The Dummy Line Read online

  “Put on the heavy gray socks,” he said.

  “These?” she said, and he could hear the fear in her voice.

  “Yes, baby.” Jake nodded his head also.

  Jake cranked the truck and checked his gauges. Half a tank of gas. Plenty. They needed to make it to the Dummy Line and get the hell out of there. He guessed he had about twenty miles to reach a county road. His cell phone probably wouldn’t work again until he got back to Highway 17. He wondered about the big mud hole that he knew lay ahead as he dropped the truck into gear and drove forward.

  Jake couldn’t get the image of the shooting out of his mind. He couldn’t believe he had shot that guy. He had no choice, but this was unbelievable. What a nightmare! Deep down he knew he had made the right decision. But still he questioned whether it could it have been avoided. Should he have stepped out of the shadows and shown his gun? He’d never know. Who were those guys? What did they want? Why did Katy have to come on this trip…of all the trips he had been on! Katy, my dear, sweet Katy. He shuddered to think what might have happened to her. Morgan was going to be pissed.

  “Dad, where are my boots?” Katy asked.

  Jake realized he had left them in the camper. “Damn,” he said under his breath. He had placed them in the camper so they would be warm in the morning. In all the confusion of leaving, he’d remembered her clothes but forgotten the boots.

  “That’s OK…I left them in the camper. You won’t need them. We’re going straight to the sheriff’s office,” he said, trying to sound confident.

  Suddenly a long, deeply rutted mud hole loomed in front of them. His headlights would only illuminate part of it. Years of heavy logging trucks had really rutted this part of the road. The planted pine trees lined the edge of the road like a wall, preventing him from going around.

  Jake looked at the hundred-yard stretch of mud. He had no idea how deep it was. He had a winch, so he figured he would try to make it as far as he could, then winch his truck the rest of the way. It was his only logical option. He didn’t know if they were chasing him, but he knew he couldn’t go back the way he came.

  “Fasten your seat belt, Katy, and hang on,” he warned as he lined up the truck on the mud hole.

  Shifting into four-low, Jake decided to try the right side. He punched the gas and did his best to keep the truck headed straight. The mud grips were biting chunks of red mud, slinging it everywhere. He turned on the windshield wipers. Katy covered her eyes with her hands. The truck’s momentum slowed, but they continued to make progress. The ruts pulled them to the left; then suddenly, with thirty yards to go, the frame hung, slamming them to a stop. Jake tried reversing. No use. He cut his tires left, then right—nothing.

  “Katy, I’ve got to get out and pull the winch cable to one of those trees,” he said, pointing down the road. “You stay right here. Everything’s OK. Why don’t you put in your Hillary Duff tape?”

  “I’m OK…can I help?” she asked and meant it.

  “Sure, let me go see what I need,” Jake replied. He had no intention of letting Katy get out of the truck.

  Jake opened his door and stepped into the cold, muddy water. The mud was so deep it nearly pulled off his boots every time he took a step. He ignored the cold. He felt around inside the gull-wing toolbox until he found his flashlight. Then he found the winch control. After slogging to the front of the truck, he laid the controller on the hood. He turned the winch to Free Spool, then started pulling out the cable as fast as he could trudge through the mud. Finally, after wrapping the cable around a tree just past the mud hole, he plodded back to the truck. He inserted the control into the winch, ran the cable over the hood, and threw it in the driver’s side window. Climbing in, he gave the engine some gas, put the transmission in neutral, and then flipped the switch on the winch control. He watched the voltmeter spike and the cable move.

  “Yeah, baby. Yeah! Come on! You can do it!” Jake said aloud, nervously tapping the steering wheel with his hand.

  When Jake realized he was wet from the knees down, he was cold. He turned on the heater and tried to put it out of his mind. Maybe I’ve got some dry clothes in the toolbox, he thought, watching the cable become taut and begin dragging the truck down the road. Jake loved his winch, especially tonight.

