by Bobby Cole
Once he was standing over John Allen again, Runt kicked him in the stomach as hard as he could. “That was stupid!” he yelled down at him. “You can’t fight me!”
“Untie me!” John Allen screamed.
Runt unlocked the boat and pushed it off the bank into the dark water of the creek. A two-and-a-half-foot water moccasin that had been under the boat slithered into the water and floated, staring at the men, as if it were made of Styrofoam.
“Now get your ass in the boat,” Runt commanded as he tossed the shovel into it, “or I’ll shoot you in the back of the head right now.”
Convinced he meant it, John Allen crawled on his knees to the edge the boat and fell over the bow into it. The small boat heaved and shook from his weight, and the aluminum was warm to his skin. With his weight driving the bow into the water, the stagnant rainwater that had gathered in the boat flowed around and underneath him. He didn’t care about anything but trying to find a way out of the situation.
As Runt stepped into the rear of the boat, a flash of lightning illuminated the woods. The clap of thunder was immediate, and a few sprinkles began to fall. The weight change forced some of the stagnant water to return to Runt’s end.
John Allen prayed for the fresh rainwater to fall on him. The sky was now dark. He lay on his back, looking up and wondering how he’d gotten himself into this situation. I’ve got to be more careful, he thought, then laughed out loud.
Runt was busy priming the motor by squeezing the bulb in the fuel line. “What’s so damn funny?”
John Allen could see him standing and wished for the strength to stand up and attack him again, but he didn’t have it in him. He smiled at Runt and managed to say, “You wouldn’t understand.”
On the third pull, the motor started, and Runt revved the engine for no good reason. Smoke from the engine boiled up, and Runt looked eerily happy. He gunned the motor one more time, then twisted the handle and engaged the motor into forward gear.
The boat motor was so loud that neither man could hear the frantic female voice just over a hundred yards away, yelling at them to stop.
Chapter 34
The Neshoba County Sheriff’s dispatcher’s phone was ringing wildly. The thunderstorm carried straight-line winds and was causing damage in the western half of the county. AccuWeather Doppler radar promised it was moving east rapidly, with more of the county about to be covered in green, yellow, and red.
During all this weather-related churn, the dispatcher was trying to juggle the few deputies she had to cover everything when she took a call from the head of security of the Choctaw Nation about an FBI agent headed to a hunting club near the Nanih Waiya mounds who needed support. She’d just said she’d do what she could when an Agent Garner from the FBI called and said they were en route to the mound area and requested that a pair of deputies join them. She started to panic. It was rare that the FBI called. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time, and now that they had, there wasn’t enough manpower to cover everything. The sheriff himself was helping a family whose roof had blown off, and a child was missing. Two other deputies were directing traffic where a chicken house had been destroyed by winds and freed three thousand future KFC two-piece meals to run across a busy road. The rest of her officers were at Lake Pushmataha. They should be able to help but were just too far away to have any immediate impact.
The mound was in the northeast corner of Neshoba County, near the county line. She tried getting the neighboring Winston County sheriff to help her, but they had their own storm-related problems. The winds had blown down trees, and power was out in the heart of the county. They were assisting homeowners and trying to make certain no looting occurred.
The dispatcher told her sheriff what was occurring, and he promptly encouraged her to light a fire under the deputies who were loading the boat. He would break free as soon as he could.
The Neshoba County Sheriff’s dispatcher didn’t have to be told anything twice.
When Emma heard the first screams, she wasn’t certain what she was hearing, but she headed in that direction anyway. The falling darkness had allowed her to move fast without worrying about calling attention to herself. Still, thunder and wind had made it hard to hear, and her training had forced her to approach the trailers with caution.
When she’d heard the screams again, she was seventy-five yards from the trailers, and she took off running. Then the screaming had cut out again. Not knowing exactly where the sound had come from, all she could do was begin clearing the trailers as she’d been trained to do. With a flashlight held under the shotgun forearm, she fearlessly kicked in the door to the first trailer.
Methodically she cleared each old trailer, then the skinning shed. Her mind was processing what she was seeing, but she was solely focused on finding John Allen. Her breathing was labored from the recent sprint down the road, and her brain was frazzled from trying to anticipate what was in the darkness before her. The longer it took to find John Allen and Walker or whoever had him, the more intense her adrenaline rush became. Emma tried to suppress the growing anxiety that she was walking into a trap.
She stood looking back at the old trailers she’d cleared. Next to them was Runt’s worn-out truck. The door to a shed was barely open, and she carefully cleared the structure. Giant pine trees swayed back and forth in the wind, and drops of rain began to fall. She’d relied upon the proven tactic of the silent approach as she’d advanced on the camp, but now she was past wanting to be silent. She didn’t know where they were, and she didn’t care whether they knew she was here.
Where the hell are they? They’ve got to be here somewhere!
With her flashlight she searched every crevice and dark corner. They had to be hiding, was the only thing she could deduce. Nothing made sense until she heard the outboard motor crank. Lightning flashed, and turning toward the sound, she could see a man in an old boat, pulling away from the creek bank.
