Part 9 (1/2)

Larry smiled at the sheriff, but there was no humor in his eyes. ”Your backbone has gotten almost as soft as your belly, Ennis.” Then he turned his head and looked around the room. ”G.o.dd.a.m.nit, fellas, come on! Andy Walton would roll over in his grave if he thought his family and friends were just gonna lie down and let a d.a.m.n lady prosecutor avenge his death. Tape up those v.a.g.i.n.as and remember who you are and where you came from. Tennessee chapter for life, remember?”

Ennis stared back at him, making no attempt to hide his disgust. ”The rest of us got out of the Klan a long time ago, Larry. Andy got out too, remember? You're the only one still carrying the banner.”

”Oh, come off it, Ennis. Everyone in here knows the only thing you care about is that precious badge on your chest. What? Don't you think we can take the n.i.g.g.e.r out without you being implicated?” His mouth curved into a wide grin. ”I know a guy, Ennis. A guy used to come in my club last year. A fixer of things, you might say. He actually approached me earlier tonight. Called me from a pay phone and offered to take Haynes out. Said he had a score to settle with the n.i.g.g.e.r.” Larry paused and licked his lips, his eyes dancing around the room before they returned to Ennis. ”My guy could take Bo out, and everyone in here would be as clean as the bra.s.s on that badge of yours. Come on, man. Don't you see Ms. Maggie out there? How can you stand there and tell us to back off?”

Ennis took a step forward and stuck his index finger into Larry's chest. ”The fact of the matter, you ignorant redneck piece of s.h.i.+t, is that some of us here have more at stake than others.” The sheriff nodded at the other remaining guest in the room, and they both stepped toward the door. When Ennis grabbed the k.n.o.b, he turned and looked only at their host. ”Doc, I'm sorry about Andy, and I'm d.a.m.n sure sorry that Ms. Maggie saw him hanging from that tree. But my advice is to stay the h.e.l.l out of Helen's way and let her do her job. Pride and family honor don't change the situation. Bo is guilty and is going to be put to death for it. There is nothing for us or anyone else to do.”

When they were gone, George looked out the window again and watched the sheriff's cruiser move steadily down the long and winding gravel driveway to Highway 64 below.

”Well . . .” Larry said. ”What's it gonna be, Doc? Are we gonna hold our d.i.c.ks and do nothing? Or are we gonna do something?”

When George didn't answer, Larry continued. ”George, if we're gonna leave things to Helen, we at least need to address McMurtrie. He's the reason Jack Willistone is sitting in a prison cell instead of filling my club up with truckers wanting lap dances. If we can take McMurtrie out, we'll make Helen's job a lot easier.”

Still looking out the window, George lowered his eyes to his sister, who continued to rock slowly back and forth in the chair. Finally, he turned back to Larry. ”You said you knew a guy.”

20.

On the outskirts of Lawrence County, Tennessee, about thirty miles north of Pulaski, is a small village called Ethridge. Within this village is the largest per capita Amish settlement in the southern United States. Everyone in Ethridge wore the community's traditional gear. Black pants, black jackets, and black hats on bearded men. Long black and white dresses with white bonnets for the women. Transportation was limited to horse-drawn buggies, and the only food eaten was grown in the fields nearby.

If a person was aiming to disappear from society, it was a pretty good place to be. It was also a good place to stow away valuables taken from another life, as the police were unlikely to stop a man pulling a horse-drawn carriage.

Inside the dark log cabin, JimBone Wheeler, a.k.a. the Bone, lit a lantern with a match and smiled, enjoying the genius of his setup. People left the Amish alone, and for the most part the Amish left their own alone. When he had come to visit Martha Booher, his ”aunt,” back in June, Martha told the village folks who had asked that he was her nephew from the Franklin village whose wife and unborn infant had died in childbirth in the spring. He would be helping her with the ch.o.r.es around her house from time to time on weekends when he could spare a trip.

No one had asked a single further question. Everyone was too busy tending to their fields and tackling the daily grind of living.

As the police had never been able to snap a photograph of him and all the descriptions from Tuscaloosa and Henshaw had been vague, the drawing the police had put out among the neighboring counties, including Lawrence County, looked nothing like Bone. The picture showed a large man with a strand of stubble on his face and short dirty-blond hair, wearing a golf s.h.i.+rt and khaki pants. Now Bone had a full beard dyed a dark brown, with long brown hair and, of course, the black hat, pants, and jacket of an Amish man. He suspected he could probably walk into the sheriff's office and ask for directions and no one would pay him a second's mind.