  Slowly the truck was being dragged down the road. Jake fought the urge to put it in gear to help out. He feared getting the cable hung up under the truck. He knew this was the safest way to winch out. He kept the truck’s RPMs up to prevent draining the battery. Come on! Hurry! Please hurry. As the truck eased out of the final bit of mud, Jake hopped out and looked back. He could see lights coming through the woods. His heart jumped into his throat. He ran to unhook the winch line from the tree, cutting his right hand on the cable. Without waiting for the winch to rewind the remaining twenty feet of cable, he quickly wrapped it around the brush guard on the front of the truck and jumped in the driver’s seat.

  The headlights were closing in. None of the thugs’ trucks that he had seen would fare any better in this mud hole than his. Gettin’ through that should keep ‘em busy for a while, thought Jake, as he stomped the gas pedal.

  “Tanner, would you pleeeeease put the top up? I can see my breath it’s so cold!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  They were bouncing along the old road listening to John Cougar Mellencamp singing “Jack and Diane.” Elizabeth loved old songs. Tanner knew it. They were enjoying each other’s company and feeling very alive—the way you do when you’re a teenager in love.

  “Sure…anything else?” he asked, braking to a stop. She knew he would do anything she wanted.

  “Nope, that’ll do it…need some help?” She smiled, pulling her fleece jacket a little tighter and putting her hands in the pockets.

  “Nope, I can have it up in a sec. Find us another good song,” he said, jumping out.

  It took Tanner only a few minutes to put up the top and fasten everything into place, including the doors.

  Elizabeth loved his Jeep in the summer or on any warm day; but at times like these, she wished he had a car or a truck. Anything with a solid roof would make her happy.

  Tanner climbed in and smiled at her. “How’s that?”

  “Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  Tanner ground the Jeep’s gears as he tried to find first. Suddenly the Jeep lurched forward as he let the clutch out a little too fast. He loved it when she kissed him. It drove him crazy.

  Elizabeth changed the radio stations and found George Strait crooning “Marina Del Rey.” Tanner couldn’t help but sing along.

  Elizabeth laughed playfully, and when the song was over she said with a serious expression, “A little pitchy in places, but overall you gave a good effort.” She never missed an America Idol episode.

  Tanner smiled as he slowed the Jeep down at the big yellow gate. The gate had a combination lock on it to allow any of the adjacent landowners access. The combination was 1992—the last year Alabama had won a national football championship. Tanner wondered how many gates in the state had that simple combination. He had just swung the gate open when he saw headlights approaching rapidly. Rapidly was an understatement. The vehicle was flying. Tanner looked at Elizabeth. Her head was down as she searched the radio for another song.

  Tanner swallowed hard, and told Elizabeth to look up.

  The recent rain made tracking simple. Reese was careful to stay on the high ground since Johnny Lee’s truck was built for speed, not off-roading. He was confident that Sweat and Tiny would block the Dummy Line. I’m gonna make that sumbitch pay—dearly. Sweat will run him straight to me or I’ll push him to Sweat. Either way he’s dead.

  Reese flipped open the phone and pressed Send.

  Beep-beep. “Yo, dog,” came a whispered response.

  Beep-beep. “Did you find it?”

  Beep-beep. “I’m in the backyard right now; that’s why I’m whisperin’.”

  Beep-beep. “You think he’s got a woman there?”


  Beep-beep. “Oh, yeah.”

  Beep-beep. “Good. Take her…or them…to Johnny Lee’s trailer.”

  Beep-beep. “You got it.”

  Beep-beep. “Let me know.”

  Reese continued down the road watching the tire tracks. This guy’s all over the place. He’s outta control. Reese remembered the scoped Browning 30-06 behind the seat. All I gotta do is just see this guy once. I can kill him from three hundred yards or…Reese really wanted to see fear in his eyes and watch him suffer. “I’ll kill the kid first, then let the sumbitch know that I’ve got his old lady…maybe make him watch Moon Pie and the guys take turns with her,” Reese said aloud.

  Yanking himself back into the present, Reese saw taillights through the woods. He slowed. As he approached the mud hole, he knew this was as far as he could go in Johnny Lee’s truck. Reese watched the killer’s truck disappear down the road, around a bend. He was gone before Reese could get the rifle pointed out the window. That was fine with Reese. He savored a good stalk hunt.

