by Glenn Trust
“He’s coming back.” Bud Thompson spoke quietly as he reached for the rifle in the back seat. His eyes moved around the horizon following the sound of the plane. The pilot had cut the lights, making the plane invisible in the night sky. “He’s circling to make another pass.”
Puckett nodded and opened the SUV’s door, taking the twelve-gauge from behind the seat. The two men waited in the dark beside the SUV, listening as the plane circled. It was ahead of them now, and the engine noise grew louder as it approached. Puckett smiled at the thought of the surprise the pilot would have when he passed this time. Thompson just stared into the sky in the direction of the plane.
“Bought you some time, Andy,” Rince said into the portable radio.
Andy lifted the mike from the pickup’s console. “How’s that, Rince?”
“Doesn’t matter, just hurry. They’re stopped right now, but they won’t stay that way for long.” Rince dropped the radio and focused on banking the plane and lining up with the road for another pass.
“Rince, whatever you’re doing, be careful. These guys are not playing.” There was no response. “Rince!” Andy dropped the mike and pressed the accelerator.
The two men waited, kneeling on each side of the SUV, listening to the sound of the approaching plane. The landing lights came on, and they raised their weapons to their shoulders.
Bud Thompson fired first, working the bolt quickly and smoothly until he had fired all five rounds from the rifle’s magazine, aiming each round at a point above the landing lights where he figured the cockpit windshield and pilot would be. Rodney Puckett waited until the plane was within a couple of hundred yards before he pumped five 00 buckshot rounds in quick succession into the aircraft’s body as it passed over them. The two men watched it disappear into the night flying level at about thirty feet above the road. They had no idea if they had hit anything, but it appeared that the pilot had had enough. Staring into the dark, searching for some sign of the plane, they could barely distinguish its disappearing rear profile as the night swallowed it.
The sudden glare of the bright headlights and spotlight startled and blinded them. The approaching vehicle had turned them on suddenly, illuminating the two men and the surrounding area. In the noise of the firing and the engine of the plane, they had not heard the vehicle approaching. The driver had kept the lights off until he was within a couple of hundred yards.
Watching the action up ahead, Andy saw the gun flashes as Rince’s Cessna passed over the two killers. For a moment, the plane dipped as if it was coming down on the road. Andy prepared to brake, but then it rose again. Leveling, it passed directly over Andy in the county pickup. He didn’t know whether to be pissed or grateful for the wiry little pilot and resisted the urge to pick up the radio and give him a lecture. They both had their hands full at the moment. Instead, he just shook his head. Whatever else people might think about the quirky, slightly strange pilot, the son of a bitch had courage.
Turning the headlight switch on, Andy put the high beams on and then took hold of the handle that controlled the spotlight mounted to the pickup’s driver-side doorpost. He pointed the beam of light into the eyes of the tall, thin man on the left, who was apparently the driver of the SUV. A small smile crossed his face at their apparent surprise. His foot depressed the accelerator further, and the pickup’s engine revved faster as he bore down on the two men. Scrambling to get back into the SUV, they were spotlighted like rats scurrying to find cover in a trash can when the porch light comes on.
Their vehicle was turned slightly off the road, its right tires partially on the bank of the causeway that dropped into the marsh below. Racing towards them, Andy saw that the big man on the right was limping. He held to the side of the SUV as he stepped down the bank of the causeway to pull open the passenger door.
Outnumbered and outgunned by the two killers, Andy had only seconds to make his decision before confronting the men. The State Patrol and county deputies were still miles away.
The killers were part of a conspiracy that had resulted in the deaths of at least four of the ‘Term Limits’ targets, plus Mrs. Crandall, Ray Cross and Ronnie Kupman today. Sharon Price was gravely wounded and fighting for her life, and the odds were not in her favor.
He could not…would not…risk losing the two killers. Too many people had paid too high a price for him not to see the hunt through to its conclusion. He had seconds to make his decision, but it only took him one.
