They drove on along the smooth, two-lane highway, the lake appearing from time to time through the trees on their left. “How big is the lake?” Howell asked.
“Fifteen miles from Sutherland down to Taylor’s Fish Camp at the other end, but I guess it’s not more than a mile and a half, two miles wide anywhere. Looks like a river in the narrower parts.” He pointed at a narrow place they were passing. Light reflecting from the water flashed through the pines. “You ought to get out on the water before it starts getting too cool. Denham’s got a boat out to the cabin, hasn’t he?”
“Yeah, there’s a runabout under the house and a fifty horsepower outboard stored down at Ed Parker’s. I’ll have to get it out.”
They passed Taylor’s Fish Camp, a jumble of ramshackle cabins with a big main building. A sign out front said, “Home Cooking.”
“How’s the food?” Howell asked.
“Best fried chicken in the state,” Scully replied. “Real good breakfast, too; homemade sausage and country ham. Closest thing we’ve got to a good restaurant around here. No booze, though, not even beer or wine. The Taylors don’t hold with it.”
“I’ll have to give it a try.”
They headed back along the south shore of the lake, not talking much, enjoying the sunshine on the water after the days of rain. At the outskirts of Sutherland they passed a convenience store, and Scully slowed slightly. There was only one car out front. He nodded. “Now, just have a look at that,” he said. “Fellow sitting in a car with the motor running; out of state plates. That say anything to you?” Before Howell could reply, Scully picked up the car radio microphone and pressed the transmit button. “Mike, this is the sheriff, who’s out and where?”
A voice crackled back. “Car two’s here. Everybody else is scattered around the county. Jimmy’s right here.”
“Good. Jimmy, I’m out at Minnie Wilson’s store, and there’s a possible code eleven in progress. I’m going ‘round the back. Get out here right quick, no siren. There’s a ’74 Chevy with Tennessee plates parked out front with the motor running. Approach with caution and detain the driver. Watch out for whoever else might come out the front door. Don’t go too heavy; might be my imagination. Read me?”
“I read you sheriff.”
“And radio me when you’re about to Minnie’s. I won’t go in ‘til you’re there.” Scully put down the microphone, swung left into a side street, then left again into an alley. He pulled up at the back entrance to the store, switched the engine off and got out of the car. Howell followed as he went to the trunk and removed a short, pump shotgun. “Now, listen,” Scully said, “you stay right here until I come get you, you hear? If there’s any shooting, pick up that microphone, press the button, and tell my radio operator, okay?”
“Okay,” Howell replied, glad he wasn’t going into that grocery store with the sheriff.
Scully stood by the car, waiting impatiently to hear that his man was in place at the front of the store. The radio came alive.
“Sheriff, this is Jimmy.”
Bo picked up the microphone. “I hear you. You out front?”
“Listen, I’m real sorry about this,” Jimmy came back, “but I’ve got a dead battery. Can you hold off ‘till I can get a fresh one in there? Shouldn’t be more than four or five minutes.”
“Shit!” Bo said. He pushed the button. “Hurry up, goddamnit, get here as fast as you can.” He put down the microphone and banged his fist against the steering wheel, then turned to Howell.
“Listen, I can’t wait for him to get here. Minnie will be in there by herself. I could use some backup. You know how to use a shotgun?”
“Well, yeah,” Howell said.
He handed Howell the weapon. “That’s got eight in the magazine. The button there’s the safety. You just push that and pump, then shoot, okay?”
Howell nodded. “Okay.” He didn’t feel as confident as he sounded. He had been around cops when there was shooting, but he hadn’t been doing the shooting. He didn’t like this at all.
“Now, listen, you’re gonna be there to point that thing, not to shoot it – not unless you absolutely have to, and for God’s sake, don’t shoot me. You’re deputized as of right now. There’s a manager’s office through the door to the left; somebody could be in there. Follow me in; if the office is empty, we’ll work our way down toward the cash register.”
Bo Scully walked quietly into the back hallway of the store, staying close to the wall. He tossed his Stetson hat onto the floor behind him, looked carefully into the manager’s office, then shook his head. He held a finger to his lips, then motioned for Howell to follow him. The two men walked quietly forward into the main room of the store and found themselves facing a shelf of canned goods lying directly across their path. Scully stopped and cupped a hand to his ear. They could hear the cash register beeping softly as an order was rung up. That seemed normal enough to Howell, but he was afraid to be relieved. Scully motioned for Howell to go right, then he went left.
Howell followed the shelf to its end and peeped down the aisle toward the front of the store. The store seemed empty. He could see all the way into the parking lot but could not see the Tennessee Chevy. How the hell had he gotten into this? He took a deep breath and began tiptoeing down the aisle toward the front of the store, passing other aisles between the shelves to his left. At each aisle he could see Scully, his revolver drawn, moving forward. Fearfully, Howell kept pace with him. He stopped at a cereal display and peeped around the corner toward the cash register. A man in a leather jacket and a woman in jeans stood at the checkout counter, their backs to him, watching an elderly woman sack their groceries. Howell could see the Chevy, now; its motor was still running. Nothing else seemed wrong, though. The couple were just buying groceries. He began to relax a little.
“That’ll be thirty-two forty-one,” Howell heard the elderly storekeeper say.
“Uh-uh, Mama,” the male customer replied. His right hand went to his jacket pocket. “That’ll be everything you got in the cash register. Then we’ll go have a look in the safe.”
Howell froze. Oh, God, he thought, it’s on. What am I doing here?
“Yessir,” he heard the woman say, then a ringing and the noise of the cash register drawer opening. Howell braced himself and waited for Bo Scully to make a move. Sweat was trickling rapidly from his armpits down his sides, making him shiver. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver’s door to the Chevy open. The second patrol car was nowhere in sight.
There was an explosion, and the man in the leather jacket seemed to leap backwards onto another checkout counter. A potato chip display was knocked flat, and Howell saw bits of bloody debris spattered over the bags.
“Freeze!” Bo Scully shouted. “Everybody just freeze right where you are!” Scully stepped into the open area around the checkout counter, his pistol held in front of him with both hands. A movement outside the store caught Howell’s eye. The driver of the Chevy was out of the car and was leaning on top of the car, pointing a rifle at Scully. Howell pumped the shotgun, brought it up and fired. Simultaneously, a six-inch hole appeared in the store’s plate glass window, and the windshield of the Chevy turned white. The man dropped the rifle and flung his hands in the air. Howell could see a patrol car racing into the parking lot toward the Chevy.
“Freeze, everybody!” Scully shouted again. “Minnie, put that gun down!”
For the first time, Howell saw that the elderly storekeeper was holding a heavy revolver. She put it down on the counter as she was told. The woman companion of the robber stood, frozen, her hands out in front of her as if to ward off bullets. In the parking lot, a uniformed sheriffs deputy had the Chevy’s driver leaning up against the car being handcuffed.