Between Black and White (11 page)

20

On the outskirts of Lawrence County, Tennessee, about thirty miles north of Pulaski, is a small village called Ethridge. Within this village is the largest per capita Amish settlement in the southern United States. Everyone in Ethridge wore the community’s traditional gear. Black pants, black jackets, and black hats on bearded men. Long black and white dresses with white bonnets for the women. Transportation was limited to horse-drawn buggies, and the only food eaten was grown in the fields nearby.

If a person was aiming to disappear from society, it was a pretty good place to be. It was also a good place to stow away valuables taken from another life, as the police were unlikely to stop a man pulling a horse-drawn carriage.

Inside the dark log cabin, JimBone Wheeler, a.k.a. the Bone, lit a lantern with a match and smiled, enjoying the genius of his setup. People left the Amish alone, and for the most part the Amish left their own alone. When he had come to visit Martha Booher, his “aunt,” back in June, Martha told the village folks who had asked that he was her nephew from the Franklin village whose wife and unborn infant had died in childbirth in the spring. He would be helping her with the chores around her house from time to time on weekends when he could spare a trip.

No one had asked a single further question. Everyone was too busy tending to their fields and tackling the daily grind of living.

As the police had never been able to snap a photograph of him and all the descriptions from Tuscaloosa and Henshaw had been vague, the drawing the police had put out among the neighboring counties, including Lawrence County, looked nothing like Bone. The picture showed a large man with a strand of stubble on his face and short dirty-blond hair, wearing a golf shirt and khaki pants. Now Bone had a full beard dyed a dark brown, with long brown hair and, of course, the black hat, pants, and jacket of an Amish man. He suspected he could probably walk into the sheriff’s office and ask for directions and no one would pay him a second’s mind.

“How long are you staying?” Martha asked as Bone took the lantern and walked to the back of the cabin. They had barely spoken on the buggy ride from Lawrenceburg to Ethridge. Martha, having been raised Amish, was not a big talker anyway, which to Bone’s way of thinking made her the perfect companion.

“Couple hours,” he said, feeling for the cell phone in his pocket. He’d left his number when he’d reached out to Tucker this afternoon, and he knew the phone would ring soon.
They won’t be able to resist
. . .

Bone stepped out the door of the cabin and walked toward the barn in back. It was over ninety degrees outside, but Bone barely noticed. Weather had never bothered him much. Cold, cool, warm, or hot, it made no difference. There was only the job at hand. That’s probably why the military had suited him so well. But the army hadn’t paid for shit, and being a fixer for people like Jack Willistone did. For Bone it all came back to the moolah. Spend a few years of your childhood hungry, and a person gains an appreciation for the almighty dollar and its importance in life. Let the hypocrites worship Jesus, Muhammad, or whoever. The Bone sat at the altar of Benjamin Franklin.

That’s why the end of his partnership with Jack bothered him so much. Haynes and old man McMurtrie had cost him over one hundred thousand dollars cash and put Jack in jail. Bone had promised himself when he crawled to shore after jumping off the Northport Bridge that he would get even with both of them, and now the pieces were finally in place. Of course, as sweet as the revenge would be, it would come with a price.

JimBone Wheeler never worked for free.

Once inside the barn, Bone shut the door, leaving him in darkness except for the glow from his lantern. He walked past the two horse stables to the rear and knelt on the saw grass floor, feeling around for the loose plank. When he found it, he set the lantern down and pulled. Underneath, Bone saw his goodies.

Putting his gloves on, Bone quickly made sure everything was there. Two rifles, three twelve-gauge shotguns, a six-pack of revolvers, a toolbox full of knives of all sizes, and, finally, several work tools that could double as weapons. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he put the plank back in place and stepped on it, making sure it was secure.

Then, retrieving the lantern, he started to walk away. He was halfway to the barn door when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.

He answered on the second ring, listened for several seconds, and then said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Smiling, he slid the phone back in his pocket and walked the rest of the way to the house. He had been right.
They couldn’t resist.

When he reached the bedroom, Martha was nude from the waist down, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. Her blouse and bonnet remained.

“Are you ready to pay rent?” she asked, the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Looking her over, Bone was relieved to see that Martha continued to violate the Amish rule prohibiting the shaving of body hair.

“I probably need to go soon,” Bone said, but he was already taking off his suspenders. His business wouldn’t start for several hours and . . . he needed to keep his “aunt” happy.

At forty-six years old, Martha Booher was just a few years older than Bone, but the plain-Jane wardrobe of the Amish, combined with the age difference, made it easy for her to pass him off as her nephew.

“You can spare an hour for a lonely Amish woman, no?” She ratcheted up the Pennsylvania Dutch accent and began to unbutton her blouse, revealing two of the largest and fullest breasts Bone had ever had the pleasure of fondling. For some reason they made him think of whole milk and Nebraska.

