Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

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.

When Drake debuted in the NFL sixteen years ago, he was the next big thing. Fresh off a closely-contested bid for the Heisman Trophy which he lost by just a handful of votes, Drake was selected fifth overall by the Seattle Seahawks in the draft. Why the four teams ahead of Seattle decided not to draft Drake always befuddled Cal. The former Auburn star was the kind of running back you only see once every generation. Cal never forgot the descriptive words of one columnist who opined that Drake “dances across the field with such finesse and grace that you wish you could freeze time to watch him—but he moves so fast you’re never afforded such an indulgence.”

Drake’s first season with the Seahawks was a continuation of the poetry in motion he exhibited while playing on the collegiate level. Despite being a rookie, Drake played like a seasoned veteran. He darted out of bounds to avoid crushing hits but put his head down and ground out tough yards when