Between Black and White Page 14

  And as he rubbed the wounds on his face, still raw from the beating outside of Kathy’s Tavern, and felt the bandages on his ribs, he thought he could hear one of their voices now. Crystal clear and spoken firm and direct. “Don’t ever tolerate a bully . . .”

  Tom had been in the fifth grade and had come home from school with a black eye. A seventh-grader had been picking on him, taking his lunch, and when Tom attempted to fight back, the boy had punched Tom in the face. Tom had tried to defend himself, but it was no use. The boy was bigger and stronger, and Tom got his ass whipped. He had hung his head in shame when he got home, not wanting to face his daddy. His momma had found him crying in his bedroom. She had hugged him and kissed his eye. Then she had made an egg custard pie, Tom’s favorite.

  After they had eaten their pie and washed it down with some sweet tea, his momma had taken him by the shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. She did not mince her words. “Tom, if that boy ever picks on you again, I want you get a stick and beat the tar out of him, you hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tom had said, too scared of the look in her eye to question her.

  “And you don’t stop beating him until they pull you off.”

  Tom had swallowed hard, but he had nodded. The next day at school he had hit Justin Ledbetter in the face with a fallen tree branch, sending him to Huntsville Hospital with a broken jaw and nose. The boy had tried to take his lunch again so Tom “did exactly what his momma told him to do,” Rene McMurtrie told Principal Hanson when she and Sut had come up to the school that afternoon.

  When Hanson said he had no choice but to suspend Tom, Tom’s momma had placed her hands on her hips and said, “Oh no you’re not. You will do no such thing.”

  Flustered, Hanson had looked to Sut for help. “Sut, I’m the principal. She can’t tell me what to do.”

  But Tom’s father just crossed his arms and smirked. “Ebb, I fought for George Patton in the Third Army. I’d rather disobey a direct order from him than have to deal with the war you are about to start. If I were you, I’d fix the bullying problem you’ve got at this school. I would not pick a fight with my wife.”

  Tom had been sent home for a two-day cooling-off period, but he was never officially suspended. And Tom noticed that Ebb Hanson always walked in the other direction when he saw Tom’s momma headed his way.

  After the Justin Ledbetter incident, no one at Hazel Green High School ever messed with Tom again. In fact, no one had picked a fight with him in over fifty years. Tom had grown to be six foot three and well over two hundred pounds. He had played football at Alabama for the toughest coach that ever lived on a defense that believed it was a sin to give up a point.

  But someone was messing with him now.

  Tom had no doubt that whoever was responsible for the attack on him had framed Bocephus Haynes for the murder of Andy Walton. It was the only explanation for what had happened. Downtown Pulaski was not known for violence.

  But his theory had fallen on deaf ears. Helen Lewis had visited him in the hospital, but she had scoffed at the idea that anyone could possibly have killed Andy Walton but Bo Haynes. “You’re not thinking clearly, Tom. Give it some time.”

  Tom had given it some—a whole week at the farm—and his gut feeling had only intensified. Bocephus Haynes was framed for murder, and the person or people responsible would stop at nothing to keep the truth buried. If it meant nearly killing Tom, then so be it. These people didn’t give a damn about playing fair. They were bullies, no different than Justin Ledbetter.

  And it was high time they were taught a lesson.

  Tom limped into the living room and carefully placed the framed newspaper photograph back on the mantle. Then he edged his way to the rear of the house, using a cane for balance.

  The gun case hung on the wall in his bedroom. He opened the latch and pulled out a Remington deer rifle and a .38-caliber pistol, complete with a holster, and placed them side by side on the bed. Tom grabbed the rifle and pointed it at the mirror in the corner, looking through the scope and thinking about his momma again.

  During the first day of his cooling-off period, he had asked his momma why she had told him to get a stick. He had never forgotten her response: “Don’t ever tolerate a bully, son. Bullies are people whose goal in life is to keep you or other folks down. They’re so stupid and insecure in who they are, their whole identity comes from the suppression of others.” She had paused then, creasing her eyebrows and looking over Tom’s shoulder with an expression that reeked of disgust. “And there’s only one way to deal with them.”

