by Bobby Cole
“Whoa, whoa, I’m going with you. You’re not leaving me.”
R.C. was checking his pistol and his flashlight. Patting his belt, he felt the additional rounds of ammunition and the absence of his radio. He fully realized that protocol dictated that he back off and call in support, but R.C. knew he didn’t have time to go all the way back to his cruiser.
Tillman continued, “Tanner was responsible for Elizabeth’s safety. I’m going with you, R.C.”
R.C. stopped to listen to Tillman. He could hear the concern in his voice, and he really didn’t want to chase these guys alone.
“OK, but you have to do exactly what I say,” R.C. insisted.
“No problem. I know you’re doing what you think is right, and I agree with you.”
“You sure?” R.C. asked, as he reached down and took a small revolver from his ankle holster. He checked it, then gave it to Tillman. Taking a deep breath, Tillman gripped it tightly.
“I can use it if I have to,” he said calmly.
R.C. nodded, then clicked on his flashlight. “Let’s go get to the bottom of all this mess!”
Ollie opened his office door. He glanced around the room at everybody diligently working. There were a few new faces in the crowd.
“Miz Martha, have you gotten in touch with R.C.?” Ollie asked.
“No sir.” She sighed with frustration.
Ollie stood thinking. That piece of property’s very remote, or maybe his handheld just isn’t working. The battery could be drained. He probably doesn’t even have it turned on—which would be typical of R.C.
“Have Ricky go and check on him. I’m sure in all his years of game wardening he knows the lay of that land. Tell him to just look for R.C. and report in. No hero crap.”
“Yes sir. Sheriff, the helicopter will be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Does it have a searchlight?”
“No one’s mentioned one. I don’t think so.”
“Me either…so we’ll have to wait until it’s daylight,” he said, looking at his watch. “At least an hour I’d guess. I just don’t know. I don’t ever get up this early.”
“That’s about right,” Martha confirmed. She knew exactly when daylight occurred.
Glancing up, Ollie saw Zach Beasley talking firmly to someone on his cell phone. He turned back to Martha.
“Have you heard from the hospital?” Ollie asked, sipping his coffee.
“Tanner hasn’t changed. He’s stable, and the Mississippi lady’s doin’ better,” she explained.
“Mick will be here soon. I think he knows everybody mixed up in this,” Ollie said with a tone of exasperation.
Martha reached for the ringing phone. Ollie watched Zach pacing back and forth like a caged animal; he was off the phone. The front door opened, and Marlow strutted back in after copping his media fix. He went straight for the coffeepot and a day-old doughnut. Ollie glanced back at Martha. He could tell from her tone that it was an important call. She started waving at him as he headed back to his office.
Ollie’s phone beeped. He picked up the receiver as he sat down.
“Sheriff Landrum,” he answered.
“Sheriff, this is Bill Bracker from the Alabama Bureau of Investigation. I met a guy through a friend a few years ago—I hardly remember him; I spoke to the Rotary Club there—and anyway, he just called me. A Mr. Zach Beasley. He’s worked up something fierce. What’s going on over there? Anything I can help with?” he asked with a thick Southern accent.
Ollie could tell that he was very genuine in his concern. So he gave Bracker the story from the start and explained the dragnet that they were throwing over the area. Ollie knew that Bill Bracker could lend some serious manpower, and he needed it. It didn’t bother him at all that Zach had called Bracker.
“Sheriff, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna send you some men from our Tuscaloosa and Birmingham offices. I could have sent some guys from Montgomery on the helicopter if I had known. It sounds like you have a good plan, and I don’t want to usurp your authority. When my guys arrive, you deploy them however you see fit. I’ll keep in touch. The Bureau will be glad to assist any way it can,” he offered sincerely.
“Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.”
“Since Marlow’s there, I’m sure the TV crews are on site already,” Bracker added and then chuckled.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Yeah, well, that old goat loves the cameras, but you don’t need that distraction right now. You especially don’t need the media scrutiny. Stay focused; my boys are en route. I’m a phone call away. Here’s my home number. Please keep me posted.”
