Between Black and White

by Robert Bailey

  “That sounds pretty good,” Bo said, figuring Maggie could probably sell that story. “What’s the unofficial version?”

  “George called Larry and asked him to meet him at the clearing. When Larry arrived, he saw me and rolled his window down to talk. Once the window was down, I pointed the barrel of this twelve-gauge at him and blew his brains out.”

  Bo felt a cold chill on the back of his neck that had nothing to do with the temperature. The matter-of-factness with which Maggie spoke was startling.

  “Why?” Bo asked. “Why Tucker?”

  She shrugged. “Loose ends. Larry knew too much for his own good, and after Pickalew’s testimony today he was going to finish his life in jail. I didn’t want him cutting any deals for information with the prosecutors.”

  “What information would he have?”

  “I really don’t know,” Maggie said. “Andy’s lips had loosened some in the past few years. Since I didn’t know what Larry knew, the safer play was to get rid of him.”

  “Getting rid of people is one of your specialties, isn’t it, Ms. Maggie?”

  She stepped closer to him, and now he could see her. Her eyes squinted from behind the barrel of the gun. “Don’t get sassy with me, Bocephus. Or I’ll put an end to this right now.”

  “What about Sheriff Petrie?” Bo asked, knowing he had to keep her talking. “He’s still around.”

  “Ennis doesn’t know anything. He had just joined the Klan when Roosevelt was lynched.”

  “What about Ray Ray?” Bo asked. “Why did he testify today? Why did he bring it all down?”

  Another pause, and faint moonlight began to emerge through the clouds above. For the first time since reaching the pond, Bo could see Maggie’s eyes. She was gazing past Bo as if in thought, holding the gun against her hip. He could probably rush her and get the gun if he was quick enough.

  “You know how many rabbits and squirrels I’ve shot in my life with this gun right on my hip like this here?” It was as if she could read his mind. “Don’t even think about it, Bo. Or I’ll fill you full of lead before you find out what you’ve waited your whole life to know.”

  “Why did Ray Ray spill the beans today?”

  “You’d have to ask him,” Maggie said. “I suspect it was because he didn’t care anymore. Maybe Doris died or was already about dead. I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” She smiled, and Bo again felt the chill on the back of his neck.

  “That was you?” Bo asked.

  She nodded. “I hired a man to kill you, but Ray Ray got in the way.”

  “JimBone Wheeler,” Bo said, feeling weak in the knees.

  Maggie again nodded. “Mr. Wheeler was fairly easy to recruit for this job. Apparently, you had a bit of a history with him.”

  Several seconds went by, and the clouds continued to move out. Light from the crescent-shaped moon shone down on the pond, and Orion became visible above. Bo gazed upward at the constellation, blinking his eyes. Maggie Walton was behind everything. Maggie was the monster my momma was talking about. Not Andy. Maggie . . .

  “Tell me about Andy’s murder. I’m assuming your brother and Wheeler were a part it.”

  Maggie nodded, her eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “Once I hired Wheeler, I had him tail you for several days. He said you went to Kathy’s Tavern every night after work and had several drinks, so I asked Andy to take me there for my birthday. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist confronting Andy if you saw him, and I have to say that you went above and beyond with your ‘eye for an eye’ bit.” She licked her lips. “Of course, I also knew that you would eventually come here to the clearing on the anniversary. Every August 18 you come out here to talk with your father.” She chuckled. “That’s what you do, right? You talk to Roosevelt out here.”

  “How do you know that?” Bo asked.

  “I know everything that ever happens on this farm. And I know everything about you, Bo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been a constant thorn in my side your whole life. Like a goddamn zit that won’t go away. An itch you can’t ever seem to scratch enough.”

  Bo could hear the hate in her voice. “George took my car after I passed out at the office, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then he caught Andy coming out of the Sundowners and shot him when he was in his truck, same as how you just shot Larry. Wheeler’s role was to make the anonymous phone call.”

  Maggie had started shaking her head before Bo had finished. “Wrong. George, God love him, has always been a bit of a wimp when it comes to doing the dirty work that is sometimes required. I was never able to make a man out of him.” She paused, smiling. “But he sure knew how to touch a woman. I taught my brother how to do that very well. Unfortunately . . . after being with me so much as a boy, he . . . wasn’t able to move on to other women.” She sighed. “A pity.”

