by Glenn Trust
“Hell of a day, George.” It was a statement of fact.
“Yep. Hell of a day.” George nodded to the GBI agents. “Fel Tobin, this is Agent Shaklee and Agent Price from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. They’re working the murders.” George took another pull from his beer can.
“Sorry, George,” Ronnie said looking to his right. “Should have made the introductions. Just got distracted. Seems like a long time since yesterday.”
“No problem.”
Fel Tobin gave the obligatory head nod to the two agents, smiling with particular interest at Sharon Price. Now this was something different. Sheriff deputies, even the Chief Deputy, stopping by, that was one thing, but the GBI. Well, that was something.
“Workin’ the murders, huh? Get ‘em figured out yet?” Fel was seriously interested. George never talked much about what was going on in the county. And this, well today he had been downright closemouthed about things. But by now, everyone in the county knew about the killings, except Fel Tobin.
“Not yet Mr. Tobin, but we’re working on it. We’ll figure it out.” Sharon Price smiled an affectionate smile at him as if he were an old uncle.
A little embarrassed by her pleasant but steady gaze and not knowing what else to do in response to the pretty girl’s smile, Fel smacked a weathered hand on his bony knee and gave a short laugh, managing to say, “Well, that’s good. That’s real good.” He raised the beer can to his lips never taking his eyes off Agent Price of the GBI. Yep, this was something. Two GBI agents, and one of them a girl. Really something.
George turned his head regarding Fel curiously. Since losing his wife, old Fel did not interact much with the ladies, and he was always taken with any female that showed him any attention. It didn’t take much for him to start acting like a bashful teenager.
“So, Ronnie,” George said getting back to the business that had interrupted their beer drinking. “You didn’t come all the way out here to talk about what a shitty day it’s been. What’s up?” It was the third time he had asked the question, and it resulted in disappointing Fel when the pretty lady agent turned her attention to the deputies.
“Got an assignment for you, George.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“You’ve been assigned to assist the GBI,” Ronnie Kupman shrugged towards the two agents at this side.
“Assist. What does that mean?”
“Means you’re gonna work with them and find the killer.”
“Really?” He turned the beer can on his knee and then looked thoughtfully for a few moments at the dark, wet ring on the denim. “I don’t know, Ronnie…”
“This is not a request, George.” Kupman cut him off. “Take it as an order if you need to, but we need you to focus on this case. You are relieved of all other duties for the duration.” And with that, Ronnie released a cloud of cigarette smoke that hovered over his head as if to settle the matter.
George gazed at Ronnie wondering what he had told the GBI agents about his failures of the night before. He was about to speak when Bob Shaklee settled it for good.
“Look Deputy…George, we realize this must be tough for you. We know that maybe you feel somewhat responsible for some of what happened.” George shot a look at Kupman who gazed back calmly from his wreath of cigarette smoke. The look was not missed by Shaklee who continued, “Look, we’re not stupid. Checking your notes before revealing that you might have seen the perpetrator’s car…well, like I said, we’re not stupid. The bottom line, and I don’t say it as a compliment, it’s fact that most of the evidence and leads we have in the murders came through your efforts. We want this case solved. You want it solved. You should be part of this, George.”
George listened, no emotion discernible on his face. Shaklee looked hard into his eyes and added one final thought. “If you’ve got sins to pay for George, this is how you do it. We’re going to find this killer. You will be part of that.”
The flicker of emotion that darted across the deputy’s face indicated that Bob Shaklee had struck a nerve. Yes, there were sins to pay for. That was surely true.
“Okay. Meet at the office at seven in the morning.” Ronnie Kupman pulled his boot off the porch step and turned towards the car.
There was nothing else to say. The two agents turned and followed. A few seconds later, the sound of the tires receded as the county car returned to Everett.
“Got the fucker.”
George looked up from his beer at Fel’s exclamation. One of the feral yard cats that hung around the place was just visible in the dim pool of light cast across the yard from the living room window. It had apparently successfully stalked and hunted some small prey and was now pinning it to the ground with its paws as it tried to gain a grasp with its teeth. The cat suddenly shook its head ending the struggle of the small animal in its jaws and trotted off across the yard, ignoring the two men on the porch.
Downing the last of his beer in salute to the cat, George tossed the can into the trash crate and headed across the dark yard to his place above the barn.
“’Night, Fel,” he called over his shoulder.
Walking through the dewy grass, the image of the cat with its helpless victim dangling from its mouth remained. If the killer leaving bodies across Pickham County was the cat, what were George and the others? Hunters? Different though, he thought. Hunters don’t think too much about the cat’s prey, they just hunt the cat.
The image of the cat was replaced in his mind by the memories of old Mr. Sims bled out in the gravel and of the girl’s lifeless body thrown away like so much trash. Shaking his head as if to shake the memories out, George stood at the bottom of the barn steps and took a deep breath. To catch this killer, he reminded himself, he would have to focus on the killer, the cat. This was now a hunt, so hunt, George. Find the son of a bitch and there won’t be any more victims.
