by Glenn Trust
75. Serious Consequences
Pulling into the gravel lot in front of Pete’s Place, their eyes scanned, searching for the big metallic blue four-by-four pickup. Bill Quince’s truck was nowhere to be seen.
Walking to the front door, Rodney Puckett looked across the road to the StarLite Motel where the two had said they were staying. The lot was empty.
The heavy steel door moved easily under Big Bud’s push, and the two entered the bar, standing for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. Behind the bar, Roy Budroe saw them enter and nodded. He had never met Puckett or Thompson before, and he knew immediately who they were. The message left by Simon Lee had included the description of the men who were to receive the message. Looking at them, Budroe wasn’t too sure how the message would be received, but he was all too happy to accommodate his new patrons.
Puckett and Thompson walked to the end of the bar away from the other customers. It was the spot where Lee had downed bourbon while coming to his decision a few hours earlier.
“What can I get you?” Roy Budroe walked over, wiping his big hands on a bar towel.
“Information,” Puckett said eyeing the owner of Pete’s Place.
“I believe I can help you with that.” A smile parted Budroe’s thick lips.
“Really?” Puckett leaned his elbows on the bar. “What information do you have that you think I might want?” He looked intently into Budroe’s eyes.
Accustomed to dealing with hard men, Budroe returned the gaze steadily. These two, and Lee and Quince, who had been here the last couple of days, were clearly serious men, dangerous men if they had to be. Budroe had more than a little experience with such men. Dealing with them, providing service to them, was his business. Showing fear or apprehension now could have serious, if not deadly, consequences.
He said calmly in his deep, gravelly voice, “A message, from someone you know.”
Puckett nodded, appreciating Budroe’s self-assurance and ability to stand his ground. Not many men were able to do that with Rodney Puckett. “What’s your name?”
“Roy Budroe. I own the place.”
“And the message?”
“Where ya’ll from?” It was the question Lee had instructed him to ask before delivering the message.
Puckett smiled. “Yonder,” he said, giving the signal that the team had agreed upon as the password for situations like this. Always tending to details, Rodney Puckett left nothing to chance.
Budroe nodded at the answer and extended his hand. “Roy Budroe,” he said looking around the dim interior of the bar.
Puckett took his hand in a briefly without giving his name. “What’s the message?”
“Message is, they went to find the man and take care of business. Said you would know what that meant.”
Puckett nodded. He did know what it meant, and he was more than a little annoyed that Lee had not followed his instructions. His face, however, did not betray those thoughts.
“How long ago did they leave?”
“Been a few hours. They seemed in a hurry.”
Puckett smiled. “I don’t doubt it.” He knew that Lee had been stung by his lack of trust in their efforts.
He thought for a minute, looking at the beer posters on the wall behind the bar, and then made his decision. He would give Lee and Quince a little time to make things right. Then go check on matters himself. He owed it to the team that had been of such value to him over the years. If he didn’t, he might lose a valuable resource. In the end, it was a business decision.
“How about a beer?” he said to Thompson, who had stood quietly at his side, saying nothing and hearing everything.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Big Bud stepped up to the bar and leaned his elbows on it beside Puckett’s.
Budroe smiled and bent to take the longnecks from the cooler well behind the bar. He liked to make his customers happy, especially when the customers were men like these. Failing to do so could have serious consequences.
76. “We’ll take care of it.”
Seated at a table in Fran’s Café beside the front window looking out across Everett’s courthouse square, George Mackey and Andy Barnes munched burgers and sipped their Cokes quietly. It had been a busy day.
Barnes had started his day in Atlanta, flown on the small Cessna to Everett, and then had been immediately sucked into a local murder investigation. His mind swirled, trying to process everything that had happened in the task force investigation in the last forty-eight hours.
Mackey had begun his day in the arms of a woman he knew only professionally and not at all personally, until yesterday. Now, her memory lingered as he tried to focus on the investigation and on the Crandall murder. Like everyone in Everett, he had known the Crandalls, or knew of them, for most of his life. Small towns were like that. But his thoughts kept drifting to a cabin somewhere out in the swamp country where Sharon sat watch over the Wright family. The harder he tried to focus on the matters at hand, the more his mind seemed to slip into memories of the night before and the feelings tugging at him. Feelings he had not felt in a long while.
The phone in Andy’s pocket vibrated. He answered.
“Yes?”
“Can you put me on speaker?” It was Perry Boyd.
“We’re eating.” George looked at him chewing his mouthful of burger. “Let us pay the bill and we’ll call you back in five from George’s pickup.”
“Okay.” Boyd disconnected.
Seated in the pickup five minutes later, Andy put his phone on speaker and redialed the number Boyd had called from.
“Have some information for you,” Boyd said without any preliminaries.
“What’s that?”
“Freddy Hurst tracked down the name of one of the killers, we think. Name is Rodney Puckett. Confirmed by Perkins.”
“Right. So what’s that got to do with us?”
“We think Puckett is on his way to Pickham County.”
“Looking for the Wrights?”
“Probably. At least that’s our best guess.”