Angling the pickup towards the SUV on the edge of the causeway bank, Andy Barnes braced himself. Holding firmly to the steering wheel and gritting his teeth in anticipation, he saw the SUV grow until it filled his windshield. It looked like a silver gray metal wall.
Coming almost even with the SUV at sixty miles per hour, he turned the wheel sharply to the right. The tall, thin man had managed to get behind the wheel of the SUV. He threw his arms up in surprise as the pickup impacted the driver’s door at an angle. Everything went white as the pickup’s airbag exploded in Andy’s face. The slamming roar of metal grinding and buckling against metal filled the cab. Then all was silent.
Standing on the bank, below the level of the road, Big Bud Thompson had just made it to the passenger door and was struggling to pull it open. He never saw the pickup that ended his life.
Thompson was injured immediately. Bones in the arm and hand that had been working to open the door, several ribs, and the good leg that was bracing him as he stood on the causeway bank snapped instantly as the pickup struck the SUV and slammed it into Thompson.
Thrown to the bottom of the bank, Thompson landed on his back in four feet of marsh water. Painful as they were, he would probably have survived his injuries to face trial for his part in the murders. But the impact had flung the SUV down the bank of the causeway to the marsh below. Sliding, and then rolling on its side down the bank, it eliminated the possibility that Big Bud would survive.
Pinned to the muddy marsh bottom by the SUV, Bud struggled to pull himself out from under the vehicle. Even his enormous strength could not move the vehicle from his chest.
Holding his breath in the dark, murky water, he twisted and turned in the mud, trying to dig his way out from under the vehicle. Given enough time, he might have succeeded. But Big Bud Thompson was out of time. Oxygen depleted bubbles full of carbon dioxide began escaping his nose and mouth, rising slowly. They rippled the surface of the water gently, unseen as they dissipated in the night the air.
When all of the gases had been expelled from his scorching lungs, Bud continued holding his breath. But physiology soon took over, and Bud no longer had control of his destiny. Within another minute, the breathing reflex overcame him. He gasped.
His diaphragm expanded powerfully, sucking the marsh water into his lungs. His body convulsed. The muscles in his arms and hands tightened and his fingers curled rigidly. The water, teeming with microscopic life, tasted green and muddy. It burned like fire in his nose and sinuses. He tried to exhale, to force the fluid out, but each effort was followed by another gasp filling his lungs and air passages with more water.
What strength remained in his oxygen deprived muscles faded quickly. Bud’s mouth opened, and the green water passed his already full lungs and poured into his stomach. Bud was aware of something slithering past his face, a water moccasin diving under the water in search of a frog or a fish.
The torture ended as his oxygen-starved brain began to shut down. The black world under the water turned bright white for an instant as the neurons in his brain flashed spasmodically with their final, desperate electric impulses. Robert ‘Big Bud’ Thompson was dead.
Pulling his bruised face out of the already deflating airbag, Andy Barnes could not see the SUV. Opening the pickup’s door, he pulled himself out and stood unsteadily on the road. He seemed alone in the night. The pickup’s headlights and spotlight cast a bright glare across the swampy marsh and attracted thousands of insects that beat themselves helplessly against the lenses. He stood for a moment, cleari
ng his head.
Hearing noises down the bank of the causeway, he walked to the front of the pickup. The SUV lay on its side, partially submerged in the water. The tall man was pulling his lanky body out of the driver’s window. He stood up on the vehicle’s side.
Pulling the nine-millimeter pistol from the holster at his waist, Andy held it two-handed in front, sighting on the man as best he could in the dark.
“Show me your hands!”
“You gonna shoot me with that, boy?” Rodney Puckett stood with his right side turned slightly away from the detective holding the pistol. “Pretty long shot with that little piece you’re holding.”
