Eyes of the Predator: The Pickham County Murders (The Hunters) Page 2

  “P-pretty good Deputy,” one stammered.

  The other just nodded.

  “Well, looks like they’re closing up. You boys head out.”

  “Yes, sir. Guess so. See you later Deputy,” The one who was the talker lead the way as they both climbed into the pickup, still trying to hide the cans.

  “Boys,” George said, “Pour out the beers before you crank up the truck.”

  “Oh…uh yes, sir.” Talking boy looked over at the passenger side. “Better pour it out, Bobby.”

  Beer poured foaming into the gravel from the windows of the truck.

  “All right now,” George continued. “Head on out. I catch you drinking again tonight, and I’ll be hauling you down to the county jail before I call your daddy. Right?”

  Talking boy nodded solemnly, indicating his complete appreciation of the situation. “Yes, sir. We didn’t mean any harm…I mean we’d appreciate you not calling our folks.”

  “That’s up to you. Now ya’ll head out.” They both nodded. Talking boy cranked the old truck and pulled out onto the country road. He was careful not to spin his tires in the gravel, and accelerated on the road like a grandmother going to Wednesday night prayer meeting, causing a small smile to break across Deputy Mackey’s stern face.

  5. He Hated Them

  It wasn’t the beer either that bothered Lyn. Even in the backwoods Bible belt, everybody drank. It was natural enough to look for a way to sooth the pain of poverty and ignorance. A beer, or even many beers, was one way to make the emptiness tolerable.

  Her friends’ fathers drank. They were still good fathers and husbands. If hate was in their hearts, it was for themselves. They hated their failure and not being able to do better for their families, so they drank. Too simple and plain to put into words what they felt, they were still tender with their families in their own way.

  Not Daddy though. It was not the poverty or the backbreaking labor. It was them. He hated them. She knew it.

  He wanted nothing more than to torment his family. He was mean and ignorant and seemed to take pleasure in his own ignorance.

  “I ain’t never been more than fifty miles from Judges Creek in Pickham County, Georgia,” he was wont to say with some pride.

  “This here was good enough for my daddy, and I guess it’ll be good enough for you,” he would go on, the words spit out like a threat, warning her not to consider even the possibility of ever having more or wanting more out of life.

  Her brother, Sam, had not been able to take it any longer than he had to. When he turned eighteen, he went to Savannah and joined the Army. He never said goodbye to his father, but he had taken Lyn aside one day and told her of his plan to leave. They had cried and hugged each other, Lyn clinging to her brother for a long while. She had known he would leave one day, had dreaded that day, but knew that he had to. Staying, he would have killed Daddy, or been killed by him.

  They sat for a long while that day laughing a little about the plan they had when they were younger to run away to Canada, to get away from the meanness of their father and their lives. It was a child’s dream, dreamt by children whose childhood bore the scars of abuse. Sam promised to come back and get her when he could. They would go to Canada. It had become her dream of dreams. Cool, green Canada.

  That was two years ago. Sam was buried now, behind the old Pentecostal church in Judges Creek. He had come home a year ago after a bomb alongside a dirt road in Afghanistan had blown up the Humvee he was riding in. Lyn had no idea what a Humvee was, but she knew that the driver of the vehicle lost his legs. Sam lost his life.

  The few letters he had written to his sister were hidden in a box under her bed. She kept them hidden from her father for fear that they would disappear during one of his drunken rages. She didn’t blame Sam for leaving, but she missed him badly.

  Mama missed him too. Lyn knew that she cried at night over the loss of her only boy. She also knew that Daddy thought it was because of his meanness that Mama cried, and took pleasure in that idea.

  No, Daddy was just hateful. Instead of wanting better for them, he just wanted to punish his own family. She didn’t know why and had given up trying to understand. He seemed to be happy only when he could make them unhappy. Maybe that was his way of dealing with the burdens of his shabby life. Maybe.

  To Lyn he was just a mean, hateful man who lived in the same house with them. Hating his own family and doing whatever he could to degrade them; he seemed to want to condemn them to the misery that was his life. Right now that meant peeing on Mama’s rosebush.

