Bobby Cole - The dummy line

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.