  “You fight them,” Tom had volunteered, trying to be helpful, but his mother’s eyebrows had creased even further, and she brought both fists down on the table.

  “No. You fought the other day when you came home with a shiner.”

  “So . . . the stick.”

  She nodded. “Bullies always slant the field in their direction. They don’t play by the rules, so the rules of fairness don’t apply. It doesn’t matter how big and strong a bully is if you bring a stick to the fight.” Then she’d said something he’d never forgotten. “Bullies are only scared of two things. People who aren’t scared of them . . . and people who won’t tolerate them.”

  Tom attached the holster to his hip and put the .38 inside. Then he threw the rifle’s strap over his shoulder and slowly limped to the front of the house.

  When he finally returned to the kitchen, he saw the two men through the bay window. They were standing outside, leaning against a black Dodge Charger and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups.

  Tom set the guns on the kitchen table and, using the cane again, walked outside into the humidity. The hot sun felt good as it warmed his face and arms, but it was so bright he had to squint at his visitors.

  “Professor,” Powell Conrad said, extending his hand. Powell wore a blue button-down, jeans, and Ray-Ban sunglasses. “You growing a beard?”

  Tom nodded, shaking Powell’s hand. “Doctor’s orders. He doesn’t want me to irritate the skin.”

  “Well, it looks like shit,” the other man said, and Tom smiled, grabbing the man in as much of a bear hug as he could muster.

  “Wade, how the hell are you?”

  “I’m bored, Tom,” he said, running his hand through his thick salt and pepper hair—mostly salt these days. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bushy mustache that matched the color of his hair. Tom had always thought Wade favored the Sam Elliott character in Roadhouse.

  “You coming out of retirement for this?” Tom asked.

  “You might say that.” Wade Richey had been a detective in the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office for thirty years, retiring last summer. Over the years he and Tom had become friends, with Tom assisting the sheriff’s office in several key investigations where there was a critical evidentiary question. Tom knew that Wade had always been considered the best homicide detective on the force. “The sheriff’s office is pretty serious about catching this JimBone fella. And they’ve always had a lot of respect for your ideas.”

  “It may be a bust,” Tom said.

  Wade shrugged. “Maybe . . . but that would be a first.”

  Tom nodded and turned to Powell. “You get what I asked for?”

  “Yeah.” Powell reached into his pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper.

  “And?”

  Powell smiled. “And it’s interesting.”

  “All right then,” Tom said. “Time to go to work.”

  30

  Rick woke to the sound of his cell phone ringing. Stumbling off the bed, he grabbed the phone from the nightstand. The time in the upper right hand corner said 2:30 p.m. Jesus . . . he had slept for five hours. After breakfast at the Bluebird, he had only intended to take a catnap at Ms. Butler’s and then head back into town. He sighed. The caller ID was a number he didn’t recognize.

  “Yeah,” Rick said, his voice a low croak.

  “Drake, this is Peter Burns, the bartender at the Sundowners—n
ot the author of Sliding Down a Pole.”

  Rick’s grogginess was gone in an instant, and he looked wildly around the room for pen and paper. “Yes. How are you?”

  “Jesus, you sound terrible.”

  “Thanks,” Rick said. “Been taking a nap.”

  “Well, I hope you got a few winks, because if you want to talk to me or Darla Ford, you need to come over to my apartment. I’m leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  “Leaving? Where . . . ?”

  “Just get over here,” Peter said, and the phone clicked dead.

  Fifteen minutes later Rick pulled into Burns’s apartment complex. Déjà vu all over again, he thought, parking in the same place he’d spent eight hours last night. He had managed a quick shower and grabbed a Coke on the way out of Ms. Butler’s. On the drive over he’d tried the Professor again on his cell phone, but there was still no answer. Where the hell is he? Rick wondered, stepping out of the Saturn and seeing Burns heading toward him, carrying a duffel bag under one arm.

