by Glenn Trust
30. A Good Pee
A good pee was better than sex, he thought, arching his back in pleasure. At least it was more reliable.
Barry stood on the side of an Iowa farm road, shivering with relief. He gazed up at the blue sky as he peed. The stream splashed in the dark dirt of the turnout to an empty field that continued for miles, the distant edge bordered by a line of trees.
Zipped up and ready to go he stood looking at the fields. The corn had been harvested here. A flock of migrating blackbirds foraged on the ground. Except for their chatter and squawks, the day was quiet. He had come two miles off the interstate looking for a place to pull off where he could turn around with the towed car carrier.
Far off across the field, he saw an old white farmhouse. It was different from country homes in Georgia. Tall, square, and plain, he couldn't see any porch, no place to sit on a warm, sultry evening and watch kids chase lightning bugs in the yard while the house cooled down from the day.
This house, plain and simple, was built for hard prairie winters and the life of the plains people who settled the region. It was a stark contrast with the lush, almost semitropical, climate of the south where a shaded porch to sit at the end of a hot day was a necessity.
The difference excited him, a new adventure beginning. For the first time that day, he thought of his children, not with the usual melancholy when they crossed his mind, but with a sense of hopeful excitement at the prospect of them visiting him in South Dakota, if he could convince them. They might even let his grandchildren spend some time with him. He imagined Christmas with snow and summers where kids rolled in the grass and green prairies spread to the horizon.
He knew it was just wishful hoping. It didn’t matter. He wanted to share this new place and experience with someone, with those he cared about. Painful as the past had been, they were all the family he had.
Barry turned and climbed back into the truck. The engine turned over, whining and finally caught. He breathed a sigh of relief not relishing a walk to find help out here. The farmhouse was at least a mile away across the field.
He steered in a wide arc in the turnout, circled and pulled the truck back onto the road headed towards the interstate. The blackbirds in the field chattered and rose in a mass, a swirling black vortex, wings beating the wind as their squawks and chatter filled the air. The birds circled on high for a few seconds then returned and settled back into the field, apparently satisfied that Barry and the truck posed no danger to them.
A lone grackle on a fence post stood guard over the feeding flock, protecting it from the human who had intruded into their field. Unheard to Barry in the noisy cab, the bird squawked at the truck passing by, then lowered its head and began grooming the feathers under a wing. One eye continued watching the receding truck with an almost human awareness.
It gave a final squawk of all clear as the truck disappeared down the road. Younger, less dominant birds hopped from place to place in the field's stubble searching for a meal.
Eventually, the flock would rise in unison and continue its journey to the next field or tree before making the long flight to the south. Alone in the truck, Barry continued his own journey.
31. This Would Do
He drove in a perfect, straight line in the right lane. The Toyota's driver did not speed up or slow down. He appeared oblivious to the lights behind him. Paul knew better. He pressed a button on the console, and three loud whoops sounded.
The Toyota continued without altering course or speed. Paul's level of concern was now heightened. No longer a long shot, the old Toyota now officially became a suspect vehicle in the murder of the owners of a convenience store in Kansas and an old man at Healy's General Store and Gas in Nebraska.
Not noticing the trooper's car and lights was one thing, but ignoring the siren was something else. Paul's heart beat perceptibly faster in his chest.
“Forty-two Alpha to dispatch, be advised suspect vehicle is continuing north on I-29, ignoring emergency equipment, refusing to stop.” He was close enough to see the vehicle's license plate now and added, “Vehicle is bearing Kansas tag...” he read the tag number to the dispatcher who recorded the number before automatically running a 10-28 and 10-29, registration and wants on the tag number.
“10-4, Forty-two Alpha.” The dispatcher's voice remained calm and professional, but her deliberate and careful enunciation showed her concern. All the patrol units listening experienced the same concern. Paul knew that the dispatcher would be passing the information on to the county sheriff's department.