“Yes sir. And thanks again,” Ollie replied as he jotted down the ABI chief’s home phone number.
“No problem. Good luck, Sheriff.”
Ollie walked out of his office straight to the big table with the county topographic map. While he studied it, Marlow walked up and set down his cup of coffee, spilling some on the wooden table. He stretched and coughed. Ollie never looked up.
“We haven’t heard from R.C. in a while. I sent him with Steve Tillman to check out Tillman’s property. We think that’s where the kids may have been.”
“You worried?” Marlow asked, sipping his coffee loudly.
“Hell yeah. This ain’t good. ABI called. They’re sending some men.”
“Bill Bracker?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good; that’s real good.” Marlow knew the ABI involvement would raise the media’s interest.
“What are we missing, Marlow?” Ollie asked, staring at the map. He wanted to make sure he had all the bases covered—those he could reach.
“Let’s walk through it. Tell me where you have everybody,” Marlow said, pulling out a chair to sit down.
Ollie leaned over the table and sighed. He pointed toward the gate on the Dummy Line. “All right, your superstar Deputy Lewis is stationed there.
“I’m securing the junction of these two country roads. I have a man heading down into here to check on R.C. and Steve Tillman, and I sent Larson down this road here that runs past the camp house. Your other deputy—I can’t remember his name—is on this county road.”
“That’s Conner. He’s a good man,” Marlow added.
“I have two Livingston policemen searching Johnny Lee’s trailer. Judge Cross didn’t hesitate signing the search warrant.”
“We need more judges like him. He appreciates good police work,” Marlow said.
“And Elizabeth is his niece,” Ollie added. “Lakreshia is here to help Miz Martha with the APBs and other details. I’m going up with the helicopter when it gets here.” Ollie stared at the expanse of river swamp shaking his head. He knew it would be a hard search. “Hell, they could be a hundred miles from here by now…that’s why I hate to commit everything to one area.”
“Ollie, we just need it to get daylight. That helicopter will speed everything up.”
“I figured you would handle the media,” Ollie said sarcastically.
“Yeah, sure; I’ll do that for you,” Marlow responded, not catching Ollie’s tone. “You’re doing all you can do. We just need a little luck,” Marlow continued and took a sip of coffee.
“Mr. Littlepage from West Point will be at the hospital in a few hours.”
“I can’t wait to hear how all this fits together,” Marlow said.
“I just wanna find Elizabeth and the Crosbys,” Ollie said as he stood up straight, then glanced at the clock on the wall.
Larson and Shug were assigned to search the camp house and the road that left the camp leading into the heart of the property. Larson could tell Ollie was steaming mad at him for losing the tail on the Mississippi thug and knew that he would catch hell when this was all over. Larson needed to redeem himself. We’ll do a thorough search of the camp house and trailer, then move down the road. Last time we just stopped searching. There could be more evidence, Larson thought, then said to Shug, “We gotta find something else, big boy. Come on.”
Their subsequent search of the camp turned up nothing of any value—to the investigation. Larson, however, duly noted the life-size Faith Hill poster adorning one wall of the camp house. Shug paid more attention to the pantry. Something was driving Shug crazy. Larson allowed time to investigate. It turned out to be a giant bag of dried pig ears.
“Achtung, Shug,” Larson said as he eyed the disgusting dog treats. He thought they were dog treats. He hoped they were dog treats. “Let’s go to the camper.”
The grass surrounding the camper yielded only one possible clue. A freshly fired black Winchester three-inch magnum shotgun shell. At first Larson got excited; then he realized it was a turkey load, during turkey season, and he was standing in a hunting camp. He placed it in his pocket anyway, then looked at the open camper door. He quickly scanned the interior and then stepped carefully farther inside. Larson noticed the heater glowing in the corner. As he walked toward the sleeping area the alarm clock sounded. Larson jumped straight up.
“Sonofabitch!” Larson found the alarm button and punched it off. He took a deep breath and continued his search, checking behind him for his faithful companion.
