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

  PRAISE FOR ROBERT BAILEY

  “The Professor is that rare combination of thrills, chills, and heart. Gripping from the first page to the last.”

  —Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump

  “Legal thrillers shouldn’t be this much fun and a new writer shouldn’t be this good at crafting a great twisty story. If you enjoy Grisham as much as I do, you’re going to love Bob Bailey.”

  —Brian Haig, author of The Night Crew and the Sean Drummond series

  “Robert Bailey is a thriller writer to reckon with. His debut novel has a tight and twisty plot, vivid characters, and a pleasantly down-home sensibility that will remind some readers of adventures in Grisham-land. Luckily, Robert Bailey is an original, and his skill as a writer makes the Alabama setting all his own. The Professor marks the beginning of a very promising career.”

  —Mark Childress, author of Georgia Bottoms and Crazy in Alabama

  “Taut, page turning, and smart, The Professor is a legal thriller that will keep readers up late as the twists and turns keep coming. Set in Alabama, it also includes that state’s greatest icon, one Coach Bear Bryant. In fact, the Bear gets things going with the energy of an Alabama kickoff to Auburn. Robert Bailey knows his state and he knows his law. He also knows how to write characters that are real, sympathetic, and surprising. If he keeps writing novels this good, he’s got quite a literary career before him.”

  —Homer Hickam, author of Rocket Boys/October Sky, a New York Times number-one bestseller

  “Robert Bailey is a Southern writer in the great Southern tradition, with a vivid sense of his environment, and characters that pop and crackle on the page. This book kept me hooked all the way through.”

  —William Bernhardt, author of the Ben Kincaid series

  “Bailey’s solid second McMurtrie and Drake legal thriller (after 2014’s The Professor) . . . provides enough twists and surprises to keep readers turning the pages.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A gripping legal suspense thriller of the first order, Between Black and White clearly displays author Robert Bailey’s impressive talents as a novelist. An absorbing and riveting read from beginning to end.”

  —Midwest Book Reviews

  “Take a murder, a damaged woman, and a desperate daughter and you have the recipe for The Last Trial, a complex and fast-paced legal thriller. Highly recommended.”

  —DP Lyle, award-winning author

  ALSO BY ROBERT BAILEY

  McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers

  The Last Trial

  Between Black and White

  The Professor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Robert Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503902268

  ISBN-10: 1503902269

  Cover design by Brian Zimmerman

  In loving memory of my father, Randall Robert “Randy” Bailey

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART TWO

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  PART THREE

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  PART FOUR

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  PART FIVE

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  We can do this.

  —Randy Bailey

  PROLOGUE

  Riverbend Maximum Security Institution Nashville, Tennessee, May 15, 2012

  “Come here.”

  The killer’s icy voice caused the hairs on Tom’s neck to stand up. The interview was over and Corporal Jacquetta Stone, who had escorted Tom and Helen to death row, had been in the process of unlocking the door to the cell so that they could leave. Tom glanced at Helen, and the prosecutor’s pale face gave away nothing. Then, as if subconsciously agreeing to proceed at the same time, they both turned and started to approach the metal desk where the killer sat. His hands were chained to a bar running down the middle of the table, and his feet were shackled. But even when he was restrained, James Robert “JimBone” Wheeler’s flat eyes, ruddy complexion, and cold voice gave off the vibe of a dangerous animal.

  “Just you, McMurtrie,” JimBone said, lowering his sights. “The other two can stand by the door.”

  Helen shook her head. “Let’s go,” she whispered, but Tom held out his hands and made eye contact with both Helen and the corporal.

  “It’s fine,” he whispered. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Tom took two steps toward the table and returned to his seat, while Helen and Stone waited by the door. “OK,” Tom said.

  JimBone leaned forward and rested his chin on his shackled hands. Then he raised his eyes and spoke just above a whisper. “Do you know what the word ‘reckoning’ means, McMurtrie?”

  Tom felt the gooseflesh that had sprung up on his neck spread down his arms. “Revenge,” Tom said. “Another word for revenge.”

  “It’s more than that,” JimBone said. “It’s a balancing of the scales. A making of things right. A day . . . of reckoning.”

  “So what?” Tom asked, beginning to tire of the games.

  “Your day is coming, old man.” He
paused. “And if you mess with Bully Calhoun, it may come sooner rather than later. I hope that isn’t the case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I get out of here I intend to give you your day.” He paused and his voice became so low that Tom strained to hear it. “I’m going to kill you, McMurtrie, and everyone you hold dear. Your son the doctor and his wife. That grandson of yours and his baby sister. Your whole family.” He paused again. “I’m also going to kill your partner, Drake, and his family. Your friend Haynes and his wife and kids. Conrad and that crazy detective. I’m going to bring a day of reckoning on you and everyone you hold dear, McMurtrie.”

