The Dummy Line (7 page)

“Tanner, would you pleeeeease put the top up? I can see my breath it’s so cold!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

They were bouncing along the old road listening to John Cougar Mellencamp singing “Jack and Diane.” Elizabeth loved old songs. Tanner knew it. They were enjoying each other’s company and feeling very alive—the way you do when you’re a teenager in love.

“Sure…anything else?” he asked, braking to a stop. She knew he would do anything she wanted.

“Nope, that’ll do it…need some help?” She smiled, pulling her fleece jacket a little tighter and putting her hands in the pockets.

“Nope, I can have it up in a sec. Find us another good song,” he said, jumping out.

It took Tanner only a few minutes to put up the top and fasten everything into place, including the doors.

Elizabeth loved his Jeep in the summer or on any warm day; but at times like these, she wished he had a car or a truck. Anything with a solid roof would make her happy.

Tanner climbed in and smiled at her. “How’s that?”

“Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Tanner ground the Jeep’s gears as he tried to find first. Suddenly the Jeep lurched forward as he let the clutch out a little too fast. He loved it when she kissed him. It drove him crazy.

Elizabeth changed the radio stations and found George Strait crooning “Marina Del Rey.” Tanner couldn’t help but sing along.

Elizabeth laughed playfully, and when the song was over she said with a serious expression, “A little pitchy in places, but overall you gave a good effort.” She never missed an
America Idol
episode.

Tanner smiled as he slowed the Jeep down at the big yellow gate. The gate had a combination lock on it to allow any of the adjacent landowners access. The combination was 1992—the last year Alabama had won a national football championship. Tanner wondered how many gates in the state had that simple combination. He had just swung the gate open when he saw headlights approaching rapidly. Rapidly was an understatement. The vehicle was flying. Tanner looked at Elizabeth. Her head was down as she searched the radio for another song.

Tanner swallowed hard, and told Elizabeth to look up.

The recent rain made tracking simple. Reese was careful to stay on the high ground since Johnny Lee’s truck was built for speed, not off-roading. He was confident that Sweat and Tiny would block the Dummy Line.
I’m gonna make that sumbitch pay—dearly. Sweat will run him straight to me or I’ll push him to Sweat. Either way he’s dead.

Reese flipped open the phone and pressed Send.

Beep-beep
. “Yo, dog,” came a whispered response.

Beep-beep
. “Did you find it?”

Beep-beep
. “I’m in the backyard right now; that’s why I’m whisperin’.”

Beep-beep
. “You think he’s got a woman there?”

Beep-beep
. “Oh, yeah.”

Beep-beep
. “Good. Take her…or them…to Johnny Lee’s trailer.”

Beep-beep
. “You got it.”

Beep-beep
. “Let me know.”

Reese continued down the road watching the tire tracks.
This guy’s all over the place. He’s outta control.
Reese remembered the scoped Browning 30-06 behind the seat.
All I gotta do is just see this guy once. I can kill him from three hundred yards or
…Reese really wanted to see fear in his eyes and watch him suffer. “I’ll kill the kid first, then let the sumbitch know that I’ve got his old lady…maybe make him watch Moon Pie and the guys take turns with her,” Reese said aloud.

Yanking himself back into the present, Reese saw taillights through the woods. He slowed. As he approached the mud hole, he knew this was as far as he could go in Johnny Lee’s truck. Reese watched the killer’s truck disappear down the road, around a bend. He was gone before Reese could get the rifle pointed out the window. That was fine with Reese. He savored a good stalk hunt.

Putting the truck in park, Reese grabbed the radiophone, a flashlight, and the rifle. He calmly checked for his pistol, stepped out, and shut the truck door. Reese knew this property from years of poaching. He would simply cut off his prey’s escape route.

“See if you can find me a headache powder in that nasty vehicle of yours,” Ollie directed R.C.

