by B J Bourg
I felt a little chill run up and down my spine as I turned and headed back to my Tahoe. I paused for a second and peered into the shadows that surrounded me. Had something stirred in the bushes to my left? My hand inched toward my pistol as I waited and watched. Nothing moved. I sighed and shook my head to clear it of the foreboding feeling that had fallen over me.
I leaned into the open window of my Tahoe and snatched my phone from the seat. I called Melvin. “Do you have anything there?” I asked when he answered and put me on speakerphone. “This looks like it might be a dead end. I can only see the northwest corner of Trolley’s property, but every house in this neighborhood seems to be abandoned and Rhett doesn’t appear to be home.”
“Are you sure he still lives there?” Melvin asked.
“Someone does. The yard is well-manicured, just like it was when I came here years ago. If it was abandoned, I doubt anyone would keep up the property like this.”
Melvin grunted, and then said, “We’ve got nothing here. The apartment complex is surrounded by a six-foot chain-link fence. There aren’t any breaks in the fence and all the gates are locked. We jumped the fence and checked the apartments, but every window and door is boarded up tight. He’s not here.”
I leaned against the door and drummed my fingers on the open window frame, trying to figure out what our next move would be. After a few long seconds, I gave Melvin the address to Trolley’s place of employment.
“Maybe he’s at work,” I said. “Why don’t you and Weaver see if y’all can get eyes on him there? I’ll keep watch here. If you find him, hang back and watch him until he leaves.”
“And if he’s not at work?”
I was thoughtful. “If he’s not at work, then meet me here. We’ll regroup and figure out a plan of action. In the meantime, I’ll keep an eye on Trolley’s house and call Detective Dawn Luke to see if she knows anything about Trolley. Maybe his name has come up before.”
“Who’s Dawn Luke?” Weaver asked from the background.
I explained who she was and then asked Weaver if he had any ideas.
“Yeah, I think we should call every police department and sheriff’s office in the state and ask them to run Rhett’s name through their system,” Weaver suggested. “He hasn’t been arrested in many years, but he might show up in their systems. He might’ve been a witness to a crime, perhaps caused a disturbance that didn’t result in an arrest, maybe was involved in a fender bender—something, anything that could’ve gotten his name on their paperwork.”
I liked the idea and asked Weaver if he could put someone on it. He agreed and I ended the call. I retrieved London’s text message and was about to enter Dawn’s number into my phone when I felt a whisper of air around the left side of my face. Before I could even process what was happening, my face was pressed firmly into the inside crook of an elbow, and the upper and lower portions of a giant arm clamped around my head like a bear trap.
As I began to struggle, the hairy arm clamped tighter, pushing the insides of my lips roughly against my teeth, causing the soft flesh to rip. I tasted blood. I clawed at the arm, trying to pull it away from my face, but it didn’t budge. I couldn’t push off of the ground, because my feet dangled helplessly in the air. I kicked back desperately with my heels. I was able to make contact with my assailant’s legs, but they felt like tree trunks and I got nothing for my efforts.
The huge arm blinded me. I couldn’t breathe. I felt lightheaded and knew I’d have to do something quickly or I’d lose consciousness. If that happened, I was at this person’s mercy. Thinking as quickly as my failing mind would operate, I reached back and removed my pistol from its holster. I spread my legs and shoved the muzzle downward, toward my attacker’s feet. In my hazy condition, I knew one thing was true—if he couldn’t stand, he couldn’t fight.
I snapped off several shots in quick succession, moving the pistol from left to right to make sure I hit flesh. Just as the bullets began leaving my gun, I was wrenched violently from side to side by my head. The pain in my neck was excruciating and I thought he might’ve broken it. Operating only on instinct and the will to live, I forced my pistol upward, trying to blindly aim just above my own head. I was in the midst of saying a silent and unintelligible prayer before pulling the trigger when I felt a large paw wrap around my gun hand. The pistol was wrenched violently back, twisting my wrist and breaking my index finger.