  Bo flinched. Incest?

  “But you got the anonymous call part right,” Maggie continued. “That was Mr. Wheeler. He was driving up and down Highway 64, hanging tight until we sent word that the deed had been done.” She paused. “I called him right after I shot Andy. Told him to wait fifteen minutes and then make the call. That would give me and George enough time to hang the body . . . and set it on fire.”

  “You shot Andy?” Bo asked, astonished, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised anymore. Hadn’t Maggie blown Larry Tucker’s face off in just the same way?

  “Of course,” Maggie said. “I shot him with George’s shotgun. Then I fired your gun up in the air twice and left one of the shell casings in the grass under Andy’s truck.

  “George moved the body in your car so Andy’s blood and hair would get spread all over the back cargo area. We knew that the back of the Lexus would show up on the club’s surveillance tape, and the tinted windows would make it impossible to see who was inside. So George left the Sundowners in your car and drove the quarter mile here, while I followed behind on foot, making sure I avoided the camera lens. Then”—she pointed at the tree where Bo watched his father hang forty-five years before—“we made the decorations.” She paused. “Spick and span. In and out. Andy’s dead, and for all the world it looks like you did it.”

  Bo thought it through for several seconds, still not understanding one part of the scheme. “You really hired a killer like JimBone Wheeler just to tail me for a few days and make an anonymous phone call?”

  Maggie slowly shook her head. “No. Though that was a necessary part of the plan to kill Andy and frame you.” She paused. “The main reason I hired Wheeler was as an insurance policy in case General Lewis wasn’t able to convict you.” She sighed. “But I guess I’m going to have to do that myself too. You just can’t get good help today, Bo.”

  Bo couldn’t bring himself to say anything as Maggie raised her shotgun and pointed it at Bo.

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Walton.”

  The voice came from behind Bo, but he made no move to look. Instead, he focused on the barrel of the shotgun pointed at his chest. If Maggie lowered the gun in any fashion, he would lunge for it.

  “Well, now,” Maggie said, continuing to point the shotgun at Bo. “General Lewis . . .”

  Helen Lewis moved into the clearing, her pistol pointed at Maggie. As she inched closer, Bo could see her out of his peripheral vision. “Drop the gun, Mrs. Walton,” Helen said, continuing to approach forward. “Game’s up.”

  “No one tells me what to do,” Maggie said, shooting a glare at Helen while still pointing her gun at Bo.

  “Put the gun down now, Mrs. Walton, or I’ll have no choice but to—”

  “You’ll have no choice but to what?” Maggie asked. “Watch me kill this nigger while you try to shoot me. I have the high ground here, and we both know it.”

  “Even if you shoot Bo, Mrs. Walton, I’m going to kill you. The endgame is a loss for you.”

  “You don’t have the balls, General. You may be a New Age, do-everything-a-man-can-do bitch, but you
don’t have it in you to take me on. I am this town. Me. Maggie Curtis Walton. I’ve survived the past forty-five years and have gotten through dicier situations than this. I’m going to kill Bo. You’re going to miss or just wound me with that flare gun you’re holding. And then I’m going to kill you.” She nodded. “I can see it now. Bo came out here and tried to kill me. General Lewis came out to try to help, but he killed her, and then in self-defense I killed Bo.”

  “You always have an angle, don’t you, Ms. Maggie?” Bo interjected.

  “Always,” she said, turning her eyes back to him.

  “Why do you hate me so bad?” Bo asked. He knew he had to get her talking again if Helen was to have any chance of disarming her. He had to distract her. “The one thing I still don’t understand is your stake in all of this. So Andy confesses, and he goes to jail. Yeah, that’s bad and all, but is that enough for you to kill everyone? You wouldn’t have gone to jail. And you wouldn’t have lost your precious farm.” Bo paused, seeing that Maggie was gazing directly at him now.

  “Why do you hate me so bad?” Bo repeated the question, his voice beginning to tremble. “Why? Andy killed my father. I had a reason to hate him. You got no reason to hate me. Why, Ms. Maggie?”