Andy knew he was right. The distance, forty-five or fifty feet to the point where the SUV had come to rest in the marsh, was not very far if you were walking. But pulling the trigger and sending a small, copper-jacketed projectile from the muzzle of a pistol and hitting your target at that range was a chancy thing. He knew the statistics. They had been drummed into him through years of range qualification training. Most police shootings occurred within twenty feet of the suspect, and police officers hit their target only about twenty-five percent of the time.
Real life was not ‘Dirty Harry’ taking down the running bad guy at a hundred yards with a .44 magnum. Real life was fear and adrenaline pumping wildly through your body as you struggle just to hold onto your weapon, much less fire an accurate round at your target. Add to that the fact that Andy had just been in a fairly significant automobile accident, was bruised and banged up, and wanted very much to go home to his family when this night was over, and the outcome of the encounter with the tall man was not a very certain thing.
“I said, show me your hands, asshole.” Andy made his decision. It ended here…now.
Rodney Puckett also knew the statistics. He had made his living, his life, calculating odds and taking advantage of the weak. He looked around the marsh behind him. The sawgrass and brush lit by the pickups lights waved gently in the humid night breeze. His head turned back to the lone officer with the gun. He knew that he would not be alone for long. Rodney Puckett considered the odds and also made his decision.
“All right, Officer. All right. Just take it easy with that thing.” He lifted his left hand in the air. “I give up.”
“Show me the other hand!” The rookie had been worn out of Andy Barnes years earlier. He was focused, intent, and ready.
“I can’t raise it. You broke my arm when you ran my ass off the road.” For a moment, Rodney wondered if he had made the right decision. He edged along, standing on the SUV’s side as if to make it to the causeway bank. But he was committed, and the odds had not changed, yet.
“Turn where I can see your other hand. Do it, now!” They were the words police officers are trained to use in felony stops and takedown procedures. Andy kept his pistol pointed in front. Looking over the sights, he had the uncomfortable feeling the tall man was standing a mile away.
The man turned slightly and smiled. Then whirling and crouching on top of the SUV as he turned, he swung his right arm around. The .45 ACP in his hand barked loudly, sending a round whizzing by Andy’s head.
Andy squeezed the trigger four times rapidly but evenly. The first round sailed completely over the man out into the marsh. The second hit low to the right smacking with a metallic thud into the SUV. The third and fourth hit center mass in his crouching target. Puckett’s fingers squeezed reflexively and a final round discharged from the .45, thudding into the causeway bank as his arm fell. Rodney Puckett crumpled and slid into the black water.
Andy Barnes stood frozen for several seconds as the roars of the gunshots faded into the night. When the only sound remaining was the humming of the night insects, he replaced the pistol in its holster.
Off in the distance, he heard the sound of the Cessna and Rince keeping watch over things. The plane banked and came closer. Across the marsh, he could see the blue and white flashing lights of the backup units racing to his location, led by the radio signals of the little pilot.
Another vehicle came sliding to a stop behind. George Mackey raced out of the Wright’s SUV, weapon drawn. Approaching Andy, he examined the scene and then re-holstered his pistol. He looked down the bank at the overturned SUV and then walked to Andy.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Andy nodded. “Sharon?”
George’s face twisted, the pain obvious as he shrugged. “Don’t know yet.”
Andy extended his hand. Instinctively, the two men pulled each other close in the handshake, embracing. It was not the typical, uncomfortable man-hug that men joked about over beers. It was the embrace of comrades, brothers in arms, who had faced the devil together, and survived.
The State Patrol and county vehicles arrived on the scene in a rush. Spotlights were pointed down into the marsh as deputies and troopers made their way down to find the occupants of the vehicle and begin the process of gathering evidence and documenting events.
Walking a hundred yards down the center of the road, Andy stood in the dark, away from the crime scene activity. The night sky blazed with stars that were invisible in the cityscape of Atlanta. He would see his family again. He breathed the humid air in deeply. It smelled of life.
