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  “Booker T. Rowe,” he said, extending a heavily calloused right hand that felt like sandpaper when Tom shook it. Dressed in a sweat-stained, gray button-down with “Rowe Farm Systems” on the front pocket and dusty jeans, Booker T. plopped down in the chair across from Tom and let out a long breath, his face the picture of exhaustion. He held his hand up for the waitress, and a plump redhead bustled over with a smile on her face.

  “You want a single or a pitcher?” she asked, and it was evident that Booker T. came here often.

  “Beer?” Booker T. asked, giving Tom a tired smile.

  “Sounds good,” Tom said.

  “Let’s make it a pitcher, Louise,” he said.

  Thirty minutes later, with one pitcher down and another well on its way, Booker T. took the last bite of his steak and shook his head. “So, Trammell was really the toughest player you ever played with?” Though Tom had drunk a couple of beers, Booker T. was drinking two to every one of his. The huge man wasn’t drunk, but he was getting loose and, having been a lifelong college football fan, was enjoying Tom’s war stories of playing for Coach Bryant in the early ’60s. Tom had hoped to direct the conversation toward Bo’s case, but something held him back. He sensed that Booker T. needed to relax, to blow off some steam, and Tom didn’t want to press it.

  “It’s not even close,” Tom said. “Billy Neighbors used to say if he saw Trammell coming down the street, he’d change paths so he wouldn’t have to face him. It was a joke—Billy loved Pat—but there was a hint of truth in it. We were all a bit scared of Pat. He was the bell cow of that team.”

  “He died before he was thirty, didn’t he?”

  Tom felt his throat constrict a little. Even over forty years after his friend’s death, it was still hard to talk about. He nodded. “Only time I ever saw Coach Bryant cry.”

  Booker T. shook his head. “The by God 1961 National Champions.” He poured the last remnants of the pitcher into his mug and leaned back in his chair. “Well . . . as much I’m enjoying your stories, Professor, that’s not why you wanted this meeting, is it?” Tom just waited, knowing the question didn’t really need an answer. After Booker T. took another swallow of beer, he placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “The General owns my ass.”

  “How so?” Tom asked, his spirits beginning to sink.

  “Because I gave Bo the code to that gate.” He shook his head. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done. But how could I have known that Bo . . . ?” He trailed off and drained the rest of his glass. “General Lewis says she’s going to wait until after Bo’s trial to decide whether to charge me with accessory to murder or aiding and abetting a trespass.”

  “What have you told her?” Tom asked, dreading the answer.

  “Just the God’s honest truth. That Bo asked me for the code to the gate early last week. Said he always pays his respects to his father at the clearing, and what with the big wall that Ms. Maggie had me construct this year, he couldn’t just sneak in like he’d done in the past.” He paused. “I just couldn’t say no. Me and Bo are cousins, but we’re more like brothers. Besides, Mr. Andy knew that Bo visited that clearing from time to time, and he never said nothing.”

  “What?” Tom asked. This was interesting.

  “Sure enough. I been leasing that land to farm for ten years, and seem like every year on the anniversary of his daddy’s death and sometimes on Christmas or Bo’s momma’s birthday, Bo would end up out there. A few times on those nights I’d come back in the morning and he’d still be there, curled up and sleeping on the banks of the pond. One of those times Mr. Andy was with me.”

  “Really?” Tom asked.

  Booker T. nodded. “And he didn’t say nothing neither. Just looked at Bo, sighed, and drove away.”

  “So I guess it doesn’t surprise you that Bo would want to come to the clearing on the anniversary of his father’s death?” Tom asked.

  “Not at all. Like I said, he came every year on the anniversary, and I knew he was coming this year because he asked me for the code.”

  “Do you think Andy Walton would have known that?”

  Booker T. shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m sure it wouldn’t have surprised him.

  “Were you on the farm last Thursday night?” Tom asked.

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t see anything.”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” There was a hint of desperation in Tom’s voice.

