The Dummy Line (5 page)

“Why would he call you?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, lying back down.

“What kind of emergency?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Well…what are you gonna do?” she asked as she rolled over.

“I guess I’m gonna go and check on him. I can’t sleep now.”

“Be careful. Why don’t you take Beau?”

“Yeah…I think I will.”

He slowly got out of bed and got dressed. Beau, the family’s golden retriever, met him at the back door, stretching and yawning, tail wagging.

“Shut up! Shut up! Just shut the hell up! Everybody just calm down!” Reese yelled as he jumped in the bed of the Ford pickup to check on Johnny Lee.

Johnny Lee was gurgling blood, and his breathing was extremely labored. It took him several minutes just to say a few words. He was dying and he knew it. Blood ran out of his mouth with his final words: “Get him…get that son of a bitch.”

Johnny Lee Grover, one of the most vicious, notorious thugs of western Alabama, died at age thirty-six in the arms of his first cousin.

“Johnny Lee! Johnny…no! Johnny Lee, please! Don’t die!” Reese pleaded. He couldn’t imagine living without him. Johnny Lee had always been the center of his life.

Tiny didn’t say a word. He was horrified. Sweat stood at attention, awaiting instructions.

Reese stood, faced the camp, and screamed at the top of his lungs, “You’re dead! You’re a dead man! You killed him! You killed him! You son of a bitch! Do you hear me? You’re a dead man walking!” Then he grabbed anything he could get his hands on, slinging it as far as he could, screaming over and over, “You’re a dead man walking!”

The Chevy pickup came sliding out of the camp house area and disappeared down a road, away from the gang and into the heart of the property.

“Man, he’s haulin’ ass!” Tiny said.

“And he’s gettin’ away!” Sweat added.

“No, he’s not…he is doin’ just exactly what I want him to do.” Reese chuckled out loud. “OK, boys; the two of you go down this road till you hit the Dummy Line—y’all know where it is. He’s gonna try and get out that way. You’ve got a good ten-mile jump on him. The gate combination is nineteen ninety-two, I think. If it ain’t, just shoot the damn thing off. There’s only two ways out of this bitch, and we will be on both of them. Kill him and anybody he’s got with him. I want that sumbitch to suffer. You hear me?” Reese was spitting as he screamed.

Looking each of them in the eyes, Reese continued, “I’ll follow him that way.” He pointed the direction Jake had driven. “He can’t make it very far, it’s too muddy. That stupid sumbitch is trapped, and he don’t know it! Go! Now!”

Sweat and Tiny jumped into their truck. Tiny stomped on the gas with all his might, his mud grips shooting a rooster tail of dirt and rocks thirty feet. Sweat checked his pistol. It only took a few minutes to reach the old abandoned railroad track. Tiny nearly lost control of the truck when he turned the sharp corner. In spite of sliding wildly, Sweat never looked up. Miraculously, Tiny regained control and stood on the gas again. After miles of rough road, they saw headlights piercing the darkness at the gate. Sweat started cussing. Then they both let out a rebel yell at the top of their lungs.

Reese was trying to figure out what to do with Johnny Lee’s body. He decided to leave him in the back of the truck until they killed that scumbag. Reese covered Johnny Lee’s head and shoulders with a jacket. He then got into the truck, cranked it up, and slowly drove back to the camp house.

Floodlights illuminated the yard. The camper lights were on. Its door was standing wide open. Reese approached cautiously, pistol drawn, peeking in the windows until he was satisfied that no one was inside. He stepped in and looked around. Camo clothes were everywhere. A heater glowed in the corner. On the top bunk, he saw a lime-green sleeping bag with a pink pillow and lying on the floor beneath was a stuffed toy of some kind.
That’s odd,
he thought as he stepped on it with a twist. He noticed several kids’ mystery novels. It started making sense. The scumbag’s got a kid with him…probably a girl.
Oh, this is gonna be good—really, really good.

As Reese was leaving the camper, he noticed a hunting magazine lying on the couch. He picked it up and looked at the small white mailing label in the corner. “Bingo!” he said out loud, a demonic grin forming as he meandered back to the truck. He cranked it up and raced the engine while he thought. The loud dual exhausts gave him energy. He was going to kill the man, just like Johnny Lee wanted…and more.

“I’ll get him, Johnny Lee…I swear I will,” he pledged aloud.

He picked up Johnny Lee’s cell phone and flipped it open. It was a Southern Link radiophone. He switched it to radio, scrolled through the names until he found the one he wanted, and pressed Send.
Beep-beep
.

Twenty seconds later Reese heard
beep-beep
, and someone responded.

“Yo, Johnny Lee, what’s up?” Music was in the background.

Beep-beep
. “Moon Pie, this is Reese. I need a favor.”

Beep-beep
. “Yo, dog, you got it.”

Beep-beep
. “How quick can you be in West Point?” Reese got out of the truck to pace.

Beep-beep
. “Twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

Beep-beep
. “OK. Listen. This piece of shit dude just shot and killed Johnny Lee.”

