Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(6)

But despite his dogged efforts, he had failed. In fact, the only thing his investigation had done was bring danger to his family. Bo had lost count of how many times bricks had been thrown into windows of his home or he’d woken up in the morning to see the tires on his vehicle slashed. For the most part these actions were a mere annoyance, causing frustration and tension in his marriage and family life but nothing more.

But things changed last spring when Ferriday Montaigne, a local bricklayer whom Bo had long suspected was present for his daddy’s hanging, asked Bo to visit him in the hospital. Ferriday had lung cancer and was dying. Bo had gone to the hospital, sensing that he was about to finally learn the truth, but Ferriday’s wife, on the advice of her husband’s physician, Dr. George Curtis, wouldn’t let Bo inside the room.

Frustrated, Bo had gone home that night and was greeted by a crying Jazz, who pushed a manila envelope into his chest and stormed back to their bedroom, slamming the door. Inside the package were two photographs, one of T. J. stepping out of his car at Giles County High, the other of Lila walking out the side door of their home. In each of the pictures T. J.’s and Lila’s faces were in the crosshairs of a rifle scope. There was no cover letter included with the photographs, but the message came through loud and clear.

Jazz was inconsolable. “Bo, your quest for vengeance may cost you your life. I can deal with that. I signed up for that when we married. But I will not, can not, let you subject our children to danger. Will you give it up? Tell me you will give it up right now.”

When Bo didn’t answer, Jazz started packing. She was gone the next day, taking the kids to her parents’ home in Huntsville and telling Bo to sell the house. And though she hadn’t officially filed the papers yet, Bo knew it was only a matter of time before he was greeted by a process server. Jazz had already accepted a professorial position at Alabama A&M in Huntsville and enrolled the kids in the Huntsville city schools. She’s moving on . . .

Bo took a long, slow sip of Jim Beam and did one last sweep of the house, remembering T. J.’s and Lila’s rooms as they had once been. A fish tank over the dresser next to his daughter’s bed. Posters of the Pirates’ right fielder Andrew McCutchen and the Saints’ running back, Mark Ingram, on the walls in T. J.’s room. Now the walls were completely bare, save a strand of leftover Scotch tape.

Bo stopped when he made it to the kitchen. Through the double glass doors that led out to the backyard, he saw the only remaining holdover of his former life. A swing set, rusted from years of rain and use. Bo wished he could say he remembered pushing his daughter and son on that set, but he couldn’t. His only memory was staring at it through the empty kitchen as he did now. The only difference between that memory and tonight was that his wife and kids weren’t asleep in their rooms.

They were gone, and Bocephus Haynes was alone in the world. Again . . .

Bo took another sip of whiskey and felt the alcohol burn his throat while the words of Maggie Walton torched his soul.

Then he locked up and stumbled outside, the reality of his predicament closing in around him like a solar eclipse. He had run out of time.

Andy Walton was going to die before Bo could bring him to justice.





3


The stripper’s real name was Darla Ford. “Nikita” was her stage name, but it didn’t suit her. “Nikita” made Andy Walton think of a tall, thin Russian woman with a sexy foreign accent. A Bond girl.

Darla Ford was none of those things. Five foot three with heels on, bleached blond hair, a voluptuous, almost-plump body, and a syrupy Tennessee accent, Darla was not 007’s type. Truth be known, she was a little wide in the hips to usually fit the bill for Andy, but Andy Walton had long since understood that you couldn’t typecast sex appeal. When Andy was around Darla Ford, he wanted her. She had “it,” whatever “it” was.

“Closing time, Mr. Walton,” Darla said.

He had been watching her put her clothes back on, which consisted of a black T-shirt strategically torn down the middle to show her cleavage, and blue jean Daisy Duke cutoffs. One of Darla’s many charms was that she still called him Mr. Walton, despite the fact that he had been a regular customer of hers for almost a year. He asked her about it once, and she just said it didn’t feel right calling him Andy. She was twenty-five, and he was over seventy. It would be “disrespectful” to call him by his first name.

Andy smiled at the memory. People called him Mr. Walton all day long, but when the words came out of Darla Ford’s mouth, they made him hard. Even now, after having enjoyed Darla’s talents for over an hour, he still felt the tingle. Seventy-three years old, and he could feel the beginning of an erection thirty minutes after his last one.

Darla Ford was a goddamn miracle.

Two minutes later Andy stepped out the front door of the Sundowners Club and breathed in the humid August air. Even at just past one in the morning, the temperature must have still been in the low nineties. Andy took a long drink from a tall Styrofoam cup and closed his eyes, hoping for the slightest hint of a breeze. The bartender, whom Darla and the other dancers called Saint Peter, had fixed him a Long Island Iced Tea for the road. Even on top of the three bourbons he’d had earlier in the night at Kathy’s Tavern and the two beers he’d consumed inside the Sundowners, the drink tasted good and strong.

“You sure you’re OK to drive, Mr. Walton?” Darla’s voice came from behind him, and Andy opened his eyes. She and Saint Peter were coming out of the door, a set of keys in the bartender’s hands.