Bobby Cole - The dummy line

“What time is it?” she asked, glancing at the clock on the wall. “He may already be in the woods hunting…he leaves so early…I just don’t know what-”

“That’s right, so don’t jump to any conclusions,” the friendly deputy responded.

“Jump to any conclusions! You tell me my neighbor has been kidnapped; she turns up in Wherever, Alabama, where my husband and my daughter are hunting; and you’re asking questions about him! You can’t find him! What about my daughter! What am I supposed to think?” she said, exasperated.

“Please, Mrs. Crosby, calm down. We don’t know anything, and we aren’t suggesting anything. I’m sure you’re right. He and your daughter are probably getting ready to set up on an old gobbler right now as we speak.”

“It’s Sumter County, Alabama,” said the fat deputy.

“Whatever,” she responded, folding her arms. She was beginning to fume. “And what about Tate Newsom?”

“Who?” the tall deputy asked curiously.

“Tate Newsom…he lives in Columbus. He’s down there with them.”

The deputies looked at each other. They didn’t know what to say. This was the first they heard of Tate Newsom.

“I’m calling his wife…maybe she’s heard from him,” Morgan replied, grabbing the cordless telephone. She walked into the kitchen to look in the phone book for his number.

Morgan came back into the den with the phone next to her ear. She watched the deputies’ faces while the phone rang. She rubbed her face with her free hand.

“Tate?” she said, surprised. “Tate, this is Morgan Crosby, I thought you went huntin’ with Jake?” she asked and then listened. The two deputies tried in vain to overhear his reply.

“OK. Listen. Something terrible has happened. Lindsay Littlepage was kidnapped and found down near y’all’s huntin’ camp. They can’t find Jake, and Katy is with him…Yes, I swear! Tate, I need you to come get me; we’ve got to go find Katy and Jake.”

“Whoa, no way…we can’t let…I need to speak to him,” the tall deputy immediately interrupted. Morgan handed him the phone.

“Mr. Newsom, I’m Deputy Franks of Clay County. I really need to talk to you in person. Please, this is very important. Can you come over here? Yes sir. How fast can you be here? Thank you, sir.” And with that, he handed the phone back to Morgan.

“Tate, please hurry,” she pleaded and hung up.

“Why didn’t he go huntin’?” the heavy deputy asked.

“He said he got a ‘better offer.’ I think that’s man code for sex,” Morgan explained, rolling her eyes. “He just got married.”

“I’m sorry for all this, but please stay around here and keep your phone line open. Please call us immediately if you hear from Jake. We need to call in to report and make sure the Littlepages’ house is secure. We’ll be back before Mr. Newsom gets here,” Deputy Franks said compassionately.

“Sure,” she replied, not really knowing what else to say. “I’ll do whatever you need me to. Can I come over there?” she asked, looking out the window at all the flashing lights from the police cars that had pulled into the Littlepages’.

“There’s nothin’ to see. Stay here by the phone,” snapped Pudgy.

“OK…fine,” she replied, sitting on the edge of the chair, nervously running her hands through her hair.

“Thank you, ma’am. We’ll be right back,” Deputy Franks replied as he moved toward the front door.

Scout started barking again as the door opened. Morgan yelled, “Hush, Scout! Get in here.” The deputies stepped back to let Scout in, then left as fast as they could.

Morgan jumped at the phone ringing in her hand. She answered it on the first ring. It was Scott Littlepage again. He was a basket case. Morgan promised to take care of their kids and explained the little that she learned from the deputies and the Tate Newsom situation. Scott promised to call back if he learned anything new.

“Hurry up, Scott. They can’t find Jake, and Katy’s with him,” she pleaded.

“He’s probably already in the woods waitin’ on daylight,” he said, trying to reassure her.

“I hope so,” Morgan said, and then hung up.

Morgan sat down and stared at the walls, trying to clear her thoughts. What should she do? She needed to talk to Jake, and she wanted Katy safely tucked in her own bed. There was no way Jake could be involved in this. As she looked around the “trophy room,” she suddenly, for the first time in several years, missed Jake.

R.C. and Steve Tillman drove silently along the Dummy Line. R.C. checked the handheld radio once to make certain it was working properly. Tillman slowed the Jeep.

“What the heck’s that?” Tillman asked, the headlights illuminating something odd-looking in the middle of the road.

“I don’t know. Let’s check it out,” R.C. replied.

Tillman stopped ten feet in front of the unknown object. They both got out and slowly walked toward it.

“It’s a fleece jacket,” R.C. said as he laid down the radio on a hard, dry spot and picked up the jacket by the edge of a sleeve. “Oh shit, it’s bloody and almost ripped in two!” he blurted out.

“Oh, my God! How can you rip fleece?” Tillman exclaimed, his eyes wide from fear.

R.C. held it to his nose and breathed deeply. “It smells of perfume…my favorite ex-girlfriend wears this brand.”

“It’s Elizabeth’s,” Tillman groaned. “It’s her cheerleading jacket,” he said in shock. They both stared at each other. R.C. looked around and noticed a shooting house on the side of the road. The door was wide open. As he slowly approached it, with one hand on his holstered pistol, the other holding a Maglight, he saw blood on the third and fourth steps. R.C. let out a deep breath.

“What do you think this means?” asked Tillman, staring at the blood.

“I hope we aren’t too late. I mean…I hope whoever has Elizabeth didn’t leave in that truck when we went back to town,” R.C. said, staring at the old wooden structure. “We better keep going just to be sure,” he added, nodding down the Dummy Line into the darkness.

Tillman agreed. R.C. carefully laid the jacket on the back seat while Tillman put the Jeep in gear and revved the engine. R.C. began searching for the handheld radio as Tillman let out the clutch and began rolling. They both heard a plastic crunch. Tillman stopped. R.C. immediately knew what it was.

“Shit! Ollie’s gonna kill me!” R.C. cried out.

“What was it?” Tillman asked, puzzled.

“The radio,” R.C. said glumly as slid out of the Jeep. He reached under it. He held up the flattened radio for Tillman to see and got back in. “Drive on…we gotta find her.”

In the moonlight, Jake could make out the Little Buck Field. It looked to be about two hundred yards long and about seventy-five yards wide. Without using the flashlight, he searched in vain for the telltale outline of the shooting house. He waited for Elizabeth to catch up, then bent over close to her ear.

“You two stay here for just a second. I’m gonna walk down this field to look for something,” he said as he slid Katy off his shoulders. He stretched as he stood up.

“Dad…no!” Katy cried.

“Katy, listen. I’m not even gonna be out of sight…just right down there,” he said, pointing toward the end of the field. “I’ll be right back. I promise. OK?”

“OK,” she replied.