“Leave that alone, Shug…No…Nein!” Larson said to Shug, raising his voice with each command. Shug wanted to play with the Beanie Baby lying on the camper floor. Larson’s wife collected the small Ty toys, so he bent down to check it out. It was a black Labrador named Lucky. “She’s got that one,” he said, dropping it on the counter.
The interior looked pretty standard for a hunting camper. A bunch of camo clothes, boots, turkey calls, a gray T-shirt, Honey Buns, and a camo fleece blanket. What’s the use of a camo blanket? he thought, shaking his head. Larson picked up a magazine from the couch. Turning it over, he noticed the small white label and read aloud, “Scott Littlepage, 304 Magnolia Blossom Court, West Point, Mississippi.” Dropping the magazine back on the couch, he whistled for Shug and headed to the police cruiser. He wanted to ease down the muddy logging road as far as he could.
Larson listened to lots of chatter on the police radio as deputies dispersed and reported back to the command post. Nobody had found anything, and almost everyone was in place to secure his respective area. Shug settled comfortably on the back seat and resumed his grooming. Larson began to feel a knot in his stomach from the rollercoaster ride from hero to goat. I can’t believe it. That lady had to have been there while I was talkin’ to that Mississippi redneck. I missed my chance. But maybe I should be thankful. It coulda gotten deadly, for me.
The first couple of hundred yards of the old logging road had enough gravel that tracks were not obvious. Now that the road had turned to red clay, the tire tracks were plain as day. Larson struggled on the slippery mud to keep the cruiser headed straight. Just as he was about to request that someone bring in a four-wheeler or a four-wheel-drive truck, his headlights illuminated the taillights of a parked pickup.
Larson stopped and got out. He clicked on his Maglight and unsnapped his holstered Glock 9mm pistol.
“Come on, Shug,” he said. Shug lumbered out of the back seat and sat down by the car.
Pulling Shug by the search leash, Larson slowly approached the black truck. He recognized it as Johnny Lee Grover’s. Then Shug perked up and proceeded to go berserk, smelling something dripping from the back of the pickup. Goose bumps covered Larson’s neck and arms as he took deliberate steps closer to the truck—a flashlight in one hand under his drawn pistol in the other.
Larson slipped up to within reach of the truck. Shug tensed, the fur on his back rising. Larson shined the light into the bed of the truck. A body was covered from the chest up with an old hunting jacket. Larson’s hands shook as he reached in to remove the jacket. He dry-heaved when he saw Johnny Lee’s ashen face, his right eye partially open, looking at him. The body was caked in blood.
Without calling Shug, Larson raced back to the cruiser to report what he had found.
R.C. pushed to cover as much ground as possible. He stopped on a high spot. He didn’t want to run right into the middle of a dangerous scene. He needed the element of surprise. Tillman caught up with him, cussing his shoes. R.C. was wearing work boots. Tillman had on fancy dress shoes. They were ruined. R.C. turned off the flashlight and listened.
“Do you hear anything?” Tillman whispered between breaths.
“No, not yet,” R.C. answered. “How far is Seventeen?”
“Maybe two miles; a little less as the crow flies,” Tillman answered, trying to catch his breath.
R.C. thumped his can of Copenhagen, reached in, and pinched a dip. His lip pouched out as he stood thinking.
“You think whoever fired those shots has Elizabeth?” Tillman asked.
“I don’t know. With that pickup truck gone, it’s very confusing. There are several ways that truck coulda gone. And, as I think about it, we don’t even know how many people or vehicles are involved. Elizabeth might have been taken away in some other truck or car when I found Tanner.” R.C. spat. “If Tanner had been there for two hours before I found him, then Elizabeth could be in Birmingham by now.”
Tillman sighed and looked off into the woods.
R.C. continued, “But those shots are giving me the chills. Nobody should be shootin’ a high-powered rifle this time of year, at this hour. I feel it in my bones that it’s all somehow connected.”
“Yeah, I agree.”
“Come on. Let’s go,” R.C. said, checking his compass.
They started off again in the direction of the shots, limbs slapping their faces as they hustled through the dense underbrush. R.C. was pleased that Tillman was keeping up. They picked up the pace when they entered an open hardwood bottom.
