Dead to Rights

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  What Others Are Saying

  About Jack Patterson

  “Jack’s storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson’s, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay’s potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you’ve gone through the whole thing.

  -David Bashore,The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID

  “Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  -Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  -Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  -Ray F., reader

  DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”

  -Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell Jack knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but withDead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”

  -Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com

  & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. Jack Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  -Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  “In Dead in the Water, Jack Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”

  -Mark Schlabach,

  ESPN college sports columnist and

  co-author of Called to Coach

  Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  OTHER TITLES BY JACK PATTERSON

  Cal Murphy Thriller series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Man's Land

  Dead Drop

  Dead to Rights

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  Imminent Threat

  The Cooper Affair

  Seeds of War

  Brady Hawk series

  First Strike

  Deep Cover

  Point of Impact

  Full Blast

  For Brian, a great friend and a man

  with passion for the Deep South

  DEAD TO RIGHTS

  A Cal Murphy Thriller

  JACK PATTERSON

  CHAPTER 1

  May 8, 2004

  Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge

  WHEN ISAIAH DRAKE AWOKE, he wasn’t sure what felt stranger—the Glock G29 in his right hand or the mangled and severed ring finger he held in his left. The shrill call of the osprey circling overhead had startled him out of his nightlong slumber, causing him to sit up. The unsteady ground beneath Drake confused him, as did the water slapping the sides of the fiberglass johnboat. This wasn’t the type of vessel he was used to waking up on with such a pounding headache.

  He inspected the two objects in his hand more closely. The gun felt about the same weight and size as the one he’d shot earlier in the day, though he wasn’t a weapons expert by any measure. The slender white finger with a chipped but manicured nail also looked familiar, but it was difficult to know where he’d seen it since it was so out of place. Regardless of whom it belonged to, the finger appeared in stark contrast to his dark muscular hand holding it. Studying both objects, he tried to think where they could’ve possibly come from and who they belonged to, though he was certain one owner was more upset about losing hers than the other.

  Drake also heard voices nearby. He couldn’t see more than twenty feet in any direction due to the morning fog that had settled thick over the Okefenokee swamp.

  “Reckon the jackfish will be bitin’ this mornin’?” asked one man.

  “Maybe when it warms up a little. Billy told me the warmouths have been jumpin’ into people’s boats,” another man replied.

  “Now, that’s what I like to hear. To heck with fishin’; I’d rather catch ‘em.”

  “You and me both, brother.”

  The voices grew louder and louder.

  Drake looked at the items in his hands, carefully setting them down so as to not make a sound. But the gun clanked hard on the bottom of the boat, reverberating across the water. He held his breath and didn’t move.

  “D’you hear that?” one of the men asked.

  “Sure did,” the other man responded before calling out into the fog. “Hey! Anybody out there? We’re comin’ your way, and we’d hate to surprise ya by runnin’ into ya.”

  Drake remained still, except for slight head movements as he scanned the boat for a paddle. The only thing at his feet other than a gun and a detached appendage was a smattering of blood.

  He looked up just in time to see the outline of a small fishing boat trolling toward him, the front hull poised to pierce the fog. Without any other options besides announcing his presence, Drake laid back down and closed his eyes, praying they’d just scoot on by and leave him alone. Drake needed to figure out what was going on before he engaged with anyone in a conversation, especially two good ole boys fishing the swamp.

  “Hold on, Jay. Put that sucker in reverse. My phone is ringin’.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked as the motor whirred and whined in a higher pitch than moments before. “I told you not to bring that thing. In ten years, those phones’ll be worse than crack. People are already so addicted to ‘em that—”

  “Shut up, Jay. I’m a Pickett County Deputy, and Sheriff Sloan requires that we keep our phones with us at all times in case of an emergency. And apparently there’s an emergency.”

  “It better be a dang good’un to interrupt our Saturday mornin’ fishin’ trip.”

  “Would you shut up? It’s my wife.”

  “That ain’t no emergency. Geez, what’s your problem?”

  Drake remained frozen in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking slightly more now due to the small wake rippling across the water. Yet to Drake, it felt like a tsunami was headed his way, one filled with waves of accusation and guilt. He needed to avoid detection and get to solid ground before anyone could suspect him of murder. Short of paddling with his hands while hanging both his arms outside of the boat, he didn’t have any options. He pondered the tactic for a brief moment before concluding that he’d rather not have
an alligator chew his arm off.