  “Nothing you want to hear,” Booker T. said, draining the rest of his mug and standing from the table. “Want to know something else that doesn’t surprise me?”

  “What?”

  Booker T. threw a few dollar bills on the table for a tip. “It doesn’t surprise me a bit that Bo finally snapped and killed Mr. Andy. He’s been thinking about it his whole life. I probably heard him say a hundred times that he was going to kill Andy Walton one day. And with Jazz gone . . .”

  Tom’s thoughts leapfrogged a few weeks to trial. Booker T. on the stand and General Lewis finishing her examination with this doozy: “Did the defendant ever tell you that he was going to kill Andy Walton?”

  Only about a hundred times.

  “Mr. Rowe, what did Bo think about you working for the man that murdered his father?” It was a question that Tom had intended to ask Bo, but he thought he’d try it out on Booker T. When he saw the big man’s reaction, he immediately knew he had made a mistake.

  Booker T. stood there, stunned for a second or two, just staring. Then he slowly leaned over the table and brought his face to within an inch of Tom’s. “Now you listen here, Professor. I work for myself. I farm that land the way I want to farm that land. All I do is cut the Waltons a rental check. I don’t work for them at all. I use their ass and their land to make a buck.” He scowled, and Tom thought the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees in a few seconds. “Bo didn’t have no problem with that at all.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “You tell my cousin that I’m pulling for him but that I’m not gonna lie. I’m not going to go to jail for his ass.”

  As Booker T. stormed out of the restaurant, Tom flagged the waitress down for the check. After paying the tab, he was heading for the door when he heard his cell phone chirp. He read the text from Ray Ray, which was short and sweet.

  Bad news from the Sundowners. We need to talk. Bo’s office at nine?

  Tom replied, Better make it 9:30. I still need to hit Kathy’s. Then he sighed as he walked out into the muggy night.

  22

  Kathy’s Tavern was beginning to fill up when Tom walked in the door ten minutes after leaving Legends. As he made his way to the bar, he noticed that most of the patrons were starting to filter to the back room, where a band appeared to be tuning instruments. According to the flyer in the window, the music would start at nine.

  Tom took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, taking in the place. It was 8:45 p.m. He had forty-five minutes to hopefully find and interview Cassie Dugan before his meeting with Ray Ray.

  Kathy’s was a block north of the courthouse on First Street. According to Bo, Kathy’s had the best cheeseburger in town and usually attracted an up-and-coming country singer or band on the weekend. The layout was basically two areas—a front room with four tall tables to the right and a long bar to the left, and a back room with a stage in front of several tables. As he looked around, Tom was struck by the diversity of the crowd. To his left at the bar were two college boys who had probably both just turned twenty-one. They wore jeans and collar shirts with the shirttail out, and they were splitting a pitcher of beer. Martin Methodist College was just a stone’s throw away, and Tom figured these boys were aiming to catch a buzz before the party on campus. To his right was a bearded man who appeared to be middle-aged wearing a gray T-shirt, a dusty camouflage cap, and khaki work pants and boots. He was drinking Natural Light from a can and staring straight ahead, lost in thought or something else. Across at one of the tables was a fift
ysomething couple, the man’s face covered with a white Kenny Rogers–style beard and both wearing cowboy hats. Next to them was a much younger couple, probably in their thirties.

  As a steel guitar cranked up in the back, the waitress brought Tom his beer. She wore a white Kathy’s T-shirt with blue jean cutoffs, an outfit which showed off her large breasts and long, tan legs, and Tom could almost feel the eyes of the two college boys on her.

  Brushing her brown hair out of her eyes, she smiled. “Just drinking, or would you like to order some food?”

  “Just drinking,” Tom said, returning the smile. As she started to go, Tom held up his hand and leaned across the bar. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She nodded, her eyes curious.

  “Do you know Bocephus Haynes?”

  The smile disappeared. “Who wants to know?”