  Tom’s skin went cold as visions of this psychopath attacking his grandchildren, Jackson and Jenny, flooded his brain. He swallowed, and when he spoke, he was surprised that the words came out calm and deliberate, reminding Tom of the way he had once advised his son to hold steady before bringing the head of a shovel down on a snake that had gotten into the garage. “Let me remind you that you are on death row, Mr. Wheeler. You’re going to be put to death by lethal injection.” Tom hesitated before adding, “Your threats mean nothing.”

  “Really?” JimBone asked. “How is your partner’s daddy doing?”

  Tom leaned forward, sure he had heard him wrong. “What?”

  “How is Billy Drake doing these days? I seem to recall hearing something about him having an accident.” JimBone smiled.

  Tom felt light-headed. “How could you—?”

  “Who have we spent most of this meeting talking about?”

  “Bully . . . Calhoun?” Tom asked, his voice distant, his body numb with fear.

  JimBone squinted at Tom with eyes that danced with delight. Then he slowly nodded. “After I left Bully’s employ, he eventually found need for a person with . . . similar talents. I knew someone that would fit the bill very nicely.” JimBone paused and patted the desk with his fingertips. “Let’s just say that my replacement was grateful for the job, and over the years we’ve helped each other out from time to time.”

  Tom leaned over the desk and forced his voice to be calm. “Are you saying that Bully Calhoun has a hit man who killed Billy Drake as a favor to you?”

  JimBone grinned. “You must be hearing things, old man.”

  “I hear just fine,” Tom said, his legs wobbly. “Why Rick’s father? Why not me or Bo or even Rick himself?”

  “I’m saving the rest of you for me,” JimBone said, his voice just above a whisper. “But while I’m stuck in here, I thought I’d have a little bite. An appetizer before the main course.”

  Tom glared down at the psychopath, anger finally replacing shock. “You’re a crazy son of a bitch. When I do investigate Bully Calhoun, I’m going to tell him that you led me to him. That his old employee James Robert Wheeler is the one who flashed the light on him.” Tom paused. “How’d that be?”

  The grin widened on JimBone’s face. “Bully is too smart to ever mess with me. I’m that stray dog you’re not quite sure of. That dog that never barks. That you see sneaking around your back porch at night and in the morning. After a while, your own dog turns up pregnant or dead, depending on whether I want to fuck or kill it, and your garden don’t have any food left.” He paused. “I’m a dog that only bites, Professor. A man like Bully Calhoun knows to leave me well enough alone.”

  Tom stood to leave. When he looked at Helen, her eyes were wide with worry, but Corporal Stone’s face was bored. Just another day on death row.

  When Tom reached the door, JimBone spoke in a clear, brittle voice from behind him. “Remember what I said, old man. Your day of reckoning is coming.”

  Tom didn’t look back at him, but as the corporal opened the locked door, the killer’s words, an octave higher and with more menace, rang out above the jangle of keys.

  “Courtesy of the Bone.”

  PART ONE

  1

  There’s a stink that a prison gives off. A stale smell, like the body odor of someone who has failed to bathe for a few days but who hasn’t been active enough to work up any kind of sweat. It permeates the cinder-block walls and concrete floors and seeps into the skin of everyone present. The inmates, the guards, the warden, the medical personnel. Even the spouses in for their monthly conjugal.

  Like the ever-present smell of excrement in a nursing home even after the facility’s been doused with disinfectant, the stale aroma of a prison just won’t go away.

  On the morning of December 4, 2013, JimBone Wheeler lay in the fetal position on the floor of his cell, trying to inhale the stale fumes coming off the concrete and not the vomit that had just spewed from his mouth. But after a few seconds had passed, he forced his index finger back down his throat, and another wave of nausea hit him. He projectile puked across the five-foot-by-seven-foot enclosure, clipping the edge of the small metal footboard of his cot. Then he wailed, “Help!”

  After a minute had passed and there was no sign of a guard, JimBone again plunged his finger deep into his throat, and the gag reflex this time produced five to ten seconds of dry heaving. Breathing deep and spitting, JimBone again called out. “Someone please help me. I . . . I can’t breathe!” He closed his eyes and forced his mind to work. Had he miscalculated? He didn’t have a timepiece. Watches weren’t allowed in the cells, and there was no clock on the wall. He was doing everything by feel and instinct.