And just like that, I’d lost the only weapon at my disposal. I tried to raise my right arm to attack my assailant’s face, but he easily brushed it away. I was weak. My lungs screamed for air. They burned. My head pounded. I felt myself slipping.
I tried to think through the fog. I realized I was the third victim this season, which meant I was the last. If I didn’t stop this man, he would disappear for another year and everyone would be lost for good—I would be lost for good.
No, damn it! I’m not going out like this!
I felt a surge of energy course through me and I kicked back at his legs once again, but it was no use. My heels bounced harmlessly off of my captor’s shins. He squeezed even harder and I thought my head would crack like a walnut. I tried to raise my hands toward the arm that clutched me, but they wouldn’t move.
I suddenly felt myself bouncing up and down like a ragdoll as he began to walk away, taking me God knows where. I was slipping fast now. My thoughts were those of a drunken man. The faces of those whose lives I’d taken in the line of duty began to float around in my mind. I didn’t even know how many there were, but they were all laughing at me, pointing long thin fingers of accusation in my direction.
To my surprise, I wasn’t even mad at them. I was too weak to be mad. As my life slowly slipped into darkness, one thought continued to plague me: Will I finally discover what happened to Detective Sergeant Chad Robinson?
CHAPTER 44
One hour later…
Melvin slowed his marked F-250 pickup truck to a crawl and coasted down Rhett Trolley’s street. He scanned left and right as he drove. Weaver did the same, but they saw no signs of life. Just as Clint had reported earlier, all of the houses appeared abandoned. As they continued toward the back of the street, Weaver got on the police radio for the umpteenth time and called for Clint, waited, and then called again. There was nothing but static in response.
Melvin stopped in front of the mailbox that belonged to Rhett Trolley and shut off the engine. He sat in silence for a long moment as he studied the driveway and surrounding property before him. It bothered him that he hadn’t seen Clint’s unmarked Tahoe on the drive to the back of the street.
“Are we going to wait for Detective Luke or are we going in?” Weaver wanted to know.
When Melvin couldn’t reach Clint by phone an hour earlier, he had called Dawn Luke and asked if she had heard from him. She said she hadn’t, but that she had been working a crime scene all morning and might have missed the call.
“I can send a car out there if you like,” she had offered. “I’ll be stuck out here for another hour, but I can head to Trolley’s neighborhood as soon as I’m done.”
Melvin had requested that the patrol car check out the area and then had raced out of New Orleans, heading for Scales as fast as the F-250 could safely go. The deputy from Magnolia Parish had been in touch to say the neighborhood was empty and there was no sign of Clint or his Tahoe. Melvin had thanked him and called Susan as he had continued toward Scales.
“What in God’s name do you mean you can’t reach Clint?” she had asked, her voice uncharacteristically frantic. “Where is he?”
“Last I heard from him, he was watching Rhett Trolley’s house.”
“Get your ass to Scales as fast as you can!” she had said. “If he’s not responding, then something’s wrong. I’m still out here on the lake, but I’m on my way!”
Now, realizing something terrible must have taken place, Melvin turned to Weaver and set his jaw. “We’re going in.”
After making a brief plan, and without wasting anoth
er second, both men pushed through their respective doors and slowly eased them shut. With a hand signal, Melvin let Weaver know he was heading for the back. Weaver nodded and made his way toward the front of the house.
Melvin scurried across an open patch of land and headed toward the unknown. His head was on a swivel and he held his Glock firmly in both hands. Pausing for a brief moment at the rear corner of the house, Melvin peeked around the wall and did a quick visual assessment of the back yard. All seemed clear. He pushed off and darted along the back wall until he reached a small stoop area, where a door led into the house. He scaled the steps, squatted low when he reached the landing, and remained motionless as he listened intently. Nothing…not a sound was heard.
With his left hand, he removed the police radio from his belt and called quietly to Weaver, asking if he was in position.