“Fifty-one Alpha, to Forty-two Alpha, I'm southbound on I-29. ETA to your position about seven minutes.”
Stan Knudsen's voice came over the air strong and calm, but Paul could hear the roar of his engine in the background as he accelerated down the interstate. It was a welcome sound.
Luther sat straight and alert in the seat. He seemed to quiver and vibrate like a taut bowstring. Lauren moved away from him, keeping a watch from the side. She could not see what was behind, but the sound of the siren had alerted her to the presence of the police car.
She dared to turn her head while Luther was distracted. The lights on top of the police car flashed.
“Forty-two Alpha, be advised 10-28, 10-29 on the Kansas tag is to a Lauren Pierce, Syracuse Kansas, reported stolen or missing.”
Paul acknowledged the dispatcher. “10-4.” There was nothing else to say. He was focused entirely on the car in front.
At exit 124, Luther guided the Toyota onto the ramp, took his foot off of the accelerator and allowed the car to slow, climbing the ramp to the stop sign at the top. The state patrol car followed behind, close now, right on his bumper. Still watching the mirror, he could make out the officer inside as he picked up the microphone and spoke into it.
“Forty-two Alpha, following the suspect vehicle onto the ramp to Exit 124.”
“10-4, Forty-two Alpha.”
The usually busy radio was now devoid of the normal chatter between troopers and dispatchers. Those on the frequency listened, waiting for what would happen next.
Every law enforcement officer within fifty miles had already started in his direction, even though there was no chance they would be there before Paul made the traffic stop on the Toyota. Only Stan Knudsen patrolled close enough to provide backup, and he could only listen now as the speedometer in his car climbed above one hundred twenty miles per hour.
Luther made a rolling right turn through the stop sign at the top of the ramp. He scanned the country road in both directions as he did so. It was deserted.
A few distant, scattered farmhouses across the miles of fields were the only signs of life, and they were too far away to interfere. He only needed a quiet spot. This would do.
32. Better to Wait
“Forty-two Alpha, we're turning eastbound on County Road 102.”
“10-4, Forty-two Alpha. Are you 10-80 on the vehicle?” She used the standard law enforcement ten-code for a high-speed pursuit.
“Negative, dispatch. The driver is refusing to stop, not at high speed.”
“10-4, Forty-two Alpha.” The seasoned dispatcher spoke only enough to extract information from the concentrating trooper without distracting him so that other units responding, Stan Knudsen in particular, would have a clear picture of what was happening.
The actions of the Toyota's driver heightened everyone's concern, especially Paul's. If this was not the vehicle wanted in the Kansas and Nebraska murders, the driver was certainly doing everything he could to make it look like it was.
Even so, there was no hurry. He had the vehicle in sight and could see the silhouettes of the two occupants. With luck, a county sheriff's unit or Stan Knudsen would be on the scene soon. They were not traveling at high speed, and for the moment, no immediate threat existed. Paul relaxed a little. Better to wait.
33. He sprang from the car
Luther had no intention of waiting for help to arrive. Smart enough to know that the clock was ticking, the mom
ent for action had arrived.
The first part of his plan was simple. Deal with the immediate threat of the police car and cop behind him. After that...well, after that, he had been on the run before.
It was a risk he calculated and prepared for. He had cash and a couple of different stolen IDs. One matched him pretty close. The other might get him a hotel room from a disinterested motel clerk but would not stand up to scrutiny from anyone examining it and comparing the face of the older man on the driver's license to his.
The older man had been left in a ditch in Arkansas, after giving a ride to a friendly man trying to make his way across the country to visit family in Tennessee. The cops weren't even looking for him for that one. Luther's mouth twitched into a grin.
His mind raced through his plans. Take care of the cop - check. Ditch this car - check. Get another car from one of the farmhouses across the fields - check. Get rid of witnesses; his eyes moved to the girl huddled against the passenger door, watching - check.