  No, he thought. I’m right on time. It had been eight hours since lights out. He could feel the accuracy of his assessment in the same way he could always sense the presence of enemy forces during reconnaissance missions as an Army Ranger.

  When he heard the jangle of keys, mixed in with the sliding of soft-soled shoes on concrete, he had to remind himself not to smile.

  “Wheeler, you OK?” A gruff voice from outside the cell.

  “No.” He croaked the word out and then coughed. Raising his head, with his arms and legs still sprawled on the concrete, JimBone looked into the dull eyes of the night shift supervisor. The name on the officer’s uniform lapel read “Davies.”

  “I . . . can’t . . . breathe.” JimBone spoke the words through clenched teeth. Then he doubled over and gripped his stomach with both arms. He gagged again and spat before wheezing up at the officer, “Please . . . help me.”

  The guard blinked, and JimBone saw him lower his gaze to the cell, no doubt seeing and then smelling the vomit that covered the floor. He unclipped a device from his belt and spoke into it. “This is Sergeant Davies. Got a medical emergency in cell five on the row. Request assistance ASAP.” He paused before adding, “Has Charlotte arrived?”

  There were a few seconds of muffled silence and then JimBone heard another voice come through the device. “I’m here, and I’m on my way, Glenn.”

  “Ten-four.” He returned the speaking device to his belt clip and fumbled through his key chain for the one he wanted before placing it in the lock. “Just hold tight now, boy,” he said, opening the door. “The nurse is on her way.”

  JimBone Wheeler nodded and turned his head to the far wall. He coughed and, knowing that Officer Glenn Davies couldn’t see him, allowed himself a tiny smile.

  Right on time . . .

  2

  Charlotte Thompson’s heart pounded in her chest as she gathered the supplies she would need.

  Oxygen saturation kit. Check.

  Blood pressure cuff. Check.

  Thermometer. Check.

  She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. She needed a smoke, but it would have to wait. Instead, she snatched a piece of gum from a pack of Extra sugar-free that lay on her desk and flung it in her mouth, chewing furiously and trying to calm her mind. One step at a time, and this next one was the biggest and most important. She had to be convincing, and to do that, all she had to do was be herself.

  As the sweet, minty taste of the gum filled her mouth, she slung her supply bag over her shoulder and strode to the door of the medical unit. She grabbed the knob and looked back at the tiny office where she had slaved
for the past twenty-seven years.

  When she’d first taken the job, she hadn’t planned on making a career out of correctional nursing. No, like so many long-term gigs that end up consuming a person’s life, her position as the medical team administrator of the Riverbend Maximum Security Institution had started as a short-term, six-month interim contract. The prison had wanted someone with more institutional experience. Not some greenhorn who had worked four months in the emergency room and another eight for a pediatrician. But beggars can’t be choosers, and prisons were at the bottom of the health-care food chain. The “interim” tag was taken off after Charlotte had finished her second six-month term. The year had been 1986. Ronald Reagan was president, and America was grieving the deaths of the astronauts who had blown up in the Challenger space shuttle.

  Twenty-seven years, Charlotte thought, sucking in another breath. She let her eyes drop to the metal desk that she had utilized for her entire career. She had worked hard. Been the loyal employee. For almost three decades, she’d had a steady revolving door of staff nurses who worked under her and who, inevitably, would leave when something better came along or when they realized that providing nursing care to murderers, rapists, and other hardened criminals was not for everyone.

  But Charlotte had stayed. She was now the longest-tenured employee of the prison, which, if she were honest with herself, was probably why Wheeler had sought her out.

  He wasn’t the first.

  Seven years earlier, an inmate named Samuel Helstowski asked if she would assist him in breaking out of the prison. Helstowski had been a small Jewish man with an abnormally large penis. He’d gotten a wart on one of his testicles and, while Charlotte applied Silvadene to the affected area, the inmate, who was serving fifteen years for possession of child pornography and soliciting a minor, became fully erect. As she discussed the daily travails of prison life with Samuel—what fried meat would be the dinner meal, whether he’d been able to acquire any cigarettes, the heat in the group pod—Charlotte had felt an undeniable and irresistible impulse to act. To break the rules and shatter her mundane existence. It had been decades since she’d done anything that contained even the slightest hint of risk, much less danger.

  With as much subtlety as she could manage, she had moved her hand from his balls to his cock, slowly stroking it at first and then increasing her pace until Samuel Helstowski shot a wad across the concrete floor of the unit.