Between Black and White (17 page)

37

Bone watched them from the deck of The Boathouse. He held a Bud Light bottle that he had barely touched and was dressed in a “Fisherman’s Wharf” T-shirt he’d bought while Rick and Burns were having a drink at the place next door, a tattered red cap with the cursive
A
of Alabama’s Crimson Tide on the front, khaki shorts he kept in a duffel bag in the back of the truck, and a pair of old flip-flops. With his scraggly beard and his hat pulled down low over his eyes, he blended into the crowd perfectly.

This can’t be good,
he thought. Drake had talked with the stripper for at least forty-five minutes now, and the conversation had turned heated. For a while Drake had paced in front of the bench, asking her questions.

He’s getting something out of this,
Bone knew. He had placed calls and sent texts to his benefactor on a regular basis, and so far the instructions had been to follow and report what he saw. He took the cell phone out of his left pocket and texted,
They’ve talked for forty-five minutes, and the kid seems to be excited.
Bone returned the phone to his pocket and waited.

When Burns had snuck out of the restaurant alone while Drake was in the bathroom, Bone had thought for a moment that the kid had been taken for a ride. Burns had scampered off down the dock a ways, so Bone wasn’t sure where he had gone. His orders were to stay with Drake.

He figured the night was probably over—a wasted trip no different than Drake’s—until he saw Nikita emerge from the shadows of the front parking lot a few minutes after Burns had left.

Bone recognized her right off from his nights at The Sundowners Club. Nikita—Bone did not know her real name—had always dressed relatively conservative as far as strippers went, and this contrast made her stand out at the club. It also made her easy to recognize now.

The phone in his left pocket vibrated, and Bone grabbed it, never taking his eyes off Nikita and Drake. He looked down at the message on the screen and felt his body temperature drop a couple degrees.

Kill the girl. And the lawyer if necessary.

Bone felt his heart pick up a beat as he read and reread the message. Not exactly what he was expecting, but . . .

A second message came in on top of the first.

And make it look good.

Bone smiled. He always did.

He glanced at his watch, then looked around. It was already past 1:00 a.m., and outside of the few stragglers in The Boathouse, Bone saw no one around. The dock below was completely deserted except for Drake and the dancer, and there was very little light.

Perfect,
he thought, taking a small sip of beer and placing it on the railing. Bone felt for the gun inside the front of his shorts. His pockets were too tight for the .38, so he’d stuffed it down the front of his shorts and let his loose-fitting T-shirt hang over it.

Slowly and softly, Bone began to walk down the wooden steps to the dock. Both the stripper and Drake had come to The Boathouse from the parking lot. When he got to the bottom of the steps, he saw them.

Drake’s life is over,
Bone knew, stepping behind the stairs and into the shadows. Killing the lawyer, he’d already determined, was going to be necessary. The boy, along with McMurtrie, had cost Bone a lot of money last year. And the El Camino . . .

He took the gun out of his shorts and waited. They would have to come back to these steps to get to the parking lot. When they did . . .

He flipped the gun so that he was holding the weapon by its barrel. He’d hit them both with the butt end and toss their limp bodies in the harbor. Bone could almost see the headline in the paper. “Accidental Drowning Claims Lives of Young Man and Woman.”

Bone smiled, waiting . . .

38

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Darla said, squeezing her hands into fists and lightly tapping Rick on the stomach. “Do you think Larry could be involved in Mr. Walton’s murder?”

Rick hadn’t even heard the question the first time she’d asked it. He was still looking at the water, thinking it through in his mind. Assuming that Larry Tucker was one of the ten men who participated in the lynching of Roosevelt Haynes in 1966, then he would have every reason to want to stop Andy Walton’s confession.

Motive,
Rick thought. Larry Tucker had motive. He was also the owner of the Sundowners Club, the scene of the crime. Opportunity. Rick felt his heart pounding in his chest.
We might have an alternative theory . . .

“When did you tell Mr. Tucker about Mr. Walton’s plan to confess?”

“The same night Mr. Walton told me about it.”

“So two weeks before the murder?”

Darla nodded, and her eyes were wide with fear. “Do you think Larry—?”

“I don’t know,” Rick interrupted. “I think it’s possible that Mr. Tucker was involved. We represent Bocephus Haynes, who has been charged with the murder, but he has pled not guilty. If Bo is innocent of the charges, then—”

“Someone else did it,” Darla completed the thought. “And you think it might be Larry.”

“Was Larry in the Klan with Andy?”

Darla crossed her arms and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know they had been friends for . . .” She stopped and placed her hand over her mouth. “There were others. Of course . . . Mr. Haynes was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, and Mr. Walton was just one of the men.” She paused, her eyes wide. “You think Larry was one of them.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do,” Rick said. “But I can’t prove it right now. Assuming he was and he found out that Andy was going to confess . . .”

“Oh, Jesus, it’s my fault then,” Darla said. “I’m the one who told him.” Her voice cracked, and she sat down on the bench. She crossed her arms and began to rock back and forth. “After all Mr. Walton did for me . . .”

“You didn’t know,” Rick said, sitting beside her. “Besides . . .” He sighed. “It’s just a theory.”

For several minutes they both just sat there. Arms crossed, gazing out at the water. The only sounds were Darla’s sniffles. Finally, she wiped her eyes. “I would have made it here without him,” she said, her voice determined. “I was two years away from saving enough. I didn’t need a sugar daddy.” She sighed. “But he helped me. I . . . no one ever did anything for me before. If I’m somehow responsible for his death . . .”