  Just lay still. They’ll go away. Everything is gonna be all right.

  Another osprey flew overhead and unleashed a series of shrill calls. Drake took shallow breaths as panic washed over him. His heart beat so hard and fast he was certain it was audible. Yet almost a minute passed without him hearing a word from the men in the other boat.

  Are they gone?

  Drake hadn’t been this scared since the first time he lined up to receive a kickoff on the Pickett County football team as a weak-kneed freshman. His coach told him if he could avoid the first wave of tacklers, he’d run right past everyone one else for a touchdown, which is exactly what happened. He’d been avoiding hits and running past people ever since, all the way to the NFL and the Seattle Seahawks where he earned NFL Rookie of the Year honors and led the league in rushing two out of the past four seasons.

  Drake’s stomach knotted up as he heard the nearby men’s mumbling voices again. All he wanted to do was take his coach’s advice again: avoid the first wave and outrun everybody else. It was sound advice, though difficult to execute while floating on a boat in the swamp.

  He tried to quell his desire to sit up and peer again into the fog to determine just what type of danger he was in. But he couldn’t resist any longer.

  When Drake sat up, he looked in the direction of the boat, and his eyes widened. The boat was headed straight for him.

  “Look out, Jay!” the deputy shouted.

  Jay slammed the boat’s trolling motor into reverse, squelching their momentum and avoiding a collision. The men’s boat backed away slowly as Drake locked eyes with the deputy.

  “Isaiah Drake? Is that you?” the deputy asked.

  “Tate Pellman?” Drake asked.

  “In the flesh.”

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” Drake said.

  “You gettin’ some bites this mornin’? Or just escapin’ them paparazzis and the bright city lights?”

  “Sometimes you just need to get away from it all.”

  “I heard that. It’s what me and Jay are doin’. You remember my little brother, don’tcha?”

  Drake nodded cautiously. “I think so.”

  “I was five years behind you guys, so I was a little dude when you left town,” Jay said.

  “You grabbed the tees after kickoff, didn’t you?” Drake asked.

  Jay nodded. “Sure did.”

  Tate and Jay’s boat drifted closer to Drake’s. Their bass boat towered above the water with their chairs perched high. Drake grew concerned that they could see down into his boat. He shifted his feet to cover the gun and finger.

  “Well, sorry to interrupt your solitude,” Tate said. “I’ll let you get back to it. Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you, too,” Drake said. He slowly let out a sigh as Jay jerked the trolling motor in the opposite direction and led them away.

  Tate’s phone rang again, drawing Jay’s scornful ire.

  “I swear you must put on a dress when you get home,” Jay said.

  “I’m gonna feed you to the gators if you don’t shut your trap. This is an official phone call.”

  Their voices faded in the swamp along with their boat.

  Drake waited until they were out of sight before he relaxed and lay down again. His mind whirred as he ran through a litany of scenarios as to how he could get back to dry ground.

  He decided to sit up and nearly tipped the boat over as he turned to his left and noticed Tate and Jay’s boat emerging out of the fog again.

  “D-Train,” Tate called out, using Drake’s nickname from his Pickett County stardom. “I almost forgot to ask you what the fish are hittin’ on this mornin’.”

  Their boat stopped a few feet short of Drake’s. Drake looked down as the short choppy waves rocked his johnboat again.

  “D-Train? You all right?” Tate asked.

  Drake looked up and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m good. What did you ask again?”

  “I was wonderin’ what the fish are bitin’ on this mornin’. Got any suggestions? What are you catchin’ ‘em with?”

  Tate leaned forward and peered into Drake’s boat.

  “I sure hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s a NFL star doin’ in a boat like this? I figured you’d at least have somethin’ all tricked out.”

  Drake shrugged. “Tryin’ to be smart with my money. I just finished my fourth season and not a free agent yet. I won’t make the big bucks until later the end of next season.”

  “My goodness, D-Train, you ain’t even got a motor.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Or a paddle,” Jay chimed in.

  “What the—”

  Drake put his hands up in the air. “Look, I know this seems strange, but—”

  Tate stood up and squinted as he stared at the bottom of Drake’s boat. “What’s that by your foot, D-Train? You mind movin’ your leg so I can see that?”

  “What? Oh, this?” Drake held up the gun. “It’s just my protection against gators.” He chuckled. “You know, in case one decides to climb in the boat with me.”