Beep-beep
. “Son of a…are you serious…shit…man, are you OK? Why? What the hell’s goin’ on?”

Beep-beep
. “We were gonna rob him and he freaked out…it’s a long story. We’re chasin’ him through the woods right now. I want you to go to his house and see if anybody’s there. I want you to grab ‘em. I don’t care how ugly it gets.”

Beep-beep
. “You think he’s got an old lady?”

Beep-beep
. “Yeah, I’m bettin’ he does…and I wanna make him pay.”

Beep-beep
. “Give me the address.”

Reese read it to him from the magazine.

Beep-beep
. “I’ll call you back…I’m on it, dog.”

Reese got back into the truck, and with an evil smirk, he slowly, deliberately dropped the gearshift into drive, and started easing down the logging road, stalking Johnny Lee’s killer.

Within thirty minutes from the time the call went dead in Mick’s ear, he was at the camp gate. On the way, Mick tried unsuccessfully to reach Jake on his cell phone. He didn’t want to call Jake’s house at this hour. He wasn’t positive what was going on, and he for sure didn’t want to worry Jake’s wife. He had talked with her once before and was not eager to repeat the experience.

Mick sat in the truck for a minute, taking everything in. He knew the guys who owned this camp wanted the necessities like satellite TV but not a telephone. Inside, the camp house was dark, but all the floodlights were on. Mick noticed that Jake’s camper had all its lights on and its door was standing wide open.

Mick slowly got out of his truck and told Beau to stay.

“Jake?” he yelled.

“Jake?” he called louder.

He walked slowly to the camper and yelled out again, “Jake, are you here? Hello…is anyone here?”

Stepping inside the camper, he saw Jake’s hunting clothes. The two beds looked like they had been slept in. Nothing really looked out of place…other than the door being wide open. He then walked toward the camp house. Beau was whining in the back of the truck, wanting out.

“Stay!” Mick told him.

Inside the front screened porch, the main door to the camp house was also wide open. Mick stuck his head inside and began looking around.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” he yelled as he slowly stepped inside.

Mick walked past the pool table. Everything looked like he expected it would. Nothing was seriously out of place. Actually, the place was a mess, but since it was a hunting lodge, no one ever cleaned it up. It always looked like this. He went back outside.
This is weird,
he thought, as he petted Beau’s head.

After climbing into his truck, he backed up, looking around one more time. Something was gnawing at him, but he couldn’t place it. He said, “Aw, to hell with it. I’m too freakin’ exhausted for this crap.” He headed home to get some sleep.

When he arrived, his wife was sitting in the kitchen with a glass of milk and some warm raisin bread from the Mennonite bakery in Livingston, sheepishly grinning with guilty pleasure.

“I couldn’t go back to sleep,” she said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. The lights were all on, but no one was there. It was kinda strange. I’m a little worried that something’s wrong…but…but I just don’t know what,” he replied.

“Mick, what’s that all over your pants legs?” she asked, pointing. The bottoms of his blue jeans were covered in something dark and wet.

Mick reached down, touching it. He rubbed his fingers together. “It’s blood!” he said with a scared look on his ashen face.

“Oh my God! Mick!”

“I’ll call the sheriff!” he said, reaching for the phone, worried at what this might mean.

“Sumter County Sheriff’s office,” a woman with a husky, cigarette-ravaged voice answered.

“This is Mick Johnson. I need to speak to Sheriff Landrum. It’s important.”

“Mick, he’s not in…It’s one thirty in the morning. But if it’s important, I’ll get him to call you. Are you at your house?” she asked, blowing smoke up into the air.

“Yes ma’am, it’s urgent.”

“I’ll have him call you right back. Do you need a deputy right now?” she replied and snuffed out her cigarette.

“If you can’t get Ollie, then I’ll need a deputy for sure.”

“Sure thing, Mick. Give me a minute. I think I can get him for you.”

Mrs. Martha O’Brien had worked for the sheriff’s office for twenty-three years. Since her husband had died four years earlier, she preferred to work the night shift. She couldn’t sleep anyway. Her favorite activity in the world was waking up the sheriff. She loved to aggravate him. She never hesitated to call at any hour concerning anything. It drove the sheriff crazy. But Martha O’Brien was irreplaceable. She knew where everything was, where everybody lived, and what forms needed to be filled out. The sheriff and his staff constantly asked her for guidance. She relished it. Her celebrity had grown when she slapped a prisoner for making a crude comment about her. The governor had cheerfully vindicated her actions. With true Southern politeness, most everyone called her Miz Martha.

Ollie Landrum was Sumter County’s first black sheriff. He was a county fixture now that he’d been in office nine years. Ollie had been a football hero at The University of Alabama—he’d blown out his knee beyond repair during a home game, ending his pro hopes. He’d been a deputy just a few years when the sheriff retired. The Alabama fans in the county showed Ollie how much they appreciated his football prowess in a landslide election to sheriff. He had married his college sweetheart, a lady who had dedicated her life to helping educate the poor about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Western Alabama leads the nation in SIDS, and she was consumed by her task. There were plenty of poor folks in western Alabama. She tried to educate them by day, and Ollie arrested many of them by night. Ollie and his wife hadn’t slowed down long enough to even consider having children.