He plodded slowly up the steps to his apartment over the barn. It would be a restless night, he knew.
59. Pit Stop
The old Chevy pulled up the exit ramp and turned left, crossing the bridge over the interstate. Bouncing across some railroad tracks in the dark, it turned left again so that it was headed south, parallel to the interstate. The car moved smoothly over the sandy road. Ruts and bumps filled in by sand and ground shells made for a soft ride. After a mile or so, he turned the car right onto another dirt road that ran up into a pinewoods. This was logging country, and large tracts of land were owned and planted by lumber companies who harvested the trees and then planted more in their place. For Lylee, it was sufficient that the area was secluded, and that at this time of day, the loggers would all be throwing down beers at some honky-tonk.
The car stopped silently in the soft sand. His head turned towards her, and Lyn cringed as far away from him as she could in the confines of the car.
“Pit stop. I need to take a piss,” Lylee said with a grin. “How about you?”
Eyes wide, Lyn made no sound; unsure if he was serious or if this was just a continuation of the mental torture, or part of his plan, whatever that might be. Young and possessing a naiveté born of her humble, backcountry origins, she was not naïve enough to be unaware that she was in serious danger. This man, who could change so completely in a matter of seconds, was ominous and frightening, and she sensed that her fear pleased him in some way.
He studied her curiously, waiting for some response. After a minute, Lylee shrugged and pushed open the driver’s door. From the front seat, she watched as he walked to the front of the car, unzipped his pants and began to urinate.
She could not see clearly in the moon light, diffused by the surrounding pines, but she could hear the stream splash loudly in the dirt. He arched his head back while the pee flowed. The backlight of the moon caused his narrow, dark silhouette, pointing up to the evening sky, to take on an animal-like appearance. Framed in the moonlight, head back, he reminded her of a picture she had seen of a wolf on a snowy night with its head back, howling at the moon. A shive
r moved uncomfortably between her shoulders.
Finished peeing, he moved toward the passenger side of the car, zipping his pants as he walked. The door jerked open rapidly, and Lyn saw the knife in his hand. A gasp caught in her throat and her eyes widened. “No! No!” The words screamed through her brain, but before she could make a sound, he reached down and cut the plastic tie that held her to the frame of the seat.
“Get out and pee.” His hand took her arm roughly and jerked her up and out of the car.
“I, uh I don’t…,” Lyn started, but was stopped by a short, hard open-handed slap across the face.
“Pee,” Lylee said, still holding her arm with his other hand. “Squat down and pee. I’m not going to have you piss all over my car, so get to it.” Sensing her continued resistance, he took hold of her throat and with one arm threw her to the ground.
Lyn’s face stung from the slap, and she tasted salty blood on her lip. She rolled over on her stomach in the sand and pushed herself up. Squatting, she lowered her jeans and did as he had ordered, trying to be as discreet as possible. The wet splash in the dirt embarrassed her, and she could not help but glance at him. Lylee stood watching her with interest, holding the knife in one hand and tapping the blade in the other.
As she finished, he jerked her upright and pushed her towards the car. Lyn fought for her balance and then squared her shoulders and stood up straight. She walked steadily to the car. She had begun to sense that her continued survival would depend on her ability to walk a fine line between complete surrender to her terror, and her ability to maintain some sense of dignity and identity. She must resist in small ways, but not enough to anger the man. She felt that doing so might result in her immediate death. But completely submitting would result in the same end.
Her understanding of this was completely instinctive, in the same way that a person might instinctively react to a large barking dog by facing it and trying not to show fear or run away. You could not outrun the dog, and when he caught you, it would be worse. Running was not the thing to do, at least not yet. She knew what the result would be if she ran and was caught. Her instinct for survival was not evident to her as even a complete thought. It was a subconscious response to the man and his actions from moment to moment.
For his part, Lylee smiled and felt the thrill burning in him at her ever-so-discreet defiance. He would take his time with this one. Slowly turning that defiance into trembling, quivering terror would be sweet and delicious work.
Lylee guided the car through the pines, retracing their route back to the interstate. Picking up speed down the ramp, they merged anonymously back into the northbound traffic.
60. Limit to a Brother’s Patience
Clay’s arms and legs ached. He became conscious of the discomfort and realized that he had been hunched forward clenching the wheel of the truck as he tensely scanned ahead and around for any sign of an old Chevy. A couple of times he had passed cars that might fit the description, but pulling up beside them, had not seen Lyn or anyone that looked like the man that might have taken her from the truck stop. Dragging himself out of his thoughts and back to the interior of the pickup, he forced himself to relax a bit. Think. He had to think.
The first thought that came to him was, ‘what the hell are you doing?’ It was a legitimate question. He had no better answer for himself than he had for his brother. Lyn might have gone willingly with the man in the Chevy. From what he had learned at the truck stop, it seemed that the man had rescued her from whatever old Henry had planned for her, so maybe he was just offering her a ride north. After all, that was why they had brought her to the truck stop, to find a ride to Canada.
Canada. It sounded silly, childish, but that thought made him feel guilty. Who was he to judge?
