The Dummy Line (6 page)

R.C. slowed the police sedan to a crawl as he pulled through the camp’s opened gate. He turned off the Rush Limbaugh rebroadcast and forced his senses to full alert. He could see the lights of the camp through the trees and immediately stopped to radio Martha O’Brien that he had arrived.

“Bo what?” she asked.

“Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for ‘large creek,’ but actually the Chickasaw Indians used it in their language as well,” he expounded, proud of his plethora knowledge.

“Whatever. R.C., you be careful now,” she responded.

“Ten-four.”

R.C. eased his cruiser into the camp. He parked on the gravel, got out, and walked toward the camp house. He shone his five D-cell flashlight in all the shadows, finding nothing that roused any suspicions. Because the camper lights were on and the door was open, he decided to check it out first.

After peeking in the side windows, with his right hand on the butt of his holstered weapon, he twirled the flashlight over, then with the end of it knocked on the side of the camper. “Deputy sheriff…anybody home?”

Nothing but silence. Without touching anything, he carefully looked inside the open door. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home?” he repeated, then stepped just inside the doorway. The warmth from the heater was inviting. He stood over it a few seconds while casting his gaze around the interior of the camper. Everything looked perfectly normal. Two people had been sleeping inside. One was obviously a child, probably a little girl.

Outside everything also looked in order. R.C. walked back and forth through the yard searching for anything out of the ordinary. Careful of his steps, he methodically grid-searched the area in front of the camper and camp house. Then he saw it. Pools of dark blood that trailed back to the parking area, then ended. There was plenty of it.
What in the hell?
he wondered.
I need to string some tape.
The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood up. With his pistol drawn, R.C. approached the camp house front porch. “Deputy sheriff…is anybody here?”

More silence. This was unnerving. He wasn’t accustomed to so much tension. “Deputy sheriff. Anyone home!” R.C. stepped onto the porch. “Sheriff’s department!” he yelled, hoping nobody answered. The moment R.C. peered inside the camp house, he was drawn to the Playmate calendars, partly obscured by innocuous swimsuit calendars. He had hit the pinup mother lode. He studied each one, comparing them to Chastity. Time stood still…until his radio crackled suddenly with Ollie’s voice.

“I’m here, Chief,” he replied while studying, in great detail, Miss November 1999. “There’s definitely fresh blood in the yard…and lots of it, but no one’s here,” he added, shifting his attention to Miss October 1999.

“I’ll have Miz Martha call the hospital to see if anyone has come into the emergency room.”

“Ten-four. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

R.C. radioed Martha. While he waited for her response, he perused the calendars.
Chastity is as hot as any of these girls. Maybe hotter.

“R.C.?” his radio crackled loudly.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, grabbing the shoulder mic.

“The ER’s had two folks in earlier this evenin’. One was a stabbin’ from down by the river. It was over a fishin’ hole. One guy kept gettin’ too close to where the other was catching some crappie. Stabbed him in the leg. He’s OK. Told the doctor it was an accident. They’d been drinkin’. Apparently the fish are bitin’.”

“Well, a good crappie hole is pretty valuable,” R.C. responded, nodding his head.

“And the second was a burn victim. Grease got too hot while she was frying chicken livers. Caught the cabinets on fire. Her hands got burned swattin’ the fire out.”

“Ouch!” he added.

“Does that help at all?”

“Yes and no…but thanks, Miz Martha,” he replied while admiring another calendar.

R.C. heard vehicles, so he stepped outside. The sheriff arrived first in his Ford Expedition with Mick Johnson behind. They parked behind R.C.’s cruiser and got out.

“Find anything new?”

“No, Chief. I can show you the blood, though.”

Ollie glared at him for the “Chief” reference. “R.C., hang on. Mick, let’s start at the beginning…and don’t leave out any detail, no matter how small,” Ollie said, leaning against R.C.’s patrol car.

Mick told his story. Ollie and R.C. glanced at each other from time to time, trying to mentally put it all together.

“Show me what you found, R.C.”

R.C. showed Ollie the pool of blood and how it trailed off, careful not to contaminate the area. The sheriff walked around, looked in the camper, and then walked toward the camp house. He was working several theories in his mind. He really needed daylight.
The grass is so tall it would hide any evidence—if there’s any
. He considered calling Jake Crosby’s family to see if they had heard anything from him. He hated to sound any false alarms.
He’s just as likely to be at a bar somewhere, drunk
. He knew a lot of guys used hunting as an excuse just to get out of the house. He’d ask Mick later if that was a possibility.

The three men walked into the camp house. Ollie and Mick sat down on bar stools. R.C. otherwise occupied himself.

“R.C., R.C.! Pay attention. Quit lookin’ at those calendars!” Ollie yelled across the room.

“Chastity’s as hot as any of these girls,” R.C said with pride.

“What do you think about this situation?” Ollie asked.

“There’s not much to go on. The blood bothers me…but it could be any number of things. No one’s checked into the ER that fits this scenario. I don’t know, boss.”