The sheriff had fallen asleep on the couch watching
Law & Order: SVU.
He loved that show. New York City had the action, the serious crime. On the show, there were no boring driver’s license checks like he was forced to do weekly.

Even asleep, when the phone rang, Ollie knew it was Martha.
This better be good,
he thought, pulling himself off the couch. He glanced at the clock, cleared his throat, and said, “Hello.”

“Chief, Mick Johnson needs you to call him at his house. He says it’s urgent,” she said, skipping the pleasantries. She lit a menthol cigarette.

Rubbing his eyes, he asked, “Did he say what it’s about?”

“No, Chief, he just said it’s important,” she responded, ever the professional.

“OK, I’ll call him, and Miz Martha, please call me Ollie or Sheriff; don’t call me Chief,” he begged for the umpteenth time, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.

“Yes sir.” She gave him the phone number.

Ollie had been to Birmingham that day to play golf in a charity tournament at the Greystone Country Club. His football legacy made him an in-state celebrity. He was exhausted from the day’s events and the not-so-small amount of alcohol he had consumed on the sly. Golf simply wore him out. It must have been the sun. He slowly walked into the kitchen intending to microwave a cup of coffee. But he sat down on a barstool and picked up the cordless phone.

“Mick. Ollie. What can I help you with?” he asked in his most official voice.

“Ollie, I got the strangest phone call from a friend of mine about an hour ago. I couldn’t understand all of it, but he said it was an emergency.”

“What’s his problem?” Ollie asked with a yawn.

“Well, he’s from Mississippi; his name’s Jake Crosby. I got him into the Bogue Chitto hunting club. I assumed that’s where he was calling from. We got disconnected, so I rode out there. And…well…it’s weird…all the lights were on in his camper and the door was open, but he wasn’t anywhere around.”

“Is that the place that backs up to the big area of wilderness along the Noxubee River on County Road Sixteen?”

“Yeah, that’s it, but listen…when I got home my pants were covered in blood…fresh blood.”

“Blood?” Ollie became fully alert. “Could it have been turkey blood?”

“Well…I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose, but there was a bunch of it.”

“Have you tried his cell again?”

“Yeah, I tried, but that area’s got awful reception. I couldn’t get him.”

“I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes, and you can follow me. I’m gonna call R.C. and get him on out there. He stays out in that part of the county,” Ollie explained, studying the kitchen clock.

“I’ll be ready.”

Ollie hung up the phone and pondered the possibilities. He needed details. This situation was much more interesting than his typical daily duties. He would call his most trusted deputy, R.C. Smithson. R.C. was a little eccentric, but Ollie could depend on him. He dialed the number. It was ringing when he put the receiver to his ear.

“Yes, Chief.” R.C. answered on the second ring.

“Quit calling me Chief, and how did you know it was me…you’re too much of a tightwad to have Caller ID.”

“You’re the only person who ever calls me at this hour.”

“Listen. Something serious may have gone down at the clubhouse at the Bo Cheeter something or other hunting club.”

“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for big—”

“Shut up, R.C., and listen,” Ollie interrupted and paused. R.C.’s trivia drove him crazy.

“A friend of Mick Johnson’s from Mississippi called him and said something about some kind of emergency. Mick thinks he was at that camp, and he lost communication with him. I’m about to roll and pick up Mick. I’ll be there in thirty to forty-five minutes. Go secure the area. See what you can find out. Be careful. We already know there’s a bunch of blood near the camp house. Don’t violate my crime scene if there is one, you hear?”

“Okey-dokey.”

“Quit saying ‘okey-dokey’…and get goin’. Call me on the radio if you see anything.” Ollie sighed deeply.

“Yes sir, boss,” R.C. said then hung up. He used the remote to turn off the TV. He had been watching a movie on his pirated HBO package.

R.C. Smithson was not unlikable. All he wanted for a career was be a deputy. He was single. He played video games at all hours of the night and read fly-fishing magazines, though he’d never held a fly rod. Two years ago, he’d met a dancer at Danny’s Strip Club in Birmingham; he now considered her his girlfriend. They had never been out on an actual date. Their “dates” were always at Danny’s, except once when she met him at the Waffle House and they ate pecan waffles as she told him about her crack-addict husband. She dreamed of being a Playmate. R.C. dreamed of going with her to photo shoots. Twice a month he went to see her dance and give her a couple hundred bucks, one dollar at a time. He talked about her like they had been married for years. Her name was Chastity. R.C. loved her huge fake boobs.

He was rolling down the road four minutes after hanging up with Ollie. He knew exactly where to go.
I was born for this,
he thought, flipping on the car’s radio.