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Back Legacy of Lies Save as PDF
Chapters (88)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. PART ONE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. PART TWO
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. PART THREE
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. 59
  67. PART FOUR
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. 73
  82. 74
  83. 75
  84. 76
  85. 77
  86. EPILOGUE
  87. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  88. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Helen squeezed the steering wheel, wishing for all the world that there was another way. But there isn’t, she thought, putting the Crown Vic in gear and involuntarily tapping the pocket of her jeans.

9

9

Butch lived in a two-bedroom house off East College Street about a half mile from downtown. At 9:30 p.m., he’d just showered and changed into boxer shorts, a navy bathrobe, and flip-flops. He poured himself a glass of Dickel over ice and plopped down on the couch in the small den, bringing the bottle with him so that a refill would be within easy reach.

Butch thought back to Finn Pusser’s not-so-subtle threat at the Sundowners that morning. Assuming Lou fails, are you ready to do what you have to do?

Butch grabbed the remote and flipped channels on the tube until he found a basketball game. Sighing and caring nothing about either team on the television screen, he took a sip of whiskey and wrinkled his face as the liquor burned his throat going down. He’d done what he had to do, and the results were as predictable as Vanderbilt failing to contend for the SEC championship in football every year. Helen hadn’t budged, and his time was almost up. If anything, Butch’s actions today had only made things worse.

His cell phone lay on the wooden coffee table in front of him, and he snatched it. He’d missed no calls, text messages, or emails while he had been in the shower. He clicked on his texts and reviewed the two messages he’d sent Helen after leaving the courthouse. The first, an hour after their conversation in the courtroom, was short and sweet. Have you thought any about what I said? I’m probably going to the Hickory House for dinner if you want to join and talk more. Please, Helen. Don’t force my hand.

The second text, five hours later at 7:35 p.m., was even shorter. Well . . . it said.

Butch gazed at the television screen. “Well . . . I’m screwed,” he whispered.

“Talking to yourself now?”

Butch turned his head toward the voice but didn’t get up off the couch. He focused his eyes toward the kitchen, where there was a door that opened to the outside. “I thought I locked that door,” he said, slurring his words ever so slightly.

The figure approached the couch. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about what you told me.”

Butch raised his eyes. “And?”

“And there’s only one way to fix our dilemma.”

Butch exhaled and cocked his head at the figure. “I agree, but—” His words caught in his mouth when he saw the revolver in the person’s right hand, rising until the barrel was pointed at him. Where did that come from? Butch wondered, blinking his eyes. The figure must have been holding the weapon the entire time, and Butch hadn’t seen it in the dark. “What are you doing?”