by Bobby Cole
Johnny Lee’s group of outlaws dabbled in a little bit of everything illegal. They consumed and sold drugs; they had attempted to build a meth lab but couldn’t quite comprehend the recipe; and they had an old still in which they made really bad corn whiskey. They considered themselves state-of-the-art crime lords. Everybody else thought they were two-bit thugs. Mostly they stole cars, four-wheelers, guns, and about anything they could fence quickly. In summers they poached alligators in the Black Warrior and Alabama rivers. They knew every back road in the surrounding counties.
The sheriff knew Johnny Lee’s group was bad news and kept a watchful eye on them, but they were never caught with the goods, and no one would dare testify against them. The gang was masterful in the art of intimidation. From barn fires to dead cattle, they kept everyone quiet. Local law enforcement had a running joke that they could never get a conviction on the gang because all of the members shared the same DNA.
In early April, it was still too cold for the guys to hang out and skinny-dip down at the sandbar on the Noxubee River. In true redneck fashion, they loved to sit on their tailgates, drink Old Milwaukee, and listen to Hank Williams Jr. and David Allen Coe.
Johnny Lee’s outlaws included Tommy Tidwell, who weighed in at a shade over 325 pounds. He was always eating something. His favorite meal was fried chicken wings and potato logs—the real greasy kind you get at a gas station. Everybody called him “Tiny.” He followed orders methodically. Johnny Lee had met him in the Dallas County jail a couple years back and recruited him to join his team.
Reese Turner was second in command. He and Johnny Lee were first cousins. Since grade school, he had run with Johnny Lee and would walk through fire for him. Both their mothers had done time in Julia Tutwiler Prison in Wetumpka, Alabama, for stealing payroll checks, so the boys had carpooled together on Sundays to visit them. Reese was smarter than Johnny Lee, which wasn’t saying much. Reese premeditated his crimes. Johnny Lee was more reactive. Reese’s real talent was his ability to think two and three moves ahead. He spent his days surfing the satellite channels watching James Bond movies. He said they gave him ideas.
“Sweat” Lawrence was the muscle. He had been in the Marines for ten weeks when he was caught holding a colonel’s daughter down, forcing her to have sex with him. That was his style. Fortunately for her, some MPs came by and interrupted the party. The military police called it attempted rape, but they couldn’t make the charges stick because she had been promiscuous with several of the enlisted men. The colonel had a heart attack listening to Sweat’s unnecessarily graphic interrogation. The Corps wasted no time having Private Lawrence dishonorably discharged and sent home before the beloved colonel recovered and killed him.
As soon as Sweat arrived in the area, he fell in with Johnny Lee and never looked back. He sweated profusely, all the time, and never went anywhere without a hand towel. The doctors called it hyperhidrosis. Sweat rarely spoke. When the group needed something done, he was their man. He had yet to disappoint.
What this gang lacked in brains they more than made up for in pure meanness. There was nothing they wouldn’t try. They were a pack of opportunistic wolves. Whatever came their way, they worked it for what they could squeeze out of it. They had killed a rival poacher for running their gator lines and then buried his body in an abandoned well. Getting away with that murder gave Johnny Lee and his entire posse a sense of invincibility.
None of these guys had serious girlfriends. Johnny Lee had a few women who hung around for crack cocaine, but as soon as they got their fix, they left. Tiny had been married once for about six months. His wife had left him while he was driving a truck to New Orleans. She had taken everything including his prize coon dog, which he was convinced she had sold on eBay. She sold everything on eBay.
The group’s ultimate goal was to steal enough to buy custom motorcycles. Choppers, to be more exact. They stopped everything they were doing on Monday nights to watch Orange County Choppers on the Discovery Channel. They liked the grumpy old dude. The group envisioned having crimson and white bikes in honor of The University of Alabama. To Johnny Lee’s increasing frustration, he could never get a return phone call from the guys at Orange County Choppers.
