Bobby Cole - The dummy line

Tonight, R.C. was relaxing and riding the roads at the taxpayers’ expense. Spitting into the green bottle, he tried to act official, slowing down occasionally to shine his spotlight down dim roads and paths that went off into the trees. He wasn’t really looking for anything. He didn’t radio Martha to tell her what he was doing, that he hadn’t headed home-a serious breach of protocol. But he did it all the time. He passed several roads before coming to the abandoned railroad line. He slowed but didn’t turn. I’ll catch it on the way back .

May was approaching fast, and R.C. was daydreaming about his upcoming annual redfish trip to Gulf Shores. He’d saved a week of vacation for the trip. I might even ask Chastity to go this year. It might do her good to get some sun and fresh seafood, and to be away from her worthless, piece-of-shit, crackhead husband. R.C. had a lot to get ready. Somebody had stolen all his gear from his family’s fish camp down on the river. They’d even stolen his $3.97 minnow bucket. He had scoured the county for his gear, but so far, he hadn’t come up with anything. A group of black guys that was always fishing near the camp finally bought him a new minnow bucket just so he would quit asking about theirs. He never noticed that they didn’t have a tag on their old, beat-up car.

R.C. kept driving west until he reached the end of the county road-the Mississippi state line. You couldn’t tell any difference in the road but the state line was right there, so he turned around and headed back. Barry broke into “Mandy,” and R.C. was singing at the top of his lungs when he approached the Dummy Line again. The old road had shooting houses at the tops of each ridge. During deer season, no one would dream of driving down it in the daylight. There would be a hunter with a high-powered rifle in every one of them. R.C. slowly turned the cruiser down the road and continued singing, “Oh, Mandy…” Occasionally, he turned on the blue lights. He liked the way they reflected off the trees.

Suddenly the radio crackled. It scared him so badly that he spilled his spit bottle. He turned off Barry and picked up the microphone, braking to a stop.

“Base to Unit Three. Come in, R.C.,” Martha said in her husky old voice.

“Unit Three here,” R.C. replied.

“Where are you, R.C.?” she asked, skipping the formal jargon.

“I’m headed back to the house. I was just checkin’ a few things out.” He hoped that would satisfy her.

“Are you sure?”

“Where else would I be?”

“With you there’s no tellin’. Go home. The county can’t afford to pay you overtime.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And quit dippin’ in the car. The other guys are complainin’ ‘bout the mess.”

He wasn’t going to answer that one. R.C. hung up the microphone and started looking for a spot to turn around. That old battle-ax thinks she runs the place. She smokes like a chimney and has the gall to complain about my dippin’.

R.C. had two unfailing habits. He dipped whenever he was awake, and he constantly applied Rogaine, hoping to prevent further balding. He believed that if he ever stopped, the rest of his hair would fall out. Consequently, the seats and cupholders in the car were nasty, and the headrest was greasy and stained.

There wasn’t a safe place to turn around, so he kept driving, searching. After another mile or so, he turned Barry back on, but Martha had successfully killed the mood. R.C. reached up and punched off the tape player with an aggravated jab. Women, even old women, drive me insane .

Just when he found a turnaround spot, he noticed reflective lights at the far reach of his headlight beams. Orange parking lights. His curiosity piqued, he slowly eased down the road. As he got closer he could see what appeared to be a giant vehicle but then realized it was two vehicles parked side by side. Either coon hunters or lovers . But with the way they were parked, it might be kids passing liquor or drugs back and forth. He sat in his car a hundred yards away wondering what to do. He decided not to radio in and unleash on himself the wrath of Mrs. Martha O’Brien for patrolling.

Slowly he crept forward, looking for any kind of movement. Not seeing any activity made him nervous. This was strange. Where could they be? I need to get out and look around. Climbing out of the cruiser, he unsnapped his holster and put his right hand on the butt of his pistol. He walked to the side of the truck first and shined his flashlight inside the open window. The smell made him grunt, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The back of the truck was filled with trash. An aluminum four-wheeler ramp was leaning against the open tailgate. He walked around the back of the truck and tried to squeeze between it and the Jeep. He recognized the Jeep. It was Tanner Tillman’s. Thinking they might be hunting, he stood still, listening for dogs running. All he heard was nothing.

Man, I like Tanner’s Jeep. I always wanted one. I like the rims, the way it’s been restored, R.C. thought as he relaxed, thinking more about buying a Jeep than determining what was going on. He opened the passenger side door and shined his light inside. I don’t like these flimsy doors. But look at the workmanship of this paint job.

R.C. screamed like a little girl when a bloody hand grabbed his ankle and held on for dear life. He dropped his flashlight. He was trying to get his pistol out of its holster when he squeezed the trigger. The shot missed his foot by less than an inch. R.C. was freaking out.

“Son-of-a- bitch !” he screamed as loud as he could and tried to run but couldn’t. Another hand grabbed R.C.’s other leg, which caused him to fall on top of whoever or whatever had him. Scrambling to sit up, kicking, he jerked his legs away from whatever it was. It was not a monster. It was someone badly injured. He wiggled his toes to make sure he hadn’t shot himself. He could smell gunpowder and his ears were ringing.

“Tanner? Tanner, is that you?” R.C. asked, hyperventilating and not believing his eyes. “Tanner, what in the hell happened?” he asked as he swung around and bent closer to the bloody face.

Tanner just lay there, struggling to breathe. R.C. couldn’t tell exactly what was wrong.

“Hang on, Tanner. I’m gonna get you outta here!” He studied him from head to toe, trying to ascertain his injuries. R.C.’s instincts overrode his training, and he bent down, grabbed Tanner under the shoulders, and loaded him in the back of his cruiser. I gotta get the hell out of here. I gotta get Tanner to the hospital.

“Unit Three to Base!” he screamed into the microphone.

“Go ahead, Three.”

“Miz Martha, I found an eighteen-year-old white male covered in blood and barely conscious. I have him in my car. I’m on the west end of the ol’ Dummy Line in the north part of the county. I’ll be on County Seventeen headed south in eight to ten minutes. Dispatch an ambulance to head north and meet me ASAP!”

“R.C., what happened? Are you OK?”

“I’m fine. I don’t know what happened. I rode up on the scene and found him. He can’t talk!” R.C. exclaimed.

Martha dispatched an ambulance immediately and got right back to R.C. She could hear the anxiety in his voice. R.C. was shook up.

“R.C., I’ll call the sheriff and get you some help out there…where in the world are you?”

“Hang on.”

“R.C.…R.C., come back!”

“Miz Martha, he’s trying to talk. Hold on!”

R.C. slowed down and kept looking over the back seat, but he couldn’t understand anything Tanner was trying to say. The more R.C. looked at him, the more he realized that Tanner’s injuries were extensive.