“Fuck.” Andy said what George was thinking. “Got any description on him?”
“Yeah, tall, thin white male. Probably six feet four or more in height. No facial hair. No scars or tattoos.”
“All right. We’ll keep a lookout for him.”
“Yeah. There’s more, Andy. There’s at least three other killers. Another tall guy, but this one is big, heavyset, muscular. Goes by the name of Bud or Big Bud. He may be with Puckett. They’ve been working together according to Perkins.”
“Okay, and the others?” Barnes and Mackey were making notes in their pads as Boyd spoke and gave them the bad news.
“Another big white guy, known as Quince. About the same size as Big Bud. We’re tracking down everyone with that name, sorting for criminal histories. Haven’t come up with anything yet.
“Anyone else?” Barnes looked over at George, waiting for and dreading the answer.
“Yeah. One more. Quince works with a black male, six feet, short hair, clean shaven, goes by the name of Sim, like Simon, but shortened. Sim is the brains, and Quince does what he is told. They’ve worked together for a while. Perkins got brought in just recently.”
“Geez, Cap. Anymore good news?” Andy expressed the concern that he and George were both feeling. Things were piling up in Pickham County.
“Yeah, the good news is, they haven’t killed anyone in the last few hours…that we know of.” Boyd let that statement sink in for a few seconds before adding, “The bad news is, we know Puckett is headed your way, probably accompanied by Big Bud. The other two, Lee and Quince, may be in the area also. Don’t know for sure, but it makes sense.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, you boys be careful down there, Andy. The shit is about to hit the fan.”
Andy and George sat quietly absorbing that admonition when Bob Shaklee came on the line for the first time. “We’d send you some help, but we’re tapped out up here. It s
eems that things are about to break loose, and we may be onto the lead conspirators, but we still don’t know who they are and who we can trust. I hate it, but we have to ask you two and Sharon and Ron Kupman to handle things until we get it sorted out. May take another day or so. Can you take care of things there?”
“We’ll take care of it.” George’s voice was hard and certain, drawing a curious look from Andy Barnes.
“Something you should know, George.”
“What’s that?” he asked with a wary voice. The call had not been a particularly inspiring one to this point.
“According to Perkins, Puckett was down in Pickham taking care of some reporter, as he put it, when the killings started.” Shaklee paused, knowing what George’s reaction would be. “Rodney Puckett is probably the one who ran down Timmy Farrin, George.”
Still watching, Andy saw the look on George’s face harden a notch more. “Puckett,” George said simply, as if testing the name and how it felt and tasted coming out of his mouth. “Rodney Puckett.”
“Protect yourselves, but don’t do anything unnecessary, George,” Bob said. “Just keep an eye on things until we know what is going on and who is behind it. Then we will get you all the help we can down there. We’ll get Puckett, George, but let’s not lose anyone else getting him.”
George said nothing, so Andy spoke. “Understood. We’ll keep an eye on things, Bob. But get us that help as soon as possible. Lots of possible scenarios down here and none of them good.”
“As soon as we can.” Shaklee said by way of a promise. “Call with any updates, and we will do the same.” The call ended.
Andy looked over at George, whose hands were on the pickup’s wheel gripping it tightly, eyes looking straight ahead. He seemed lost in thought, or in planning.
“What are you thinking, George?”
Mackey turned his head. “I think I know where we should keep a look out.” He started the truck and pulled away from Fran’s Café on the square.
“Where’s that?”
“Place I know. Place where people like that will go.”
Andy Barnes asked no questions. There were places like that everywhere. Plenty of them in Atlanta. He figured Pickham County had its own too. He trusted George to know where to go to keep an eye on things. It was his turf. He also hoped the boys in Atlanta would figure things out and send some backup down to Everett. He wouldn’t mind a few extra bodies…live ones.
77. Deadly Angel
Sim Lee craned his head out of the big Dodge pickup’s cab and peered through the overhanging trees at the patches of sky visible through the leaves. The small plane he had seen circling earlier was not in sight, but every now and then, he thought he could faintly hear the sound of its engine muffled through the foliage. His eyebrows furrowed at the occasional flashes of sunlight that glittered off the truck’s blue metallic paint into his eyes.
Pulling his head back inside, he looked down at the map Martha Crandall had drawn for them before Quince had smashed the life out of her skull with a swing of the hammer. The truck splashed down through a shallow creek and then climbed the sandy bank back onto the trail.
“Stop here,” Lee said, holding the map close to his eyes and turning it to orient it to the landmarks he hoped he was reading correctly.
“You sure?”
Lee’s head swung in Quince’s direction
“What do you mean?” Sim Lee was not used to Bill questioning his instructions.
“Don’t mean nothin’, Sim.” Quince shrugged. “We got turned around a ways back, had to backtrack a piece. Just askin’. Don’t mean nothin’ by it, Sim.” Quince made his explanation as he brought the pickup to a smooth halt on the sandy trail.
Turning his attention back to the hand drawn map, Lee squinted out the window, looked back at the map and nodded, satisfied. “We get out here. Walk in the rest of the way.”
