The Dummy Line (9 page)

No matter how many Walkie Talkies he drank sitting in the truck, Tiny couldn’t stop thinking how he’d gotten into this mess. A while back, his first cousin had promised him a job at the Indian casino. He could earn an honest living. Sure, he’d be a maintenance man, but it would be a new start and he could live with his cousin until he got settled. His cousin had a double-wide in a huge trailer park called Sunshine Village in Montgomery. Tiny liked the name.
Why ain’t I gone already?

Johnny Lee was the reason. He had instilled a sense of worth in Tiny when the societal norms dictated the contrary. Johnny Lee convinced him that any day they were going to hit it big. Even criminals dream.

Tiny never thought twice about stealing stuff or selling illegal whiskey, but killing folks wasn’t his style. And he knew Sweat was going to rape that girl. That was bothering him more than killing Johnny Lee’s shooter. Tiny also knew that he was going to do what Reese asked of him, but he’d made up his mind that he wasn’t going to let Sweat hurt the girl. He crushed the beer can and threw it into the pile on the floorboard of the truck.

“After tonight, I’m movin’ to Montgomery and startin’ over,” he said aloud as he turned the truck around in the road and backed it up next to the Jeep, parking so close no one could have gotten out of his passenger’s side door. Tiny climbed out without taking anything and walked to the back of the truck. Like so many good ol’ boys, he had a four-wheeler in the back. But unlike most, he used his to haul moonshine. He unloaded it and left it idling. With the way the two vehicles were parked, the gateposts, and the big trees next to the road, it was impossible for any vehicle to pass. He had Johnny Lee’s killer trapped. Reese would be pleased.

“What the hell am I doin’?” he said, looking around. He closed his eyes hard. Tiny climbed on the Polaris 500, shifted into forward, and gave it some gas. He switched the lights on low beam and started looking for footprints.

Limbs were hitting Reese in the face, but he didn’t care. He walked with purpose—he was on a mission. All his life, his cousin Johnny Lee had been his best friend. Together they weren’t afraid of anything. Individually, they always tried to outdo each other. Johnny Lee, one year older, was always looking out for Reese. In fact, Reese always thought that Johnny Lee had failed the sixth grade on purpose so they could be in the same class. They played football together until Johnny Lee punched the defensive back coach in the eye for yelling at him. The coaches told Johnny Lee to leave the team. That was the eleventh grade and the beginning of his spiral downward. Two weeks after punching out the coach, Johnny Lee attacked his English teacher. So, rather than be suspended, Johnny Lee walked out of Booker T. Washington High School…but not before he shat in the principal’s desk drawer.

Reese somehow managed to stay in school another year. In the following football season, on a cool October Friday night, he chased a running back out of bounds and ran helmet first into the defensive back coach, knocking him out cold. Reese pointed into the stands after the vicious hit. Rumor was that Reese hadn’t actually passed the eleventh grade, but none of the teachers wanted another year of him, so they pushed him through. He was a smart kid; he just wasn’t the least bit interested in school, so he quit. He recognized that getting a GED would be the best deal for his career aspirations.

Johnny Lee had earned his GED and his commercial driver’s license the year he dropped out of high school and had started hauling chickens to the slaughterhouse. At night, he collected for a bookie and did whatever he could to make money.

Reese eventually went to work at a tire store and became quite efficient at stealing valuables out of customers’ cars. It became clear who the thief was, so the manager fired him. Before Reese left, however, he stole a key and made a copy. Later that week, in the middle of the night, he let himself into the shop and stole a set of rims and $367 in cash. That was the turning point in his career. He made $220 more that night than he had working the entire previous week, and he didn’t have to pay taxes or get greasy. Reese explained all this to Johnny Lee, and they decided right then and there that their fortunes were to be made as criminals.

Johnny Lee and Reese experimented with several different schemes but always came back to stealing. Their little enterprise made progress and at times had an impressive cash flow. This allowed them to branch out. The two were always together unless one of them was incarcerated, which was never for long. Johnny Lee and Reese appeared to be Teflon coated. With no mentor, they had to figure out the crime business the hard way. They were productive even in jail. They would listen to the other cons talk about their crimes. They paid close attention.