  “I hope you’ve got a full tank of gas,” Peter said, throwing his bag in the back of Rick’s car and climbing in the passenger seat.

  “What are you doing?” Rick asked, tensing as the man, basically a complete stranger, started fiddling around with the radio.

  “Jesus Christ, man. When did you get this car? When Clinton was president? I thought lawyers were supposed to all drive Mercedes. Where’s the USB port for an iPod?”

  “Don’t have one,” Rick said, still stunned by Burns’s presence in the car.

  “Well, you got any CDs?”

  “Uhhh . . . there’s some in the glove compartment. Mr. Burns—”

  “Just drive, all right. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “On the way . . . where?” Rick asked, hesitating a second before backing out of the space.

  “Destin,” Peter said, rolling down the window and howling.

  “Destin?” Rick asked. “Destin . . . Florida?”

  Peter howled again. “The Redneck Riviera, baby. If you put this dinosaur in gear, we’ll be eating oysters on a half shell and drinking Coronas with limes in just under”—he turned his wrist and made like he was looking at his watch, but he wasn’t wearing one—“nine hours!”

  Rick stopped the car. “Are you telling me that you want me to drive you all the way to the panhandle of Florida?”

  “My piece of junk won’t make it to Birmingham, and I got no other options that ain’t gonna cost me at least two or three hundred dollars. But you can take me for free.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Rick asked.

  “Do you want to talk with Darla Ford?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good,” Peter said, pointing his finger out the window. “Then take my ass to Destin.”

  Rick hesitated with his hand on the gear shift. This is crazy, he thought.

  “Yes!” Peter screamed, pulling the worn George Strait CD out of the glove compartment and sliding the disc into the player.

  As George started singing about “oceanfront property in Arizona,” Rick finally put the car in drive. This is crazy, he thought again, pulling onto Highway 64.

  Headed due south . . .

  31

  Bone hated surprises.

  And this definitely qualified, he thought, watching Drake’s Saturn pull out of the apartment complex with Peter Burns, the bartender from the Sundowners Club, in the passenger seat. Parked in the back corner of the complex, Bone eased the truck forward, wondering what this was all about.

  Bone had laid low since the attack on McMurtrie, which according to his benefactor had achieved the desired effect—the old professor had left town to recover from his injuries, and it was doubtful he’d be able to try the case. Even if he did, he wouldn’t be 100 percent, and the kid would have to do the heavy lifting.

  Bone knew the police would give up on finding the assailant after a few days, so he’d stayed clear of Pulaski, playing his role as Martha Booher’s “nephew” at the Amish settlement in Ethridge, doing his chores during the day and paying “rent” to “Aunt” Martha every night. It had been good, but he was restless. Ready to be back in the game.

  He’d resurfaced in Pulaski this morning, picking up Drake’s scent at the Bluebird Café. He’d been a bit surprised when Drake drove to the bed and breakfast instead of the office. After all, it was Friday, a workday for those fools who made an honest living in this world. Maybe the boy was going to work from the house today. Or maybe he was about to head back to Tuscaloosa. Bone’s new employer had indicated that the case was now in limbo until the grand jury issued its indictment. Bone thought there might not be anything for him to do for a while.

  I thought wrong, he knew as he watched the Saturn take the I-65 South ramp. Where in the hell are they going?

  From a safe distance of about four hundred yards behind, Bone followed them onto the interstate. Then, taking out his cell phone, he dialed the number of his employer.

  32

  The warden of the St. Clair Correctional Facility in Springville was gracious enough to let them use his administrative conference room for the meeting. Fearing that he wouldn’t be strong enough for the walking required at the jail, Tom had reluctantly agreed to let Powell push him in a wheelchair. After they had gone through security, a corrections officer took them down a long hallway and opened the door to the conference room. Before going inside, Tom looked up at Powell. “Any word from Wade?”

  The three had split up at the farm, with Wade taking the Dodge Charger to Pulaski while Tom and Powell took Tom’s Explorer to Springville.

  “Nothing yet, but you know Wade. He’s not one to call or text unless he has some information.”

