Driving like a maniac, he was trying to put as much distance as possible between them and those lunatic rednecks. If he could just get to the county road, he’d feel better. As they rounded a bend, a deer jumped in front of them, but Jake never took his foot off the gas. He grabbed his cell phone. No service.
“Shit!” he said aloud.
“I’m sorry, Katy,” he apologized.
“It’s OK. Just go, Dad. Go! I just wanna go home!” she exclaimed tearfully.
“I do, too, sweetheart. I promise we are,” he said, giving her a quick look.
When they approached the Dummy Line, Jake had two alternatives but really only one choice. A right would take them ten miles to the county road where there was one gate and he knew the lock combination. Turning left would take them several miles until the road dead-ended into several more miles of the Noxubee River swamp. That’s the reason the railroad had never completed the line-the swamp proved too vast and expensive to cross. A right it was.
Jake stomped the accelerator. Although the Dummy Line was full of potholes, it was a fairly good gravel road. As they crested the last hill before the gate, he saw headlights. Jake immediately slammed on the brakes. He could see a half-mile ahead. Somebody was coming onto the property.
“F-u-u…” He looked at Katy before he finished the word, “…dge!” Jake was unraveling.
“What is it?” Katy said as she sat up to see down the road.
“It’s not good.”
“Is that the bad guys?”
“I’m afraid so, but it’s OK…I’ve got another plan,” Jake said, lying.
It made sense. The bad guys obviously knew this area. He immediately cut off his lights. Sitting in the dark, he tried to think of solutions. There weren’t many. We can’t go out this way. The road’s not wide enough to pass another vehicle. Maybe hide the truck, and we’ll hide in the woods until daylight. No, not with Katy in tow. Think. Think. Think.
Jake slammed the truck into reverse and spun around. He sped back the way they had come, going past the turn that led back to the camp. As he roared by, he couldn’t see any lights coming down that old logging road. The thugs must be dealin’ with the mud hole.
Jake knew that hiding the truck was going to waste time. The roads were so muddy that tracking it would be no trouble. Jake swallowed hard. Be calm; use your head, Jake, he told himself. That’s the only way Katy’s gonna survive.
Mick Johnson drove slowly away from the camp, trying to piece together the evening’s events. He had met Jake eight years earlier at a National Wild Turkey Federation banquet in Birmingham. They had hit it off right away and turkey-hunted together every year since. Jake, ten years younger, was fun, but his job recently had grown incredibly stressful. Mick could see him changing. Jake had commented to him last year that he was thinking of a career change. Mick realized how much he liked Jake and how long it had been since they just simply talked. He made a mental note to have him over for some beers and steaks. Nothing was making sense. One minute he was sure Jake was in trouble, and the next he thought Jake might be off drinking and playing cards.
Mick pulled off Highway 17 to search for Jake’s home phone number. He punched it in and hit Send but hit the End button before it rang. It’s two fifteen in the mornin’. This isn’t necessary. He stared at the clock, then decided to drive by the Bama Jama Club, a local honky-tonk known to have the occasional recreational poker game in the back. Mick wished the sheriff had been more assertive. But what could he really do? Mick knew Jake wouldn’t be there, yet he prayed he was. The highway was empty as he pulled back onto it, heading toward the bar.
Ollie Landrum searched the radio stations for something familiar and soothing. He hated rap-couldn’t understand what they were saying. He hated country music-too twangy. He loved Otis Redding. He loved the blues-now that was music. Not finding anything, he switched off the radio, disgusted. All he wanted to do was sleep for about ten hours. He radioed Martha to let her know he was headed home. I really hope there’s nothing to all this.
Ollie knew that hunting was vital to the county’s economy as a whole, but he couldn’t see the real attraction of it. Hunters had to get up too early. Once he had gone rabbit hunting with his jailer and some guys from the area. That one trip had been enough. It was more of a chance to listen to the football games than anything, and Ollie could do that at home, comfortably. He watched all the games on Saturdays, particularly the Southeastern Conference. They were reminders of his glory days. An NFL career had been in sight until an Oklahoma tight end chop-blocked him, totally destroying his right knee and his dreams.
So, on his one hunting trip, instead of preparing for Sunday’s kickoff, he was hauling around a dozen yapping beagles that smelled to high heaven and occasionally shooting at a rabbit. Mostly, however, they all just talked-telling lies-and ate food he never ate at home, while listening to the dogs run. Maybe the real motivation for these guys was just to get out of the house and have a moment away from the grind. Now that was reason he could get his mind around.
Ollie hoped he could relax the rest of the day. His wife was going to the IMAX theater in Birmingham with a group of kids from church to watch a National Geographic movie. He could hear the imitation leather couch calling his name. And then tomorrow was Talladega, the big NASCAR race that attracted hundreds of thousands of nutcases from all walks of life. The redneck fans were the ones who worried Ollie. He was thankful that the track wasn’t in his county. Ollie and the boys always got together to watch the race on TV and drink beer. He had actually gone to Talladega once. There were way too many drunks, and fights, and crazy white guys trying to relive their past. So he and his buddies watched the races at his house and barbecued ribs. They cheered like the drivers could hear them.
After everyone had left the camp, R.C. hung around for a few minutes to finish the calendar girl tour. He turned out the lights but otherwise left the place just as he had found it, minus two Cokes and one really graphic calendar he found hidden in the cabinet above the refrigerator. After climbing back into his cruiser, he radioed Martha to tell her that he was headed home. He then found a talk show on an AM superstation. R.C. wasn’t really listening to the yammering about the U.S. military presence in The Sandbox; he was thinking of calling Chastity. He wanted to tell her that he had just studied dozens of calendar girls and that she definitely had the right stuff to be a Bunny. But she never could talk while she was working. At least that’s what the bouncer said every time he called. I’ll just tell her in person tomorrow night.
R.C. was getting bored, and rather than go straight home, he decided to drive down a few of the old gravel roads. I wish it wasn’t so late and that Hooters wasn’t an hour away. Man, I could eat about twenty nuclear hot wings right now. All that heaving cleavage, tight butt cheeks, and tiny tank tops were more than he could resist; consequently, he was putting on ten pounds a year thanks to a steady diet of chicken wings and beer.
He slipped his finger and thumb into his Copenhagen to get a big dip, while rooting around under the seat for an empty plastic spit bottle. When he found one, he nestled it between his legs, then eased his foot down on the accelerator.
So, kids in the house with Momma. This shouldn’t be too hard, Moon Pie thought as he petted the friendly dog. He saw a trampoline and swing set in the back yard as he searched for the telephone line. He wanted to cut it to prevent a 911 call, just in case. He wasn’t sure he could tell the difference in the TV cable and the telephone line until he saw the BellSouth logo.