The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(7)
Buck sat down, his backside damp. The smell of urine permeated the room, but Buck barely noticed, thinking of his last trip to Michael’s and the young man he’d spent an hour with afterwards.
The accident. His job. Dealing with the press, and the ABI. All were an afterthought now.
“What have I done?” he said out loud, gazing straight ahead but not seeing anything.
5
Ruth Ann Wilcox sat in the waiting room of the ER. Jeannie is a fighter, she kept telling herself. When her mind drifted toward Nicole and Bob, she forced it back to Jeannie. Jeannie is still alive. She will fight... she will not...
The two double doors opened in front of her, and a woman on a gurney was pushed to the back. Coming out of the doors towards Ruth Ann was a small man holding a chart. The doctor. Ruth Ann wanted to get up, but she felt paralyzed. She’s alive right now. I believe she’s alive. If he tells me...
“Ms Wilcox?” He was standing over her now. He wore green scrubs, and was taking plastic gloves off his hands.
“Yes,” her voice was soft, and her eyes pleaded with the doctor’s. Let her be OK. Let her make it.
“Please come with me.” He turned and she followed. She had to remind herself to breathe.
She followed him through the two double doors and then he stopped.
“Ms Wilcox, I’m Dr Merth. Your daughter suffered massive internal injuries in the crash. We tried to stabilize her, but...” He must’ve seen the look in Ruth Ann’s eyes, because he stopped himself.
“I’m a big girl, Doc.” She held his gaze, trying to steel herself for what came next.
“I’m so very sorry.”
6
God forgive me, Buck Bulyard prayed, as he parked in front of the burning warehouse. He had driven up and down McFarland Boulevard all night, knowing what was about to happen. When he saw the smoke begin to rise over the warehouse, he turned into the lot and cut his lights.
He knew there was only one way out. Jack Willistone would never let him off the hook. If Buck threatened to pull the contract, Jack would come back with the same threats: “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, Faith and the boys are gonna find out what you like to do in your spare time.”
Buck sighed. If it was just Faith, he could probably live with it. But the boys...
Junior was sixteen and Danny was fourteen. They both played ball, had girlfriends and were popular at school. It would destroy them. Kids that age were mean. Vicious. The taunting would never end. “Your daddy’s a queer, a cocksucker, a faggot.”
Buck shook his head and wiped his eyes. I won’t put them through that. Better dead than that.
Buck got out of the car on shaky legs and looked at the inferno in front of him. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.
“911 Emergency.”
“Yeah, this is Buck Bulyard, President of Ultron Gas!” Buck screamed, trying to sound hysterical. “Our office is on fire. Need a fire truck out here on the double. I’ve got an extinguisher. I’m going in to see if I can stop it.”
“Mr Bulyard, no. Don’t ...”
But Buck had already pressed the “End” button. He took out the fire extinguisher, and looked one last time at the pictures of Danny and Junior that he had always kept next to the odometer behind the steering wheel, placing his hand on both photographs. I’m so sorry, boys.
Buck moaned, forcing himself to move away from the car and leaving the door open for show. Then, closing his eyes and gripping the fire extinguisher tight, he barreled into the blaze.
7
Jack Willistone could see the flames from his house overlooking McFarland.
“You covered your tracks?” Jack asked, turning to the man standing beside him at the window.
“Like a bloodhound,” the man said.
“I’m not f*cking around, Bone. Are you sure?”
“One hundred per cent sure, boss.”
“Bone, when I was twelve years old, I whacked off for the first time. After I did it, I was a hundred per cent sure I’d do it again. I ain’t been a hundred per cent sure of anything since. You’re telling me you covered your tracks?”
“As sure as the gizz on your twelve year-old hand. Yes, sir. The Bone knows how to start a fire and make it look like an accident.”
Jack glared at him, taking a slow sip of his bourbon and water. Then he bared his teeth, smiling. “You get the files?”
“Right here.” He handed over two manila folders, one labeled “Willard Carmichael” and the other “Dick Morris”.
Jack took the folders and flipped through them quickly. “They on the team yet?”
“Oh, yeah. They took the deal in a heartbeat. Five thousand dollars cash to each, and instant amnesia. They can’t remember jackshit. Just a routine morning. No hiccups, no rush, just your average everyday pickup. Easy as pie.”
Jack put the folders down on the table behind him and pulled out two cigars from his jacket pocket.
“So no one will ever know,” Jack said. A statement, not a question.
“Not a soul.”
They lit their cigars and turned back to the window. As the warehouse next to the Ultron Gasoline plant burned below, along with all the documents inside, Jack felt relief wash over him. Money talks and bullshit walks. It was one of the two rules he lived by, the other one being just as simple.