Katy was in full Mossy Oak camo, heavy gray socks, and no boots. Jake was wearing wet, muddy blue jeans, an old button-down shirt, work boots, and his hunting vest. He searched the truck and toolbox in vain for dry pants or a jacket.
Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, he grabbed his cell phone off the seat, put it in his pocket, and said urgently, “Grab your gloves and your hat. It’s pretty cold. If you’re ready, let’s go.” Pointing at the mouse Beanie Baby, he added, “And don’t forget Cheddar.”
“How’d you know his name?” She smiled in wonderment.
“I’m your dad; it’s my job to know that kinda thing.”
Jake grabbed Katy, who grabbed Cheddar. He put her on his left hip, holding her with one arm. He leaned away from her for balance as he started walking through the woods holding the flashlight, which he kept turned off, in his right hand. Jake’s adrenaline level masked her weight.
They had traveled a hundred yards or so when Katy whispered loudly in his ear, “Dad, you’re shaking!” She sounded as concerned about him as he was about her.
“Am I? I’m just cold and wet.” He tried to sound calm. He knew that the longer this lasted, the greater the chance they wouldn’t make it.
“I’ll keep you warm,” she replied and hugged him as hard as she could.
“Lord, help us,” he prayed in a whispered voice. He readjusted his fifty-pound passenger and started off again in search of the Little Buck Field.
Elizabeth was running for her life…and she knew it. She had run nonstop for twenty minutes when she slipped and fell face-first into the mud. Her knees and hands were skinned, her clothes were soaking wet with mud, and her legs were aching. Although she jogged three or four times a week, panic began to overwhelm and exhaust her. Not knowing what to do or where to go, she had stayed on the road because the moon lit the way. Her lungs were burning, and her right side ached. Standing back up, she looked east and thought she saw red lights heading away from her. She stared. The lights vanished. Were those really car lights? A chill ran up her spine. Elizabeth started running in the direction of the lights she prayed that she saw.
“Please, God, help me,” she said aloud, “and please, God, help Tanner, please let him be…let him be all right.”
Every now and then she passed one of the shooting houses lining the road. They were very ominous and resembled miniature prison guard towers. She had been hunting with her dad once and had sat in one very similar to these. But tonight, the moon shadows made them creepy. She was worn out and couldn’t go much farther. Not wanting to hide in the woods, she decided the next shooting house would be her refuge. There it was, fifteen feet or so off the ground, wooden, about four feet square and almost tall enough to stand up in. It was old but appeared to be in better shape than some of the others she passed.
She stood at the base thinking. She was too tired to run any farther. This made sense. Before she started climbing the ladder, she shook it to see if it would hold her. Quickly she climbed up and cracked the door. As soon as the door opened, there was a loud shriek and a blur of something big flying by her head. She screamed, “Oh, God!” as she slipped from the ladder. She hit the ground with a thud. Her right ankle immediately began throbbing. With exasperation, she made a fist and pounded the earth a couple of times.
An owl or a hawk, that’s what it was, she thought as she climbed back up and eased the door open again, ducking as she stuck in her head. All was silent. She quickly crawled in and shut the door. She ran her hands up and down the edge of the door until she found the latch and hooked it. She stared out the eight-inch-wide opening but couldn’t see anyone coming. She then eased down to the floor and pulled her legs underneath her. She loosened the laces of her right shoe and started to shake uncontrollably. She sobbed silently.
R.C. was hauling ass. His blues were flashing, but he’d turned off the siren in a vain attempt to hear what Tanner was saying. His mind was racing even faster than he was driving.
“R.C., what’s your twenty?” Martha asked calmly.
“I’m on Seventeen headed south. Just passed the Kendalls’ farm. Where’s the ambulance?”
“They just crossed the interstate headed your way. You should see their lights in about five minutes.”
“Yes’m,” he replied, trying to keep both hands on the steering wheel as much as possible.
“Ollie’s on his way here-expect him to radio you any minute.”
“Let me get him transferred to the EMTs, and then I’ll tell Ollie what I know.”
“Ten-four. I dispatched Larson to take the Tillmans to the hospital.”
“I’m guessin’ they’ll airlift him to Tuscaloosa or UAB.”
“Dear Lord…is he that bad, R.C.?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“R.C.…Ollie wants you to come here as soon as possible.”
“Ten-four.”
Ollie had gotten the call just after crawling in bed and turning off the lights. His wife never woke up. Jackie was used to this sort of thing. Ollie told Martha he would be right there and to make some fresh coffee. Driving to the office, he listened to the police radio, resisting the urge to question R.C. He could tell he had his hands full. If R.C. got too distracted, somebody could get killed. Ollie switched on the blues in his tan Expedition and punched the gas. What a night, he thought.
“I see them up ahead. I’m pullin’ over!”
“Ten-four, R.C. Hold on.” Twenty seconds passed. “They’ve got a visual on you, too.”
“I’ll radio as soon as they have him!”
“Ten-four, Unit Three.”
The ambulance did a quick U-turn and stopped next to R.C.’s cruiser. Within seconds, the EMTs jumped out, opened the back doors, and slid out the gurney. It automatically opened, and they rolled it next to the rear quarter panel of the car. R.C. opened the back door but didn’t know what to do next. He was anxious to help but was at a loss. The two EMTs were very professional. They had seen it all.
“I don’t know what all’s wrong with him. I think he’s been beat up. I knew I could get him out of there faster than y’all could get there,” R.C. said hopefully.
“You did good, R.C.,” said the female EMT, reaching for Tanner’s wrist. The male EMT shined a light in Tanner’s eyes, checking for dilation. The EMTs looked at each other and nodded in agreement.
“Let’s roll!” the woman said and then grabbed Tanner under his arms. “R.C., hold his head.”
R.C. helped the EMTs make certain the gurney straps were tight. Then he looked at his hands, casually wiped the blood on his pants, and asked, “Do you think he needs airlifting?”
“I don’t know. Once they clean him up and X-ray him, then they can tell,” the male EMT replied with a grunt as they lifted the gurney into the unit. The female EMT jumped in the back, and the guy slammed the doors.
“That’s Tanner Tillman…you know, from the football team?”
“No way?” he said, surprised. “Well, he’s in good hands now!”
R.C. looked in through the side window and saw the EMT placing an oxygen mask on Tanner’s blood-covered face. As the ambulance raced off, R.C. stood watching, listening.
“Three to Base,” R.C. finally called in.
“Go ahead, R.C.,” Martha replied.
“Is the sheriff there yet?”
“He’s walking in the door.”
R.C. dropped the car in gear and headed straight for the sheriff’s office. He had driven about a mile when the radio crackled.
“Base to Unit Three.”
“Unit Three.”
“What happened out there, R.C.?”
“Chief, I don’t know. I was ridin’ the roads near that camp and turned on the Dummy Line and about three miles down there were two vehicles but no people. I got out to check on things and found Tanner at the edge of the road.”