By ten that Friday night, the gang had started growing restless. It had been a slow week. Johnny Lee’s main fence in Meridian, Mississippi, was complaining about his lack of productivity. Johnny Lee was contemplating burglarizing a group of cabins on the Tombigbee River. These rarely yielded much, but there was little chance of getting caught. By the time an alarm system alerted the sheriff and he had arrived, they were long gone. But Johnny Lee needed a large score to satisfy everyone. His big opportunity was the Green County dog track. He had spent years trying to figure out how to rob it. He knew the security protocols were much more sophisticated than his gang could ever crack. But it was a dream fueled by greed. Johnny Lee especially liked it because it would be a cash haul and he wouldn’t have to split it with his fence. He would make enough to get his Orange County Chopper and more. He just had to keep thinking. So he kept drinking Jack Daniel’s and well water. He had been drinking steadily since about seven that evening, and he was feeling no pain, growing bolder by the hour.
Reese suggested that they rob the Cypress Inn on the Black Warrior River in Tuscaloosa. This was prom season and spring formals for the sororities, which meant the place was always packed on the weekends. Reese wanted to escape in boats and be picked up downriver. The idea had merit. It sounded to Johnny Lee like a James Bond flick. What would they do with the boat? There would be too many people around…too many potential witnesses. But still he liked the idea.
Johnny Lee clicked the TV off and looked at the group. His gang.
“Well, what do you boys wanna do tonight? It’s after ten,” Reese said.
“I dunno…hey, did ‘Bama win tonight?” Johnny Lee asked.
“Nope, we lost nine–seven,” Tiny replied. “We’ll get ‘em tomorrow. Our ace is pitchin’.”
“Damn. I hate to lose to Auburn at anything.” Johnny Lee had never been to The University of Alabama or any other college, but still he considered himself a full-fledged fan. The den of his trailer was filled with prints of great Alabama football moments that he had stolen from an attorney’s office in Demopolis and couldn’t bring himself to sell.
“Wanna steal some rich kid’s car over at the college in Livingston?” Reese asked.
“Nah,” Johnny Lee replied, turning on his CD of Hank Jr. Turning to Tiny, Johnny Lee asked, “Did that guy pay you for the load of moonshine?”
“Yeah, but he was a grand short. He said he’d pay you next week,” Tiny reported. “Something about taxes.”
“Taxes?” asked Johnny Lee like he had never heard of the word.
“That’s what he said,” Tiny responded.
“Damn, I was gonna buy a flat-screen plasma TV. Remind me to charge him interest, and to tell him about my accountant. He gets out of prison next month.”
Everybody laughed. Johnny Lee loved being the center of attention.
“Don’t laugh—he’s good,” Johnny Lee replied to no one in particular.
“You have to have income to pay taxes, Johnny Lee,” Reese jabbed.
“My point exactly. Uncle Sam thinks I ain’t made a penny in years. I know how to hide it,” Johnny Lee said proudly. Johnny Lee always acted like he was a high roller.
“Hey…I know, let’s go break into that camp on County Road Sixteen with the pool table and the stocked bar. We can drink, play pool, and see what they have new to steal,” Reese said excitedly.
“Yeah, they don’t turkey hunt, so none them dudes will be there. We ain’t broke in there in maybe two years,” Tiny added.
“That’s not a bad idea…I’ll bet they got some of that Maker’s Mark high-dollar whiskey. Let’s go, but let’s take two trucks.” Johnny Lee stood up and stretched as he spoke.
Second only to his double-wide trailer, Johnny Lee loved his Ford “Harley Davidson Editi
on” supercharged pickup truck. It was jet-black with tinted windows and flames painted down the sides. It would fly. Thanks to a drug buddy getting busted, Johnny Lee had gotten it cheap. But he refused to let Sweat ride in it because of his overwhelming body odor.
Tiny had a 1987 Chevrolet four-wheel-drive that he and Sweat rode in. It smelled like chicken bones and stinky socks. Tiny could never get enough money together to improve his transportation, but it was part of his “starting-over-fresh” plan that was long on wishful thinking and totally devoid of action.