  “Tom McMurtrie,” Tom said, extending his hand across the bar. “I’m Bo’s attorney.”

  “Cassie Dugan.” She shook his hand, eyeing him like he might be a dangerous animal. Bingo, Tom thought, cautioning himself to ease into the questioning. Don’t scare her off.

  “I’m told he was in here last Thursday night. Is that true?” Tom asked.

  “He was here a lot of nights,” she said, leaning in close so that only Tom could hear.

  “But Thursday?” Tom pressed.

  She nodded. “Look, mister, we’re starting to get crowded—”

  “Did you wait on him?”

  Another nod. “Bo always sat at the bar when he came in, and that’s normally my station.”

  The familiar “Bo” as opposed to “Mr. Haynes,” Tom thought. Interesting . . .

  “Cassie, do you know Bo pretty well?”

  She blinked, hesitating only slightly. “Just from his time in here. Like I said, he came a lot the last couple of months.”

  Right after the separation, Tom thought, feeling a twinge of anxiety. “Was he with anyone on Thursday night?”

  She shook her head. “No. He was alone.” She paused. “He was usually alone.”

  “Did he speak to anyone?”

  “Look, mister, I gave the police a statement with everything I saw and heard. I don’t have time—”

  “One last question,” Tom said. “Did he say anything to you while you waited on him? Anything at all that you thought was strange or unusual?”

  She shrugged. “Bo liked to talk to me, OK? I think he was lonely. He and his wife were separated and”—she paused—“I don’t think he had anyone else to talk to.”

  Another twinge of anxiety. “Did he say anything that—?”

  “All I remember about last Thursday night was that Bo seemed very tense and angry. He normally flirted with me and asked me questions about my day. Small talk mainly, but he barely said a word last Thursday. Just smoked a couple of cigars and had several bourbon and waters. Then he scared Clete to death, and that’s when Mr. and Mrs. Walton and Dr. Curtis came up.” She shuddered. “I thought I was going to have to call the police.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Tom asked.

  “Because it was just talk. Nobody hit anyone. Just talk.” She glared at Tom. “In hindsight I guess I should’ve called the police.”

  Tom asked her about the confrontation, and Cassie reiterated what everyone else had said. Bo had threatened to make Andy “bleed” and quoted the “eye for an eye” verse from the Bible.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Tom asked.

  “Not really,” Cassie said, pouring a pitcher full of beer. “Clete Sartain hasn’t been back since last Thursday. I’m sure he’s staying away so he doesn’t get pestered with questions from people like you.”

  She turned to walk away, and Tom couldn’t think of anything else to ask her. The day wasn’t getting any better.

  It was about to get a lot worse.

  “Another Natty Light?” Cassie asked the man with the camouflage hat and gray T-shirt.

  Bone nodded, watching McMurtrie from the corner of his eye. He could tell the old man was disappointed by whatever Cassie had told him. Bone knew it was risky being out in the open like this, but it was a calculated risk. The police sketch only vaguely resembled his current appearance, and the long hair, cap, and work clothes were almost as perfect a disguise as his Amish getup.

  After an hour of “paying rent” at the cabin, Bone had asked Martha to drop him off at an Amish trading post just outside of Lawrenceburg. He had then walked from the trading post to the hotel where his truck was parked and arrived back in Pulaski around 8:00 p.m., just in time to get to Kathy’s a few minutes before McMurtrie.

  As Cassie set the beer can in front of him, Bone stole a glance at the old professor, who had now stood up and was digging in his wallet for some cash. He’s leaving, Bone thought, fighting the urge to smile.

  As the band in back started its first set with a cover of an old Eddy Raven number—“I Got Mexico”—Bone took a long sip of beer and followed McMurtrie out the door.

  This was going to be so much fun.

  Out on the sidewalk, McMurtrie was heading back up First Street toward the courthouse.

