Bobby Cole - The dummy line

“Are you cold, Elizabeth?”

“I’m OK,” she replied.

“You can have my gloves,” Katy offered.

“Thank you…no, you keep ‘em.” She smiled at Katy.

“Let’s get moving. Come on. We’ll warm up as we walk,” Jake said, squatting for Katy to climb onto his back.

Tiny was beginning to think clearly and was feeling better about the situation. Reese hadn’t seen what had happened. He believed that Johnny Lee’s killer had also killed Sweat. To get out from under this, I’ll tell Reese how the guy took me and Sweat by surprise and that they fought hand to hand and that I chased the girl and before I could get back, the guy shot Sweat. I’ll come up with something to say about the boy and the Jeep and tie it all together.

Tiny looked hard at Sweat’s body and saw all that was bad about his own life and his future. He was at a crossroads. This was his chance to change course. He started back toward his four-wheeler, proud that he had stopped the rape and murder of the girl but hating that he’d had to kill Sweat.

After climbing onto the four-wheeler, he sat a moment, thinking. I’ll load up, then just drive away from all of this mess and start over. Reese won’t even know where to look for me. I got thirty-eight hundred dollars cash money in an old mayonnaise jar-my startin’-over money. I’m done. Tiny clicked the lights on, started the engine, and headed back to his truck and a new beginning.

As the four-wheeler’s headlights reflected off his truck, Tiny eased back on the throttle. He shifted into low, lined up the tires on the ramp, and goosed the throttle. The engine revved and the machine slowly crawled up the ramp into the back of his truck. Switching off the ignition, he stood up and looked around. Something was different. Oh, shit, the Jeep’s been moved! Tiny’s heart stopped. It wasn’t blocking the road anymore. If Johnny Lee’s killer had escaped, Reese would be furious.

“Shit!” he said aloud.

He quickly slid the ramps into the back of the truck and shut the tailgate. Just drive right out of this screwed-up situation. After climbing into the truck, he slammed the door and reached for his keys. They weren’t in the ignition. Shit!

He got out and raked all the trash from the floorboards. Still no keys. He checked under the seat, feeling with his hands. He reached up on the dash, grabbed his flashlight, and clicked it on.

He found a knife he hadn’t seen in over a year, a screwdriver with interchangeable bits that he had been certain Sweat had stolen from him, but no keys. He looked in the side pockets on the door and in the drink holders, but he knew they weren’t there. There were only two places they could be…in the ignition or on the floorboard. Dammit!

Although a professional criminal, Tiny didn’t know how to hotwire anything. He was stuck, and this was supposed to be his getaway-his freedom ride. He wanted to scream. He also wanted to cry. He walked over to the Jeep and opened the door. He reached for the ignition. It was empty. Tiny’s heart sank.

Tiny figured that Sweat’s keys must have fallen out of his pants when he and Tiny fought. He stuck the flashlight in his pocket as he walked to the truck. He dropped the tailgate, pulled out the aluminum ramps, and set them in place. After backing down the four-wheeler, he headed to look for a needle in a haystack.

Anxious and frustrated, Reese stood silently on top of a stump, listening for anything that could be Johnny Lee’s killer. Reese had never been caught poaching and was rarely even seen. He could tell when someone was approaching by the way the sounds of the woods changed. He took great pride in his predatory skills. He knew he had the advantage. But he could not hear anything. No running, limbs cracking, no voices.

Reese shifted his weight and reached for a cigarette. His lighter fired up on the first try. After a long drag, he blew smoke up into the night sky. He thought about Sweat and Tiny. I can’t wait to hear this story. Sweat’s an idiot, and Tiny ain’t too far behind or ahead-as the case may be.

A barred owl hooted in the bottom off to Reese’s right. Owls are awesome hunters. Tonight, more than ever, Reese wished he could glide silently through the trees and see in the dark. He finished his cigarette and mashed it out on the pine tree in front of him. I’ve gotta cut his tracks , Reese thought, grabbing his rifle. He then slipped off silently through the thickest woods in the county.

“Unit One to Base,” Ollie said with frustration, leaning back in the bucket seat of his Expedition. He dreaded making this call and the added burdens that surely would follow. There were just too many unanswered questions. Ollie hated unanswered questions.

Several seconds slowly ticked by before Martha responded, “Go ahead, One.”

“Have you learned anything from the parents that I need to know?”

“No, not a thing,” she replied.

“How’s the Tillman kid?”

“No change.”

“Call Hale County and get them to have Sheriff Marlow call me on frequency four,” Ollie said flatly, weary resignation in his voice.

There was a long pause. Martha understood Ollie’s reluctance to involve other jurisdictions. Sheriff Marlow was arguably the most respected sheriff in western Alabama. He had been in office for almost thirty years and had run unopposed in the last three elections. It was widely known that he could make things happen and that he was a close, personal friend of the governor. The problem was that Marlow always came to the party with an attitude and a hidden agenda.

“Absolutely, Ollie. Hang on.”

Martha O’Brien dialed the Hale County Sheriff’s Office. A young man whose voice Martha didn’t recognize answered on the second ring. The rumor was that Marlow let trusties answer the phones, cut his grass, clean his fish, and do various other personal jobs. She explained who she was and that Sheriff Landrum needed Sheriff Marlow’s assistance. She could hear him jotting down names and instructions.

“I’ll see what I can do…it’s three fifteen in the morning, you know,” he said condescendingly.

Martha erupted. “I am well aware of the time. This is urgent or I wouldn’t be freakin’ callin’! Now, get me Sheriff Marlow.” She mouthed the word “idiots” to herself and let out a deep breath. Martha O’Brien was constantly amazed at others’ incompetence. She had zero tolerance for it and for them.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, respectfully this time.

“Sheriff Landrum will be waiting on frequency four,” she said, lighting another cigarette.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, then hung up and began cussing.

She hung up the telephone and then pushed the radio microphone button.

“Sheriff?” she asked, “I expect he’ll be calling you any minute.”

“Thank you, Miz Martha.”

“Anything else?”

Ollie thought he heard a trace of sympathy in her voice. “I may need you to call Tuscaloosa…I’m thinking we’ll need a helicopter. But wait till I talk to Marlow. Stay in touch with the Tillmans and Beasleys, and radio me if there’s something I should know.”

“Ollie, listen to me. You find that girl,” she pleaded.

“Yes ma’am…let me change channels. I don’t want to miss Marlow,” he replied, then leaned down to adjust his radio. Ollie couldn’t decide how Marlow would react.