The Dummy Line Page 10

  Glancing back at Elizabeth, he lusted after her athletic build and long legs. She had dark hair like that of a Cajun girl he had loved once. Seeing her in that black bra and jeans just made it worse. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. To hell with Reese and Johnny…I now got my own business to tend to.

  Sweat knew his injuries weren’t life-threatening. They hurt like hell, but he wouldn’t let them distract him. Four years ago while working as a flunky for a fishing guide near Lake Charles, he had been high and accidentally put the gas nozzle in a rod holder. Fifty gallons later, the transom was full of gas. He cranked up and was idling back to the boat ramp when he lit a cigarette. That’s all he remembered. He had sustained serious burns on his legs and feet, but if he hadn’t been blown into the water, it could have killed him. Since then, the pores of his skin had not functioned properly, so he smelled bad all the time. Shortly after the explosion, his dark-haired girlfriend had dropped him and taken up with an offshore mechanic. As soon as Sweat recovered, he tracked her down and then beat her nearly to death. He had left Louisiana with a taste for abusing women. It was a release he craved. And this little half-naked teenage sorority bitch is just what I need.

  Tiny acted seriously injured so Sweat would leave him alone. He could hear Sweat walking off in the gravel and mud. Sweat had landed several good shots to his ribs, and it burned when he tried to breathe. He got to his knees and thought, I can’t let him hurt that girl. He finally stood and, with no small amount of effort and pain, straightened up. He slowly shuffled to the four-wheeler and painfully swung a leg over the side. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking, watching Sweat walk after the girl. Where’s Reese, and where’s the dude who shot Johnny Lee? He cranked the four-wheeler, shifted into low gear, and eased his thumb on the gas.

  Ollie finally caught up with R.C. as they crossed over Interstate 20. He fell in line and was drafting the same way the NASCAR drivers did on Sundays.

  He spoke calmly into his microphone. “Miz Martha?”

  “I’m here, Chief,” she replied. She was on a caffeine high and a nicotine buzz.

  “Call the Beasley girl’s parents and make sure she isn’t home asleep, please. And don’t scare ‘em. I don’t know how to do it, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “Yes sir,” she replied.

  “R.C.? You copy?” Ollie asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Larson and Shug are on the way. Let’s approach silently.”

  “Sure thing, Chief,” R.C. replied.

  Ollie’s adrenaline was pumping. This was action, although he hated that it involved kids. This was why he had become a cop. He had idealistic notions of actually helping people who couldn’t help themselves.

  Ollie had been driving in silence for almost twelve miles when his radio crackled.

  “Ollie, I got the Beasleys. As you can imagine, they’re pretty shook up. I told them what we just found out and that you were all over it—not to worry. They’re on their way here.”

  “OK…all right…get a Livingston police unit to escort them.”

  “Ten-four. I’ve done it.” Martha typically stayed one or two steps ahead of everybody. It bothered some people. Ollie appreciated her efficiency, which had saved his butt on more than one occasion.

  “Thanks, Miz Martha. As soon as I know anything, I’ll let you know.”

  “Ten-four, Chief.”

  The Beasleys are good folks, thought Ollie. Zach Beasley was a pillar of the community. He attended church every Sunday morning, belonged to the Rotary club, served on the school board, and could always be counted on for a donation whenever needed. The county needed more men like him. He didn’t really know Olivia Beasley that well.

  Elizabeth’s mom had met Zach Beasley at a Campus Crusade for Christ retreat in Panama City. Within fourteen months, they were married and setting up house. After five years of marriage, they had not been able to get pregnant. Olivia started trying fertility drugs. After two years, Elizabeth came along, and they lavished their attention and affection on her. Olivia was never able to become pregnant again; consequently, Elizabeth was everything to them. Their whole lives revolved around this beautiful young girl. From the time she was born, she had always had the best of everything—the best clothes, the best kindergarten, the best bikes, ballet, piano, and more. Elizabeth responded to all the positive stimuli by being a great daughter. Her parents were very proud.

