The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 3

  “We responded as soon as we were aware of it.”

  “Better make damn sure the guards on that wing will back you up.” Before he could respond, Charlotte added, “And get an incident report started with witness statements. If he does die, you can bet your ass that inmates’ rights lawyer will be circling for his next payday.”

  “Shirah?” The fear in Glenn’s voice was palpable. Perry Shirah was an attorney in Davidson County who specialized in filing Section 1983 cases against prisons and jails based on the deprivation of prisoners’ constitutional rights. If James Robert Wheeler met his maker tonight and there was even a trace of evidence that the corrections officers on duty weren’t paying the proper amount of attention, Shirah would be on the trail like bees to honey, and Glenn knew it. He had been in his fair share of depositions with the bulldog lawyer, and Charlotte knew he’d just as soon undergo a root canal.

  “Damn right,” she said. “I’ve already sent Taggert back, so you can get his write-up.” She continued to walk until she reached Albion.

  “OK, I’ll circle the wagons and get as many statements as I can. I’ll need yours. When are you coming back?”

  Charlotte squinted as a gunmetal-gray Toyota Camry approached from the north. “Not for a while. Gonna hang around and see if the poor bastard makes it. I tend to think he will. He’s a tough cuss.”

  “I hope to hell you’re right,” Glenn said. “Keep me posted.”

  “Will do,” Charlotte said, clicking off the phone as the Camry pulled to a stop beside her. She opened the passenger-side door and climbed inside. Once the car was moving, she stole a glance at the driver. It was the female paramedic.

  “You did very well, Charlotte,” she said. “Muy bueno.”

  “Where is he?” Charlotte asked.

  “Trunk.”

  Charlotte Thompson sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. They had done it. They had really done it. “Where are we going?”

  The driver gave her a reassuring pat on the knee. “You’ll see.”

  6

  The emergency room physician stepped back from the bed, gazing curiously at the patient, who had been rushed inside a few minutes earlier. The man had a fresh bruise above his left temple, and though he had yet to fully regain consciousness, he was beginning to stir.

  The doctor glanced at the monitor above the bed. “Oxygen sat is 98 and blood pressure is 122 over 78,” he said, hearing the distance in his voice. Something was wrong. “What were his vitals at the prison?”

  “Eighty-eight sat and 60-over-40 pressure,” a nurse to his left said.

  “Other symptoms?”

  “Vomiting, with complaints of trouble breathing.”

  The doctor took another step back. “Anything about a bruise on his forehead?”

  When there was no answer, he gazed into the nurse’s eyes. She shook her head, and her face was ashen in the harsh glow of the fluorescent light above.

  “Shit,” he said, grabbing the doorknob and exiting the room. In the hallway, he saw two men in uniforms.

  “Everything OK, Doc?” one of them asked.

  The physician glanced down at the name tag on the guard’s lapel and spoke in a firm tone. “Officer Seeley, there is nothing wrong with the inmate who was transported here other than a fairly significant and very fresh bruise over his left eye. He has a concussion but is waking up now.”

  “What?” Seeley asked, brushing past the doctor and walking toward the room.

  “Wait!” the physician yelled, but the officer ignored him. He pushed through the door and came to an immediate halt when he saw the patient lying in the bed. The man’s eyes were now open, and he was blinking them in confusion.

  “Oh my God,” Seeley said, his voice weak. “Benny?”

  Officer Benny Cruz lay on the bed with an IV hooked to his right forearm. His shirt was off, and monitors beeped all around him. Seeley quickly scanned the room, seeing a pile of clothes that had been discarded on a chair in the corner. He walked toward them and picked up the green cotton jumpsuit of a death row inmate. “Is this what he had on when he was brought in?” Seeley snapped, knowing the answer but seeking confirmation.

  “Yes,” one of the nurses said. “Per protocol we cut off his clothes for better access.”

  Seeley closed his eyes for a half second and then opened them. He turned to the door and saw his partner, J. P. Sanchez, gaping at the bed.