Ollie was having a hard time making up his mind. He was facing a major decision, similar to one a few years back. He really wished this were not happening. Especially not tonight. He was exhausted, and his head was killing him from drinking in the sun all day at the golf tournament. And his foursome had played awful in the scramble. By the eighth hole he’d had to borrow golf balls. Ollie only played twice a year, and it showed. He loved the game but preferred to watch the pros on television from the comfort of his couch.

A couple of years ago, one of Sumter County’s favorite sons had left home in the middle of the night to join the Professional Bull Riders’ circuit. He was only fifteen. He didn’t tell anyone of his plans. His family had reported him missing the next day and had put up such a fuss that Ollie called in the Alabama Bureau of Investigation, who called in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The agencies were convinced they had a kidnapping on their hands. Fox News sent a satellite truck. Ollie gave live television updates three times a day. Then, out of the blue, several days into the ordeal, his parents received a call from the Wadley Regional Medical Center Emergency Room in Texarkana, Texas, explaining that their son was being treated for a broken collarbone sustained at a local rodeo.

Ollie had been humiliated. He hadn’t forgotten that feeling. Folks kidded him that the young cowboy had ridden out of town on a horse while Ollie was busy looking for suspicious cars. The incident became known as the Sumter County Kidnapping and was a constant embarrassment to Ollie. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It could have happened to any sheriff, in any county. But Ollie performed in front of the cameras with the dramatic flair and fervor of a television evangelist. His peers always reminded him that if his law enforcement career ever dried up, he had a bright future selling kitchen knives on TV infomercials. In reality, Ollie was a great sheriff. He could think on his feet. Once, while on vacation, he had subdued a criminal with nothing more than an emergency defibrillator. Every time the thief made a move to escape, Ollie shocked him. The criminal finally begged for forgiveness and just lay there whimpering until the local cops arrived.

“Sure, Chief, I think I have a BC Powder,” R.C. replied as he studied the girly calendars the way an art student studies Monet in the National Gallery. “I’ll go get it for you.”

R.C. exacerbated Ollie’s headache, but he was a smart cop when he got the scent of something. The fact that R.C. hadn’t yet gotten keyed up about this situation served to assuage Ollie’s concerns.

“Mick, I’m thinking that we wait until morning—at a decent hour—to check on this Jake character. To be honest, I just ain’t got enough to go on,” he said with a deep sigh, hoping Mick would understand. Ollie believed Mick about Jake. But he’d seen too many men drink too much and do crazy things when they were away from their wives. This was especially true for the guys who stayed cooped up in offices all the time. They were the worst.

Mick didn’t know what to think. He didn’t have any experience with anything like this, and found himself deferring to Ollie.
Ollie’s the professional. He oughta know how to handle these things,
Mick thought, trying to piece together Jake’s jumbled words from the barely audible call, but he couldn’t. This, combined with his fatigue, left him at a loss.

“Here you go, Chief,” R.C said, handing him a BC packet and placing his hands on his hips.

Ollie didn’t even glare at R.C. this time. He was simply too tired.

“You think these guys would mind if we had a Coke?” R.C. asked Mick as he looked in the refrigerator.

“I doubt it,” Mick responded, adjusting the cap on his head.

“Chief, I could ride the perimeter roads to see if anything looks suspicious. I don’t have anything else to do,” R.C. said as he handed Ollie a drink to wash down the powder. “It’s way too wet to try the interior roads in my patrol car.”

Ollie looked at his watch. It was almost two a.m.
What in the world am I doing up at this hour? I’m dying, and R.C.’s as ready to go as a puppy with two peckers.
Ollie appreciated his enthusiasm. He watched R.C. take a purple pill out of his pocket and wash it down with a swig of Coke.

“I had some pickled quail eggs for supper and they’re killin’ me. Serious heartburn,” R.C. said in response to Ollie’s inquisitive glance.

Ollie thought hard. “No. I think we’ll wait till daylight. We can’t see anything in the dark. String some tape around what blood you can see. In fact, string it across the driveway. We’ll look around this whole place later, when it’s daylight.