“Mick, do you think a jealous husband could have been chasing him?” Ollie asked, trying to think of the wildest scenario.

“I seriously doubt it. Nothin’ less than Charlize Theron would get Jake’s attention…Charlize Theron in a camo swimsuit maybe…he’s happily married, or certainly appears to be,” Mick replied.

“Charlize Theron has
not
been in the area; I would know,” R.C. said, smiling.

“Jake is a pretty levelheaded guy. He doesn’t get into trouble. I just wish I could have heard him better,” Mick added, growing anxious.

“And I’m pretty sure he’s got his kid with him,” R.C. added nervously.

Ollie sat quietly, weighing his options. He didn’t have the manpower necessary to launch a full-scale manhunt, even if it was necessary—which at this point it wasn’t—and he hated to call in any other departments on a false alarm at this hour. He had done that before and sworn he wouldn’t ever again. He placed his face in his hands. He needed to make a decision. He needed some sleep.

Morgan was looking forward to having the house to herself. She had the perfect evening planned. She rented two DVDs at Movie Gallery. Then she went by the liquor store to purchase a bottle of Barefoot California Merlot. Morgan tried not to be self-conscious in the store. She prayed her Sunday School teacher wouldn’t see her. West Point was such a small town, and Jake always bought the wine.

Not wanting to cook, she called Domino’s for a pizza packed with mushrooms and anchovies. Jake
hated
mushrooms and anchovies. After eating the medium-size pizza, she piled on the couch to watch Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton in
Something’s Gotta Give.
The title of that movie described Morgan’s life. Something
had
to give. She had material things, but she wasn’t happy. She needed more; she wanted more.
I’m entitled to more
. She had decided to leave Jake—she just had some details to work out. Their marriage had grown to be so boring and predictable.

“Of all the trust-fund babies I dated, I end up marrying a broke guy who listens to NPR and loves the Weather Channel?” she said aloud with no small amount of disdain.

After the movie, Morgan decided to sit in her Jacuzzi, drink wine, and read a self-help book. She was enjoying the light-headedness and lack of responsibilities. Around midnight, with a slight buzz from the wine, she went to bed.

West Point was such a safe little town; everybody was lulled into a false sense of security. Morgan never even thought of turning on the alarm system. And since Scout was always raising Cain at the deer standing under the feeder Jake had behind the house, she was desensitized to Scout’s barking. She didn’t pay attention to it tonight, either.

Ethan “Moon Pie” Daniels, a longtime friend of Johnny Lee and Reese’s, lived in Tupelo, Mississippi. Moon Pie was making a drug run to Starkville—“Stark Vegas” as he called it—when he got Reese’s call.

Moon Pie owed Johnny Lee a big favor. Two years earlier Moon Pie’s live-in girlfriend Sheree had been cheating on him with a guy she’d met on the Internet who lived in Jackson. Moon Pie encouraged Johnny Lee to rough him up—send him a message. Moon Pie made sure he was seen at the Tupelo Fire Ants football game—a solid alibi. Sheree knew he had done it. The police suspected it, but could never connect him to the crime. And the computer geek in Jackson couldn’t send any more e-mails because he lost all the fingers on his right hand. Johnny Lee had done Moon Pie right.
That’s what friends do,
he thought.

Moon Pie couldn’t believe Johnny Lee was dead. He would do his part to reap revenge. The house was easy enough to find. The lots in the area were large, wooded, and very private.
Piece of cake
. Surveying the scene, he noticed a new Jeep Grand Cherokee that was probably used to haul kids to school. The driveway was big enough for several vehicles, and since only one car was there, he knew the woman was probably alone though she might have a kid or two in there. He hoped not. He wished he had more planning time. He could see a fancy fishing boat, and it was certain to have rods and reels worth stealing. Moon Pie loved to fish, but he hated to pay for good tackle. He’d check the boat on the way out.

As Moon Pie slowly approached the house, a large dog barked halfheartedly. Moon Pie had anticipated a dog. Dropping to a knee, he acted as friendly as he could, but the dog didn’t buy it. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a hot dog he’d just bought at the Quik Mart, broke it in half, and tossed half to the dog. It stopped barking, smelled the bait, and then ate it. He waved the rest of it and tossed it only a few feet in front of him. The dog slowly approached, still very suspicious. She was accustomed to men in camouflage coming up to the house at all hours. Usually she got fussed at for barking. But this guy had food. Torn between protecting the house and eating a delicious hot dog, the wiener won. She then escorted him up the front porch steps.

Peeking in through glass in the front door, Moon Pie could see an illuminated alarm keypad. All the lights were green. He smiled.
This is too easy.
Then, something wet and cold touched his hand. Moon Pie jumped. Quickly looking down, he saw the black dog sitting, wagging its tail.

Jake drove like a bat fleeing hell down the old road, hitting small trees the entire way. He had already knocked the mirrors off one side of his truck. He was in the beginning stages of panic. He kept telling himself to calm down and think. As he approached the top of a ridge, he slowed down to try his cell phone.