  “Where’s Wheeler?” J. P. asked, his eyes wide.

  Not replying, Seeley ran past him. In the hallway, he turned and yelled over his shoulder. “Secure the unit! No one other than patients can come and go.” Then he sprinted through the lobby and out toward the drop-off station, where the ambulance had been less than five minutes earlier.

  It was gone. “Damnit,” he said as he ran to his cruiser and flung open the door. He grabbed his car radio and clicked the number for dispatch.

  “Go ahead,” a female voice scratched over the line.

  Seeley let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. “James Robert Wheeler has escaped custody at Nashville General Hospital. Request backup and roadblocks in all directions within five miles of NGH.” He sucked in a quick breath. “I repeat, we have a fugitive situation and I need backup and roadblocks.”

  “Ten-four,” the dispatcher said.

  Seeley was about to click off when he heard Sergeant Glenn Davies come through, his voice high and panicked. “Graham, please tell me you are joking.”

  “I wish I was, Sarge, but he’s gone. He must have gotten the jump on Benny in the ambulance, because the paramedics didn’t take Wheeler into the hospital. They took Benny in Wheeler’s prison fatigues.”

  “Son of a . . . bitch!” Davies yelled. “Where the hell is Charlotte?”

  Seeley licked his lips. “I don’t know.”

  For three whole seconds there was nothing but static over the line. Then Davies, the authority in his tone somewhat restored, said, “The cavalry is on the way. Start interviewing staff and I’ll be there in five.”

  “Ten-four,” Seeley said, and clicked off. He stepped out of his cruiser and trotted back toward the entrance to the emergency room. In the distance, he heard the wail of police sirens, but Corporal Graham Seeley knew in his bones that they were too late.

  “The horse is out of the barn,” he whispered.

  7

  As the Camry cruised north along Highway 31A, and the small towns of Nolensville and Triune passed by her windshield, Charlotte Thompson felt numb, still not quite believing that the plan had worked. It had been more than an hour since they had left the hospital, and she had yet to hear anything on the radio about Wheeler’s escape. That will come in good time, she thought, trying to imagine the shock on Glenn Davies’s face when he learned the news.

  They’ll block off every road within a five- to ten-mile radius of NGH. They’ll interview the emergency room nurses and technicians. They’ll search for the ambulance and have a fleet of police sedans blanket the city. She scoffed and shook her head.

  All in vain.

  JimBone Wheeler was gone. Like dust in the wind.

  “Charlotte, are you alright?” the driver asked. The woman spoke with an exotic accent that Charlotte couldn’t quite place.

  “Fine,” she managed.

  When JimBone had gone over the plan during his last sick call visit with her, he had referred to his person on the outside only as “Manny,” or “she.” He had written a telephone number to call on a yellow sticky note. Though he had told Charlotte to memorize the digits, she had deviated slightly from this direction by creating a contact in her mobile phone identified as “Manny.” She didn’t want to risk fiddling with trying to dial the number and have one of the guards click 911 before she could make her call.

  Once they were out of the prison and moving in the ambulance, everything had hinged on Charlotte’s knowledge of the staff at Nashville General. She had called the emergency room’s direct number from the back of the ambulance and spoken with the nig
ht shift house supervisor—a woman named Stephanie Stagner. She had told Steph that she was on her way with a death row inmate trying to cheat the needle and would need a couple of techs to meet the ambulance at the drop-off in front of the ER. Steph had muttered something under her breath about not getting any notice from the paramedic service of a dispatch but didn’t protest further. “I’ll have two transport techs waiting, Charlotte.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte had said, clicking off her cell phone and watching as JimBone Wheeler put on the uniform of Benny Cruz. Within ninety seconds of the ambulance pulling out, Manny had hit Benny between the eyes with a steel pipe. The officer had blinked once, gasped, and fallen over. Manny had unbuckled JimBone from the stretcher, and the fugitive had chuckled softly to himself, saying several times “Ms. Charlotte, you are as good as gold” as he removed the officer’s uniform and put it on and Manny dressed Benny in JimBone’s prison clothes.

