Bobby Cole - The dummy line

Standing quietly in the moonlight, Sweat could see her limping down the road. She’s hurt . He smiled at the thought, blood trickling down his chin. He spat hard. She’d be easy to catch now.

Sweat turned and stared at Tiny moaning and unable to get up. “What the hell’s your problem, man? I don’t want to hurt you. We’re partners, dude, but you was way out of line. Ain’t nobody gonna keep me away from a taste of that sweet stuff.”

Glancing back at Elizabeth, he lusted after her athletic build and long legs. She had dark hair like that of a Cajun girl he had loved once. Seeing her in that black bra and jeans just made it worse. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. To hell with Reese and Johnny…I now got my own business to tend to.

Sweat knew his injuries weren’t life-threatening. They hurt like hell, but he wouldn’t let them distract him. Four years ago while working as a flunky for a fishing guide near Lake Charles, he had been high and accidentally put the gas nozzle in a rod holder. Fifty gallons later, the transom was full of gas. He cranked up and was idling back to the boat ramp when he lit a cigarette. That’s all he remembered. He had sustained serious burns on his legs and feet, but if he hadn’t been blown into the water, it could have killed him. Since then, the pores of his skin had not functioned properly, so he smelled bad all the time. Shortly after the explosion, his dark-haired girlfriend had dropped him and taken up with an offshore mechanic. As soon as Sweat recovered, he tracked her down and then beat her nearly to death. He had left Louisiana with a taste for abusing women. It was a release he craved. And this little half-naked teenage sorority bitch is just what I need .

Tiny acted seriously injured so Sweat would leave him alone. He could hear Sweat walking off in the gravel and mud. Sweat had landed several good shots to his ribs, and it burned when he tried to breathe. He got to his knees and thought, I can’t let him hurt that girl. He finally stood and, with no small amount of effort and pain, straightened up. He slowly shuffled to the four-wheeler and painfully swung a leg over the side. He sat there for a few minutes, thinking, watching Sweat walk after the girl. Where’s Reese, and where’s the dude who shot Johnny Lee? He cranked the four-wheeler, shifted into low gear, and eased his thumb on the gas.

Ollie finally caught up with R.C. as they crossed over Interstate 20. He fell in line and was drafting the same way the NASCAR drivers did on Sundays.

He spoke calmly into his microphone. “Miz Martha?”

“I’m here, Chief,” she replied. She was on a caffeine high and a nicotine buzz.

“Call the Beasley girl’s parents and make sure she isn’t home asleep, please. And don’t scare ‘em. I don’t know how to do it, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Yes sir,” she replied.

“R.C.? You copy?” Ollie asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Larson and Shug are on the way. Let’s approach silently.”

“Sure thing, Chief,” R.C. replied.

Ollie’s adrenaline was pumping. This was action, although he hated that it involved kids. This was why he had become a cop. He had idealistic notions of actually helping people who couldn’t help themselves.

Ollie had been driving in silence for almost twelve miles when his radio crackled.

“Ollie, I got the Beasleys. As you can imagine, they’re pretty shook up. I told them what we just found out and that you were all over it-not to worry. They’re on their way here.”

“OK…all right…get a Livingston police unit to escort them.”

“Ten-four. I’ve done it.” Martha typically stayed one or two steps ahead of everybody. It bothered some people. Ollie appreciated her efficiency, which had saved his butt on more than one occasion.

“Thanks, Miz Martha. As soon as I know anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Ten-four, Chief.”

The Beasleys are good folks, thought Ollie. Zach Beasley was a pillar of the community. He attended church every Sunday morning, belonged to the Rotary club, served on the school board, and could always be counted on for a donation whenever needed. The county needed more men like him. He didn’t really know Olivia Beasley that well.

Elizabeth’s mom had met Zach Beasley at a Campus Crusade for Christ retreat in Panama City. Within fourteen months, they were married and setting up house. After five years of marriage, they had not been able to get pregnant. Olivia started trying fertility drugs. After two years, Elizabeth came along, and they lavished their attention and affection on her. Olivia was never able to become pregnant again; consequently, Elizabeth was everything to them. Their whole lives revolved around this beautiful young girl. From the time she was born, she had always had the best of everything-the best clothes, the best kindergarten, the best bikes, ballet, piano, and more. Elizabeth responded to all the positive stimuli by being a great daughter. Her parents were very proud.

When Olivia heard the phone ring, she instinctively knew it was about Elizabeth. Elizabeth always came in and woke them up to tell them she was home after a date. She hadn’t tonight. After listening to Martha, she explained the situation to Zach. They both ran upstairs to look for Elizabeth. She wasn’t there. Olivia searched her mind for the last conversation she’d had with Elizabeth about her and Tanner going to Tuscaloosa and then coming back home. She called Elizabeth’s cell phone several times, getting only: “The subscriber you are trying to reach has either turned off their telephone or has left the coverage area. Please try your call again.” They dressed quickly and drove to the sheriff’s office.

Flying up Highway 17 at ninety miles an hour, the two sheriff’s department cars approached the turnoff. Ollie grabbed his mic. “R.C., take me straight to where you found the kid.”

“Ten-four.”

“Miz Martha, where’s Larson?” Ollie asked, totally ignoring radio protocol.

“He and Shug are about ten minutes behind y’all!” she replied, buzzing like an air-traffic controller.

“Ten-four.”

A few minutes later Ollie and R.C. turned onto the Dummy Line and sped toward the crime scene. All Ollie knew was that it was twenty miles long and no one lived on it. He concentrated his attention in areas where the voters were, and the best places to eat.

Both vehicles slid to a stop with the lights flashing. Ollie got out and stood staring at the truck and Jeep parked ridiculously close together.

“What’s the deal, R.C.?”

The Jeep belongs to the Tillman kid. I don’t know about the truck.”

“Run the tag,” Ollie said.

“Yes sir, boss,” he replied, expertly placing a fresh dip in his lip.

Ollie noticed blood on the ground in front of the Jeep. He shone his light on everything looking for some clue as to what had happened.

“It ain’t got a tag.”

“What?” Ollie straightened up and looked at R.C. “Well, look through the inside and see if you can find anything.”

Ollie walked around both vehicles. “Where was the kid?”

“Right here, kinda down in those weeds a bit,” R.C. said, pointing while walking around to the Jeep. The truck smelled so bad he was looking for any excuse to delay his search.

“Here’s your flashlight…you must have left in a hurry.” Ollie grunted as he bent down and reached under the Jeep to retrieve it. Ollie took his time looking at everything.