Reese figured he’d catch up with Johnny Lee’s killer on the Dummy Line, or Tiny and Sweat would. Either way, if he kept walking he would eventually get to extract his revenge. Then he would clean up this mess. But right now, he just wanted some one-on-one time with Johnny Lee’s killer. The rifle felt right at home on his back. Occasionally, he thought he heard a truck’s engine rev, and that just fueled his fire. The night was cool, and he was dressed for it, except for the pointed-toed cowboy boots he always wore. The boots were all show, and he could feel the water leaking through. He had a long walk, but he didn’t care. He thought about Johnny Lee. His cold body lying in the back of a truck. He got a tear in his eye.

Reese pulled the radiophone out and scrolled to Tiny’s name.

Beep-beep
. No response.

Beep-beep
. Again no response.

Reese, pissed off, folded his phone, jammed it in his jacket pocket, and walked on.

R.C. headed west from the camp and turned onto the first gravel road. It had been a couple of years since he had driven this part of the county at night, but he was pretty familiar with it. The hunting was great—just too many pine trees for him. The AM station he was listening to began to fade, so he hit Play on the cassette player. Barry Manilow roared to life singing “I Write the Songs,” and it just soothed R.C.’s soul. He secretly
loved
Barry Manilow. Once another deputy had gotten in the car and seen the tapes. R.C. was forced to think fast. He told him it was evidence. The deputy shook his head, saying, “We shore got some weird folks ‘round here.” R.C. reluctantly nodded in agreement.

Tonight, R.C. was relaxing and riding the roads at the taxpayers’ expense. Spitting into the green bottle, he tried to act official, slowing down occasionally to shine his spotlight down dim roads and paths that went off into the trees. He wasn’t really looking for anything. He didn’t radio Martha to tell her what he was doing, that he hadn’t headed home—a serious breach of protocol. But he did it all the time. He passed several roads before coming to the abandoned railroad line. He slowed but didn’t turn.
I’ll catch it on the way back
.

May was approaching fast, and R.C. was daydreaming about his upcoming annual redfish trip to Gulf Shores. He’d saved a week of vacation for the trip.
I might even ask Chastity to go this year. It might do her good to get some sun and fresh seafood, and to be away from her worthless, piece-of-shit, crackhead husband.
R.C. had a lot to get ready. Somebody had stolen all his gear from his family’s fish camp down on the river. They’d even stolen his $3.97 minnow bucket. He had scoured the county for his gear, but so far, he hadn’t come up with anything. A group of black guys that was always fishing near the camp finally bought him a new minnow bucket just so he would quit asking about theirs. He never noticed that they didn’t have a tag on their old, beat-up car.

R.C. kept driving west until he reached the end of the county road—the Mississippi state line. You couldn’t tell any difference in the road but the state line was right there, so he turned around and headed back. Barry broke into “Mandy,” and R.C. was singing at the top of his lungs when he approached the Dummy Line again. The old road had shooting houses at the tops of each ridge. During deer season, no one would dream of driving down it in the daylight. There would be a hunter with a high-powered rifle in every one of them. R.C. slowly turned the cruiser down the road and continued singing, “Oh, Mandy…” Occasionally, he turned on the blue lights. He liked the way they reflected off the trees.

Suddenly the radio crackled. It scared him so badly that he spilled his spit bottle. He turned off Barry and picked up the microphone, braking to a stop.

“Base to Unit Three. Come in, R.C.,” Martha said in her husky old voice.

“Unit Three here,” R.C. replied.

“Where are you, R.C.?” she asked, skipping the formal jargon.

“I’m headed back to the house. I was just checkin’ a few things out.” He hoped that would satisfy her.

“Are you sure?”

“Where else would I be?”

“With you there’s no tellin’. Go home. The county can’t afford to pay you overtime.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And quit dippin’ in the car. The other guys are complainin’ ‘bout the mess.”

He wasn’t going to answer that one. R.C. hung up the microphone and started looking for a spot to turn around.
That old battle-ax thinks she runs the place. She smokes like a chimney and has the gall to complain about my dippin’.

R.C. had two unfailing habits. He dipped whenever he was awake, and he constantly applied Rogaine, hoping to prevent further balding. He believed that if he ever stopped, the rest of his hair would fall out. Consequently, the seats and cupholders in the car were nasty, and the headrest was greasy and stained.

There wasn’t a safe place to turn around, so he kept driving, searching. After another mile or so, he turned Barry back on, but Martha had successfully killed the mood. R.C. reached up and punched off the tape player with an aggravated jab.
Women, even old women, drive me insane
.

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!”