  Tom nodded and let out a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  The prisoner was waiting for them when Powell pushed Tom’s wheelchair inside the room.

  Jack Daniel Willistone was thinner than Tom remembered, and his formerly clean-shaven face was now bristled with salt and pepper whiskers. But even wearing the dark-green jumpsuit of a state prisoner, he still gave off an air of strength and power, sitting straight in the chair, his head up, eyes moving slowly back and forth between Tom and Powell. Finally, he focused on Tom and crossed his arms.

  “Well, Jesus Christ Superstar,” Jack said. “McMurtrie, right?”

  Tom nodded. “Mr. Willistone, you look . . . pretty good. Have you lost weight?”

  “As a matter of fact I have. When all there is to eat is turd sandwiches and turd stew, you tend to drop a few.” Jack paused, squinting at Tom. “What happened to you, McMurtrie? Did you get run over by a bus?”

  “A hammer,” Tom said. “I got hit in the head and ribs with a hammer. Tore ligaments in my knee trying to block the blows.”

  Jack continued to squint at Tom. “Well . . . that’s unfortunate.” Then he shifted his eyes to Powell.

  “Conrad,” Jack said. “Always such a pleasure to see you.”

  Sitting next to Jack was an unnaturally tan man with dark, oily hair who had introduced himself as Gregory Zorn outside the conference room. Zorn had been one of several lawyers who represented Jack in the criminal case and had granted the visitors permission to speak to his client. Of course, as the conversation would center around a possible deal for less jail time, granting permission was a no-brainer.

  “Gentlemen, Mr. Willistone has agreed to listen to your questions,” Zorn said, his voice loud and official sounding. “That is all he has agreed to, and if I feel that the questioning is inappropriate, then I’m going to cut it off and send you on your way. Understand?” According to Powell, Zorn was a greaseball who got his reputation defending DUI cases. A lot of bluster and a limited supply of brains. On the bigger cases he tended to plea, which is what he’d done in Jack’s blackmail and witness-tampering cases, though no one could have faulted him for that. The evidence against Jack had been overwhelming.

  “Thanks, Greg,” Powell said, but his eyes were on Jack, ignoring Zorn.
“But we don’t look at this meeting as an opportunity for Mr. Willistone to do us a favor. We look at it as a chance for us to consider doing him one if he provides us with helpful information.” Powell paused, still only looking at Jack. “Understand?” Powell repeated Zorn’s line, the intensity in his voice and behind his eyes palpable.

  Jack smiled. “Could one of you boys spare a cigarette? I think a little better after a shot of nicotine.”

  “Mr. Willistone, I don’t think smoking’s allowed . . .” Zorn started to say but stopped when Powell pulled out a pack of Marlboros from his front pocket and slid them across the table. Then he pitched a lighter toward Zorn—a little too hard, Tom thought—and Zorn dropped it on the table. “Light it for him, would you, Greg?” Then without missing a beat, Powell turned to Tom. “83 woulda caught that.”

  Tom couldn’t help but smile. “83” was Kevin Norwood, a young wide receiver on Alabama’s football team. Powell had asked the warden before going in the room if it was OK if he gave Willistone cigarettes to get him talking, and the warden had simply said, “Whatever works, potnah.”

  “Norwood, right?” Jack said, taking a draw on the now-lit cigarette, and Powell nodded. Next to Jack, Gregory Zorn’s face had turned crimson red. He was being ignored by his client and the prosecutor.

  As smoke fumes filled the room and Tom leaned away to breathe, Powell put both elbows on the table. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Willistone. We have reason to believe that your old buddy JimBone Wheeler has surfaced in Giles County, Tennessee. We think he may have involvement in multiple crimes in that area, including the attack on Prof. McMurtrie. As we have linked Wheeler to a murder in Faunsdale, Alabama and an attempted murder in Tuscaloosa, catching him has become a top priority.” Powell paused. “We think you may have information that could lead us to him.”

  “What makes you think that?” Jack asked, tapping an ash out in Zorn’s coffee cup.