Bobby Cole - The dummy line

Their first stop was the Piggly Wiggly. Jake needed Honey Buns for their breakfast, Cokes for him, and Dr Peppers for Katy. Marshmallows, Cheetos, and a bag of ice rounded out the shopping list. Katy pushed an empty buggy around the store as Jake loaded up on junk food to eat-nothing healthy like Brussels sprouts and asparagus for these hunters.

The hour-and-a-half drive to Sumter County, Alabama, passed quickly. Sumter was a typical rural Alabama county, where legitimate commerce revolved around forestry, agriculture, and hunting. The biggest city, Livingston, with its three red lights, was home to a small, quaint college. Jake called to check on his mother and then dialed in the new classic country station. It reminded him of high school. Willie Nelson, Don Williams, Alabama, each classic song brought back a flood of good memories. When Conway Twitty came on singing “That’s My Job,” commonly called “The Daddy Song,” he made Katy stop reading her book to listen to the words. Jake loved that old song.

During the last few miles of the drive, as Katy read by Book-light, he thought about how lucky he was to be in this hunting club. Supposedly, the land had not been turkey-hunted in ten years. Supposedly. The eight members only deer-hunted. Jake’s friend Mick Johnson had talked the club president into letting them have the turkey hunting rights. Jake thought his share of the rights was a bargain at two grand a year. Morgan would have a stroke if she knew . But she didn’t and wouldn’t. He always had a few secret side projects that financed his hunting habit.

To say that the camp’s clubhouse was a work in progress was generous. It had started out as an old farmhouse but had so many rooms added on that he really couldn’t tell what was what. Neon beer signs hung on every wall. An old pool table sat in the center of the main room. The half dozen deer heads were cluttered with hats. Jake hated that; he thought the deer deserved more respect. But they weren’t his, so he kept his opinions to himself. It was a classic Southern camp, complete with a fully stocked bar, satellite dish, and every Playmate and Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar since 1987.

Jake had hauled his old Airstream camper out there so he wouldn’t have to sleep on someone else’s bed in a roomful of snoring. The old silver camper was clean and warm-a sanctuary-a pragmatic getaway from a wobbly career, a shaky marriage, and the sounds and smells of other hunters. Some of his best nights’ sleep came huddled next to the electric space heater. The Love Sub, as he liked to call it, was parked right next to the camp house and used its electricity. The camper blended perfectly into the landscape of old tractors, pickup trucks, and utility trailers. Jake admired the camp’s John Deere 2040 tractor the way his professional colleagues lusted after a new Porsche.

Tate Newsom worked with Jake and was a member of the turkey club. Tate was going to leave work early in an effort to roost a bird for Saturday morning’s hunt. Jake hoped Tate had a fire going. Just the three of them would be hunting tomorrow. Tate didn’t hunt that often, but he was great around Katy; he had a gift for entertaining kids.

Through his many trips to the camp, Jake had learned the western Alabama cellular system and knew that his last chance to make a call was the ridge just past the big Waste Management landfill. With only two bars of service, he called home to report that they had made it, so Morgan wouldn’t worry about Katy.

“Hello.”

“We made it,” Jake said into the static.

“Hello?”

“ We made it …we are almost there,” he yelled into the phone, holding it in front of his face, staring at the screen.

“OK…Y’all have fun,” he heard Morgan reply.

“We will.”

“What?”

“ I said, we will! ” Jake wanted to throw his phone out the window.

“OK,” Morgan replied, clueless as to how annoyed Jake was getting. The call went dead.

Jake hated cell phones. They were nice when they worked, but they couldn’t be counted on when in rural Mississippi or Alabama. He cringed every time his rang. It was usually somebody wanting something, or telling him about something that wasn’t going as planned, or it was Morgan doing both. Slinging the phone down, Jake let out a deep sigh and drove on.

It was almost eight thirty p.m. when he finally turned onto the last gravel road. Jake’s headlights shone brightly off the white reflective tape on the heavy metal gate. Slowing to a stop, Jake was surprised to find that the gate was locked.

Where in the world’s Tate? he thought as he got out and fumbled with the protected lock.

Tate Newsom was newly wed to a girl twenty years younger and he frequently didn’t show up when expected. Forty-five and twenty-five. That thought always made Jake smile. Jake figured that Tate must have taken his bride to the country club for supper and would be here by ten at the latest. He pulled through and closed the gate, leaving it unlocked for Tate.

Tanner Tillman was a few months away from high school graduation. He had been the quarterback of the Sumter County High School football team and was headed to Auburn University to pursue a degree in forestry. Tanner drove a 1981 Jeep CJ-7 with big mud grips and a sound system that had cost more than the Jeep. He was what the locals called a “good kid.” Levi’s, cowboy boots, and button-down shirts were what he wore most days. He rarely got into trouble, and because his grandfather had been an alcoholic, his mother was very strict about drinking. Like most good ol’ boys from the South, Tanner dearly loved his momma and he didn’t want to hurt her, so he never drank. His grades were mediocre at best because he spent most of his time bird-doggin’ Elizabeth Beasley, a cheerleader and the runner-up for home-coming queen last October. They had been dating most of the school year. Their senior prom was a few weeks away. Tanner was making big plans that included a limo.

Elizabeth’s father was a very successful accountant, so she had grown up with most of life’s finer things. She planned to attend the University of Virginia at Charlottesville to study architecture, specializing in the design of modern antebellum-style homes. Elizabeth was the perfect daughter-involved in everything and careful about whom she dated and her reputation. She was an all-American girl. Her appearance was striking; consequently, every red-blooded male in the four surrounding counties knew of her. The good guys spent every penny they had on dinners, flowers, and movies, unsuccessfully trying to win her affections. The bad boys lurked in the dark hoping her bright yellow Volkswagen Beetle would break down somewhere remote. All the girls were simply jealous. Without knowing it, she was on everyone’s radar screen. Her father joked about building a moat around the house to protect her. Elizabeth didn’t realize he was serious.

It was Friday night, April 15. Elizabeth’s father would be at the office late finishing the tax returns for his clients who had waited until the very final minute. Her mother always helped organize and electronically file the returns. These were the only few days of the year she worked, and she mostly did it to see how much money the other families in the community earned.

After months of hounding, Tanner had finally talked Elizabeth into going parking out on his family’s land. Her parents would be working late. This might be the perfect time to stay out much later than normal. The relationship was becoming serious. They had dated exclusively for the last several months. Tanner was working her hard because he knew that once she went to college she would never return. He needed her to fall in love with him.