Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(93)

Tom gave his head a quick jerk and began to limp around the lobby, his thoughts becoming more and more troubled. Andy Walton was dead. Ray Ray Pickalew was dead. George Curtis was dead. Larry Tucker was missing. Bo was missing.

The doors to the interrogation area flew open, and Deputy Springfield ushered Rick through them, his hand on the boy’s arm to steady him. Once Rick was seated, Hank turned to Tom, his eyes burning with intensity. “Any word from Bo?”

Tom shook his head. “Nothing. What about Helen? Have you heard—?”

“No,” Hank interrupted. “She left right after we told her about Curtis, and no one has seen her since. Not answering her phone, and not replying to texts.” Hank paused and wiped his forehead. “She needs to be here. There’s no one better in a crisis than the General.”

Tom took a deep breath and tried to calm his mind. Think, old man.

Think . . .





86


It took less than ten minutes for Bo to get to the clearing. Though the distance was just over a mile, Bo found himself running most of it, a couple of times stumbling on uneven ground and falling on the dirt road. I have to know, he kept telling himself. I have to know.

By the time he reached the familiar trail that led to the pond, it was almost dark. Two vehicles were parked side by side at the edge of the trail, and Bo squinted his eyes, trying to focus. One of the vehicles was a Chevy Tahoe, probably silver, though the lack of light made it tough to tell. The other one was a two-cab Chevy Silverado truck. Darker. Probably green. As Bo approached, he saw the shadow of a man in the front cab of the pickup truck. He froze, reaching for his pocket and realizing that he had brought no weapon. Usually, he brought his twelve-gauge or his pistol to the clearing, but the state had seized all of his guns.

Slowly, trying to make as little sound as possible, Bo approached the truck. The driver’s-side window was down, and the man behind the wheel was slumped against the center console, his head turned away from Bo. Asleep? Bo wondered. The adrenaline that had carried Bo this far had now cranked into overdrive.

Something wasn’t right about this scene.

“Hey,” Bo said, clearing his throat. Nothing. The man, wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with a ball cap on his head, still leaned away, making no movement at all. Though Bo had yet to see his face, there was something familiar about the man’s profile. “Hey,” Bo repeated, reaching into the truck and shaking the man’s arm. When he did, the man slumped toward him, and Bo saw the face framed below the orange UT ball cap.

Larry Tucker, Bo knew, though the gunshot hole just above the man’s right temple made it harder to tell. Dried blood caked the right side of what was left of Larry’s face, and he gazed at Bo with dead eyes. “Jesus Christ,” Bo whispered, dropping Larry’s arm and stumbling backward away from the truck.

“Larry was always such an idiot.” The harsh voice came from directly behind Bo, and he fell to the ground as he tried to turn toward it. “I think it was a humanitarian gesture to put him out of his misery.”

“Ms. Maggie?” Bo asked, rising to his feet as the voice came closer. It was now pitch dark, and Bo could see nothing but the faint outline of the pine trees above him. Even the stars, it seemed, had stayed away on this dreary night. Bo blinked and took a cautious step forward, squinting in the direction of the voice.

The roaring of a shotgun blast sent him to his knees. Heart pounding and ear drums ringing, he ran his hands along his body, searching for a wound and then looking at his palms for blood.

“You’re not hit,” the harsh voice said. “Not yet. Now get up and open the back door to Larry’s truck, or the next shot goes in your ear.”

Bo, still unable to see her, stood on shaky legs and did as he was told. The interior light inside the truck came on, and Bo turned back toward the voice.

Maggie Walton was standing three feet in front of him, pointing the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun at Bo’s head. “Got your bearings?” she asked him, and Bo, unable to speak, nodded.

“Good. Now walk along the path toward the pond.”

When Bo’s feet hadn’t budged, Ms. Maggie spoke again, her voice devoid of emotion. “Go on now, Bocephus. You came out here to talk, didn’t you?”

Again, Bo nodded his head.

“Well, we’re going to have our talk by the pond.”

Bo tried to move his feet, but they seemed to be stuck in the ground. The adrenaline rush that had carried him to this point was gone. He was so tired.

“Go, Bocephus,” Maggie said, her voice softer.

“You’re going to kill me too, aren’t you?” Bo asked, a rhetorical question given the circumstances.

“Yes, Bo. I am,” Maggie said. “But not before I tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Bo asked.

In the glow from the interior light in Larry Tucker’s pickup, Bo saw Maggie Walton’s lips curve into a smile. “Everything.”



The walk to the pond took less than two minutes, but for Bo it seemed to last two lifetimes. Pictures from his past danced across his mind like reels in an old projector-style movie. Was it possible that he had been wrong about so much for so long? He had seen with his own eyes what had happened at this clearing forty-five years ago. He had recognized Andy Walton’s voice. Andy had kicked the horse, and Bo’s father’s neck had snapped. The Ku Klux Klan, led by Andy Walton, had killed Bo’s father, and Bo’s mother had left because she did not want to suffer a similar fate. Right?