Drenched in sweat and nearing exhaustion, Jake stopped, then eased both girls down to the ground. Every muscle in his body burned and ached. He had run half a mile through the thickest woods he had ever seen. He couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He thought he was going to have a stroke. Jake stood bent over with his hands on his knees looking behind them.
He was still mulling over the plan—the inspiration of which was his favorite African hunting story. He didn’t know if the story was even true, but it was the best idea he could come up with. He also knew that if he made a mistake in executing this plan, it would have deadly consequences for all of them.
“Elizabeth, can you walk some without the crutch?” he asked.
“I’ll try,” she said.
“You can lean on me,” Jake offered.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Listen, I have a plan, but y’all are gonna have to do exactly what I say when the time comes…no arguin’, OK?” Jake looked at each of them. They both nodded in agreement.
“Come on,” he said, picking up Katy and holding out his arm for Elizabeth.
They took off down a logging road, purposely leaving tracks a blind man could follow. Jake moved as fast as he could while searching the woods for the right tree. They’re all too small, he thought. While they struggled deeper into the swamp, Jake continued to think through his plan. I’ve only got two shells. Two opportunities. I have to be close. Are there more than two guys after us? He wondered. It would be just like calling in two big old gobblers—letting them walk in as close as possible. Jake had done it before. His toughest challenge was to remain unseen.
After another three hundred yards of hobbling down the logging road, laying tracks, Jake saw the tree—a giant water oak with large limbs and a huge canopy. It was enormous. It had to be over a hundred years old. The tree had just started to put out new leaves, and the massive limbs hung level over the road. Jake kept Elizabeth moving past the tree for another hundred yards or so before he stopped and put Katy down. He looked back in the direction of the giant tree. This is far enough. He hoped.
“OK, y’all listen and no arguments. I want y’all to hide behind those trees right over there. Sit on the other side. Take my flashlight, but do not, and I mean do not, turn it on unless it is ab
solutely necessary. If you hear a shot, don’t run unless you hear me yell at you to run, and then run that way,” he said, pointing in the direction they were facing. “Highway Seventeen can’t be much farther. Run until you hit it.” The girls didn’t say a word; so, he continued. “Y’all sit still. I’m gonna get these guys. I need to hurry, and I need y’all to sit quiet and wait on me, OK?”
“Dad?” Katy was tearing up.
“No, Katy,” Jake cut in before she could finish. “I need you to be a big girl and help Elizabeth. Please. I know what I’m doing.” He was about to choke up himself.
“Elizabeth, please watch her. Y’all stay together. Don’t freak out if you hear shootin’, all right? In fact, expect it. I’m going to get us out of here one way or another.”
“Yes sir.” Elizabeth could see how serious he was and could hear it in his voice. She also could tell he was scared.
Jake grabbed Katy and hugged her as hard as he ever had in his life. “I love you, Katy.” He wanted to say more but couldn’t. He swallowed hard. “I’ll…I’ll be back in…one hour at the most. Please be quiet—just like when we deer hunt. Okay?”
Katy couldn’t speak.
“You gotta take care of Elizabeth now. OK? She needs your help.” He winked at Elizabeth. She smiled understandingly. He knew Katy liked to feel needed, to have a purpose. “You’re in charge now.”
Katy wouldn’t let go.
“Come on, Katy, please.”
She finally loosened her grip.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
Jake watched them walk away. He knew they would hide in the right spot. Katy was great at hiding. He turned off the logging road, walked about twenty feet out into the woods, and then he hurriedly made his way back to the giant tree, staying off the logging road. He thought of Peter Capstick’s story about the leopard waiting in the tree over his tracks for the unsuspecting hunter. That was Jake’s plan.
The stalkers would be looking for them on the ground. Jake would surprise them, but they had to be close. His white arms and face would stand out, almost glowing, in dark woods, so at a mud puddle he rubbed sludge on his exposed skin. When he arrived at the giant oak, he saw that he was going to have problems reaching the first limb. Other than that, the tree was perfect. He listened for sounds of them approaching. Satisfied that he had some time, he silently unloaded his shotgun.