The Professor (26 page)

63

As the sun dipped below the horizon in Faunsdale, Doolittle Morris finally made it to Mule’s bedroom. Slowly but surely Doo had gone through the whole house, stacking on the porch the furniture that was worth keeping—an old grandfather clock and a recliner—and leaving the rest where it lay for whoever bought the house when Doo sold it. Now all that remained was the bedroom. Stumbling through the door, Doo couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the old silver boom box lying on top of the dresser on the far wall. “Goddamn,” Doo said out loud, walking over to the boom box and seeing a cassette tape in the slot. The white cassette had yellowed over time, but Doo could still read the faded letters of the title.
John Anderson’s Greatest Hits.

Doo laughed again and took a sip of beer. After finishing the pint of Jack Daniel’s, Doo had fortuitously found a six-pack of High Life in Mule’s fridge, which he had killed half of already. He was drunk and ready to go, but he wasn’t leaving until he finished the job.
Only going to do this once
, he kept telling himself.
One and done.

Doo pushed the Play button on the boom box and waited to see if the damn thing still worked. When the sounds of John Anderson’s “Swingin’ ” blared through the speakers, Doo let out a rebel yell and began to sing along.

The bedroom was basically barren. Other than the dresser, the only things in the room were a bed and a small table next to it.

Doo continued to sing as he sat on the bed and went through the top drawer of the bedside table.
Nothing there, so Dewey lowered his hand and opened the bottom drawer. His voice caught in his throat when he saw the worn leather Bible.

Doo set his beer on the table, reached into the drawer, pulled out the Bible, and ran his fingers over the leather. Softly, he opened the cover. When he did, several documents and photographs fell out. When he saw the first document, he let out a long sigh of relief. It was the deed to the house.

“Thank God,” Doo said out loud. He had been worried he was going to have to go down to the courthouse to find the deed. The photographs were baby pictures of Mule’s two girls taken while they were still in the hospital. Though Mule hadn’t seen them much since his wife ran off, Doo knew that Mule loved his daughters very much. Feeling his eyes beginning to burn again, Doo started to close the Bible but stopped when he noticed a single piece of white paper jutting out in the middle. Doo put his finger on the paper and opened the Bible to the page where it had been placed. A passage of Scripture had been highlighted. Proverbs 5:22-23. “The evil deeds of a wicked man ensnare him; the cords of his sin hold him fast. He will die for lack of discipline, led astray by his own great folly.”

Doo shook his head and unfolded the piece of paper.

“What the hell?” Doo said, not understanding. Blinking his eyes and trying to clear his head of the booze, he reviewed the document again. And then again.

When he finally got it, he felt the hair on his arms stand up.

“I . . . will . . . be . . . damned.”

64

“She’s not here,” Rick said, continuing to knock on Dawn’s apartment door in vain.

Tom could hear the panic in Rick’s voice, and he was beginning to feel it himself. It was getting late and they had been trying for hours to find Dawn without success. She had yet to answer her cell or home phone, and Rick and Tom had each called at least a dozen times. Now, as a last resort they had come to her apartment, and it also appeared to be a dead end. Peeking through the outside window, Tom saw that no lights were on, and neither Tom nor Rick had seen Dawn’s car in the parking lot.

“I just don’t get it,” Rick said. “Where could she be? She’s not here. She wasn’t at the law school, and she’s not answering her phone. I thought we’d at least find her mom here, but she’s gone too. Everyone’s freakin’ disappeared.” Rick banged his fist against the apartment door. “You said you had someone working on it. Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing,” Tom said, checking his cell phone for texts. “Look, I don’t get it either, but she has to turn up. I called the registrar of the law school on the way back into town, and she checked the records for me. Dawn is enrolled for summer school and went to class yesterday. She’s here . . . somewhere.”

Rick nodded and started to say something but was interrupted by the sound he’d been waiting two hours to hear. His cell phone was ringing. Feeling his heart clench, Rick ripped the phone out of his pocket and pressed the answer button.
Please be her.

“Hello, Dawn?”

For several seconds Rick heard nothing on the other end of the line.

“Who is it?” Tom asked, stepping closer to Rick.

Rick shrugged his shoulders.

“Hello,” Rick repeated. “Who is—?”

“They’re going to kill her.”
The voice came out in a strained whisper, and Rick felt goose bumps break out on his arm.

“Kill who?” he asked, his voice also a whisper. More silence. “Kill
who
?” Rick repeated.
Who is this?
“Kill wh— ?”

The line went dead.

“Who was is it?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know. A woman, I think. All she said was, ‘They’re going to kill her.’ She obviously knew my cell phone.”

“They’re going to kill her?” Tom said, rubbing his chin.

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other, both getting it at the same time.

“Oh, Christ,” Rick said, his face going white. “Dawn . . .”

65

Dawn Murphy turned off the computer and gazed at the blank screen. It was almost midnight but she had finished the brief. Mr. Tomkins would be able to review and revise it tomorrow, which had been her goal. Sighing, she forced herself off the swivel chair and began turning off the lights in the office. After her debacle with Rick, she had called Daryl Tomkins at Tomkins & Fisher, and he had been thrilled to hire her back. She knew she was lucky to have a job but she didn’t feel lucky. She felt depressed. Sad. Tired. And most of all, confused.

She knew this was the week of Ruth Ann’s trial. There hadn’t been any press coverage yet, but she remembered the date. She had wanted to call Rick and wish him luck. In fact, she had picked up the phone several times and started to dial the number, but she just couldn’t go through with it. Not after all the things they had said to each other.

