Bobby Cole - The dummy line

“Miz Martha?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Please get R.C. on the radio for me.”

Ollie leaned back in his chair. This was a disaster. He jotted down the details for Martha to relay to the officers in the field. He would also ask her for the latest on the APB for the Tupelo fellow. After checking the accuracy of the note, he walked to the front of the office and gave it to Martha.

“Make sure everyone gets this info, please.”

“Yes sir. I can’t raise R.C. on the radio. I know he’s on a handheld. He may be down in a low spot or somethin’.”

“Keep tryin’.” Ollie thought about this for a second and decided not to worry about R.C. right now. There would be no simple explanation for his not returning the radio call. R.C. always had the most outlandish excuses.

Ollie went back to his office to call Mick Johnson. Mick answered on the third ring.

“It’s OK. I wasn’t sleeping,” Mick said in response to Ollie’s apology for calling so early in the morning. “I was just puttin’ my boots on to go huntin’. I overslept. Any word on Jake?”

“Mick…there may be more to the phone call you received than we thought. I may need your help searching. Elizabeth Beasley, an eighteen-year-old girl from around here, is missing, and a lady from West Point named Littlepage was found out in the county. She’d been kidnapped.”

“Littlepage? I’ve met Scott Littlepage. Jake introduced me to him-he’s in the same club!”

“It was his wife who was abducted but escaped. It’s really confusing. Can you come down here?”

“Sure. I’ll be right there, Sheriff,” Mick replied.

“Thanks.” Ollie hung up and stared at the phone. He pressed Martha’s extension.

“Have you heard from R.C.?”

“No sir.”

“Damn.”

Ollie looked up when he heard the front door open. Sheriff Marlow came in, laughing loudly about something.

“Hey, Ollie, we need a podium. Can someone from the college here in town bring one over?”

“We don’t need a podium. We need to find some missing girls!” Ollie fumed, then looked at Zach Beasley and back at Marlow. Ollie really wanted to punch Marlow in the throat.

“ Girls? As in plural?”

“Yes. I just found out for sure that Jake Crosby, the guy from the hunting club, has his nine-year-old daughter with him.”

“Jeez um…well, that helicopter will be here in an hour. That’s our best hope. By the way, CNN and Fox are sending crews.”

“What? Why?” Ollie asked incredulously. He could understand the local media’s interest, but CNN?

“Well, since the governor’s helicopter is being used for the search, they picked up on it.”

Ollie glared at Marlow, then walked away.

Before he went into his office, he stopped and turned. “Marlow, it’s way more important to rescue those kids than it is to reelect the governor.”

Ollie couldn’t believe he had said it. But he had. He’d just blurted it out. He let out a deep breath, turned around, walked into his office, and slammed the door.

Marlow didn’t know what to say. He glanced furtively around the room. Everybody turned away to act busy. His face flushed red with anger. He decided to go update the media, saying defiantly, to no one in particular, “Obviously, nobody around here understands what it takes to be a twenty-first-century law enforcement officer.”

The helicopter pilot, retired Army Captain Joe Wilson, arrived at Dannelly Field in Montgomery, Alabama, forty-five minutes after receiving the call. The hangar was devoid of any personnel who could assist him in preparing for the flight. If Jeffrey, his ground crew, didn’t arrive soon, he would have to do it all himself. This life was almost as bad as being a corporate pilot but not as dreadful as being a flight instructor. Wilson had retired three years earlier as a helicopter pilot instructor at Fort Rucker, Alabama. The current governor, a close friend, had hired him immediately to pilot his new Bell Ranger. It was state-of-the-art, with lots of luxuries. Since it could land almost anywhere, it was perfect for hopping to events all over the region.

Captain Wilson knew this call was much more important than flying the governor and his kids to the beach. He wasn’t a fan of Sheriff Marlow, because of the deer incident a few years ago, but he craved a crisis. Wilson was military to the core and was bored with civilian flying.

“Come on, Jeffrey. Where the hell are you? Get your ass moving,” Wilson said aloud to no one as he loosened the tie-down straps, then climbed in. The bird was full of fuel. He checked all the instruments and electronics. Finally, he sat down to study the flight map to Livingston. Due west, basically , he noted. Should be easy. He punched the coordinates into the GPS. Simple.

“Jeffrey, you incompetent, worthless piece of…” Wilson muttered as he fired up the Ranger and the rotors slowly started turning. He needed someone to know his flight plan, and it never hurt to have a second set of eyes look over everything. He tightened the chinstrap on his helmet and buckled himself to the seat. When he looked up, Jeffrey was running toward him, his hair flying in the wind of the rotors.

“Whaddaya want me to do?” he yelled.

“File a flight plan to Livingston, Alabama! Do a quick visual! Hurry up!” he yelled back.

Jeffery ran around the machine and looked at everything in thirty seconds. Wilson just shook his head. What kind of inspection was that? This kid would never make it in the military. Screw it. It’ll have to do. When Jeffrey got back to the window, he gave him the thumbs-up sign.

“File that flight plan, now. I’ll be doing search and rescue operations, so don’t let them call me back for any bullshit!”

“Yes sir!” Jeffrey mouthed, with a mock salute, crouching as he backed away from the bird.

The powerful helicopter revved up as Wilson did one last, quick instrument check. He gave a thumbs-up and slowly lifted off the ground. He felt more alive than he had in twenty years. Finally, a worthwhile mission .

Jeffrey stood in the rotor wash wondering why he’d had to get out of bed so early on his day off.

Reese was on his hands and knees trying to discern the tracks in the pine needles. Most of the time, the trail was obvious. The recent rain helped. The numerous logging roads crisscrossing the property also assisted him. Twice he had lost the trail in the thick pines, to pick it back up again once his quarry hit the logging roads.

Reese stood, stretched his back, and looked at his watch. He had about an hour and a half until daylight. He leaned his rifle against a giant oak tree and retrieved Johnny Lee’s radiophone from his pocket.

Beep-beep. “Yo,” he whispered.

Beep-beep. “I’m here…but dude, the cops are all over me, man.”

Beep-beep. “Where are you?”

Beep-beep. “I’m south of Livingston a few miles. I finally shook the deputy off my tail. This thing’s way too dangerous for me, man.”

Beep-beep. “Look, I need you bad…there’s an old road on Seventeen around mile marker one fifty-four called Brown Chapel Road. It’s pretty easy to find. Go hide there. Wait for me to beep you. We’ll only be a few miles apart.”

Beep-beep. “Brown Chapel Road at mile one fifty-four. Got it. Hurry up, dude; we gotta get the hell outta here before daylight.”