“He was dying,” Rick said. “It wouldn’t have been much longer.”

She nodded. “Still . . . it’s not right.”

“I agree, but you can’t blame yourself. You did what you thought was right. That’s all anyone can do.” Then a thought struck him like a thunderbolt. “Did you tell the sheriff’s department or DA’s office about any of this? Andy saying he was going to confess, and you telling Larry Tucker about it?”

“They didn’t ask. All they wanted to know was what I saw the last night Mr. Walton was with me, and they told me to write a statement. They said they would schedule another interview with me, but I guess I left town before they could talk to me again.”

Rick turned and gazed into the depths of the dark water.
Larry Tucker is our killer,
he thought.
Has to be
. . .

“It’s late,” Darla said, snapping Rick back into the present.

“Ms. Ford, I really appreciate your time tonight. You’ve been very helpful.”

She looked at him and smiled. “You got a place to stay tonight, sailor?”

Rick creased his eyebrows. “Ms. Ford, I really can’t—”

“Relax, I’m not going to seduce you. Though if you keep calling me Ms. Ford, I may have to.” She laughed. “Come on,” Darla said, taking him by the hand.

Walking on worn-out legs, Rick followed her.

Where are they going?
Bone thought. The stripper and Drake were not walking toward him. They were moving in the opposite direction.

Bone started to move, but then just as quickly he stopped and became calm, realizing what was happening. They were walking down a series of docks that would all wind back to these stairs. After they strolled around, looking at the boats, they’d have to come right back here.

Bone took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his shorts.
Patience,
he thought.
Patience.

“Where are we going?” Rick asked, curious as to why they were walking farther down the dock as opposed to going up the stairs and back out to the highway.

“My place,” Darla said.

Rick started to ask another question when Darla abruptly stopped and gestured with her right arm. “Ta-da,” she said.

It was a pontoon boat. One of the fog lights was on, and Rick could make out that the boat was a tan color with green trim. The word “Sweetness” was etched on the side.

“What do you think?” Darla asked, her voice expectant.

“This is your place?” Rick asked, noticing that Peter Burns was sprawled out on two of the seats, either asleep or passed out. Darla stepped down into the boat and held out her hand.

“No, silly,” Darla said. “This is my boat. My place is over there.” She pointed to Holiday Isle, and Rick couldn’t help but smile. The day just kept getting crazier and crazier.

Son of a
. . .

Bone started walking when he saw them step onto the boat. Then he broke into a run, knowing he would be too late.

A boat. The stripper had a boat. How could that be? He’d seen her enter the restaurant from the parking lot. How could he possibly have known she’d have a boat?

He ran down the dock, holding the gun at his side, his eyes darting in every direction. The other boats appeared to be empty. As the boat with Drake and the stripper left the dock and began to merge into the harbor, Bone pointed his weapon at them. With the silencer he might still be able to . . .

“Mr. Wheeler!”

The killer spun around at the sound of his name and saw a man with a salt and pepper beard wearing a black cowboy hat who was pointing a pistol at his chest.

“JimBone Wheeler, I presume?” The man was walking toward him. “Put the gun down and get on your knees.”

Bone cut his eyes wildly to his left and right.

“Nowhere to go, JimBone,” the man said. “Or do you prefer Bone for short?”

How could anyone possibly have found him? Bone wondered, forcing his mind to remain calm. “Who are you?”

“Wade Richey, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office,” the man said, holding up a badge. “And you’re under arrest.”

As the man stepped into the light, Bone saw that Richey resembled the actor Sam Elliott from his
Tombstone
and
Roadhouse
days.

“Not today, friend,” Bone said.

And then he jumped into Destin Harbor.

39

“I think I may have hit him,” Wade said, talking rapidly into the phone. “I got two shots off, and I think I may have nicked him on the leg.”

“Are you sure it was Wheeler?” Tom asked, his voice barely registering under the hum of police sirens. Twenty-five minutes had passed since JimBone Wheeler took a dive into the harbor, and the place was now crawling with officers from the Destin Police Department and deputies from the Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Office.

“Positive,” Wade said. “I called him by his name, and he spun around immediately. He looked the part too. Same height. Had a beard. I didn’t get a good view of his eyes because he had his hat pulled down low, but it was definitely him.”

Out on the water, three police boats were moving slowly up and down the harbor. Officers on board were shining lights in every direction, and one man spoke into a bullhorn. “Mr. Wheeler, get out of the water. Mr. Wheeler, you are surrounded. Get out of the water now.”

“All right, keep me posted, Wade,” Tom said. “Wheeler survived a jump off the Northport Bridge last summer and was able to make it out of the Black Warrior River alive. He’s a survivor.”

Wade watched as police lights continued to flood the harbor in every direction. “I don’t see how he makes it out of this harbor, Tom. It’s covered with cops on both sides. Unless the son of a bitch is half fish, I just don’t see it. We’ll either apprehend him, or his body is drifting along the floor of the Gulf.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Tom took in the information. “What about Rick?” he finally asked.

“He left the harbor by boat with the stripper. They were out a ways when I shot at Wheeler, so I doubt they heard it.”

“He left with her by boat?”

“Yeah,” Wade said.

“Find him, Wade. If Wheeler somehow did survive . . .”

“Ten-four,” Wade broke in. “I’ll have him before the sun rises.”