“I can’t believe I can’t get a signal,” Jake said with disgust as he threw the phone down and looked in his rearview. He couldn’t see any lights following them. Visibility in the deep woods was less than a hundred yards.

Jake turned off the truck, then stood outside to listen. He couldn’t hear anything. Maybe they weren’t coming? Maybe he and Katy had gotten away? He had no idea how far he could hear, but it should be quite some distance. Katy was busy pulling on her pants as Jake climbed back in. She looked nervous, but he was keeping her busy.

“Put on the heavy gray socks,” he said.

“These?” she said, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

“Yes, baby.” Jake nodded his head also.

Jake cranked the truck and checked his gauges. Half a tank of gas.
Plenty
. They needed to make it to the Dummy Line and get the hell out of there. He guessed he had about twenty miles to reach a county road. His cell phone probably wouldn’t work again until he got back to Highway 17. He wondered about the big mud hole that he knew lay ahead as he dropped the truck into gear and drove forward.

Jake couldn’t get the image of the shooting out of his mind. He couldn’t believe he had shot that guy. He had no choice, but this was unbelievable.
What a nightmare!
Deep down he knew he had made the right decision. But still he questioned whether it could it have been avoided. Should he have stepped out of the shadows and shown his gun? He’d never know.
Who were those guys? What did they want?
Why did Katy have to come on this trip…of all the trips he had been on!
Katy, my dear, sweet Katy.
He shuddered to think what might have happened to her. Morgan was going to be pissed.

“Dad, where are my boots?” Katy asked.

Jake realized he had left them in the camper. “Damn,” he said under his breath. He had placed them in the camper so they would be warm in the morning. In all the confusion of leaving, he’d remembered her clothes but forgotten the boots.

“That’s OK…I left them in the camper. You won’t need them. We’re going straight to the sheriff’s office,” he said, trying to sound confident.

Suddenly a long, deeply rutted mud hole loomed in front of them. His headlights would only illuminate part of it. Years of heavy logging trucks had really rutted this part of the road. The planted pine trees lined the edge of the road like a wall, preventing him from going around.

Jake looked at the hundred-yard stretch of mud. He had no idea how deep it was. He had a winch, so he figured he would try to make it as far as he could, then winch his truck the rest of the way. It was his only logical option. He didn’t know if they were chasing him, but he knew he couldn’t go back the way he came.

“Fasten your seat belt, Katy, and hang on,” he warned as he lined up the truck on the mud hole.

Shifting into four-low, Jake decided to try the right side. He punched the gas and did his best to keep the truck headed straight. The mud grips were biting chunks of red mud, slinging it everywhere. He turned on the windshield wipers. Katy covered her eyes with her hands. The truck’s momentum slowed, but they continued to make progress. The ruts pulled them to the left; then suddenly, with thirty yards to go, the frame hung, slamming them to a stop. Jake tried reversing. No use. He cut his tires left, then right—nothing.

“Katy, I’ve got to get out and pull the winch cable to one of those trees,” he said, pointing down the road. “You stay right here. Everything’s OK. Why don’t you put in your Hillary Duff tape?”

“I’m OK…can I help?” she asked and meant it.

“Sure, let me go see what I need,” Jake replied. He had no intention of letting Katy get out of the truck.

Jake opened his door and stepped into the cold, muddy water. The mud was so deep it nearly pulled off his boots every time he took a step. He ignored the cold. He felt around inside the gull-wing toolbox until he found his flashlight. Then he found the winch control. After slogging to the front of the truck, he laid the controller on the hood. He turned the winch to Free Spool, then started pulling out the cable as fast as he could trudge through the mud. Finally, after wrapping the cable around a tree just past the mud hole, he plodded back to the truck. He inserted the control into the winch, ran the cable over the hood, and threw it in the driver’s side window. Climbing in, he gave the engine some gas, put the transmission in neutral, and then flipped the switch on the winch control. He watched the voltmeter spike and the cable move.

“Yeah, baby. Yeah! Come on! You can do it!” Jake said aloud, nervously tapping the steering wheel with his hand.

When Jake realized he was wet from the knees down, he was cold. He turned on the heater and tried to put it out of his mind.
Maybe I’ve got some dry clothes in the toolbox,
he thought, watching the cable become taut and begin dragging the truck down the road. Jake loved his winch, especially tonight.

Slowly the truck was being dragged down the road. Jake fought the urge to put it in gear to help out. He feared getting the cable hung up under the truck. He knew this was the safest way to winch out. He kept the truck’s RPMs up to prevent draining the battery.
Come on! Hurry! Please hurry.
As the truck eased out of the final bit of mud, Jake hopped out and looked back. He could see lights coming through the woods. His heart jumped into his throat. He ran to unhook the winch line from the tree, cutting his right hand on the cable. Without waiting for the winch to rewind the remaining twenty feet of cable, he quickly wrapped it around the brush guard on the front of the truck and jumped in the driver’s seat.

The headlights were closing in. None of the thugs’ trucks that he had seen would fare any better in this mud hole than his.
Gettin’ through that should keep ‘em busy for a while,
thought Jake, as he stomped the gas pedal.