  When Olivia heard the phone ring, she instinctively knew it was about Elizabeth. Elizabeth always came in and woke them up to tell them she was home after a date. She hadn’t tonight. After listening to Martha, she explained the situation to Zach. They both ran upstairs to look for Elizabeth. She wasn’t there. Olivia searched her mind for the last conversation she’d had with Elizabeth about her and Tanner going to Tuscaloosa and then coming back home. She called Elizabeth’s cell phone several times, getting only: “The subscriber you are trying to reach has either turned off their telephone or has left the coverage area. Please try your call again.” They dressed quickly and drove to the sheriff’s office.

  Flying up Highway 17 at ninety miles an hour, the two sheriff’s department cars approached the turnoff. Ollie grabbed his mic. “R.C., take me straight to where you found the kid.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “Miz Martha, where’s Larson?” Ollie asked, totally ignoring radio protocol.

  “He and Shug are about ten minutes behind y’all!” she replied, buzzing like an air-traffic controller.

  “Ten-four.”

  A few minutes later Ollie and R.C. turned onto the Dummy Line and sped toward the crime scene. All Ollie knew was that it was twenty miles long and no one lived on it. He concentrated his attention in areas where the voters were, and the best places to eat.

  Both vehicles slid to a stop with the lights flashing. Ollie got out and stood staring at the truck and Jeep parked ridiculously close together.

  “What’s the deal, R.C.?”

  The Jeep belongs to the Tillman kid. I don’t know about the truck.”

  “Run the tag,” Ollie said.

  “Yes sir, boss,” he replied, expertly placing a fresh dip in his lip.

  Ollie noticed blood on the ground in front of the Jeep. He shone his light on everything looking for some clue as to what had happened.

  “It ain’t got a tag.”

  “What?” Ollie straightened up and looked at R.C. “Well, look through the inside and see if you can find anything.”

  Ollie walked around both vehicles. “Where was the kid?”

  “Right here, kinda down in those weeds a bit,” R.C. said, pointing while walking around to the Jeep. The truck smelled so bad he was looking for any excuse to delay his search.

  “Here’s your flashlight…you must have left in a hurry.” Ollie grunted as he bent down and reached under the Jeep to retrieve it. Ollie took his time looking at everything.

  “Look here, R.C. A nine-millimeter shell,” Ollie said as he kneeled down and stared at the small empty brass cartridge lying in the gravel. Ollie finally had a clue.

  “Uh…well, uh…I’m afraid that’s mine, Chief,” R.C. replied as he reached for his flashlight.

  “What? You fired a round? You never said you fired a shot?”

  R.C. told him the story. The sheriff simply stared at him for a few seconds. Ollie took a deep breath and let it out. Nothing was making sense tonight. He continued his search, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. R.C. was used to it.

  “Quit spittin’ everywhere; you’re contaminating the crime scene,” Ollie growled. “When are you going to quit that nasty habit?”

  “I can’t. I’m too good at it,” R.C. said honestly while shining his light in the Jeep.

  “Chief, look at this!” he said excitedly.

  R.C. held up a small, expensive-looking purse. Ollie looked at the purse and then back at R.C.

  They unzipped the bag, reached in, and pulled out the matching wallet. Ollie took a deep breath
and opened it. There was Elizabeth Beasley’s driver’s license. He clicked off his flashlight, then let out a deep frustrated sigh, and looked up at the stars.

  “This ain’t good, boss,” R.C replied.

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “OK, chunk, you gotta give me a break,” Jake said in a half whisper, setting Katy gently down on the ground.

  Jake’s left arm was starting to go numb. They had only covered about half a mile, but it was around trees and over logs. He could tell he had spent way too much time behind a desk and none in the gym. He jogged a few days a week; at least he tried to, and some weeks he actually did. Most weeks he was too busy; jogging was the last thing on his list. And he ate way too many Krispy Kremes. Jake never counted carbs or calories, and every step he took carrying Katy reminded him of it.

  “Oh, Dad, it’s wet!” Katy whined, standing on one leg in her sock feet.