“Leave the bonnet,” Bone said, placing the lantern on the bedside table and climbing onto the bed. Bone loved the bonnet . . .

21

Booker Taliaferro Washington Rowe Jr. had been called Booker T. since the time he was born to distinguish him from his father, whom everyone just called Booker. Booker T. had played left tackle for Giles County High School on the same team with Bocephus Haynes and even now, as he approached middle age, maintained the massive build of an offensive linemen. “You won’t be able to miss Booker T.,” Bo had said. He was right. A few minutes after arriving at the Legends Steakhouse—Booker T.’s only condition for the meeting was that Tom buy him dinner—Tom saw a mountain of a man enter the restaurant. Arms like pythons, a barrel chest, and a neck that rose to his chin like a tree trunk. Tom held his hand up, and the massive man nodded and headed his way.

“Booker T. Rowe,” he said, extending a heavily calloused right hand that felt like sandpaper when Tom shook it. Dressed in a sweat-stained, gray button-down with “Rowe Farm Systems” on the front pocket and dusty jeans, Booker T. plopped down in the chair across from Tom and let out a long breath, his face the picture of exhaustion. He held his hand up for the waitress, and a plump redhead bustled over with a smile on her face.

“You want a single or a pitcher?” she asked, and it was evident that Booker T. came here often.

“Beer?” Booker T. asked, giving Tom a tired smile.

“Sounds good,” Tom said.

“Let’s make it a pitcher, Louise,” he said.

Thirty minutes later, with one pitcher down and another well on its way, Booker T. took the last bite of his steak and shook his head. “So, Trammell was really the toughest player you ever played with?” Though Tom had drunk a couple of beers, Booker T. was drinking two to every one of his. The huge man wasn’t drunk, but he was getting loose and, having been a lifelong college football fan, was enjoying Tom’s war stories of playing for Coach Bryant in the early ’60s. Tom had hoped to direct the conversation toward Bo’s case, but something held him back. He sensed that Booker T. needed to relax, to blow off some steam, and Tom didn’t want to press it.

“It’s not even close,” Tom said. “Billy Neighbors used to say if he saw Trammell coming down the street, he’d change paths so he wouldn’t have to face him. It was a joke—Billy loved Pat—but there was a hint of truth in it. We were all a bit scared of Pat. He was the bell cow of that team.”

“He died before he was thirty, didn’t he?”

Tom felt his throat constrict a little. Even over forty years after his friend’s death, it was still hard to talk about. He nodded. “Only time I ever saw Coach Bryant cry.”

Booker T. shook his head. “The by God 1961 National Champions.” He poured the last remnants of the pitcher into his mug and leaned back in his chair. “Well . . . as much I’m enjoying your stories, Professor, that’s not why you wanted this meeting, is it?” Tom just waited, knowing the question didn’t really need an answer. After Booker T. took another swallow of beer, he placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “The General owns my ass.”

“How so?” Tom asked, his spirits beginning to sink.

“Because I gave Bo the code to that gate.” He shook his head. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done. But how could I have known that Bo . . . ?” He trailed off and drained the rest of his glass. “General Lewis says she’s going to wait until after Bo’s trial to decide whether to charge me with accessory to murder or aiding and abetting a trespass.”

“What have you told her?” Tom asked, dreading the answer.

“Just the God’s honest truth. That Bo asked me for the code to the gate early last week. Said he always pays his respects to his father at the clearing, and what with the big wall that Ms. Maggie had me construct this year, he couldn’t just sneak in like he’d done in the past.” He paused. “I just couldn’t say no. Me and Bo are cousins, but we’re more like brothers. Besides, Mr. Andy knew that Bo visited that clearing from time to time, and he never said nothing.”

“What?” Tom asked. This was interesting.

“Sure enough. I been leasing that land to farm for ten years, and seem like every year on the anniversary of his daddy’s death and sometimes on Christmas or Bo’s momma’s birthday, Bo would end up out there. A few times on those nights I’d come back in the morning and he’d still be there, curled up and sleeping on the banks of the pond. One of those times Mr. Andy was with me.”

“Really?” Tom asked.

Booker T. nodded. “And he didn’t say nothing neither. Just looked at Bo, sighed, and drove away.”

“So I guess it doesn’t surprise you that Bo would want to come to the clearing on the anniversary of his father’s death?” Tom asked.

“Not at all. Like I said, he came every year on the anniversary, and I knew he was coming this year because he asked me for the code.”

“Do you think Andy Walton would have known that?”

Booker T. shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m sure it wouldn’t have surprised him.

“Were you on the farm last Thursday night?” Tom asked.

“No.”

“So you didn’t see anything.”