Leave the country, Mexico...Mexico was always a solid choice...no death penalty. Even better, they would not extradite to a country that had the death penalty and was going to use it on the person they were extraditing. Go to Mexico - check.
Checklist completed, he focused on dealing with the immediate threat. That cop is about to have a very bad day, he thought. A thin smile crossed his face, raising his lips into a snarl. Lauren, watching from the side, moved farther away towards the door.
After about a half mile on the county road, Luther guided the Toyota to the shoulder. It was far enough off the interstate to avoid witnesses and as good a place as any he was likely to find. Better than most. Tensed and focused for what would happen in the next few seconds, he felt no fear, only anticipation...excitement... euphoria even, but no fear.
The car came to rest on the narrow shoulder with the two left wheels still on the pavement. It had not finished rocking from braking when the driver's door flew open. Luther was coiled and ready. He sprang from the car.
34. Bloody
Paul was surprised. The Toyota pulled suddenly onto the shoulder. Dust swirled lightly behind it as the two right tires stopped in the dirt. He reached for the radio mike.
“Forty-two Alpha, the veh….”
The driver of the car was out, seeming to almost leap from the Toyota’s open driver’s door. Most surprising, he was walking directly to Paul.
“Forty-two Alpha, repeat your traffic,” the radio dispatcher cut in when Paul stopped speaking.
Pushing his own door open, Paul stood up quickly. From behind the open door he said, “Sir. Stop where you are.”
The man continued to walk towards him. His hands were outstretched, palms up. He smiled broadly in a friendly, curious way as if to ask what this was about. He kept walking quickly towards Paul.
“Sir! I said stand where you are!” Paul’s hand went to his sidearm, gripping the butt of the pistol.
The man stopped, and still smiling said, “Oh…oh, okay officer. Sorry. Didn’t mean to spook you.” His tone of voice was mild and friendly and innocent.
“Forty-two Alpha, your status.” The dispatcher’s tone was serious and emphatic.
Standing in the door of his car, one hand gripping his pistol, Paul reached up to the portable radio mike hanging from his shirt epaulette, pressed the transmit button, cocked his head and spoke into it, all the while watching the smiling man.
“Forty-two Alpha, I have the suspect vehicle stopped on the side of the road, about half a mile east of I-29.” He let go of the mike and stepped around the door of his car.
Luther could hear the dispatcher respond to the officer who was now approaching him.
“10-4 Forty-two Alpha. All units be advised Forty-two Alpha has the suspect vehicle, gray Toyota stopped on County Road 102, one half mile east of I-29.”
Luther knew he did not have much time. He tensed. Not much time, but enough, was the thought that flashed through his mind.
As Paul approached, Luther smiled more broadly and held his hands out to his sides, palms up to show that he had no weapons. He took a step towards the trooper.
“Sir! Do exactly as I say. Step between the cars and stand by the right rear of your vehicle. Do it now!”
“Okay. Sure officer, sure,” Luther said good-naturedly. “Wish you would tell me what this is all about.”
Paul followed the man as he stepped between the two vehicles, away from the road and any traffic that might pass. Through the rear window of the car, he could see a girl. Her head was turned as far as she could, watching the interaction between the man and Paul, but not moving or making any effort to interfere. Eyes wide, peering intently at the two men, it was clear the girl knew that her future hung on the confrontation that was taking place on this country road.
The man was medium built, just a little shorter than Paul and had brown hair. On his head, he wore a blue ball cap. The patch had been cut off the front. It fit perfectly the description given by the dispatcher, repeated so many times in the last two days.
Paul’s stomach tightened. This was the suspect. The astronomical odds against it being him a few seconds earlier were now reduced to zero. It was him. Somehow, out of all the highways he could have traveled and all the police officers that could have encountered this man in the old Toyota, it had come to Paul to deal with him, here on this road in the Iowa farm country. The next few seconds would be very dangerous ones.
