Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(57)

“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.”