“No, I did not.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” There was a hint of desperation in Tom’s voice.

“Nothing you want to hear,” Booker T. said, draining the rest of his mug and standing from the table. “Want to know something else that doesn’t surprise me?”

“What?”

Booker T. threw a few dollar bills on the table for a tip. “It doesn’t surprise me a bit that Bo finally snapped and killed Mr. Andy. He’s been thinking about it his whole life. I probably heard him say a hundred times that he was going to kill Andy Walton one day. And with Jazz gone . . .”

Tom’s thoughts leapfrogged a few weeks to trial. Booker T. on the stand and General Lewis finishing her examination with this doozy: “Did the defendant ever tell you that he was going to kill Andy Walton?”

Only about a hundred times.

“Mr. Rowe, what did Bo think about you working for the man that murdered his father?” It was a question that Tom had intended to ask Bo, but he thought he’d try it out on Booker T. When he saw the big man’s reaction, he immediately knew he had made a mistake.

Booker T. stood there, stunned for a second or two, just staring. Then he slowly leaned over the table and brought his face to within an inch of Tom’s. “Now you listen here, Professor. I work for
myself
. I farm that land the way
I
want to farm that land. All I do is cut the Waltons a rental check. I don’t work for them at all. I use their ass and their land to make a buck.” He scowled, and Tom thought the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees in a few seconds. “Bo didn’t have no problem with that at all.” He started to walk away, then stopped. “You tell my cousin that I’m pulling for him but that I’m not gonna lie. I’m not going to go to jail for his ass.”

As Booker T. stormed out of the restaurant, Tom flagged the waitress down for the check. After paying the tab, he was heading for the door when he heard his cell phone chirp. He read the text from Ray Ray, which was short and sweet.

Bad news from the Sundowners. We need to talk. Bo’s office at nine?

Tom replied,
Better make it 9:30. I still need to hit Kathy’s.
Then he sighed as he walked out into the muggy night.

22

Kathy’s Tavern was beginning to fill up when Tom walked in the door ten minutes after leaving Legends. As he made his way to the bar, he noticed that most of the patrons were starting to filter to the back room, where a band appeared to be tuning instruments. According to the flyer in the window, the music would start at nine.

Tom took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer, taking in the place. It was 8:45 p.m. He had forty-five minutes to hopefully find and interview Cassie Dugan before his meeting with Ray Ray.

Kathy’s was a block north of the courthouse on First Street. According to Bo, Kathy’s had the best cheeseburger in town and usually attracted an up-and-coming country singer or band on the weekend. The layout was basically two areas—a front room with four tall tables to the right and a long bar to the left, and a back room with a stage in front of several tables. As he looked around, Tom was struck by the diversity of the crowd. To his left at the bar were two college boys who had probably both just turned twenty-one. They wore jeans and collar shirts with the shirttail out, and they were splitting a pitcher of beer. Martin Methodist College was just a stone’s throw away, and Tom figured these boys were aiming to catch a buzz before the party on campus. To his right was a bearded man who appeared to be middle-aged wearing a gray T-shirt, a dusty camouflage cap, and khaki work pants and boots. He was drinking Natural Light from a can and staring straight ahead, lost in thought or something else. Across at one of the tables was a fiftysomething couple, the man’s face covered with a white Kenny Rogers–style beard and both wearing cowboy hats. Next to them was a much younger couple, probably in their thirties.

As a steel guitar cranked up in the back, the waitress brought Tom his beer. She wore a white Kathy’s T-shirt with blue jean cutoffs, an outfit which showed off her large breasts and long, tan legs, and Tom could almost feel the eyes of the two college boys on her.

Brushing her brown hair out of her eyes, she smiled. “Just drinking, or would you like to order some food?”

“Just drinking,” Tom said, returning the smile. As she started to go, Tom held up his hand and leaned across the bar. “Can I ask you a question?”

She nodded, her eyes curious.

“Do you know Bocephus Haynes?”

The smile disappeared. “Who wants to know?”

“Tom McMurtrie,” Tom said, extending his hand across the bar. “I’m Bo’s attorney.”

“Cassie Dugan.” She shook his hand, eyeing him like he might be a dangerous animal.
Bingo
, Tom thought, cautioning himself to ease into the questioning.
Don’t scare her off.

“I’m told he was in here last Thursday night. Is that true?” Tom asked.

“He was here a lot of nights,” she said, leaning in close so that only Tom could hear.

“But Thursday?” Tom pressed.

She nodded. “Look, mister, we’re starting to get crowded—”

“Did you wait on him?”

Another nod. “Bo always sat at the bar when he came in, and that’s normally my station.”

The familiar “Bo” as opposed to “Mr. Haynes,”
Tom thought.
Interesting . . .