89. Epilogue
Head sagging, chin on his chest, George’s body rocked precariously on the metal and plastic chair as if he might slide off onto the floor at any moment. The droning hum of the ventilators and equipment surrounding the bed had lulled him into a restless doze as he kept watch over Sharon.
His big arm extended through the rail on the hospital bed and rested on top of Sharon’s. He did not hold her hand, but had laid it gently over her fingers so as not to disturb the tubes leading from the needles in her veins and taped to the top of her hand. It was enough for now just to feel her hand under his and warm the cold fingers with his own.
A nurse came in and checked the IV drip and made notes on a chart. He moved around the deputy who had been at the woman’s side since she had come out of surgery. Unaware of his presence, George slept, head nodding and bobbing as he unconsciously maintained his balance in the chair.
On the other side of the bed, the nurse checked the monitor noting pulse, blood pressure, and respiration on his chart. He looked over at the deputy dozing uncomfortably in the chair.
When they had first brought the woman from surgery, they had tried to explain that he couldn’t stay with her in ICU. The deputy had made it clear that he was not leaving. He wasn’t angry or threatening. He simply wasn’t leaving.
Coming into the room to check his patient, the surgeon heard the nurse explaining the hospital policy to George who seemed unmoved, his eyes focused on the form lying on the bed. Motioning the nurse into the hall, he explained how the deputy from Pickham County, Georgia, and the agent from the GBI had ended up in a Jacksonville hospital. The doctor had been briefed about the events at the cabin in the swamp. An Agent Shaklee from the GBI had called and explained that the patient had no next of kin and that, in light of the attempt on her life, Deputy Mackey was assigned to her protection.
Standing in the hallway, the two had watched the deputy pull a chair next to the bed and lay his hand on top of hers. It was unusual behavior for a law enforcement officer assigned to provide security at the hospital. It was also clear that Deputy Mackey would protect the woman lying on the bed, fighting for her life. By mutual agreement, they decided that hospital policy could be stretched slightly.
Completing his update of Sharon’s chart, the nurse went to the small closet at the foot of the bed and took a blanket from the shelf. He walked to the chair beside the bed and gently draped the blanket over George’s shoulders. Then, dimming the lights in the room as he left, he pulled the door quietly shut.
*****
Squinting in the bright light pouring in through the shed door suddenly thrown open, Simon Lee tried to make out the dark form silhouetted in the doorway. The man stood there, just a dark shadow lit from behind, regarding Lee for a fe
w seconds. Stepping forward, he pulled the handcuff key from the ring hanging on his belt and released Lee from the pipe he had been cuffed to since the day before.
“Stand up.”
Lee stood and faced the man. He wore the brown uniform of a county deputy.
“Turn around.”
Lee complied and faced the wall away from the deputy.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
“Aw, man. I been chained up all night. You can’t…”
“Shut up. Put your hands behind your back.”
With a sigh, Lee placed his arms, still tingling from the night’s captivity, behind his back. Strong hands took hold of his wrists, placing the handcuffs first on his right and then the left wrist. As a matter of procedure, the deputy did a quick body search for weapons, then, taking hold of the handcuffs, he pushed Lee firmly towards and through the door into the cabin’s yard.
Squinting again in the morning light, Lee surveyed the area. A black station wagon that Lee realized was a hearse was parked along the opposite side of the cabin. Probably where they had Bill’s body, Lee thought.
A man standing by the cabin returned his gaze and took a step towards Lee. Another deputy stepped forward and stood between him and Lee. He spoke softly but firmly to the man, placing his hand on his chest to restrain him from moving closer to Lee.
Lee knew that the man was Porter Wright. He nodded his head several times and smiled at Wright, raising his eyebrows. You got lucky, man. You got lucky.
Wright returned Lee’s gesture with a stony stare and said something inaudible to the deputy. The deputy simply shook his head and kept his hand on Wright’s chest. The smile never left Lee’s face, but it was bravado. He was very happy to have the deputy between him and Porter Wright.