Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(9)

“What in the hell was that?” Ennis asked, now hyper.

“That was Maggie Walton, Sheriff. She’s . . . very upset.” He paused, turning away from the woman so she wouldn’t hear what he was about to say. Glancing back at the fire, he spoke into the phone, forcing the tremor out of his voice. “Sheriff, Andy Walton’s body is hanging from a tree on the northeast corner of his farm with a noose tied around his neck and one half of his face shot off. He’s . . .” Woody Monroe paused, closing his eyes, this time unable to keep the whine from his voice as Maggie Walton continued to moan in agony behind him. “He’s on fire, Ennis. He’s been shot and hanged . . . and his body is on fire.”





6


Bocephus Haynes opened his eyes when he heard the sirens.

He was still half-asleep, the dream lingering as it always did. Seeing his father’s stretched neck. Flailing at his father’s legs as they dangled below the branch of the tree. Hearing the laughter of the white-robed men mixed with his own screams . . .

He gazed upward at the ceiling fan as the sounds from the dream gradually subsided, replaced by the sirens. Getting closer?

Bo rolled out of bed, forcing himself to sit up straight, and the sudden movement made him dizzy. His throat felt like sandpaper, and when he tried to swallow he nearly gagged on the half-chewed cigar that still hung out of the corner of his mouth. He spat the remainder of the stogie on the floor and rose to his feet.

The nausea hit him like a freight train.

He stumbled through the law office to the back door, fumbling in the dark for the knob. He took hold and twisted, then stepped outside and vomited over the railing. Blinking his eyes and clutching the railing tightly, he vomited again. And again. Finally, after a last dry heave, he relaxed his frame and sat on the top step, placing his elbows on his knees and taking several deep breaths.

The sirens were now even louder, and the sound of them pounded in Bo’s head as he began to look himself over. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before—khaki slacks, oxford button-down, and brown Allen Edmonds loafers. Since he’d moved out of the house and into the office, it wasn’t unusual for him to have slept in his clothes, or, for that matter, his shoes. What caught his eye was the dried, caked mud covering the heels and soles of both loafers.

Bo blinked, his mind starting to work despite the horrific hangover. What happened last night?

Everything after he left Kathy’s Tavern was a blur . . .

He slipped off his shoes and set them on the top step. Then he shuffled on socked feet back into the office. When he turned on the light in the hallway, he noticed that he had tracked mud the entire length of the hall. Looking through the open door of the library, he saw that the tracks ended at the pullout sofa he now called a bed. An empty pint of Jim Beam lay on its side, top off, on the hardwood floor below the sofa. He must have dropped it there before he crashed. Again, he asked himself, What happened last night?

A collage of images began to play in his mind, and he felt a cold chill on the back of his neck.

“No,” he whispered.

The sirens were now deafening, and through the cracked blinds at the end of the hall, Bo saw three sets of blue and white flashers. “No,” he whispered again. He swallowed and tasted the bile in his throat. He turned for the back door but stopped in his tracks when he saw them.

Ennis Petrie, the sheriff of Giles County, Tennessee, and Hank Springfield, his chief deputy, stood in the doorway. Behind them, Bo saw two more deputies and four squad cars, all with their flashers on.

Three squads in the front and four in back, Bo thought. No.

“Bo,” Ennis said, taking a cautious step toward him. “You left the door open.”

“Sheriff,” Bo said, wiping his mouth and hoping he didn’t have vomit on it. “Hank. What can I do for you fellas?”

“You’re under arrest, Bo,” the sheriff said, removing a pair of handcuffs from his belt buckle.

“For what?” Bo asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

Ennis took another step toward him, eyeing Bo with detached curiosity as he placed the cuffs on the attorney’s wrists. “For the murder of Andrew Davis Walton.”





7


The holding cell wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Three of the walls were yellow cinder block, fading white with age, while the wall to Bo’s right was made of glass, presumably so someone could watch the questioning from behind it. The floor was concrete, and the sealed sliding door had a small plexiglass window. Inside the cramped space the cell smelled of disinfectant mingled with traces of sweat and body odor. Bo had visited the Giles County Jail on numerous occasions and remembered that his suits always contained this same stale scent when he took them off at night, sometimes making him gag.

Outside the cell the hallway reverberated with a cacophony of sounds. Bo covered his ears to the noise: officers yelling unintelligible jailspeak to each other, the jingle-jangle of inmates shuffling along the floor in their shackles, the whooshing and slamming of doors opening and closing . . .

Bo sat at a metal desk that filled up most of the cell, gazing at his massive reflection in the window. With his size and strength, he knew he could be an intimidating physical presence. But he felt anything but intimidating now. Dressed in orange prison garb—his clothes had been taken for “testing”—his head throbbed from a hangover, and his stomach felt like acid. Outside of a Styrofoam cup of water they’d given him, he’d had nothing to eat or drink since throwing up at his office, and he knew he wouldn’t be hungry for several hours. He placed his forehead on the desk, relishing the cold feel of the metal, and rubbed the back of his head.