“Okay, Sim,” Quince said opening the cab door, stepping from the truck and closing it softly, making just the slightest click.
Watching, Lee could not help but wonder how his partner could be so slow about some things and at the same time so careful about others. When it came to actually doing the job, the stalk, the hunt, the kill, Quince did not have to be told what to do next. Stepping from the passenger side, he followed Quince’s example and pushed the door closed gently making almost no sound. The barely audible noise of the door latch catching would not carry beyond the surrounding trees.
Laying the map on the hood of the truck, he pointed to what he figured was their current location. “Here. We’re about here.”
Bill Quince looked over his shoulder peering at the map and the place where Lee’s finger pointed. He nodded his understanding.
“Here is the cabin. Maybe half a mile.” He waited while Quince watched him trace the route to the cabin with his finger. “We go in from different sides. You go in from here, the east. I’ll go in from the other side. Stay in the trees and brush.”
He looked around. Quince gave him another nod. “When we get there, you stay in the brush, out of sight. Watch for me coming out on the other side. I’ll check things out at the cabin. You keep an eye out. You’re my back up, Bill. You got my back.” A final nod from Quince and Lee knew that Bill Quince understood his role and would do whatever might be necessary to protect his partner. He was like Lee’s own personal guardian angel.
Folding the map and shoving it in his pocket, he watched Bill open the truck’s rear crew-cab door. The big man took a Winchester Model 94 30-30 scoped rifle from a case on the back seat. He gently closed the door again, and then just as gently worked the rifle’s lever with his right hand bringing a round into the rifle’s chamber. His thumb engaged the safety, and he looked up, ready and waiting for Lee to give the signal to start. Sim Lee smiled. Yep, he thought, his guardian angel, a very deadly angel. With a nod of Lee’s head, the two men moved into the brush on opposite sides of the dirt road and began making their way to the cabin.
78. Waiting and Watching
Sharon Price stubbed out her cigarette and dropped it in a trashcan by the cabin’s porch. Opening the front door, she found Porter and Naomi Wright seated at the small kitchen table talking quietly. Their children were seated on the floor in the main room playing handheld video games. The oldest, Roger, about fifteen years old, was seated cross-legged leaning against the old sofa reading a book. He looked up as Sharon walked in. Confusion mixed with concern were etched on his young smooth face. It was a look that tugged at the GBI agent’s heart. He was too young to be worried about the possible attempt on his father’s life and the safety of the entire family.
“Anything?” Porter Wright looked up from the kitchen table.
“Nope. All quiet.” Sharon stood in the living area looking protectively down at the children. “Haven’t seen or heard anything.”
Wright nodded and turned back to his wife. He held her two hands cupped in his on top of the table. Once he had recovered from the shock of seeing his distraught wife and family at the cabin’s door, he had accepted their company gladly and with a sense of relief. Sharon’s explanation that, while his intentions had been good, they would not have been successful in protecting them made him accept their presence more willingly. If they were looking for him, if Porter Wright was, in fact, the next target on the ‘Term Limits’ list, the killers would not stop until they found him. They would have done anything to find him. They would have not hesitated to use his family to find him. It was a concept that a decent person found difficult to accept, but Sharon’s description of events that week had convinced him.
Hearing the faint sound of the Cessna’s engine overhead, Sharon took the portable radio that Ronnie Kupman had given her and went back outside.
“Rince, that you?” she said over the TAC channel, not bothering with the aircraft tail number identification.
“It’s me, Sharon.”
“See anything?”
“No, all quiet right now. Had to go refuel. When I got bac
k in the area the blue pickup was gone, at least I can’t see it. Could be under the tree canopy, but not visible to me.”
“Okay.” She looked at the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the surrounding trees. “How long can you stay up?”
“I’ve got fuel for a couple more hours, just cruising. Won’t be able to see much once the sun goes down, but we’ve got a couple of hours of light still. After that I can refuel and stay overhead to give you some communications capability.”
Sharon nodded. Johnny Rincefield was a good man. “Thanks, Rince. Don’t overdo it though. Don’t want you dozing off and taking a nosedive into the sawgrass. We should be fine.”
Rince answered simply, “I’ll be overhead.”
“Thanks.” Sharon had to admit to herself that the small Cessna circling above did bring a sense of comfort. For now, there was nothing left to do but wait and watch.
79. A Little Overdressed
George wheeled the county pickup into the lot at Pete’s Place and pulled it to the side of the building. Standing by the truck, he and Andy scanned the vehicles parked in front of the bar. Several motorcycles and a couple of beat up pickups were lined up in the gravel. At the other end of the building, George recognized Roy Budroe’s Escalade. Good. The boss was here, and if Roy was around, he would know if there had been any strangers around. Getting him to talk about it was a different matter.
Walking along the front of the building, they pushed the door open and stepped through into the dim, smoky interior of Pete’s Place. Heads at the bar and a couple of tables turned towards the door, eyeing the deputy and detective. The farmers and laborers seated at the tables immediately put their heads back down, studying their beers. They wanted no part of whatever was about to happen.