  Charlotte had felt no pride in playing her part in this opera. She knew she was the key to its ultimate success. Of course, they also had to be lucky. They couldn’t have one of the guards jump the gun and call 911 before she arrived at the cell. Glenn Davies had to relent and let her ride in the ambulance. Finally, upon arrival at the ER, they had to get Benny into the building before the officers in the escort cruiser got a good look at him.

  The diciest piece to the puzzle was the eight-mile transport from Riverbend to Nashville General. Traffic in Nashville, even that early in the morning, was always hit or miss. They could have an accident or blow a tire. The battery of the van might die. There was also the off chance that the guard who rode with them would prove to be tougher than JimBone presumed. A myriad of possible pitfalls, any one of which would doom the chances of success.

  But JimBone had never seemed worried about the prospect that dumb luck could ruin the plan. “I’ve always been lucky when it comes to this kind of stuff, Ms. Charlotte,” he’d said in another of his “sick calls” in the weeks prior to the escape attempt. After she’d written her nursing note—most of his fake visits to medical revolved around complaints of nausea and stomach pain—she let him massage her tired feet.

  “Why is that?” Charlotte asked, enjoying the feel of his rough hands between her toes.

  “Because the Bone doesn’t give a shit,” he fired back with no humor in his voice. “When I was a Ranger and there was a kill to be made, I could do it without thinking of the consequences. As a hired gun, same thing. I focus on my job and don’t worry about anything else. Our thoughts are real things, Charlotte, did you know that? Microscopic force fields of energy. If you have stressful thoughts, you’ll bring stress into your life.” He paused. “I don’t stress. We have a good plan, and I believe in your ability to bring it home. I’m not going to sweat details that I can’t control. That stuff will work itself out.”

  And it has, Charlotte thought as the Camry began to slow down. Up ahead, she saw a gas station on the right. She glanced at Manny, who spoke without looking at her.

  “Bathroom break OK with you?”

  Charlotte didn’t say anything. It had been hours since she had last peed, and she hadn’t thought a second about it. Truth be known, if she saw a toilet right now, she’d probably puke in the bowl before she’d squat to urinate. She still couldn’t believe they had pulled the plan off.

  Subconsciously, she reached inside the pocket of her scrubs and clutched the torn-out piece of newspaper she had received in the mail last week and which she’d kept on her person in the days leading up to the escape for motivation and inspiration. She didn’t have to pull out the article to read it, because by now she knew the content by heart. It was from the Knoxville News Sentinel, the Sunday edition from two weeks ago. The article was one of the small stories on the second page of the Local section.

  “Attorney Gunned Down in Parking Lot” was the title. Underneath were just two short sentences. “Early Saturday morning, local criminal defense attorney Jeffrey Gullan was shot and killed walking to his car in the parking lot outside his office on West Main. No suspects have been arrested.”

  As the Camry eased into the entrance to the gas station, Charlotte sucked in a deep breath and removed her hand from her pocket. She had thought that the news of Gullan’s murder would make her happy. Worst case, she had figured she would feel some satisfaction knowing that she, through JimBone Wheeler’s person on the outside, had ended that worthless piece of shit’s life just as Gullan had ended her husband’s and daughter’s futures.

  But she had felt neither of those emotions. The only feeling that had come to her that Monday evening was fear. There was no going back now. JimBone had complied with his part of the bargain, and now she would have to carry out hers.

  Manny parked the car along the side of the building, and Charlotte noticed that there were two outside bathrooms. “Be right back,” she said, hopping out of the car and gliding around the front of the building.

  Charlotte leaned her head against the glass of the windshield and closed her eyes as regret permeated her bones. She had tried to get out of it. On the Tuesday after she had received the article, during JimBone’s feigned blood pressure check, she had thanked him but then said there was no way his plan would work. Too many variables. Too much risk for so little chance of success.