“Cassie, do you know Bo pretty well?”

She blinked, hesitating only slightly. “Just from his time in here. Like I said, he came a lot the last couple of months.”

Right after the separation, Tom thought, feeling a twinge of anxiety. “Was he with anyone on Thursday night?”

She shook her head. “No. He was alone.” She paused. “He was usually alone.”

“Did he speak to anyone?”

“Look, mister, I gave the police a statement with everything I saw and heard. I don’t have time—”

“One last question,” Tom said. “Did he say anything to you while you waited on him? Anything at all that you thought was strange or unusual?”

She shrugged. “Bo liked to talk to me, OK? I think he was lonely. He and his wife were separated and”—she paused—“I don’t think he had anyone else to talk to.”

Another twinge of anxiety. “Did he say anything that—?”

“All I remember about last Thursday night was that Bo seemed very tense and angry. He normally flirted with me and asked me questions about my day. Small talk mainly, but he barely said a word last Thursday. Just smoked a couple of cigars and had several bourbon and waters. Then he scared Clete to death, and that’s when Mr. and Mrs. Walton and Dr. Curtis came up.” She shuddered. “I thought I was going to have to call the police.”

“Why didn’t you?” Tom asked.

“Because it was just talk. Nobody hit anyone. Just talk.” She glared at Tom. “In hindsight I guess I should’ve called the police.”

Tom asked her about the confrontation, and Cassie reiterated what everyone else had said. Bo had threatened to make Andy “bleed” and quoted the “eye for an eye” verse from the Bible.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Tom asked.

“Not really,” Cassie said, pouring a pitcher full of beer. “Clete Sartain hasn’t been back since last Thursday. I’m sure he’s staying away so he doesn’t get pestered with questions from people like you.”

She turned to walk away, and Tom couldn’t think of anything else to ask her. The day wasn’t getting any better.

It was about to get a lot worse.

“Another Natty Light?” Cassie asked the man with the camouflage hat and gray T-shirt.

Bone nodded, watching McMurtrie from the corner of his eye. He could tell the old man was disappointed by whatever Cassie had told him. Bone knew it was risky being out in the open like this, but it was a calculated risk. The police sketch only vaguely resembled his current appearance, and the long hair, cap, and work clothes were almost as perfect a disguise as his Amish getup.

After an hour of “paying rent” at the cabin, Bone had asked Martha to drop him off at an Amish trading post just outside of Lawrenceburg. He had then walked from the trading post to the hotel where his truck was parked and arrived back in Pulaski around 8:00 p.m., just in time to get to Kathy’s a few minutes before McMurtrie.

As Cassie set the beer can in front of him, Bone stole a glance at the old professor, who had now stood up and was digging in his wallet for some cash.
He’s leaving,
Bone thought, fighting the urge to smile.

As the band in back started its first set with a cover of an old Eddy Raven number—“I Got Mexico”—Bone took a long sip of beer and followed McMurtrie out the door.

This was going to be so much fun.

Out on the sidewalk, McMurtrie was heading back up First Street toward the courthouse.

This should be easy as pie,
Bone thought, reaching inside his work pants for the hammer as McMurtrie crossed Jefferson Street. Bone gripped the hammer tightly and held it by the head so that only the handle was visible. Then he reached under his left pant leg, where the revolver was strapped to the back of his calf. He put the gun in his left pocket. Just in case . . .

As McMurtrie passed Reeves Drug Store, Bone noticed that the sidewalk had darkened. All the businesses along this stretch were closed.
Perfect
, Bone thought, sliding his hand up the hammer to the handle and taking a deep breath. Then he began to count. A thousand one, a thousand two . . .

. . .
now.

As he approached the intersection of First Street and Madison, Tom fiddled in his pocket for the keys to the office, dropping them on the sidewalk. He chuckled and bent down to pick them up. When he did, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled around, and the head of the hammer was coming right at him.

His arms instinctively went up to block the blow, but it was too dark and he wasn’t fast enough. He felt a sharp pain on his forehead and then the sensation of falling.

Then everything went black . . .

The job took all of thirty seconds. Bone had parked his truck two blocks west of the square and he walked briskly toward it. A minute later he was leaving Pulaski on Highway 64 toward Lawrenceburg. On the way there he rolled the windows down and let the hot, humid air engulf him. He remembered the feel of his testicles being squeezed a year earlier in Tuscaloosa by Haynes, and though the old man hadn’t been the one who had done it, Bone held him partly responsible.
Now we’re close to even,
he thought.

But not entirely. Haynes and McMurtrie had cost Bone a lot of money. And his El Camino . . .

Tonight’s job was just the beginning.

It was nice being paid to get revenge, Bone thought, taking out his phone. He dialed the number, and it was answered on the first ring.

“Done,” Bone said.