Another flash, and she saw a foot hanging over the side of the boat. Someone else was in the boat. It had to be John Allen!
Running down the hill, she identified herself and hollered for them to halt. There was no telling whether she was being ignored, or whether they could even hear her over the boat’s motor. As the boat started down the creek, she clearly saw John Allen lying in the front. It was too far for a shot with her pistol, and if she tried to use her shotgun, John Allen was lined up behind the target and could be hit. Besides, this wasn’t the Wild West. Even if she had a clear shot, she couldn’t just open fire unannounced. She had training, and there were protocols she needed to follow. She had to fight to keep her feelings for John Allen from changing how she handled the situation.
She stood in the wind and rain and watched the boat leaving. The man driving the boat had never given any indication he’d noticed her or heard her shouting at him.
“Dammit!” she yelled to no one but herself.
Her analytical mind started processing the situation. The man in the boat didn’t look anything like Winston Walker. Where was Walker and his vehicle? Where could the man be taking John Allen?
Suddenly she remembered the “Bridge Out” sign. There was access to the creek down the road a few miles in the direction the boat was headed. She took off running.
She had three-quarters of a mile to run back to her vehicle, then those miles to drive to that bridge. There was every chance she might not make it in time to intercept them.
She stopped and pulled out her cell phone. Once it was ringing, she took off running again.
The wind and rain in Runt’s face only served to excite him. The nasty weather ensured that no one would see him as he worked his magic to build John Allen’s grave in the mound. He didn’t mind working in the mud at all. It just made his job easier.
He relished the irony of hiding an agent for the Indians in the mound that was so spiritually sacred to the Choctaw Nation. The idea that their own rules, beliefs, and laws would prevent this guy from ever being found made him laugh.<
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No light was needed to navigate the winding creek since he knew the run like the back of his hand. The water shined in the darkness, and it was easy to follow its path. Runt throttled the old outboard but was careful not to run too fast and run aground or into a stump. The creek was about twenty yards wide and growing slightly wider as they traveled south. There were giant oak and cypress trees lining the bank and leaning over the water. They were the only witnesses to what was occurring, and they would never talk.
Runt smiled at the setting. Winston had taught him that Nanih Waiya meant “leaning tree.” They were in the Nanih Waiya Creek and headed to the Nanih Waiya Mound. Runt exhaled and enjoyed the beautiful boat ride in the darkness. The leaning trees seemed to be reaching out and protecting him.
John Allen stared at the sky and watched the lightning flash. Every part of him was sore, and without his hands to help him sit up, he was forced to just lie in the position where he’d landed. Runt had kicked him in the ribs, and he was sure something was broken, but that was the least of his worries. He knew Runt intended to kill him. The water scared John Allen since he realized that if he fell in, he wouldn’t be strong enough to swim even if he had the use of his arms. He was running out of time and was out of ideas. He dropped his head back onto the bottom of the wet boat and did the only thing he could. He prayed.
Runt was passing landmarks and expertly steered the boat down the creek. He had about two miles of winding creek to navigate and took the time to think about his plans. They were straightforward and all but foolproof. He would beach the boat close to the mound and make John Allen walk to the grave. Then he would kill him and bury him in the mound. He would take meticulous care to return the mound to its original state. After that he would navigate back to the camp and clean up there before returning home.
When Agent Garner received Agent Haden’s phone call, she was out of breath and running. He placed the call on speaker so everyone in the car could listen. The group hung on every word, hearing her rapid footsteps and the anxiety in her voice as she explained the situation.
One agent frantically worked his iPad’s satellite map to locate the scene so he could offer her advice, while the rest could only sit there. They all knew they were at least twenty-five minutes away.
“Got it,” said the agent with the iPad, pinching out its screen to zoom in. “Emma, you’re right; there’s an old bridge that goes across that creek. It’s hard to say how far, the creek winds back and forth. You’re sure they’re headed south?”
“I’m positive!”
“If you get lucky and beat them, they’ll have to pass right under you.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Emma, we’re twenty minutes out, but we’re burning up the road!” Agent Garner said.
“Dammit,” Emma said under her breath.
“Be careful, that bridge looks really old,” the agent with the iPad said as he zoomed in closer. “It’s one of those old metal ones that has overhead beams.”
“Where could they be going?” Agent Garner asked, and no one knew the answer.
“I don’t see anything that looks like it could be a destination,” the agent with the iPad said. “If she misses them at that bridge, there’s one more a mile farther down, right before that Indian mound. It’s on the main road.”
Agent Garner nodded. “Emma, did you copy that? There are two bridges. The second is a mile or so farther down the creek.”
“Roger!”
“Emma, listen to me. Use a silent approach. Set up in the shadows and observe. We’ll have other agencies help us surround them. I want you to be careful. We don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want you to get into a dangerous situation alone. We’re on the way. I’ll call the locals and see if they can get there faster!”