  Bo had forgotten about Helen Lewis. He had forgotten about the gun Maggie Walton was pointing at him. I have to know . . .

  “Roosevelt threatened my family. That is something that you do not do.”

  “How? How could my daddy threaten you? Sitting in your big house on the hill. How could a damn field hand threaten you?”

  “He threatened me with you, Bocephus,” Maggie hissed. Then without hesitation she lowered the barrel of the gun and fired it.

  Bo’s left kneecap exploded with pain, and he crumpled to the ground. As he did, he saw Helen Lewis fire her pistol. Helen’s shot hit Maggie in the shoulder, and she staggered backwards. The next bullet hit Maggie in the stomach, and she lowered the shotgun to her hip, her legs wobbling. She looked like she was about to fall, and Helen lowered her weapon slightly, glancing at Bo. “Are you all—?”

  “No, General!” Bo screamed, but he was too late.

  Maggie Walton fired the shotgun from her hip, and the district attorney general went down. Helen landed on her back and rolled over on her stomach. Then she stopped moving.

  Dead, Bo thought, cradling his destroyed knee in his arms. Another casualty.

  “I hate to say I told you so,” Maggie said, chuckling. “That bitch didn’t have it in her to take me out.”

  Bo stared at her. Maggie’s white blouse was now stained red on both collarbones, but she was still alive. And she still had the gun.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain and placing all of his weight on his right leg, Bo managed to stand. “How could my daddy threaten you with me?” he spat.

  Maggie Walton took two steps toward Bo and put the barrel of the gun against Bo’s forehead. Hate shone in her eyes as she spat the words out. “Because he wasn’t your daddy.”

  Bo blinked, and his right leg buckled. He fell to his knees and looked down at the brown sand, then back up at Maggie Walton. “What?”

  “Roosevelt wasn’t your father. He married Pearl a few months after she got pregnant with you.” Maggie paused, lowering her voice to just above a whisper. “Truth is, Bo, you’ve hated your real daddy all your life.”

  Bo raised his eyes from the sand, the truth finally dawning on him. “No,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Maggie spat. “Your daddy was my husband. Andrew Davis Walton. Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. Andy had an affair with your momma, and you were the result. You ask me why I hate you. I’ve wanted you dead from the moment you breathed air.”

  Despite the unbearable pain in his kneecap, Bo felt numb all over. His arms hung limp from his sides as he stared up at Maggie Walton. “Why didn’t you have me killed as a baby then?”

  “Because your daddy wouldn’t let me,” Maggie said, her teeth clinched together in anger. “Andy owned up to what he had done, but he would not kill his own son.” Maggie laughed, but the bitterness in the sound was palpable. “How’s that for irony? You have hated Andy Walton your whole life, and he is the only reason you have lived as long as you have. The minute I put Andy out of his misery, I began to plan your death. At first I wanted the state to do it. I would have gotten so much satisfaction out of watching you put to death for the murder of your own father. But Helen couldn’t get it done, and Ray Ray stopped my hired gun from doing it, so now I guess I’m just going to have to do it myself.”

  She took a step back and raised the shotgun at him.

  “Why did Andy kill Da—?” Bo paused, closing his eyes. “Roosevelt?” he corrected himself. “Why did Andy kill Roosevelt?”

  “Roosevelt came up to the house and said he wanted money for your upbringing. Said it wasn’t fair for the son of Andy Walton to be brought up dirt poor, and that everyone was going to know the truth if we didn’t start giving them a stipend.” She paused. “Greedy meddling nigger. I told Andy that he had to get rid of Roosevelt, and that he could think of it as a birthday present to me.” She shrugged, squinting at Bo. “Truth was Andy was glad to kill Roosevelt. What bothered him was that you saw. Can you believe that? He was worried about you.”

  Bo looked up at Maggie Walton. He was beginning to get dizzy, and he blinked his eyes. He was bleeding profusely from his kneecap, and he figured he was about to pass out from blood loss.

  “My momma?” Bo asked. “What happened to my momma?”

  Maggie squinted at him and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “She’s right behind you, Bocephus.”

  Bo wrinkled his face in confusion and turned his head toward the pond.

