orange cap and flannel shirt from his mind. He had seen two corpses in the past three hours. Ray Ray Pickalew and now Larry Tucker. And I’ll be the third one, Bo thought.
“Officially,” Maggie began, “Larry Tucker dropped by the farm, saying he wanted to talk about what happened at trial today.” Though he couldn’t see her face, Bo could tell by Maggie’s tone that she was smiling. “I buzzed him to come up and meet me at the clearing, as today is my day to inspect the north half of the farm. When he arrived, he was drunk and belligerent. He said, ‘George ruined everything,’ and that he needed to find him. When I said I didn’t know where George was, he said he was going to kill me. He climbed into his truck to grab his weapon, and I shot him through the open window before he could shoot me.”
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