“Mick, why don’t you go get some sleep? I’ll let you know if we find anything. First thing—about eight o’clock—I’ll call the West Point police and have them ride out to this guy’s house. With any luck we’ll find out the ‘emergency’ was that he’d run out of money in a poker game and needed a loan. Yep, I bet we find out he was gettin’ killed in a serious game of Texas Hold’em.”

“All right…please let me know,” Mick said, trusting the sheriff. There were a few honky-tonks in the county, so Mick decided he would swing by the one that was on his way home to see if Jake’s truck was there.
I’m gonna be pissed if it is,
Mick thought.

Mick got up slowly and started out of the lodge. He stood in the door to listen and think. He could hear a whippoorwill off in the distance and nothing else. Turning around, Mick said, “I’m sure you’re right, Ollie…I just wish I could have heard him clearly.”

“I understand. Let us handle it…I promise I’ll keep you informed,” Ollie answered.

“See ya, Mick,” R.C. chimed in.

As soon as they heard Mick’s truck crank, Ollie stood, stretched, and said, “I’m goin’ home. I need some sleep, and you should do the same. I’ll make some calls in the morning. Why don’t you hang close to your house in case I need you?”

“No problem. I was gonna go see if I could catch some crappie in the mornin’, but I can go later.”

“Are they bitin’?” Ollie asked, swatting at some type of bug.

“Apparently; some idiot got stabbed over a fishin’ hole late this afternoon. An
accident
,” R.C. said, making quotation marks with his hands as he said the word.

“I don’t even want to hear about it,” Ollie said as he rubbed his forehead and walked out.

Tiny and Sweat braced for a shootout as they slowed down. They didn’t recognize the Jeep. Whoever it was had just opened the gate and was about to drive through.

Tiny stopped about fifty yards away, straight in front of the Jeep, with his high beams shining right at it. Before he knew it, Sweat glided out of the truck like a commando and slithered down into the ditch. Tiny took a deep breath. His adrenaline was pumping at record levels.

Tiny grabbed his pistol as he got out, then started walking toward the Jeep.
I didn’t want all this trouble. I just wanted to steal some shit to sell.

Johnny Lee was always pushing the envelope. And Tiny was a follower, following Johnny Lee right into this huge mess.

Elizabeth nervously asked Tanner, “Who’s that?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Tanner responded, never taking his eyes off the truck. He swallowed hard and climbed out, hoping to find coon hunters. He walked through the open gate and stood in the glare of the headlights.

“Stay in the Jeep,” Elizabeth pleaded.

“Hey! We need to get through!” Tanner yelled but got no reply.

“Tanner, be careful!” Elizabeth called worriedly.

Tiny’s jumbo silhouette moved through the beams of his headlights, then stood motionless about twenty yards away from Tanner. Tiny could see somewhat, but he couldn’t hear well—the truck’s glass-packed mufflers were rumbling in his ears. Tanner could see Tiny’s pistol. Then he heard a limb crack in the woods and glanced off into the inky darkness, but he couldn’t make out a thing. His attention immediately went back to the big guy and the gun.

“We need to get through!” Tanner yelled nervously.

“Nobody’s gettin’ through unless we say so.”

“Look, I’m Tanner Tillman, and I have been back on my folks’ place. I need to come out.”

Tanner thought he saw car lights reflected in the treetops, but when he turned around to look to see if another vehicle was coming up behind them, he saw nothing. His mind was racing. He heard another stick break to his left. The woods were pitch-black, and the glare of the headlights blinding.

I gotta get Elizabeth out of here—quick. I’ll drive down in the ditch, around the truck and the big redneck with the gun.

As Tanner started to climb in, he heard another noise, and before he could turn, someone grabbed him from behind and slammed him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him, and ground his face into the gravel. Elizabeth was screaming. Tanner was being kicked in the sides. He struggled but couldn’t get up. He tried to turn to see who had attacked him.

