Just when he found a turnaround spot, he noticed reflective lights at the far reach of his headlight beams. Orange parking lights. His curiosity piqued, he slowly eased down the road. As he got closer he could see what appeared to be a giant vehicle but then realized it was two vehicles parked side by side. Either coon hunters or lovers. But with the way they were parked, it might be kids passing liquor or drugs back and forth. He sat in his car a hundred yards away wondering what to do. He decided not to radio in and unleash on himself the wrath of Mrs. Martha O’Brien for patrolling.
Slowly he crept forward, looking for any kind of movement. Not seeing any activity made him nervous. This was strange. Where could they be? I need to get out and look around. Climbing out of the cruiser, he unsnapped his holster and put his right hand on the butt of his pistol. He walked to the side of the truck first and shined his flashlight inside the open window. The smell made him grunt, but he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. The back of the truck was filled with trash. An aluminum four-wheeler ramp was leaning against the open tailgate. He walked around the back of the truck and tried to squeeze between it and the Jeep. He recognized the Jeep. It was Tanner Tillman’s. Thinking they might be hunting, he stood still, listening for dogs running. All he heard was nothing.
Man, I like Tanner’s Jeep. I always wanted one. I like the rims, the way it’s been restored, R.C. thought as he relaxed, thinking more about buying a Jeep than determining what was going on. He opened the passenger side door and shined his light inside. I don’t like these flimsy doors. But look at the workmanship of this paint job.
R.C. screamed like a little girl when a bloody hand grabbed his ankle and held on for dear life. He dropped his flashlight. He was trying to get his pistol out of its holster when he squeezed the trigger. The shot missed his foot by less than an inch. R.C. was freaking out.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” he screamed as loud as he could and tried to run but couldn’t. Another hand grabbed R.C.’s other leg, which caused him to fall on top of whoever or whatever had him. Scrambling to sit up, kicking, he jerked his legs away from whatever it was. It was not a monster. It was someone badly injured. He wiggled his toes to make sure he hadn’t shot himself. He could smell gunpowder and his ears were ringing.
“Tanner? Tanner, is that you?” R.C. asked, hyperventilating and not believing his eyes. “Tanner, what in the hell happened?” he asked as he swung around and bent closer to the bloody face.
Tanner just lay there, struggling to breathe. R.C. couldn’t tell exactly what was wrong.
“Hang on, Tanner. I’m gonna get you outta here!” He studied him from head to toe, trying to ascertain his injuries. R.C.’s instincts overrode his training, and he bent down, grabbed Tanner under the shoulders, and loaded him in the back of his cruiser. I gotta get the hell out of here. I gotta get Tanner to the hospital.
“Unit Three to Base!” he screamed into the microphone.
“Go ahead, Three.”
“Miz Martha, I found an eighteen-year-old white male covered in blood and barely conscious. I have him in my car. I’m on the west end of the ol’ Dummy Line in the north part of the county. I’ll be on County Seventeen headed south in eight to ten minutes. Dispatch an ambulance to head north and meet me ASAP!”
“R.C., what happened? Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. I don’t know what happened. I rode up on the scene and found him. He can’t talk!” R.C. exclaimed.
Martha dispatched an ambulance immediately and got right back to R.C. She could hear the anxiety in his voice. R.C. was shook up.
“R.C., I’ll call the sheriff and get you some help out there…where in the world are you?”
“Hang on.”
“R.C.…R.C., come back!”
“Miz Martha, he’s trying to talk. Hold on!”
R.C. slowed down and kept looking over the back seat, but he couldn’t understand anything Tanner was trying to say. The more R.C. looked at him, the more he realized that Tanner’s injuries were extensive.
“Who is it, R.C.?”
He swallowed first and paused a second before speaking, “Miz Martha, it’s Tanner Tillman.”
He knew that would upset her. Martha O’Brien was rabid about local high school football. Her husband had been the coach for twenty years. She still attended every home game. She talked about Tanner like he was her grandson. She loved the way he ran the wishbone offense.
“You better call his folks,” he said with sympathy.
Martha stared at the desk microphone for a second. “R.C.”-she began to tear up-“the ambulance is on the way. Take…take good care of him. You hear me?”
“Yes ma’am. Tell ‘em to hurry!”
Jake hit the brakes hard just ahead of a washed-out culvert. By moving the truck forward and back, changing the angle each time, he panned his headlights in search of a way around. There wasn’t one. Damn it! Jake thought, as he pounded the dashboard. He quickly clicked off his headlights and looked down the road behind him-nothing but darkness-no sign, yet, of anyone following. Remembering that he had a map of the area, Jake fumbled through his hunting vest until he found the aerial photo that showed timber, roads, clear-cuts, and food plots. He hadn’t been on this side of the property before. This was only his fourth trip to the club, and so far, all of his hunts had been in the south section, near the gate. He had killed two turkeys already and was hearing more. He’d had no reason to try new territory.
They would have to get away from the truck. They were trapped. He and Katy would leave it, walk a good distance, and hide. A shooting house would be perfect. It would be a safe vantage point. He knew there was a good chance of finding a shooting house on any food plot large enough to be seen on the map. Studying the wrinkled piece of paper, Jake decided to walk south on a dotted line called Rattlesnake Road. At the end of that road, he could see what looked like a large field. On the map, it was called the Little Buck Field. Surely it has a shooting house. If not, there’s another field about a half mile through the woods.
Jake parked the truck on the north side of the Dummy Line behind some big buckeye bushes that were in full bloom. We’ll slip back across the road and head south, hopefully creating some confusion. He looked at Katy and searched for words to comfort a scared little girl.
“Katy, everything is going to be fine. Trust me,” he said confidently. “All we have to do is wait on daylight. We’re gonna find a shooting house and climb up in it to hide.”
He could see that she was clutching one of her Beanie Babies. I’m glad she’s got it. She seems so small and innocent. He vowed to do whatever it took to protect her, both physically and mentally. He was getting pissed.
“Hey, I’ll bet Ashley-Kate and Mary’s adventures don’t even come close to this,” he said, trying to loosen her up and check her awareness.
“It’s Mary-Kate and Ashley, Dad,” she said with a knowing, sly look.
“Oh. Oh, yeah,” he replied. Thank goodness she’s still together. She’s tougher than I expected.
“OK, are you dressed?”
“Except for my boots.”
“It’s all right. I’ll carry you,” he replied as he grabbed his old Mossy Oak hunting vest and slipped it on. He checked the vest pockets. He had a compass, a map, and a pocketknife. He checked the pockets for anything else that might be useful. At least I’ve got a flashlight. He leaned his shotgun against the side of the truck.