  This should be easy as pie, Bone thought, reaching inside his work pants for the hammer as McMurtrie crossed Jefferson Street. Bone gripped the hammer tightly and held it by the head so that only the handle was visible. Then he reached under his left pant leg, where the revolver was strapped to the back of his calf. He put the gun in his left pocket. Just in case . . .

  As McMurtrie passed Reeves Drug Store, Bone noticed that the sidewalk had darkened. All the businesses along this stretch were closed. Perfect, Bone thought, sliding his hand up the hammer to the handle and taking a deep breath. Then he began to count. A thousand one, a thousand two . . .

  . . . now.

  As he approached the intersection of First Street and Madison, Tom fiddled in his pocket for the keys to the office, dropping them on the sidewalk. He chuckled and bent down to pick them up. When he did, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled around, and the head of the hammer was coming right at him.

  His arms instinctively went up to block the blow, but it was too dark and he wasn’t fast enough. He felt a sharp pain on his forehead and then the sensation of falling.

  Then everything went black . . .

  The job took all of thirty seconds. Bone had parked his truck two blocks west of the square and he walked briskly toward it. A minute later he was leaving Pulaski on Highway 64 toward Lawrenceburg. On the way there he rolled the windows down and let the hot, humid air engulf him. He remembered the feel of his testicles being squeezed a year earlier in Tuscaloosa by Haynes, and though the old man hadn’t been the one who had done it, Bone held him partly responsible. Now we’re close to even, he thought.

  But not entirely. Haynes and McMurtrie had cost Bone a lot of money. And his El Camino . . .

  Tonight’s job was just the beginning.

  It was nice being paid to get revenge, Bone thought, taking out his phone. He dialed the number, and it was answered on the first ring.

  “Done,” Bone said.

  PART THREE

  23

  “ALL RISE!” the bailiff bellowed. “The Circuit Court of Giles County, Tennessee is now in session.”

  Rick and Ray Ray stood from their chairs at the defense table and watched as General Helen Lewis and Sheriff Ennis Petrie did the same from across the courtroom. Behind them, spectators lined both sides of the galley. The judge had not barred the press from the preliminary hearing, and they had come out in droves. She had, however, barred television and news cameras, though Rick wondered whether she would do that for the trial. Surely, Rick thought. Then he heard Powell’s voice in his mind telling him “Don’t call me Shirley,” the familiar refrain from the movie Airplane! Rick probably would have smiled if he wasn’t about to soil himself. His heart was beating so fast and hard that he could feel it.

  “You OK?” Ray Ray asked to his right. Rick thought he smelled the slight undercurrent of whiske
y on his local counsel’s breath, disguised by mouthwash and a hefty chunk of aftershave. There had been a basketball coach at Henshaw High that gave off that same smell. It didn’t bring back good memories.

  “Yeah,” Rick said, glancing around the packed courthouse.

  After several seconds Judge Susan Connelly strode into the courtroom. Her Honor was an attractive, petite woman in her early forties with short brown hair. Ray Ray had told Rick that drawing Connelly as judge was the first break the defense had received in the case, and Rick had no basis to disagree.

  “Henry, please have the defendant brought in,” the judge directed once she was seated behind the bench.

  The bailiff turned and walked past Rick out the doors to the courtroom. A few moments later two armed police officers escorted Bo to the defense table and unlocked his handcuffs.

  “Rick,” Bo said, patting Rick’s shoulder. Then for the first time in the case, Bo came eye to eye with Raymond Pickalew.

  “What, no hug?” Ray Ray asked, but Bo just gawked back at him. Then, sweeping his eyes over and around the defense table, Bo realized what was wrong, “Wh-where’s the Professor?” he stammered, his eyes cutting wildly to Rick.

  “It’s a long story,” Rick said. “I’ll fill you in after the hearing.”

  “He’s OK,” Ray Ray added, extending his hand and leaning over to whisper in Bo’s ear. “Just shake my hand and act like everything is fine.”