  Drake put it down.

  “No, that’s not what I was talkin’ about.” Tate pointed at his foot. “I was talkin’ about that other little thing right there.”

  Drake slid his foot over the finger, obscuring Tate’s view.

  “There’s nothin’ else here.”

  “Not from where I’m standin’. Now, will you please move your leg so I can see what that is in the bottom of your boat there?”

  The shallow breathing returned for Drake. He knew there was no way out of this situation, even if he didn’t fully understand what it was.

  Drake rolled the finger with the bottom of his shoe, keeping it hidden from Tate’s line of sight.

  “Dang it, D-Train. Pick your foot up. Hold it in the air so I can see what’s on the bottom of the boat.”

  For a split second, Drake considered grabbing the finger and diving into the water. He glanced to his left and noticed an alligator swimming a few feet away. Drake decided he’d take his chances with his friend.

  Drake lifted his foot in the air, revealing the finger.

  “What in the hell?” Tate asked.

  “I’m just as confused as you are,” Drake blurted out. “I woke up in this boat and—”

  “D-Train, where’s your rod? Where’s your motor? Where’s your paddle?”

  Drake put his foot down hard, the sound of shoe to fiberglass echoing across the water. Out of the corner of his eye, Drake watched the alligator flinch but hold his position.

  “Look, Tate, I don’t know what to tell you. I just woke up a few minutes ago, and I’ve got no idea what’s goin’ on.”

  Tate motioned for his brother to guide them even closer to the boat where they gently collided. He held his hand out for Drake.

  “I’m gonna kindly need you to join me on this boat here,” Tate said. He pulled out his gun from his side holster and held it down at the water. “Just leave the gun where it is and come get on board our boat.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” Drake said, refusing to budge.

  Tate shook his head. “Explain that finger to me then.”

  “I- I-I don’t know where it came from.”

  “Well, I do. Your fiancée, Susannah Sloan—she was murdered last night.”

  Drake stared at Tate, mouth agape.

  “What? And you think I did it?” Drake said before breaking into a nervous laugh before tears began streaming down his face.

  “They found her body this mornin’.” Tate took a deep breath. “She was missin’ her ring finger, not to mention that big ring you gave her last summer.”

  “I swear to you, Tate, I didn’t do this,” Drake said, choking back more tears.

  Tate trained his gun on Drake.

  “Get in the boat, D-Train. I ain’t playin’ games with you.”

  Drake wiped his eyes and then held his hands up in surrender as he stepped up onto
the Pellman brothers’ fishing boat. Tate tied his strongest fishing twine around Drake’s wrists and read him his rights while Jay tethered the johnboat to their fishing boat.

  Drake glared at Tate. “I didn’t do this. You gotta believe me. Somebody set me up.”

  “I’ll let a jury of your peers decide your guilt or innocence. But from right here, you look mighty dang guilty.”

  “I swear on my grandmother’s grave, I didn’t do this.”

  Drake wanted to be honest with Tate and tell him everything. Just the night before he found out she’d fallen for some slick Jacksonville lawyer. Their breakup was unceremonious, if not expected. He’d heard rumors of her dating some mystery man from the big city.

  “Save it,” Tate snapped. “You ruined my fishin’ Saturday with my brother.”

  Drake sighed and hung his head. A half hour later, he was in the back of a deputy’s car and being driven away from the swamp in handcuffs.

  Drake hated the water, especially the swamp. But he never imagined when he woke up that morning that it’d be the last time he ever drew a long breath of fresh air as a free man. He never once considered the possibility that he would soon be condemned to die.

  CHAPTER 2

  Present Day

  CAL MURPHY DUG THROUGH the antique chest he’d purchased years ago at an estate sale. His wife, Kelly, had won a best-of-three series of rock-paper-scissors a couple of years ago where the winner got to dictate the location of the old trunk. She chose the attic, ensuring that the box housing Cal’s memoirs was out of sight when guests came over for dinner.

  Cal dabbed his forehead, mopping the sweat off his brow. The mid-summer temperatures outside in Seattle ranged in the pleasant mid-70s. But the Murphy family attic was something akin to an inferno. As he sifted through all the keepsakes he’d squirreled away, each one resulted in a smile—until he found his stash of football memorabilia.

  “There you are,” Cal muttered, pulling a football card out of a large stack.

  Emblazoned in bold letters at the bottom of the card was a name: Isaiah Drake.