  Putting the truck in park, Reese grabbed the radiophone, a flashlight, and the rifle. He calmly checked for his pistol, stepped out, and shut the truck door. Reese knew this property from years of poaching. He would simply cut off his prey’s escape route.

  “See if you can find me a headache powder in that nasty vehicle of yours,” Ollie directed R.C.

  Ollie was having a hard time making up his mind. He was facing a major decision, similar to one a few years back. He really wished this were not happening. Especially not tonight. He was exhausted, and his head was killing him from drinking in the sun all day at the golf tournament. And his foursome had played awful in the scramble. By the eighth hole he’d had to borrow golf balls. Ollie only played twice a year, and it showed. He loved the game but preferred to watch the pros on television from the comfort of his couch.

  A couple of years ago, one of Sumter County’s favorite sons had left home in the middle of the night to join the Professional Bull Riders’ circuit. He was only fifteen. He didn’t tell anyone of his plans. His family had reported him missing the next day and had put up such a fuss that Ollie called in the Alabama Bureau of Investigation, who called in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The agencies were convinced they had a kidnapping on their hands. Fox News sent a satellite truck. Ollie gave live television updates three times a day. Then, out of the blue, several days into the ordeal, his parents received a call from the Wadley Regional Medical Center Emergency Room in Texarkana, Texas, explaining that their son was being treated for a broken collarbone sustained at a local rodeo.

  Ollie had been humiliated. He hadn’t forgotten that feeling. Folks kidded him that the young cowboy had ridden out of town on a horse while Ollie was busy looking for suspicious cars. The incident became known as the Sumter County Kidnapping and was a constant embarrassment to Ollie. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It could have happened to any sheriff, in any county. But Ollie performed in front of the cameras with the dramatic flair and fervor of a television evangelist. His peers always reminded him that if his law enforcement career ever dried up, he had a bright future selling kitchen knives on TV infomercials. In reality, Ollie was a great sheriff. He could think on his feet. Once, while on vacation, he had subdued a criminal with nothing more than an emergency defibrillator. Every time the thief made a move to escape, Ollie shocked him. The criminal finally begged for forgiveness and just lay there whimpering until the local cops arrived.

  “Sure, Chief, I think I have a BC Powder,” R.C. replied as he studied the girly calendars the way an art student studies Monet in the National Gallery. “I’ll go get it for you.”

  R.C. exacerbated Ollie’s headache, but he was a smart cop when he got the scent of something. The fact that R.C. hadn’t yet gotten keyed up about this situation served to assuage Ollie’s concerns.

  “Mick, I’m thinking that we wait until morning—at a decent hour—to check on this Jake character. To be honest, I just ain’t got enough to go on,” he said with a deep sigh, hoping Mick would understand. Ollie believed Mick about Jake. But he’d seen too many men drink too much and do crazy things when they were away from their wives. This was especially true for the guys who stayed cooped up in offices all the time. They were the worst.

  Mick didn’t know what to think. He didn’t have any experience with anything like this, and found himself deferring to Ollie. Ollie’s the professional. He oughta know how to handle these things, Mick thought, trying to piece together Jake’s jumbled words from the barely audible call, but he couldn’t. This, combined with his fatigue, left him at a loss.

  “Here you go, Chief,” R.C said, handing him a BC packet and placing his hands on his hips.

  Ollie didn’t even glare at R.C. this time. He was simply too tired.

  “You think these guys would mind if we had a Coke?” R.C. asked Mick as he looked in the refrigerator.

  “I doubt it,” Mick responded, adjusting the cap on his head.

  “Chief, I could ride the perimeter roads to see if anything looks suspicious. I don’t have anything else to do,” R.C. said as he handed Ollie a drink to wash down the powder. “It’s way too wet to try the interior roads in my patrol car.”

  Ollie looked at his watch. It was almost two a.m. What in the world am I doing up at this hour? I’m dying, and R.C.’s as ready to go as a puppy with two peckers. Ollie appreciated his enthusiasm. He watched R.C. take a purple pill out of his pocket and wash it down with a swig of Coke.