Tiny ran as fast as he could toward the Jeep. Sweat beat Tanner senseless and then turned his attention to the screaming girl. Sweat wasn’t expecting this little piece of good fortune. She was beautiful. His focus had been on the guy standing by the Jeep, and he had never known she was there until she screamed. Sweat reached across the seat to grab her, but she jumped back just out of his reach, screaming louder.

Tanner managed to pull himself up and wrap his arms around Sweat’s waist. Tanner was way out of his league. Sweat outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds and had honed his fighting skills with years of bar brawls and knife fights. Tanner had been in one fight, and that had been in the seventh grade.

Sweat spun around and dragged Tanner to the front of the Jeep where he elbowed him hard in the face, breaking his nose. Pain flashed like a white light through Tanner’s brain. Sweat then threw him into the grill of the Jeep. Tanner could barely see or breathe.

As Tanner struggled to his knees, Tiny hit him in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol, knocking him flat on the ground. “Stay down or you’re gonna get killed,” Tiny advised sympathetically. Tiny didn’t like this at all. He wasn’t going to kill the kid, but he knew Sweat would without hesitation.

“Elizabeth, get out of here! Run! Run, Elizabeth!” Tanner screamed as he lifted himself to his elbows.

Sweat grabbed Tanner by the hair, dragged him to his knees, then forced his mouth open on the front bumper of the Jeep. Tanner could not move and was gasping for breath. He could taste the cold metal bumper. Sweat then viciously kicked the back of Tanner’s head, knocking out all his front teeth.

Tiny dry-heaved and turned away.

Elizabeth couldn’t see how badly Tanner was getting beaten. All she could do was scream.

Sweat quickly went around to the passenger side of the Jeep to pull Elizabeth out. She frantically looked for something she could use as a weapon. She could hear her mother reminding her that she should always carry Mace in her purse. All she found in the Jeep was a car battery. Scared to death, she jumped to the driver’s seat and tried to find reverse, grinding the gears. When she let the clutch out, it was in fourth. The Jeep jerked and the engine died. She leaped out and started running down the Dummy Line. Her mind was racing. She ran blindly. She had no idea where she was going. She just ran as fast as she could.

Tanner struggled to his feet out from under the front of the Jeep and then tried to tackle Sweat. Sweat grabbed him, punched him in the stomach, and then raised him up by the hair and punched him in the throat. Sweat then put Tanner in a head-lock that cut off his air. Tanner thrashed around. Sweat tightened his hold. Tanner was screaming but made no sound. His lungs were burning and felt like they were going to explode. Sweat held him until he quit moving. Then he threw Tanner’s body into the muddy ditch and turned his attention to the girl.

Tiny was breathing heavily, about to vomit. “What about the girl?” Tiny gasped.

“She’s mine. Man, this is my lucky day!” Sweat said, glaring down the moonlit road. He could barely make out her outline two hundred yards away, running wildly.
I’ll catch her. Where’s she gonna go?
he thought.

“What about Johnny Lee? Reese told us—” Tiny asked.

“Johnny Lee’s dead…you help Reese; I’m gonna catch that bitch and have me some fun,” he said, interrupting, and turned away.

Tiny knew Sweat was serious and would not be denied. He watched Sweat start walking slowly and deliberately after the girl. They were supposed to help catch Johnny Lee’s killer.
I gotta get focused.
He looked at the blood on the Jeep’s bumper, and then slid down into the ditch to check on the kid.
I sure hope he ain’t dead. Talk about bein’ in the wrong place at the wrong time.
After confirming that the kid was alive and not facedown in the mud, Tiny went back to his truck for a beer in a desperate attempt to not think about tonight’s brutality, which seemed to have just gotten started.

Elizabeth ran for her life, tears pouring down her face. Tanner was in trouble and she couldn’t help. She didn’t help.
He was fighting for me and all I could do was scream.
Twice she stopped and looked back. The second time, with her hands on her knees and the vapor from her breath glowing against the distant headlights, she saw someone following her.

“Oh God! Oh God, help me!” she screamed, running as hard and fast as she could.