Bobby Cole - The dummy line

Ollie knew that hunting was vital to the county’s economy as a whole, but he couldn’t see the real attraction of it. Hunters had to get up too early. Once he had gone rabbit hunting with his jailer and some guys from the area. That one trip had been enough. It was more of a chance to listen to the football games than anything, and Ollie could do that at home, comfortably. He watched all the games on Saturdays, particularly the Southeastern Conference. They were reminders of his glory days. An NFL career had been in sight until an Oklahoma tight end chop-blocked him, totally destroying his right knee and his dreams.

So, on his one hunting trip, instead of preparing for Sunday’s kickoff, he was hauling around a dozen yapping beagles that smelled to high heaven and occasionally shooting at a rabbit. Mostly, however, they all just talked-telling lies-and ate food he never ate at home, while listening to the dogs run. Maybe the real motivation for these guys was just to get out of the house and have a moment away from the grind. Now that was reason he could get his mind around.

Ollie hoped he could relax the rest of the day. His wife was going to the IMAX theater in Birmingham with a group of kids from church to watch a National Geographic movie. He could hear the imitation leather couch calling his name. And then tomorrow was Talladega, the big NASCAR race that attracted hundreds of thousands of nutcases from all walks of life. The redneck fans were the ones who worried Ollie. He was thankful that the track wasn’t in his county. Ollie and the boys always got together to watch the race on TV and drink beer. He had actually gone to Talladega once. There were way too many drunks, and fights, and crazy white guys trying to relive their past. So he and his buddies watched the races at his house and barbecued ribs. They cheered like the drivers could hear them.

After everyone had left the camp, R.C. hung around for a few minutes to finish the calendar girl tour. He turned out the lights but otherwise left the place just as he had found it, minus two Cokes and one really graphic calendar he found hidden in the cabinet above the refrigerator. After climbing back into his cruiser, he radioed Martha to tell her that he was headed home. He then found a talk show on an AM superstation. R.C. wasn’t really listening to the yammering about the U.S. military presence in The Sandbox; he was thinking of calling Chastity. He wanted to tell her that he had just studied dozens of calendar girls and that she definitely had the right stuff to be a Bunny. But she never could talk while she was working. At least that’s what the bouncer said every time he called. I’ll just tell her in person tomorrow night.

R.C. was getting bored, and rather than go straight home, he decided to drive down a few of the old gravel roads. I wish it wasn’t so late and that Hooters wasn’t an hour away. Man, I could eat about twenty nuclear hot wings right now . All that heaving cleavage, tight butt cheeks, and tiny tank tops were more than he could resist; consequently, he was putting on ten pounds a year thanks to a steady diet of chicken wings and beer.

He slipped his finger and thumb into his Copenhagen to get a big dip, while rooting around under the seat for an empty plastic spit bottle. When he found one, he nestled it between his legs, then eased his foot down on the accelerator.

So, kids in the house with Momma . This shouldn’t be too hard, Moon Pie thought as he petted the friendly dog. He saw a trampoline and swing set in the back yard as he searched for the telephone line. He wanted to cut it to prevent a 911 call, just in case. He wasn’t sure he could tell the difference in the TV cable and the telephone line until he saw the BellSouth logo.

Moon Pie had never snatched anyone before. He preferred the word snatching to kidnapping . Kidnapping sounded so federal. But he was more than willing to try it. Moon Pie was thorough, which greatly aided his criminal career. He took the hands-on education he had received growing up on a soybean farm to become the most successful marijuana grower in northeastern Mississippi. He was the first to apply modern fertilization techniques and to control the pH levels of his soil. He had installed grow lights with a drip irrigation system in two giant chicken houses, boasting yields to twice those of his competitors. Moon Pie struggled with managing the expenses, however, and consequently always found himself a little short. No matter how much money he made, Sheree, his girlfriend of six years, always seemed to spend a little more. She was extremely high maintenance.

After locating the master bedroom, he worked up a plan. The unknown was how many children were in the house. He eased up the porch stairs and studied the locks. One dead bolt. I’ll just kick it in, he thought as he set down his bag of tricks. Then it occurred to him that he could simply knock the glass out with a hammer, reach in, and turn the lock. He put a spider web of camo duct tape on the glass to prevent it from shattering, then carefully broke the glass. It always surprised him how little noise it made.

She was awakened by a sound she couldn’t place. She wasn’t even certain that she had really heard anything. She lay very still listening, warm and comfortable. She thought she heard a board creak, but the old house was full of sounds. Then the heater turned on, drowning out any odd noises. She relaxed.

Moon Pie stepped inside and walked quickly and quietly down the hallway to the master bedroom. Bursting through the door, he took her by surprise. Just as she started to scream, Moon Pie’s hand slammed over her mouth. He held her down on the bed and pointed his .40 Glock right between her eyes, the night-light from the bathroom illuminating the pistol. He climbed on top of her and straddled her. Then he lowered his face to within inches of hers, smelling her as he moved the pistol to the side of her head, being certain she could feel the cold steel.

“Don’t say a word,” he whispered forcefully. “Is there anyone else is in the house?” he asked, knowing he couldn’t believe her.

Her eyes were wide with terror. Moon Pie was feeding off her fear. She shook her head. “ No! ”

“Your husband killed somebody important to me, and now you have to pay!” he said in an intense whisper. “That’s how it works.”

He saw confusion and fear in her eyes. She violently shook her head and tried to speak, but he wouldn’t let her. He took duct tape with one hand, stretched it, and tore it with his teeth. He laid a strip over her mouth as he moved his hand away. She struggled to loosen his grip. He forced her arms behind her and began taping her wrists. She fought hard. He ran another strip all the way around her head covering her mouth. She was trying desperately to talk. He then taped her ankles. She was completely immobilized. When he was sure her nostrils were clear, he stood, catching his breath.

She was wearing panties and a tank top. Moon Pie admired her athletic body. Still breathing heavily, he slowly looked around and decided to check out the rest of the house. He searched every room and didn’t find another person. The kids must be spendin’ the night somewhere. He went back downstairs to the master bedroom.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he said, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. He walked to the front door, glass crunching under his feet. He shut the front door and walked straight down the driveway to his vehicle. She wasn’t very heavy-a buck thirty, maybe. He’d adjusted the interior lights so they didn’t come on and betray his presence. He could tell she was about to freak out. She was terrified. He was in charge. He could feel the power, and it aroused him.