  “I had some pickled quail eggs for supper and they’re killin’ me. Serious heartburn,” R.C. said in response to Ollie’s inquisitive glance.

  Ollie thought hard. “No. I think we’ll wait till daylight. We can’t see anything in the dark. String some tape around what blood you can see. In fact, string it across the driveway. We’ll look around this whole place later, when it’s daylight.

  “Mick, why don’t you go get some sleep? I’ll let you know if we find anything. First thing—about eight o’clock—I’ll call the West Point police and have them ride out to this guy’s house. With any luck we’ll find out the ‘emergency’ was that he’d run out of money in a poker game and needed a loan. Yep, I bet we find out he was gettin’ killed in a serious game of Texas Hold’em.”

  “All right…please let me know,” Mick said, trusting the sheriff. There were a few honky-tonks in the county, so Mick decided he would swing by the one that was on his way home to see if Jake’s truck was there. I’m gonna be pissed if it is, Mick thought.

  Mick got up slowly and started out of the lodge. He stood in the door to listen and think. He could hear a whippoorwill off in the distance and nothing else. Turning around, Mick said, “I’m sure you’re right, Ollie…I just wish I could have heard him clearly.”

  “I understand. Let us handle it…I promise I’ll keep you informed,” Ollie answered.

  “See ya, Mick,” R.C. chimed in.

  As soon as they heard Mick’s truck crank, Ollie stood, stretched, and said, “I’m goin’ home. I need some sleep, and you should do the same. I’ll make some calls in the morning. Why don’t you hang close to your house in case I need you?”

  “No problem. I was gonna go see if I could catch some crappie in the mornin’, but I can go later.”

  “Are they bitin’?” Ollie asked, swatting at some type of bug.

  “Apparently; some idiot got stabbed over a fishin’ hole late this afternoon. An accident,” R.C. said, making quotation marks with his hands as he said the word.

  “I don’t even want to hear about it,” Ollie said as he rubbed his forehead and walked out.

  Tiny and Sweat braced for a shootout as they slowed down. They didn’t recognize the Jeep. Whoever it was had just opened the gate and was about to drive through.

  Tiny stopped about fifty yards away, straight in front of the Jeep, with his high beams shining right at it. Before he knew it, Sweat glided out of the truck like a commando and slithered down into the ditch. Tiny took a deep breath.
His adrenaline was pumping at record levels.

  Tiny grabbed his pistol as he got out, then started walking toward the Jeep. I didn’t want all this trouble. I just wanted to steal some shit to sell.

  Johnny Lee was always pushing the envelope. And Tiny was a follower, following Johnny Lee right into this huge mess.

  Elizabeth nervously asked Tanner, “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Tanner responded, never taking his eyes off the truck. He swallowed hard and climbed out, hoping to find coon hunters. He walked through the open gate and stood in the glare of the headlights.

  “Stay in the Jeep,” Elizabeth pleaded.

  “Hey! We need to get through!” Tanner yelled but got no reply.

  “Tanner, be careful!” Elizabeth called worriedly.

  Tiny’s jumbo silhouette moved through the beams of his headlights, then stood motionless about twenty yards away from Tanner. Tiny could see somewhat, but he couldn’t hear well—the truck’s glass-packed mufflers were rumbling in his ears. Tanner could see Tiny’s pistol. Then he heard a limb crack in the woods and glanced off into the inky darkness, but he couldn’t make out a thing. His attention immediately went back to the big guy and the gun.

  “We need to get through!” Tanner yelled nervously.

  “Nobody’s gettin’ through unless we say so.”

  “Look, I’m Tanner Tillman, and I have been back on my folks’ place. I need to come out.”

  Tanner thought he saw car lights reflected in the treetops, but when he turned around to look to see if another vehicle was coming up behind them, he saw nothing. His mind was racing. He heard another stick break to his left. The woods were pitch-black, and the glare of the headlights blinding.

  I gotta get Elizabeth out of here—quick. I’ll drive down in the ditch, around the truck and the big redneck with the gun.