Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(44)
“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.