  “Andy was so upset when he learned that I killed his nigger whore,” Maggie continued, her voice even softer. “I stabbed her with a butcher knife. Then I took her body down to one of Andy’s lumber yards and had her corpse incinerated.” She paused. “I spread her ashes on the pond behind you.”

  Bo closed his eyes. His momma hadn’t left him. She hadn’t disappeared. The monster had killed her too.

  He had no further questions.

  “You spent your whole life chasing revenge against Andy,” Maggie said, raising her voice.

  Bo knew he was about to die. He kept his eyes closed and thought about Jazz. And T. J. and Lila. His own upbringing had been a lie, but theirs had not been. They were real. And they’ll be better off without me, he thought.

  “And I’ve spent my whole life wanting revenge on you,” Maggie continued.

  Bo forced himself to open his eyes. He turned his head and gazed up at Maggie Walton as she set the shotgun against her shoulder and squinted at Bo.

  “I win,” she said, pulling the trigger.

  Bo’s right shoulder erupted in pain as the buckshot entered just above the rotator cuff. As he began to sprawl backward into the pond, three more shots rang out, the last of which was deafening.

  Bo closed his eyes, thinking it was only right for him to die here. In the same place where his mother’s ashes were spread. Near the tree where the only father he had ever known was lynched.

  As his body began to slide into the pond, Bo lifted his head and gazed at the monster who had destroyed his life, expecting that the last thing he would see would be her smiling, satisfied face. But Maggie Walton was no longer standing.

  She was lying facedown in the sand. Dead. Her chest was bleeding, and the right side of her face, the side that Bo could see, was all but gone.

  Bo dug his hands into the pond’s sandy bottom, trying to stop his momentum. His eyes shot to the left, and he saw District Attorney General Helen Lewis crouched on one knee, pointing her pistol at the spot where Maggie Walton had been standing. But Helen’s eyes were not on Maggie. They were gazing at a spot behind her at the edge of the clearing. Bo followed her gaze, and his chest heaved when he saw the object of her focus.

  Standing under the same tree where Roosevelt Hay
nes had been lynched in 1966 was an old man holding a Remington .30-06 deer rifle.

  “Professor,” Bo cried.

  Then everything went dark as Bo’s head dipped below the surface of the water.

  EPILOGUE

  Three weeks after the close of the trial of Bocephus Haynes, Rick Drake parked his Saturn on a curb next to the Maplewood Cemetery in Pulaski. Once he had turned the ignition off, Rick turned to his passenger. “We’re here, Professor.”

  Thomas Jackson McMurtrie opened his eyes and rubbed them with the knuckles of his right hand. He had slept for most of the way from Tuscaloosa.

  “Sure you’re up for this?” Rick asked.

  Tom waved him off and opened the door. It was now early November in Pulaski, and the leaves on the trees in the cemetery were an array of yellow, brown, and orange. Beautiful, Tom thought as he breathed in the fresh air. The temperature was just over fifty degrees, but the sun was high in the sky, and Tom felt its warmth on the back of his neck. Gazing upward toward the cemetery, Tom was glad they had waited. Having the funeral right after the shooting would have been a circus. His friend deserved a better send-off than that. He had lived a tortured life. Tom would see to it that his burial was as smooth as it could be.

  Tom and Rick walked up the hill, both holding small bouquets of flowers. As they passed the rows of headstones, Tom felt the depression that always set in when he went to pay his respects to a departed comrade. He knew it wouldn’t be too long before he was underneath one of these blocks of concrete, his bones decaying while his spirit hopefully ascended into heaven.

  As they approached the tent under which the small ceremony would be held, it was hard not to think about the people he had loved who were now gone. His mother and father, whose lessons still shaped his life even now. His beautiful Julie, the one true love of his life. Coach Bryant, his teacher and mentor. And his fallen teammate, Pat Trammell, who had died too damn young from cancer. Tom wiped his eyes as he followed Rick into the tent. The mahogany casket had been placed at the far end of the tent, and a man wearing a black smock was standing beside it. Tom approached the coffin and placed the bouquet of flowers at the foot of it. Then, putting his hand on the casket, Tom closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. When he opened them, he noticed that another guest had entered the tent and was heading his way.