Luther’s acutely aware senses had immediately seen the tension on the officer’s face increase as he passed in front of him to move to the right side of the cars. The cop knew. Luther didn’t know how the cop knew, but he could tell that he knew. Luther was no longer a potential suspect to this officer. He was the only suspect. The element of surprise that he had counted on was gone. He had only a split second to act, but a split second was ample time for his instincts to kick in and control his actions.
On seeing the ball cap and the loose threads where the patch had been on the front, Paul’s instincts had also kicked in, his right hand drawing the nine-millimeter pistol smoothly from its holster. Bringing the gun up, he brought it to bear on the man wanted by every law enforcement agency in the Midwest.
The cop stood between the two cars. Luther was passing in front of him as the pistol came out. It was the right time, maybe the only opportunity, and it was his best chance to strike.
Luther’s hand reached under his shirt in an impossibly quick movement that had been practiced many times. Withdrawing the hunting knife from his belt, he continued the motion in a backhanded slash at the cop’s gun arm.
Gasping at the searing pain as the knife cut through muscle and blood vessels, Paul reflexively grasped his arm in an attempt to hold the severed flesh together and stop the bleeding. The impact from the knife’s blow flung the pistol from his hand. It bounced off the hood of the patrol car and landed in the dirt on the shoulder of the road.
Completely overwhelmed by the speed and ferocity of the attack, Paul struggled to put the pain aside and fight. It was a fight for his life, and he knew it. He had never seen a person move so quickly. Before the pistol hit the ground, the smiling man was on him. Except now, he wasn’t smiling. His lips were drawn back, teeth clenched in a death grimace. Only one man would win this fight. Luther intended for it to be him.
Falling to the ground with the man on top, Paul’s right arm was almost useless as he tried to fend off more slashes from the knife. The man tried to plunge the heavy blade into his ribs, but the ballistic vest he wore stopped the blade from penetrating his flesh. Through the vest, Paul could feel the impact from many thrusts as the man tried to push the knife into him to finish him. Although the knife did not penetrate all the way through the vest, each thrust was a painful, bruising blow that weakened Paul even more. Blood from his wounds covered them both. Paul knew that the first slash must have cut an artery. He had only minutes to live if he could not stop the bleeding. He guessed that the girl in the car did not have much longer than t
hat.
Lying on his back, fending off the blows from the hunting knife with his exposed arms, Paul was fighting a losing battle for his life, and that of the girl. The blood spattered, snarling face of his assailant hovered over him. It seemed that they had been fighting for hours…for an eternity. Paul knew it could only have been a couple of minutes at the most.
What little strength he had was fading. Out of all the officers that could have stopped this man, it had been Paul, and he was losing. Maybe a better officer might have done things differently…might have been quicker or smarter. But it had been Paul. His strength fading, he began to become resigned to his fate. This grimacing stranger with the knife would take his life, and then the girl’s.
A sound caught his attention. He managed to turn his head slightly. Not more than fifty feet away on the other side of the road, a truck was slowing to a stop. The side of the truck was painted in bright colors showing a scene of a cheerful family whisking down a highway to new adventures in their rental truck. The rental truck in the picture had eyes for headlights and a wide smile where the grill should be. Lying in the dirt and blood on the side of the road, the truck and its festive paint job seemed obscene to Paul.
A chubby, middle-aged man climbed down. Pale faced, he stood staring at the bloody spectacle before him.
35. Barry Was Going To Drive
Leaving the cornfield where he had peed and headed back to the interstate, Barry Broomfield saw the flashing red and blue lights, a mile or so ahead on the country road. An unusual place for a traffic stop, he thought. There wasn’t any traffic to speak of. Curious, he slowed the truck as he approached. Coming even with the police car and the Toyota he wished he had picked any other road in the state, in the world, to stop and relieve himself or had just stayed on the interstate and pissed his pants. What he saw confused and shocked him.