  But JimBone had just gazed back at her. As she had wrapped the cuff around his arm, he had whispered, “We are going forward on December fourth. It has to be then, and you will do your part.”

  “And what if I don’t?” she had challenged, her voice shaking with trepidation.

  “Then the authorities in Knoxville are going to be tipped off that Jeffrey Gullan was murdered in a killing orchestrated by one Charlotte Thompson. How’d that be?”

  “There’s no way they would believe that.”

  “They will when they find your DNA in his car and office.” He paused. “Then when they find the sniper rifle that killed him in a dumpster a few blocks from his office with only your fingerprints on the handle, they’ll arrest you in a heartbeat. After they learn about your history with Gullan and what he did to your husband and daughter . . .” He didn’t finish the rest, letting her ponder the repercussions.

  Charlotte had just stared at him, mouth hung open.

  “You don’t think I could pull that off?” He had grinned then. “The Bone is very resourceful. If I was able to murder Gullan from inside here, don’t you think I could find a way to plant evidence?”

  Charlotte hadn’t said anything because there was no point in further argument. The die had been cast.

  Three loud knocks on the passenger-side windshield mercifully broke her from the torturous memories. She looked through the glass and saw Manny dangling a key hooked to a piece of plywood.

  Charlotte opened the door to the car and stepped out into the cool morning air. To the east, she saw the orange sun beginning its ascent over miles of hilly farmland. She gazed at Manny, who patted her shoulder and stuffed the key in her hand.

  “Better to go now,” she said. “Not sure how long it will be before we stop again.”

  Charlotte pointed behind her toward the trunk with her thumb. “What about—?”

  “Don’t worry about him. Still too much risk for him to show his face yet.”

  Charlotte sighed but didn’t argue. She placed the ancient key in the slot to the door that said LADIES over the front, and once she heard the latch give, she pushed through the opening. The smell of stale piss wafted toward her like a sour breeze, but Charlotte paid no mind. When you’ve spent twenty-seven years working in a prison, old, dried-up urine is one of the more lukewarm scents the world has to offer.

  There were two stalls, and she walked through the open door to the far one, not bothering to lock it. She put her hands on her knees and tried to vomit, but all that happened was a gag reflex followed by several spits. She sighed and wiped saliva from her lips. Then she pulled down her scrub pants. She started to turn around, but then his voice, colder than the morning air, fr
oze her in place.

  “Hold steady, Charlotte,” JimBone said, stepping into the close confines of the stall and placing an open palm between her legs.

  “Manny said—”

  “Shut up,” JimBone said, his voice a harsh whisper. She heard the rustling of his own pants hitting the floor, and then hot breath in her ear. “You done good, Charlotte,” he said, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her neck back so that she had to look into his hazel, almost-copper eyes. His left hand slapped the inside of her left and right thighs, and she involuntarily spread her legs. She grimaced as he entered her.

  “Relax, darling. It won’t hurt for long.” He let go of her hair, and Charlotte leaned forward, placing her hands on the dirty tile wall.

  “Couldn’t we have waited until—?”

  This time his interruption came in the form of an open-handed slap that caught the right side of her face. She felt his rough hands under her shirt, unclicking her bra and then grabbing her breasts. Seconds later, he pulled her top and brassiere up over her neck, and they dropped to the floor in a pile.

  “Step out of your pants,” JimBone said, backing away from her. “You’re too tight.”

  Charlotte glanced down at the damp, nasty floor. Her lip had started to tremble and she tasted blood from where he had slapped her. “Not here. Please . . .”

  “Do it.”

  She relented, removing her shoes and slowly stepping out of each pant leg until she was naked but for the now-filthy cotton socks that adorned her feet. Then, before she could say anything else, he was back inside her, forcing her legs wider with the palms of his hands. Her feet slid out on the damp floor, and JimBone increased his pace. Thirty seconds later, he groaned and she felt his release. She also felt a sharp pain rip through her neck.