Emma was approaching her vehicle, running on pure adrenaline. With one quick step up, she was over the rusted fence and scrambling for her car keys.
“Emma, do you copy? Set up and observe!”
“Copy that!” she said. She understood her instructions, but that didn’t mean she’d follow them.
At the car she paused to catch her breath and listen. She couldn’t hear any vehicles approaching, but the wind and rain and her heavy breathing would’ve made it almost impossible for her to do so. She opened the door and tossed her shotgun muzzle first onto the passenger floorboard. The engine roared to life, and gravel flew as she reversed away from the gate.
All over Neshoba and Winston Counties, deputies were being advised of the situation developing on Nanih Waiya Creek. The dispatchers didn’t know many details, but they understood an FBI agent was requesting backup for a possible kidnapping scenario. As their counties were being ravaged by the storm’s straight-line winds, everybody had their hands full and had to make decisions. Officers engaged in serious situations were forced to stay where they were, while others made beelines to assist. The radio chatter was constant as they tried to determine what assets were needed where.
Chapter 35
Once Emma got settled on the gravel road, she punched the gas again. The windshield wipers slapped rain out of her view and revealed the orange, reflective BRIDGE OUT sign she’d glimpsed earlier. Within just a few bends in the road, the skeleton of the bridge appeared in her headlights, and she slid to a stop in the gravel.
If she were in a government-issued car, she would have taken a few seconds and radioed in her position. But she was in her personal car and did not have that luxury. Besides, though she was alone, she knew the cavalry was on its way.
Normally protocol saves lives, adding clarity to murky situations, and she had always followed the imprinting her training had left on her. Tonight, though, her feelings for John Allen and her fear that she was already too late to save him were flooding her mind. Protocol didn’t stand a chance. She cut the headlights and engine, grabbed her shotgun, and ran toward the bridge with all her senses highly focused. She hoped to hear the boat motor. She hoped her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she would be able to see the wake of the outboard as it approached.
Once on the bridge, she would figure out her next option.
As she approached, she heard or sensed a movement in the brush and quickly pointed her shotgun at the silhouette of a deer that appeared as startled as she was and bounded on across the road. It stopped, and she imagined it was looking back at her before it made one more leap and disappeared.
The bridge must have been built eighty years ago. It was a one-lane, metal, truss-style structure that at one time had wooden slats for cars to ride over. This bridge had been out for a good long time. Emma stood in the darkness and peered across it. Most of the boards were gone, and the rain would certainly make the remaining skeletal boards slicker than usual. She would not have wanted to attempt to cross the bridge in the daylight, much less at night in the rain. Now it was all she could do not to sprint out onto it.
She needed to traverse about forty yards to reach the center, and that was her goal. Like a gymnast on a balance beam, she picked a path and began placing one foot in front of the other. Under her breath she cussed the nighttime but was at least proud of her choice of shoes for the day.
The shotgun made balance difficult until she put both hands on it and held it out in front of her. She saw weeds and small trees growing on the structure. How many years had it been since it had been condemned?
Ten yards in, she’d gained some familiarity with the boards. The key was to always have a beam of the metal frame under them, as she knew many had to be rotten. She was able to pick up the pace for several strides, then encountered a nearly board-free stretch that required her to balance along her beam. Looking down as she moved, she could see the outline of vegetation and the blackness of water, and she knew she was over the creek’s edge.
As Emma arrived at the center of the bridge, she estimated it was at least thirty feet down to the water. Presuming the water had some depth to it at midstream—and it appeared to, as no white water showed itself
in darkness below her—she could jump if she had to. As a kid visiting relatives at Lake Martin in Alabama, she’d been a daredevil and had jumped off Chimney Rock multiple times. That was much higher than this, but the depth was tested there, and she was much older now. She hadn’t jumped off anything since she was a teenage tomboy.
The continuing silence of the night made her wonder whether she had missed them, or whether perhaps they’d stopped someplace before reaching this point. Now she doubted every move she’d made and was second-guessing each decision. Grabbing her phone and taking care to conceal it behind a metal post, she texted On bridge waiting to Agent Garner. So up to this point, anyway, she was obeying his instructions.
She wiped the raindrops off her screen and placed the phone back in her pocket, then squatted next to the post. Lightning flashed in the distance, and she considered what would happen if it struck the old bridge. This did not bear thinking about. Her shotgun and pistol gave her confidence against bad guys, but not against Mother Nature.
A thunderclap coincided with Agent Garner’s return text—Which bridge?—and she didn’t hear the ping.
Runt rounded a corner, idling quietly to navigate around some stumps that were known to tear up boat props if you weren’t careful. As he turned onto the straight run to the bridge, he saw a dim light on the skeletal structure.
This had no place in a rainstorm. On a normal night it could’ve been someone lighting a cigarette or baiting a hook, but not tonight.
Runt took the engine out of gear while he studied the light. It wasn’t shining out; it was illuminating a face.
Runt had no idea whom it could be. He didn’t have a reason to feel threatened, but he had enough paranoia in him to be concerned.