“Roger that,” Weaver said. “I’m near the front door.”
“Go ahead and knock.” Melvin returned the radio to his belt and remained poised, ready for—
A thunderous crashing sound suddenly erupted from the front of the house and Melvin nearly jerked out of his skin. He heard heavy boots pounding against a hollow floor and Weaver’s voice hollering profanities. Not sure what was taking place inside, Melvin jumped to his feet and kicked the back door open. Wood splintered as the door swung violently inward and slammed loudly against the wall. He rushed through the opening and rounded the corner, his eyes taking in the entire room at once.
There were no threats that he could see, so he continued to the opposite side of the kitchen and through an opening that led to the living room. He couldn’t see Weaver, but he knew the man wasn’t far because he could hear him hollering down the hall.
“What in the hell did you do with him, you giant piece of shit?” his voice thundered. “Where is he?”
Melvin rushed down the hallway and stopped when he met Weaver coming out of a bathroom. He stared about in confusion. “Where is he? Did you see Trolley?”
“Nah,” the large man grumbled. “There’s no one here.”
“You were supposed to knock.” Melvin eyed Weaver coldly. “That was the plan.”
“We didn’t have time to knock and wait for no one to answer.” Weaver brushed by Melvin and headed for the door. Melvin shook his head and followed him out into the sunlight.
“What in the hell are we supposed to do now?” Weaver asked.
Melvin heard him, but didn’t respond. Instead, he walked to the driveway and looked up the street. Forcing himself to remain calm, he tried to recall his last conversation with Clint. He knew he would have to put his personal feelings aside and focus on the task at hand, without distraction. If he allowed his emotions to interfere, he might make a mistake that could prove detrimental to finding Clint.
Melvin shaded his eyes and then glanced up at the sun. He walked to the street and turned to stare at Rhett Trolley’s house. He moved to the left first, and then the right. He stopped and then did an about-face.
“What the hell are you doing?” Weaver wanted to know. “Is this some kind of voodoo ritual you people from the swamps do?”
“Clint said he could only see the northwest corner of Trolley’s property,” Melvin explained, pointing to the side yard of an abandoned house. “That means he must’ve been standing over there.”
Without waiting for a reply from Weaver, Melvin started toward the unkempt property. He reached a wrought iron fence and easily scaled it, and then dropped to the other side. He didn’t even wait to see if Weaver needed help.
Before Melvin reached the corner of the house, he could pick out the area where someone—most likely Clint—had stood to watch Trolley’s house. He could see where the grass had been smashed down and a few twigs snapped. Being careful not to disturb any evidence of Clint’s presence, Melvin backtracked the trail to a paved driveway at the rear of the house. Grass grew in large clumps between the cracks in the concrete. One particular clump was smashed and somewhat destroyed, so Melvin made his way to that area.
“Hey, did you find anything?” called Weaver from behind Melvin. He was breathing hard from his fight with the wrought iron fence. “You could’ve at least waited for me to get over that damn fence. I thought I was going to impale myself.”
Melvin wasn’t paying attention to what Weaver was saying. He had caught sight of something in the thick clump of grass. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was dark and appeared sticky. Some sort of resin, perhaps?
As he leaned closer, he sucked in his breath. It was a drop of blood, and there were more of them leading away from him. He followed the drops with his eyes and then gasped out loud. “Holy shit! Look at that!”
CHAPTER 45
Within a half hour, the small town of Scales was alive with activity. Three patrol deputies had responded almost immediately to the scene where Melvin had located the blood, and they had immediately begun combing the area for Clint’s Tahoe. Detective Dawn Luke had arrived minutes later, and she and Melvin had just finished searching the scene. They had located six spent 9mm shell casings, six divots on the concrete, four projectiles, and a stream of blood that began over the divots and disappeared in the middle of the driveway. Three of the divots were actually filled with blood. However, none of those findings were as remarkable as the giant bloody footprint located at the end of the blood trail.