Sweat and Tiny had drunk a case of Old Milwaukee beer since the middle of the afternoon. They called them Walkie-Talkies. Sweat was outside taking a leak off the deck when the plan was formulated. When everybody started sticking pistols and knives into their pockets, he joined right in without a clue of what was doing on. He never even asked.
“Let’s steal their pool table,” Reese said, excited that his idea was being taken seriously.
“If you can tote it out, I can fence it,” Johnny Lee said, pulling on his ostrich-skin boots and stuffing a Ruger Blackhawk .44 Magnum inside the right one.
“Mount up, boys…the Redneck Posse rides,” Johnny Lee Grover said with pride as he rubbed the Doritos out of his dim excuse for a mustache.
“You’re right. This is a perfect place to see the stars. I’ve never seen so many.” Elizabeth slyly grinned. This was the same view she had by her swimming pool. But she wouldn’t tell Tanner that.
They had been parked for almost forty-five minutes. If there had been windows in the Jeep, they would have been steamed up. They sat in the back seat looking at the stars. They had been doing some serious necking and a little talking. Elizabeth wanted to do more talking; Tanner wanted more kissing. He loved the way she smelled, the freckles on her nose. She had no idea how beautiful she was. Elizabeth was really enjoying being with Tanner. She loved his Jeep, the music. She loved the wind blowing through her hair. The temperature was a bit cool but perfect for her fleece pullover.
“And it’s safe. I locked the gate back, and no one would ever come out here this time of year at night. Never,” he commented, leaning back and placing his legs across the front seat. Elizabeth then crossed her legs over his and leaned against him and snuggled.
“Are you still excited about going to the University of Virginia?” he asked, smelling her hair.
“No, not really. It’s…it’s more for my mother than me. She went there and pledged a sorority, so she thinks I should. I’d really be happy to stay home and go to Alabama.” She looked up at the stars.
“Mom took me two summers ago, and we walked through The Lawn. I really got excited. Mom started signing me up for everything after that. Don’t get me wrong: it’s a beautiful campus and a great school, but I’ll miss everybody, especially you,” she said and kissed his neck.
“I think you should do what you want to do.”
“I don’t want to disappoint her. She’s so excited. I think she wants me to do all the things she did and didn’t do,” Elizabeth explained and sighed.
Well, that’s it. Tanner knew the make-out session was over, and that all they were going to do was talk. He was used to it. He just loved being with her. That was one reason he knew he was in love. It didn’t matter what they did…just as long as they were together.
“So we could run off and get married,” Tanner said with a sly smile, and he meant it.
“You think?” She grinned as she responded. “You had better get a new car first…and pass English!”
“Is that all?”
“One with a roof.”
“I have a roof. It’s called a top, and I’ll pass English.”
“It’s plastic, and you can’t conjugate a verb.”
“Well…that’s true…I can’t, and the top is actually high-grade waterproof canvas and—”
“Kiss me, Tanner. I’m tired of talkin’,” she interrupted before he could finish.
“Yes ma’am.” And he did.
When it was time to leave, he composed himself enough to start the Jeep. He paused, “I sure hope it cranks.”
“It better, it would take days to walk out of here; plus, I just noticed my cell phone isn’t working,” she replied, brushing her long black hair.
“This area’s dead; there’s no service. It’s just too remote,” he answered.
Tanner paused another few seconds and watched her brush her hair. She’s got no idea how beautiful she is. The Jeep cranked and he smiled at her. “I love being with you.”
She leaned over and kissed him. “Me too. Crank up the heater. I’m kinda cold,” she said, briskly rubbing her hands on her arms.
They started the five-mile ride down the abandoned railroad track that was used for a road. She turned and held his hand and passionately kissed his right ear. Tanner was struggling with shifting and driving one-handed. He was in heaven.
“I’ll teach you how to conjugate verbs,” she whispered, then laughed out loud.
