Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(78)

The room was five feet by eight and fit two people rather snugly. As he peered inside, the light from a flashlight caught him directly in the eyes and he looked away, blinking to get his bearings.

“What’s up?” Bone asked from below.

When Cappy turned back around, he saw the muzzle of a .38-caliber revolver pointed at him. Bone held the gun steady, but his eyes, typically calm and cold, were bloodshot red and wild, having not seen the outside in almost twenty-four hours.

“That prosecutor from Tuscaloosa took a room. He’s staying the night, and his detective friend is camped across the street at the Huddle House.”

“Shit,” Bone said.

“Shit is right. You’ve got to get out of here. If I’m caught harboring a fugitive—”

“Shut up. Just get back in there and act cool. Is my Klan outfit in the trunk?”

“Yes.”

Bone nodded to himself. “Good. All right. Look, tomorrow morning, before we leave for the bus, I want you to put on your Klan garb and walk outside the hotel. Stretch, fart, walk around. Let them see you. Then come back inside to the garage. I’ll be ready.”

“How the—?” Cappy stammered, but Bone waved his hand to cut him off.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it all figured out. Just leave your car keys with me and get the hell out of here.”

“Leave my keys? What—?”

“Just do it, goddamnit.”

Cappy dropped the keys into the hole and peered into Bone’s wild eyes. He started to say something else, but Bone’s look stopped him.

“See you in the morning,” Bone said, shutting off the flashlight.

For a moment Cappy thought about the girl. She was in there somewhere, but it was so dark Cappy couldn’t see her. Is she asleep? he wondered. Then a cold chill came over him. Is she dead?

“Cappy, don’t make me shoot you,” Bone said, his voice cold as ice.

Cappy Limbaugh moved the concrete block back into place, silently praying that tomorrow would be the last time he’d ever see JimBone Wheeler. Thirty seconds later he was back behind the counter in the lobby. His heartbeat had not stopped racing as his eyes bounced around the small room, making sure that everything was the same as he’d left it. As there were no customers and he saw no cars pulling in the parking lot, he reached into his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and headed for the door to the outside. Some fresh air and a hit of nicotine sounded good.

It was going to be a long night.



Powell checked into Room 110 and first did a clean sweep of everything. The bed, the shower, even the walls. He saw nothing that worried him about the room, other than the fact that it adjoined Room 109. He made sure the adjoining door was locked and then called Wade.

“Where are you?”

“Back booth at the Huddle House. Drinking a cup of coffee and eating some raisin toast. How’s your room? Free Wi-Fi, I’m hoping.”

Powell laughed. “Free cable’s about it. Look, Wade, that Limbaugh cat is as dirty as a French whore. I’m going to explore the grounds a little. It’s probably nothing, but . . . it’s been a while since my antennas were up like this. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

“Ten-four. I’ll be here until I get further word from you.”

Powell clicked the “End” button and then called Rick.

“Whatcha got?” Rick asked.

“Jack shit,” Powell said, looking through the room blinds. The back side of the hotel looked out upon a field of weeds and brush. The room didn’t have much of a view and, worse, it was the farthest unit from the hotel lobby. “There’s no sign of him, and we’ve searched every square inch of Lawrence County.” Powell paused and stepped out of the room into the cool night air.

“What are you going to do?” Rick asked. “Go back to Tuscaloosa?”

Powell walked down the sidewalk and turned the corner so the lobby was now back in view. Beyond the lobby and across the street, he saw the red and blue lights of the Huddle House and a figure sitting in the back booth. Powell nodded, though he figured Wade was too far away to recognize the gesture. “Nah, it’s not quitting time yet. I’m going to hang out in Lawrenceburg tonight. There’s something here . . .” Powell moved his eyes to the lobby building and saw Cappy Limbaugh step outside. The hotel owner turned his head left and right and then lit up a smoke as Powell slunk back a few steps into the darkness. “That’s just not right. How about y’all?” he asked, knowing that the trial would crank back up in the morning. “How are things going there?”

There was a long pause. Then, his voice solemn and detached, Rick said, “Not good.”





63


Larry Tucker had an alibi.

“He was with Tammie Gentry all night,” Ray Ray said, waving his arms and sloshing bourbon on the polished mahogany of Bo’s conference room table as Tom and Rick watched him with wide eyes. “All goddamn night.”

“How did you—?” Rick started, but Ray Ray held up his palm.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ray Ray said, slurring his words. “If you cross Tucker on him knowing Andy was going to confess, it ain’t gonna make a hill of beans, because the General is just going to stuff his alibi right up our ass.”