Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(3)

Andrew Davis Walton stepped into the front parlor flanked by his wife, Maggie, and his brother-in-law, Dr. George Curtis. Andy was a tall, angular man, much thinner now than he had been in the old days.

“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Bo said, firmly shoving Clete to the side. “You must have entered through the back,” Bo said, lowering his head so that he was almost nose to nose with Andy. “Ain’t no way you would walk in here on this night with me sitting at the bar.”

Andy’s voice and gaze never wavered. He looked directly at Bo as Maggie and George shot nervous glances at each other behind them. Clete wanted to just sneak on out the door, but he found that he couldn’t move his feet.

“We’ve been here a while, Bo. Today is Maggie’s birthday, and we came here to celebrate.” He paused. “She likes this kind of music.”

Bo’s eyes moved past Andy to the woman standing behind him. Maggie Curtis Walton, called “Ms. Maggie” by everyone in Pulaski, was a petite woman with an elegant sheen of white hair that fell just above her shoulders. She had crystal-blue eyes, which were focused on Bo now with what looked like pity.

“Today is kind of a special day for me too,” Bo said, turning his gaze back to Andy. “Remember why?”

Andy said nothing, continuing to look at Bo. He moved his right foot back a step and clenched his fists, assuming a fighter’s stance.

Bo laughed, dropped his cigar to the floor, and stomped on it so hard that Maggie Walton jumped back. “I’d like to see you try it, old man.”

“We’re gonna leave now, Bo,” Andy said. “If you don’t get out of the way, I’m going to have Cassie call the police.” He glanced at the bartender, but Bo kept his eyes fixed on Andy.

“I’ll do it too, Bo,” Cassie said, her voice high and panicky. “I ought to do it anyway. You’re scaring everyone off.”

The remaining patrons in the back were beginning to walk around them and heading for the front door, but Clete Sartain’s feet remained glued to the floor. If Bo attacked Andy, Clete figured it would take him and George both to get him off.

Ignoring Cassie, Bo leaned forward and spoke directly into Andy’s ear. “But if there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” Bo paused, adding, “Exodus chapter twenty-one, verses twenty-one through twenty-three.” Bo turned to Clete, who had heard every word and was chilled to the bone. “You know your Old Testament, Clete?”

Clete said nothing, and Bo returned his gaze to Andy. “How about you, dog? Do you understand the message?”

Andy also remained quiet, and the bar was stone silent.

“Then let me break it down for you, twenty-first-century style,” Bo said, pausing and sticking his index finger hard into Andy’s chest. “You’re gonna bleed, motherf*cker. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’m going to make you pay for your sins—eye for eye, tooth for tooth.”

“Bo, damnit,” Cassie started, but Bo took a step back, looking them all in the eye one last time. Then he turned away and slowly walked back to his place at the bar.

For a moment the four remaining patrons just stood there, not knowing what to do next. Then, finally able to move again, Clete Sartain nodded at Andy and walked briskly out of the bar. Andy returned the gesture and took his wife by the hand. “Let’s go.”

A few seconds later Bocephus Haynes was the only customer left at Kathy’s Tavern.



Bo gazed into his empty whiskey glass, feeling adrenaline rage through his body. He hadn’t seen Andy Walton out in public in almost a year. He had heard that Andy was basically a recluse these days, occasionally dropping in on one of his businesses but mostly just holed up on his farm. The last time Bo had seen him was at a gala the previous September to raise money for Martin College’s theater program. They had shared a glare from across the auditorium, but that was it. It seemed almost surreal to see Andy at a normal place like Kathy’s.

Of all the nights to run into that bastard, Bo thought. Shaking his head, he looked into the glass, not seeing the ice cubes beginning to melt from the heat of the Jim Beam he’d just consumed. Instead, he saw images of his father as Bo remembered him best, wearing a faded St. Louis Cardinals cap and pitching ball with Bo in the front yard of the two-bedroom shack.

The same yard where the men had come to take him. Andy’s boys.

Forty-five years, Bo thought. Forty-five years . . .

Bo sighed and looked up from his glass, intending to ask Cassie for another drink, but the bartender wasn’t there. He started to look around but then saw another woman’s reflection in the glass mirror above the bar. He blinked his eyes, not trusting them for a moment as the woman approached and put a hand on his shoulder.

Over the years Maggie Walton’s flowing blond hair had turned a regal white, but otherwise she seemed not to age—her eyes still crystal blue, her posture erect, and her demeanor always perfectly composed. Even now it was easy to see how she had been Ms. Tennessee runner-up in 1964.

“I think Cassie went to the restroom,” Maggie said. “Bo—”

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Ms. Maggie. Now go on and leave me be.” Bo’s shoulders had tensed, and he grabbed his whiskey glass, rattling the cubes.