Jack kicked the side of Hobart’s chair with his shoe. “Mr. Creech. MR. CREECH!” Raising his voice had gotten a slight stir out of him. “MR. CREECH. STATE POLICE!” Jack had a booming voice that could rattle your teeth.
Hobart stirred and opened an eye. Lazily a hand rose, pointing. “I know you.”
I nodded. “Trooper Stokes and Trooper O’Bannon, Mr. Creech. We have a warrant to search your house for stolen property.”
Now, you would think a man stoned and slow to stir would not be so quick, but my words must have been like a starter pistol going off for a track star. Hobart sat up bolt straight and yelled, “I’m not going to jail.”
“Now, Mr. Creech,” Jack said, reaching a hand to grab the man’s wrist. Hobart yanked. His hand slipped right out of Jack’s grasp.
Jumping up, Hobart cried, “I’m not going to jail.” He leapt between Jack and me to make a dash toward the front. Running between us should have been a mistake, because we both instinctively grabbed for him, but our hands just slid off his skin. Hobart was lacquered up in Love Doctor slippery action formula in layers like wax on a surfboard. And for a small fellow, Hobart sure could run fast. About every time his foot came down, he yelled, “I’m not going to jail. I’m not going to jail.”
Jack and I gave chase. Now, Hobart’s advantage was he had a good start and he knew the lay of the land. Jack and me weren’t stoned and we had greater strides on Hobart. Still, he rounded the corner into the carport and made it into the house in time for the screen door to slam closed. Pausing, Jack ripped the door outward and off its hinges in one yank, and in we went.
“Hobart, calm down and stop,” I said. The carport door led us into the kitchen. Hobart was already across the linoleum floor into the living room, two angry state troopers on his heels. There was a large couch in the middle of the room, and Hobart paused on the back side of it to catch his breath, keeping the couch between us.
“Troopers, I’m not going to jail,” he said in between ragged breaths. Jack edged toward the left side of the couch. I moved to the right. I had to move quick, because I thought Hobart might try to make it to the front door on my side and run into the night. Hobart feinted toward me but spun on his heels and tried to squirt past Jack on the inside of the couch. He almost would have made it, but Jack dove onto Hobart and both of them rolled onto the carpet in a mess of limbs.
“I’m not going to jail!” Hobart wailed, thrashing.
Jack had a hold of one of Hobart’s arms and was trying to fish a pair of handcuffs out of his belt pouch with his free hand. I grabbed Hobart’s other arm, figuring that between the two of us, we should be able to hang on to one arm until we could get him cuffed.
Now, if this was the worst of our plan falling apart, we could have handled a little slicked-up thief trying to get away. But no. What we didn’t know until later was that the other Creech brothers had been gone all evening trying to pull Londell’s Caddy out of a ditch. They tried to use their second car to pull Londell out, but all they succeeded in doing was getting both cars stuck and having to hitch a ride home. We knew none of this as Jack and I tussled with Hobart on the living room floor. Hobart had quit screaming. It was taking all of his concentration to keep us from cuffing a hand. It was all we could do to hang on to him. I felt like I was in an oil wrestling contest. And I was losing. We were all grunting and squirming. Rolling this way and that.
Then I had this feeling that someone was watching me. I looked over my left shoulder at Londell Creech, the king of the Creeches, standing in the doorway. Behind him was a line of Creeches. Without a word, Londell took off at a dead run toward us, the other Creeches following right behind, like a charge of warriors from a medieval battle.
Rolling away from Hobart, I tried to get to my feet but only made it to my knees when the first body slammed into me, followed by a second piling on top. A rain of kicks and punches started hammering me. Luckily the body armor under my shirt absorbed a lot of that energy, but my head took a few shots. For several minutes it was a mass of bodies rolling around and around, trying to gain leverage and the upper hand. I think we wrestled from one end of the living room floor to the other. Londell Creech was trying to choke or hit me, and one of his brothers was trying to wrap up my legs. At one point Londell scrambled onto my back, slipping his arm around my throat. Choking me. My lungs screamed for oxygen, but none was coming. Desperately, I flailed my arms, trying to get him off me. I was hoping to hit any body part. Then I started trying to pull his hair. When my fingers found a nostril, I dug in deep. Yanked. Hard. The arms choking me dropped away as my attacker howled.
Pausing to suck in lungfuls of air, I looked over and saw that Jack had managed to stagger to his feet with a Creech latched onto each arm. Windmilling his body back and forth, he threw one Creech into a wall behind him. When he pivoted the other way, he let that one sail across and land in a cupboard. Standing straight up was Jack’s downfall.
Hobart had gotten up but had not run away. Instead of shooting out the front door, he scrambled onto the back of the couch, standing at full height, sort of reminding me of Nature Boy Ric Flair on the top rope of a wrestling ring. Once Jack was upright, Hobart let out a banshee scream and jumped off the couch, his fist hitting Jack right in the face. Blood spurted from Jack’s broken nose as he toppled back to the ground.
At that point I had my own hands full. Both of my attackers had clambered up on me and ridden me to the ground. One smacked my head into the floor, sending bright shards of pain through my brain. I felt a pair of hands clawing at my holster. Now, I don’t know if they would have killed me if they got my gun, but I locked my hand down on my pistol, feeling panic rise in me. Here we were just wanting to be heroes with an easy bust, solve a crime and show the old guys we knew what we were doing. I really didn’t want to shoot someone over a stolen kitchen appliance, some plastic sheeting, and all the Love Doctor lube in the world. I knew if this kept up, either I would lose my gun or, if we couldn’t get them to stop, I’d have to shoot. The hand pawing at my holster was relentless. And the other one was pummeling my sides and back.
I felt the holster give and the heavy Smith slide. Instead of pushing the gun back in, I frantically grabbed the grip, swinging the heavy hunk of steel this way and that in a wide arc. On one swing I felt the blade of the front sight hit something fleshy. Shifting around, I rolled until my gun grabber and I were almost face-to-face, but I had rolled on top. Rearing up, I smacked the gun down, splitting his head open.
Struggling to my feet, I put my back against a wall, wildly pointing the gun this way and that, sweeping the barrel over every person standing in the room. I thumbed back the hammer on that big-old-hogleg .357 Magnum.
With one hand I reached down and helped Jack stand up. He was wobbly on his feet, blood pouring from his nose, staining all the way down his torn shirt. My badge was halfway torn off of mine.
My desperation must have been plain on my face. Motioning with the muzzle, I told the Creeches, “The first one that even moves wrong, I’m going to shoot.” They saw I was serious and raised their hands. Londell was bleeding from his own ruptured nose. A Creech I didn’t know had his hand held to his scalp where I’d laid him open. Another one was nursing a broken arm.
Marching them out into the front yard, I had them sit on the ground, arms still up, while Jack staggered back to the cruiser to radio for help. I was beyond caring about the immense trouble Jack and I were going to be in. I just kept hearing Morman’s voice in my head telling me to take plenty of backup when dealing with the Creeches.