“What do you make of it all?” Melvin asked Dawn when they had finished searching the immediate area. He gulped in fear before asking the next question. “Do you think it’s Clint’s blood?”
“No, I don’t think so, but there isn’t enough blood here for a mortal wound.” She shoved a pencil under her baseball cap and chewed on her gum while she studied the ground. “If I was to guess, I’d say someone—probably Clint—shot this person in the giant foot and he or she walked from the divots to where the trail ends, at which point they got into Clint’s Tahoe.”
“But, where’s Clint?” Melvin asked, almost breathlessly.
“That bastard took him.” Weaver said it with such confidence that Melvin shivered slightly. “He snatched Clint off the ground and threw him in the Tahoe and drove away with him.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” Melvin said weakly. “After all, Clint shot his attacker, so he must be injured. I’m sure Clint figured out a way to gain the advantage and take him into custody.”
“If that would be the case,” Dawn began, “Clint would’ve called it in. I agree with Weaver. Clint’s gone and we need to do everything we can to find him.”
Melvin heard a chopping sound overhead and glanced up to see a helicopter approaching.
“We’ve got two of them in the air,” Dawn explained. “We’ve also got a dozen deputies en route. We’re going to find him—I promise.”
Melvin nodded and turned to walk away, his mind numb. The thought of Clint being gone for good made him sick. He stumbled around the corner of the house and toward the wrought iron fence where he knew no one had passed. Once he reached it, he gripped the bars and bent over to vomit in the grass. His throat burned. His stomach ached as he heaved over and over again, everything he’d eaten in the last few hours leaving his system in waves of fear. Tears formed in his eyes and spilled to the ground as well.
He didn’t know how long he remained there leaning on the fence, but he suddenly felt Weaver’s presence beside him. Without looking up, he fell to a seated position on the ground and wiped his mouth on his shirt. Sweat poured down his face. “If he took Clint’s Tahoe, they could be anywhere by now. We may never find them.”
Weaver shifted his feet as he stood beside Melvin, but he didn’t say a word. Melvin felt utterly depressed and at a loss. He leaned back against the iron bars and stared up at the electric meter mounted to the front corner of the house, where it could be read from outside the fence. The disk spun slowly and seemed to match the speed at which Melvin’s mind was working. He found the rotation of the disk mesmerizing. He wondered what life would be like if Clint was gone for good. It w
as something he’d never considered. Now that he did, it scared him profoundly and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. He allowed his eyelids to droop sadly.
“What in the hell are we supposed to do now?” Melvin asked after a long moment. “And what in God’s name am I going to tell Susan?”
“I don’t know, kid. I really don’t know.”
As though on cue, a Tahoe bearing Mechant Loup Police Department insignia whisked by the abandoned house and then skidded to a stop. The reverse lights immediately came on, the tires squealed, and the vehicle raced rearward. It lurched to a stop and the passenger’s side window buzzed down. He saw Susan leaning from the driver’s seat and there was a look of unbridled concern on her face.
“Melvin, what’s going on? I saw cruisers leaving out of here with their lights on. They were heading north.”
Melvin pulled himself to his feet and turned from Susan toward the back of the house just in time to see Dawn round the corner. “They found Clint’s Tahoe,” Dawn called out to Melvin. “It was abandoned near a bayou, but there’s no one around. We need to go now!”
Without hesitating, Melvin turned and cleared the fence in a single jump. “We have to go, Chief,” he hollered. “They found Clint’s cruiser!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Melvin saw Weaver struggle a bit, but the larger man finally managed to climb over the wrought iron fence and hurried toward Susan’s Tahoe, where he climbed in the back seat behind Melvin. Susan whipped the vehicle around and fell in behind Dawn, who drove a Dodge Charger that was built for speed.
“What’s going on?” Susan’s knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel and her eyes were trained like lasers on the car in front of her. “What did y’all find out here?”