  Jake reached in his hunting vest and dug around until he found a black garbage bag that he carried but never used. He unfolded it and placed it on the ground. Katy stepped on it. He couldn’t remember why he had originally put it in his vest or kept it—it was always in the way.

  “My legs are soaked,” he replied, as he watched her sit down Indian-style on the bag.

  “Yeah, but you’re used to it,” she shot right back.

  “I have some gloves you can put on your feet. Don’t laugh; at least they’re dry.”

  Katy looked at him like he was crazy and then said, “Sure, I’ll try ‘em.”

  Jake dug around in his vest and found a pair of thin cotton gloves with the extended wrists. They slipped right over her feet and actually fit rather well, though the fingers dangled awkwardly. Katy giggled. She was glad to have dry, warm feet again.

  “We gotta keep those dry; it’s all I have.”

  “Yes sir,” she replied, wiggling her toes.

  Jake punched the side of his Timex. It glowed like a firefly. Over three hours until daylight. Damn. If I ever get out of this mess, I’m takin’ up golf. Nobody robbed a clubhouse and chased golfers all over the course at night. Maybe he’d get serious about fishing. Jake shook his head. I’ve gotta concentrate. I’ve got to get us out of this.

  “OK, Katy, I think we have about another half mile till we reach the field. Can you ride on my back?”

  “Sure. I did at Disney World.”

  “Let’s go,” Jake whispered. He bent down while she crawled up his back. Two years earlier, he had carried her for miles so she could see everything, and he figured he could sure do it again to save her life.

  Suddenly every hair on Jake’s neck stood up straight as he heard a loud hysterical scream off to the west. Chills coursed down his spine. A woman was screaming for her life. And she kept on and on. Katy instantly squeezed tighter around his neck. It was scaring Jake as well. It reminded him of his recurring nightmare.

  “What’s that?” Katy asked in a loud whisper.

  Jake listened, and then he responded, “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s a girl screaming.”

  “Why’s she screaming? Who is it, Dad?” Katy asked excitedly.

  The screaming stopped. Jake stared off in its direction. “I don’t know, honey. I have no idea.”

  They could hear her screaming again, this time more muffled, but it still had terror in it. Whoever it was, she was scared to death. Jake squatted down, picked up his shotgun, and started walking as fast as he could carry Katy in the direction of the screams. He had to help.

  “Katy, hang on and be very quiet,” he whispered over his shoulder. One hand held her arms around his neck, and the other held the shotgun. He decided he was better off without a flashlight even though vines and limbs were cutting his face every other step. Fortunately, Katy was small enough to mostly hide behind his head and shoulders.

  Jake had covered quite a bit of the initial distance when the screaming stopped. He needed to rest and get his bearings. He had taken off in such a rush that he had forgotten the trash bag, so he had to find a log for Katy to sit on. He put one finger to his lips and whispered, “Sssshhhhh.” He stood up and listened intently. Jake thought it wasn’t too far…maybe half a mile, but in the stillness things sounded closer or maybe farther—he wasn’t certain.

  Nothing but silence. Jake didn’t like this at all. Whatever made that girl scream that way had to be evil. I saw evil once tonight and never want to see it again. Jake sat down on the log next to Katy.

  “Is she OK?” Katy asked in a whisper.

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to help her if we can. I just don’t hear anything anymore.”

  Jake knew the direction, but without hearing a sound to gauge the distance, he feared walking up on whatever it was. He needed the element of surprise. He also had Katy, and he wasn’t going to leave her alone. Jake decided to move slowly ahead. He bent down, and Katy again climbed up on his back. He eased off in the direction of the screams. He couldn’t get that sound out of his mind.

  Reese also heard the woman. He tried several times to raise Tiny on the radiophone. Finally, he had heard enough and headed toward the screams. When the screaming finally stopped, Reese quit walking, stood very quietly, and listened—utilizing all his predatory skills.

  Two unique criminally related sounds in one hour—a gunshot on the far west side of the place and the panicked screams of a girl nearby. All this had to be connected. Reese was loving it.

  Jake hated it.