Clay remembered the look on Lyn’s face when she had told them about her running away dream. The one she and her brother had constructed. Their lives at home must have been hell. Living in hell might cause anyone to dream a dream that might seem crazy to others not living in hell. He couldn’t really relate to that. Life had been full of hard work for the Purcells, but it was a long way from hell.
Was it unrealistic, maybe even farfetched? Yes, he had to admit, looking at it from the outside. But it was not childish. No, there was nothing childish about the pain and weariness he had seen in her face.
The girl’s dream was a dream of escape. Clay did know a little about that. With the support of his mother and uncle, he and Cy had never suffered. But they knew what it was like to want something more than could be had just scraping by in the south Georgia backcountry. Poverty and hard times were the life they had lived with their widowed mother. He and Cy were working on their dream now, building their business. There had been those who thought they were crazy for striking out on their own.
Canada was Lyn’s dream of escape. In her way, she was trying to achieve that dream, without any help or guidance from anyone. He and Cy had had the guidance of a mother and an uncle. She had none. That thought gave him a deeper respect for her and the Canada dream.
Respect. That was something. Was there anything else there? Some deeper feeling? Sure he felt sorry for her. Pity, but that seemed insulting and the thought made him feel guilty again.
The cell phone on the truck seat rang.
“Hello,” Clay said, knowing who was on the other end.
“What are you doing?” Cy’s voice was calm, without inflection and clearly annoyed that Clay had not called.
“Wish I knew.” Clay had been expecting this call as the distance between himself and Savannah and his brother grew. Taking a deep breath he continued, “She wasn’t there, at the truck stop.”
“Oh. Sorry. I know you were counting on seeing her.”
“No, it’s not that, Cy…something’s not right.”
“Not right? What does that mean?”
“She got in a car with a stranger…”
“Clay, we were strangers this morning. She got in the truck with us. Might be a pattern here, you think?”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t seem right. The voice mail she left was, well, she seemed scared, frightened like something had happened.”
“Something did happen,” Cy was trying to be patient with his brother, but it was a struggle. “She had a bad fight with her father, bad enough that she had to leave for her safety. Then two strangers…you and me…take her to a truck stop in a strange city and leave her.”
“That was because…”
“I know, because she was going to Canada. I know. Sounds silly but I felt for her too, Clay. It was silly but kind of innocent. Couldn’t laugh at something like that. I get it.
But now she is gone. Probably found her ride to Canada, or at least to some place closer than Savannah, Georgia. That’s the way it is.”
Clay was silent, allowing Cy’s words to sink in. They made sense to a point.
“The voice mail, Cy. She was scared, and she trusted us and called. Can’t let that go. She was counting on us because we offered her a place to stay.”
“Clay,” Cy’s voice sounded tired. “We are strangers, and she is a stranger to us. I think you are carrying this too far.”
“I know, Cy. One more thing though. At the truck stop, I talked to some people who said she got into some trouble with a trucker and another fella had to save her. She left with that guy, but no one knew if she left voluntarily.”
“Sooo…?” Cy said, asking for the point his brother was making too slowly.
“So, she was scared. She got into trouble with a trucker who tried to force her into his rig. Another guy comes along and saves her from the trucker. She leaves with him later. But in between, she called us, Cy. She was counting on us being there. She trusted us. I don’t think she has too many people to trust.”
“No, I don’t reckon she does.” Clay could not see the look of complete resignation and even partial understanding flicker across his brother’s face. “Well, I guess you need to do what you’re doing brother. Seems right,
I guess. I’ll keep things going here. You keep in touch,” As an afterthought, Cy added, “Be careful, Clay. We don’t know what this is all about.”
“I will. You too.” The brothers disconnected simultaneously and the road noise filled the pickup’s cab.
Despite the passion of his argument in explaining things to his brother, Clay’s thoughts were a turmoil of emotion. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to make sure Lyn was all right. If she had made up her mind to take the brothers up on their offer, why had she then left with the man in the Chevy? She had had the trouble with Henry. Why would she get into a car with another stranger? If he was the man that had saved her from Henry, maybe she trusted him, but why would she have called Clay? It was a question he could not answer for himself, but the memory of her recorded voice sounding confused and maybe frightened, settled it. At the least, he would have to make sure she was safe. Clay’s head pounded at trying to sort it out any further than that.
An older model Chevrolet Impala got onto an exit ramp up ahead. It was only about ten years old, but Clay didn’t have much to go on. He followed the car up the ramp and into a gas station. Pulling through the station, he watched the car.
The Chevrolet pulled up to the gas pumps and an older couple got out. The man went to the rear of the car to pump gas. The woman went inside the convenience store.
Clay pulled through the lot and back onto the road. Driving down the entrance ramp to the interstate, he accelerated quickly. No telling how many cars had gone by while he had gone up the exit. He had to move quickly to catch up and scan cars as he headed west on I-16 towards Atlanta. The largest city in the state seemed as good a direction as any.
Tools rattled in the bed of the truck. Cy was going to be really pissed if he didn’t wrap this up soon. There was a limit to a brother’s patience.