”How long are you staying?” Martha asked as Bone took the lantern and walked to the back of the cabin. They had barely spoken on the buggy ride from Lawrenceburg to Ethridge. Martha, having been raised Amish, was not a big talker anyway, which to Bone's way of thinking made her the perfect companion.

”Couple hours,” he said, feeling for the cell phone in his pocket. He'd left his number when he'd reached out to Tucker this afternoon, and he knew the phone would ring soon. They won't be able to resist . . .

Bone stepped out the door of the cabin and walked toward the barn in back. It was over ninety degrees outside, but Bone barely noticed. Weather had never bothered him much. Cold, cool, warm, or hot, it made no difference. There was only the job at hand. That's probably why the military had suited him so well. But the army hadn't paid for s.h.i.+t, and being a fixer for people like Jack Willistone did. For Bone it all came back to the moolah. Spend a few years of your childhood hungry, and a person gains an appreciation for the almighty dollar and its importance in life. Let the hypocrites wors.h.i.+p Jesus, Muhammad, or whoever. The Bone sat at the altar of Benjamin Franklin.

That's why the end of his partners.h.i.+p with Jack bothered him so much. Haynes and old man McMurtrie had cost him over one hundred thousand dollars cash and put Jack in jail. Bone had promised himself when he crawled to sh.o.r.e after jumping off the Northport Bridge that he would get even with both of them, and now the pieces were finally in place. Of course, as sweet as the revenge would be, it would come with a price.

JimBone Wheeler never worked for free.

Once inside the barn, Bone shut the door, leaving him in darkness except for the glow from his lantern. He walked past the two horse stables to the rear and knelt on the saw gra.s.s floor, feeling around for the loose plank. When he found it, he set the lantern down and pulled. Underneath, Bone saw his goodies.

Putting his gloves on, Bone quickly made sure everything was there. Two rifles, three twelve-gauge shotguns, a six-pack of revolvers, a toolbox full of knives of all sizes, and, finally, several work tools that could double as weapons. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he put the plank back in place and stepped on it, making sure it was secure.

Then, retrieving the lantern, he started to walk away. He was halfway to the barn door when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.

He answered on the second ring, listened for several seconds, and then said, ”I'll take care of it.”

Smiling, he slid the phone back in his pocket and walked the rest of the way to the house. He had been right. They couldn't resist.

When he reached the bedroom, Martha was nude from the waist down, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. Her blouse and bonnet remained.

”Are you ready to pay rent?” she asked, the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Looking her over, Bone was relieved to see that Martha continued to violate the Amish rule prohibiting the shaving of body hair.

”I probably need to go soon,” Bone said, but he was already taking off his suspenders. His business wouldn't start for several hours and . . . he needed to keep his ”aunt” happy.

At forty-six years old, Martha Booher was just a few years older than Bone, but the plain-Jane wardrobe of the Amish, combined with the age difference, made it easy for her to pa.s.s him off as her nephew.

”You can spare an hour for a lonely Amish woman, no?” She ratcheted up the Pennsylvania Dutch accent and began to unb.u.t.ton her blouse, revealing two of the largest and fullest b.r.e.a.s.t.s Bone had ever had the pleasure of fondling. For some reason they made him think of whole milk and Nebraska.

”Leave the bonnet,” Bone said, placing the lantern on the bedside table and climbing onto the bed. Bone loved the bonnet . . .

21.

Booker Taliaferro Was.h.i.+ngton Rowe Jr. had been called Booker T. since the time he was born to distinguish him from his father, whom everyone just called Booker. Booker T. had played left tackle for Giles County High School on the same team with Bocephus Haynes and even now, as he approached middle age, maintained the ma.s.sive build of an offensive linemen. ”You won't be able to miss Booker T.,” Bo had said. He was right. A few minutes after arriving at the Legends Steakhouse-Booker T.'s only condition for the meeting was that Tom buy him dinner-Tom saw a mountain of a man enter the restaurant. Arms like pythons, a barrel chest, and a neck that rose to his chin like a tree trunk. Tom held his hand up, and the ma.s.sive man nodded and headed his way.

”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 b.u.t.ton-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 G.o.d 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 a.s.s.”

”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 gla.s.s. ”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 trespa.s.s.”

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