By midnight Jake was in the middle of the recurring nightmare he’d been having since he was fifteen years old. It was so real, so vivid. It never changed—he was walking to a deer stand in the predawn darkness. For every step he took, he heard something or someone following him. He walked a bit faster and then stopped. Whatever was following him stopped and stood still, in step with him. He began walking and could hear it following him again. It sounded heavy. He shone a flashlight, expecting to see glowing eyes—he couldn’t see a thing. Then suddenly he stepped on something out of place. There was a body, someone familiar to him, lying there dead. Brutally murdered. His throat was cut. There was blood everywhere. The exact moment the flashlight turned on, there was a high-pitched cackling scream…demonic…from whatever was following him.
Jake always woke up at this point, sweating and chilled. He could never go back to sleep. For twenty-two years this nightmare had haunted him. Jake knew a psychiatrist could have a field day with this. He’d never told a soul, and to this day, he wouldn’t go into the woods, day or night, without a flashlight.
Jake was roused from the nightmare by the sounds of a vehicle on the gravel road leading into the camp. The camper was toasty from the orange glow of the electric heater. That’s gotta be Tate. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Jake got out of bed, slipped on his boots, then checked on Katy. She was sound asleep, snuggling with her Beanie Babies. I’ll ask him to stay in the camp house; his snoring’s louder than a freight train.
Wearing nothing but his boxers and boots, Jake cracked open the camper door and immediately heard several male voices and Hank Jr. singing “Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound.” Jake couldn’t see who it was. The gate was about 150 yards from the camp. He strained to hear what they were saying. Multiple voices. This was odd. His heart was in his throat. He didn’t like it at all. Jake could tell that they were arguing. He heard someone with a gravelly voice say, “The gate ain’t locked.” When Jake heard someone else say, “Then we won’t be breakin’ in,” he knew he had trouble on his hands.
He quickly stepped to his truck, opened the door, and grabbed his pump shotgun. He fumbled through his turkey vest for his shells. He found the only three he carried on a hunt, fed them into the magazine, and quietly worked the action, loading one into the chamber.
Two pickup trucks slowly approached the camp with their lights off and parked side by side with their windows down. Jake had stepped into the shadows next to the camp house. He had no idea what to do next.
“I ain’t never seen that camper before,” one stated.
Another said, “Let’s steal the truck.”
“And beat the shit out of the owner,” a third one added with way too much enthusiasm.
“Shut the hell up and let me think!” the fourth guy commanded.
All four men got out of their trucks and gathered at the rear of Jake’s. Without saying anything, they started approaching Jake’s camper like they owned the place. Jake saw the biggest one pull a pistol and work the action. He couldn’t beli
eve this was happening. He’d never pointed a gun at anybody. He couldn’t imagine shooting someone, but he was in a bad spot and needed to make good decisions. Jake’s heart raced so fast he was dizzy.
From the shadows, Jake said loudly, “That’s close enough. You boys need to leave right now. I got a gun pointed at you.”
They all stopped and looked at the skinniest one in the group. With a wicked laugh and a confident step forward, he asked, “Is it bigger than mine?” pulling a .44 Magnum Ruger Blackhawk from his boot and pointing it in Jake’s direction.
This can’t be happening. Jake said, “I’m serious, you need to leave…now! This is private property.”
“He ain’t got no gun, Johnny Lee!” the fat one yelled out.
“Quit using my name, you stupid shit!” the one with the .44 said in a fit of anger.
“Look, I don’t know anybody or remember anything. Y’all just leave right now!” Jake yelled.
“I don’t think he’s got a gun either…else why would he hide in the shadows?” one of them said with an air of confidence.
“I’m here turkey huntin’, and I’ve got a shotgun pointed right at y’all, so I suggest you leave.” Jake was really getting nervous. He thought about showing himself so they could see his shotgun. But just how intimidating could I be in plaid boxers? Jake wondered.
They seemed to be weighing their options. The group didn’t look like together they were capable of making change much less a decision of this magnitude. Then things started happening in slow motion. Jake could tell that the skinny one, Johnny Lee, wanted trouble. Jake sensed that the others would follow his lead, so he kept the shotgun pointed at Johnny Lee and pushed off the safety.
“They ain’t no turkey hunters in this club…I know…he’s bluffin’. He’s out here cheatin’ on his wife with his sport-model girlfriend, I bet,” one of them said excitedly.