She opened the back door to the office and stepped out into the night. The parking lot was barren except for her white Mustang, and the only sounds she heard were the passing of cars on Greensboro a few blocks up. She shut the door behind her, putting the key in the dead bolt and twisting it.

“Kinda late for a pretty girl like you to be out.”

Dawn turned to the sound of the voice, her stomach tightening into a knot. The lot was sparsely lit, and for a moment she didn’t see him. Then, standing by her Mustang, she saw a tall man dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt. As he stepped toward her, she noticed that his hair was sandy blond and he had a patch of stubble on his face.

“Can I help you?” Dawn asked, her voice shaky. She reached into her pocket for her cell phone but then remembered that the battery was dead.
Damn, damn, damn.
The man was in front of her now. He had continued to approach as if his appearance were completely natural. He smiled at her and extended his hand.

“Yes, Ms. Murphy,” he said, squeezing her hand until she shrieked in pain. “You can help me a great deal.”

66

Tom pulled the Explorer into the parking lot in front of Rick’s office at just past midnight.

“Damnit,” Rick said, his voice hoarse from fatigue.

After leaving Dawn’s apartment, they had driven up and down McFarland and Skyland Boulevards, checking restaurant parking lots, the mall, and every other place they could think of. Nothing. Then they had moved to the strip on University Drive, walking in all the bars and restaurants there. Still nothing. Now they were downtown and dead out of options.

“Maybe she’s out of town,” Tom broke in. “That’s better than . . .”
Tom didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to.

Rick shook his head. “Why would she go out of town in the middle of summer school?”

Tom sighed. “I don’t know.” He closed his eyes.
Think, damnit. Think.
He looked at Rick. “Do you know if she’s taken another job?”

Rick shrugged, looking down at the floorboard. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since she quit. I have no idea. But”—he snapped his fingers and jerked his head up—“she clerked at Tomkins & Fisher last summer. Maybe—”

But his words were drowned out by the sound of screeching tires as Tom floored it out of Rick’s parking lot. Tomkins & Fisher was on Second Street. Three blocks away.

Please be there
, Tom thought, looking at the clock on the dash. 12:13 a.m. It was so late. The trial would crank back up in less than nine hours, but Tom wasn’t worried about the trial or the case.

Please be all right.

67

JimBone Wheeler couldn’t believe his luck. After dropping Wilma off at the hotel, he had picked up Dawn’s tail just before dark while she was leaving her apartment. He had followed her here but had been forced to wait, because there were video surveillance cameras inside both the front and back doors of the law office. Now, nearly five hours later, the parking lot was empty, Dawn Murphy was alone, and there was no sign of the Drake kid or anyone else.
Better to be lucky than good
,
JimBone thought, wrapping his hand around Dawn’s mouth with a chloroform-drenched paper towel as she tried to twist away from him.

The knife was in his jeans pocket. He could stab her, take her purse, and leave, and it would be a job well done. But where was the fun in that? Besides, why would someone just kill a pretty thing like Dawn Murphy? She was beautiful. Young. Sexy. Dawn stopped writhing as the chloroform did its magic. JimBone looked down at her face, unable to contain his smile as he thought of the fun he was about to have.

Beautiful, young, sexy women didn’t just get killed for money. They got raped. Sodomized. Brutalized. Then, only after having been properly defiled, were they killed, rumpled up in a garbage bag, and thrown in the river.

She’d be just another hot-to-trot coed killed by a crazed pervert. JimBone followed the news. A killing like this happened in college towns all the time. Or at least enough not to raise too many eyebrows.

JimBone had parked on the curb on the street adjacent to the parking lot. There were no streetlights. No way anyone could see him unless they were looking for him.
Just too easy
, he thought as he carried Dawn’s body up to the El Camino. He opened the door and was about to push her into the car when pain engulfed every part of his body.

Someone or something was squeezing his testicles.
Son of a . . .

JimBone grabbed for his crotch, but then his face was pressed into the windshield. Howling in pain as his balls were squeezed together, JimBone felt hot breath on the back of his neck.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” a deep male voice said as the pressure intensified.

JimBone tried to elbow the man, but it was no use. The man was too strong. JimBone reached into his pocket for the knife, and the pressure on his balls suddenly eased. Turning on a dime, JimBone lunged with the knife, missing badly and sprawling on the pavement. When he got up, a pistol was pressed into his forehead.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?”

“Jesus Christ,” JimBone said, looking at the man, who was as tall as him and black as the ace of spades.

“No, dog. Bocephus Haynes. You’re as far from Jesus as you’re ever gon’ be.”

JimBone gulped, then turned his head as tires screeched behind Bocephus. Bocephus also turned, taking a couple of steps back. When he did, JimBone’s survival instincts kicked in.

And he ran.

“I don’t think so, motherfucker,” Bocephus screamed after him, and JimBone heard the sound of the gun firing up in the air.

JimBone Wheeler never looked back.

“She’s OK!” Bo yelled, calling over his shoulder and pointing back at Dawn, who was crumpled against the side of an old El Camino.

Tom and Rick reached Dawn at the same time, and Rick knelt down and placed the side of his head on her chest.

“She’s breathing,” he said, looking up at Tom.

Tom stepped back and looked in the direction where Bo had been running.

“Wait here, Rick.”

Tom ran back to the Explorer and put it in gear. After a couple of minutes of driving, he caught up with Bo, who was running at a dead sprint and approaching the bridge that connected downtown Tuscaloosa to downtown Northport.

Underneath was the Black Warrior River.

“Jesus,” Tom muttered.

He saw another man stepping over the railing of the bridge. Bo was fifteen yards away. Ten. Five.

Bo lunged for the railing.

“Bo!” Tom yelled out the window of the car. But Bo was too late.

The man on the bridge jumped.