  Sheriff Ollie Landrum stood in front of Tanner Tillman’s Jeep thinking. He had his cowboy hat in his hand and was scratching his balding head. Deputy R.C. Smithson awaited orders that he hoped wouldn’t involve searching inside the nasty-smelling pickup truck. The sheriff was visibly stressed.

  “R.C., please check the truck out for anything indicating who owns it. That truck is the key to all this.”

  “Yes sir,” said R.C. and with a resigned sigh opened up the passenger side door. A cloud of funk filled the air, and four empty beer cans fell out. “He stinks and he drinks cheap beer.”

  “Do what?” Ollie asked.

  “He drinks cheap beer…see? And a lot of it,” R.C. replied as he held up a can of Old Milwaukee, then threw it in the bed of the truck.

  “Yeah, well…keep looking, Columbo,” Ollie said, walking back to his Expedition.

  Picking up the microphone, he radioed into the office. “Miz Martha?”

  “Yes, Chief.”

  “Can the Tillman kid talk or maybe write and tell us what happened?” Ollie asked hoping it could be that simple.

  “Chief, the hospital said he was in so much pain that they knocked him out as soon as he was stabilized. He was beat up pretty bad. He lost several teeth, and his windpipe is partially crushed…and he has some broken ribs.”

  “Son of a….” Ollie began to reply, then exhaled deeply.

  “Chief—and the girl, Elizabeth, she’s an honor student, cheerleader. You name it. She’s a great girl. She isn’t the type to get into any trouble.”

  “Hang on, Miz Martha.” Seeing Elizabeth’s purse again gave Ollie an idea. He opened the purse and looked inside. There it was…a cell phone. He hit Power and it came to life.

  “It wouldn’t work out here, boss. There is a huge hole in cell service in this area. You might get through if you were lucky…but it would be for only a few seconds,” R.C. commented.

  Returning to his search of the truck, R.C. held his nose, “Hey, this might do it. It’s a receipt from a butcher near Camden. They’re a dang good deer processor. You like deer sausage, Chief?”

  “No, R.C., I haven’t had any lately. What name’s on the ticket?” Ollie asked aggravated.

  “Uh…Tommy Tidwell, and it’s got a phone number; actually I think it’s his cell phone number. I know of him…most folks call him Tiny. He’s trouble if he’s with the wrong crowd.”

  “You think if we call he’ll answer?” asked R.C.

  “Not at this hour, and not if he has Caller ID. Give me tha
t, though.”

  “Sheriff?” Martha called.

  “Yes’m?” Ollie’s patience was running thin.

  “The Beasleys will want to know what you’re gonna do,” she said, trying to be prepared.

  “You know procedures,” he said, then added, “Call me the second they arrive. Also, I want you to call a number for me. Don’t use the office line…use someone’s cell. In fact, go to the evidence room; there’s a phone that belongs to that kid we locked up earlier.” He gave her the number. “If they answer just hang up and call me immediately…either way.”

  “Ten-four, Chief.”

  Ollie and R.C. looked up at the same time and in the direction of the sound of a vehicle heading fast toward them. They then looked at each other.

  “Larson,” Ollie said. “I hope. I don’t need any more surprises.”

  About that time they saw the bright blue lights reflecting in the treetops. Larson slowed to a stop and got out. Larson Hodges had been a deputy for five years. He constantly hoped for something big like this to happen. He watched COPS all the time. He read and reread every issue of Police Marksman magazine. Two years ago he had talked Ollie into buying a canine officer. Larson went to Columbus, Ohio, and picked out the dog and trained to handle him. They were constant companions. The German shepherd had been named Luger and was called Lug. Before he got home, Larson changed it to Shug in honor of one of Auburn University’s greatest football coaches, Ralph “Shug” Jordan. Not everybody in western Alabama cheered for the Crimson Tide.

  Of course, Ollie suspected the K-9 Academy had not named the dog Shug, but since it seemed to respond to it, he didn’t say anything about the name. The commands were in German. Initially, both Larson and the dog stayed in a constant state of confusion. After a few weeks, Shug began to understand Southern-flavored German.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff. What can I do?”