  After a few minutes, she heard him thump up the three steps to the old porch. The warped floorboards creaked under his weight. The screen door screeched open and then clattered shut.

  “Where you at?” he shouted.

  Lyn heard the floor creak in the next bedroom.

  “Right here, no need to shout.” Mama’s voice was tired.

  “Get your ass out here. Where’s my supper?”

  “Didn’t know when you’d be home. I’ll make you some eggs,” Mama replied softly.

  Lyn winced at what she knew was coming. This was almost a nightly ritual. A sick, perverted ritual maybe, but it was their nightly family ritual. She could have repeated the dialogue before they said it in the next room.

  “Eggs?” her father roared. “I want some goddamned food!”

  “Well, that’s all there is. And at that, it’s more than Lyn and me had.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you and that sneaking little bitch had!” He turned towards Lyn’s bedroom door. “You hear me in there you sneaky bitch. I know you’re listening. Afraid to show your face you little pissant! Always sneaking around. Get your scrawny ass out here!”

  Mama was getting angry now. It was one thing to abuse her, but leave her baby out of it.

  “You leave her be! She ain’t done…” Mama’s words were cut off by a sickening thud followed by a heavy thump resembling a sack of potatoes hitting the floor.

  6. He Just Was

  Unaware, the girl drove her small car within fifty feet of the silhouette watching in stillness from the nondescript car. It was a curiosity to him. Did she sense anything? Was there a twitch, a ripple of fear or nervousness sliding up her spine with the feeling that she had somehow come close to something very dangerous and menacing? Or, was she completely oblivious of her proximity to the danger and her fate?

  Perhaps the tingling at the back of her neck faded as she navigated her car safely through the parking lot, sitting in its safe and familiar interior doing a routine thing in a routine way; the familiarity and the routine pushing the nervous, tingling fear away.

  It was more likely that there was no tingling, no psychic connection warning her of the impending, nearness of extreme danger. He was good at that. She would not know of his presence until he wanted her to, until he needed her to.

  As she turned to pull out onto the main road, he started his car. It moved quietly, not disturbing the flow of movement around it, but becoming part of that movement, using the flow around it to disguise its driver’s focus on the small Japanese car a hundred yards ahead.

  She was young and not driving a great car. No rich daddy or sugar daddy was taking care of her. Likely she was on her own, another important piece of information.

  He absorbed the information unconsciously. It was a cunning and instinct within, of which he was not even aware. It just was. He just was. That was enough.

  7. The Closest Bug Lost

  George watched the two boys disappear down the road in their ragged pickup. They could have been him twenty years earlier; hanging out, under age, sneaking a beer. Things didn’t change much. It was unlikely, he knew, that they would have ever done anything to hurt the Cutchinses. But a few beers might lead to some bad judgment, and then to a bad idea executed on an alcohol-tinged whim.

  Watching until the truck’s taillights turned off the road, he walked through the wooden screen door and into the small building. Mrs. Cutchins look
ed up from her counting. A smile crossed her face.

  “Evening Deputy,” she called across the room.

  “Evening, ‘Mizz’ Cutchins.” George walked over to the small counter, crowded with racks of chewing tobacco, snuff, lighters, pocketknives, and gum. “Looks like you had a pretty good day.” He nodded down at the stacks of bills she was counting out, separating them by denomination.

  “Yep. We did good today. We were due.” She smiled and continued her count, not missing a beat as she sorted bills from her hand into the stacks on the counter.

  “Wonder if you could do something for me?”

  A wisp of white hair moved around her forehead in the breeze from a small fan behind the cash register as she looked up questioningly. “What is it, George?” she said, laying the wad of bills on the counter with a questioning look in her eyes.

  “I would appreciate it if you could do your nightly count in the back room or somewhere but here, where everyone can look in and see what kind of day you had.” He nodded down at the neat stacks of bills on the counter. “Quite a temptation to some young fella wanting to take his girl to Savannah for a big weekend.”

  “You think so?” The surprise was evident on her face. It had never occurred to her that someone might be tempted by what she and her old man had.

  “Yep. I do,” George said firmly. “Doesn’t take much to tempt some, especially these days. What you got there would be quite a lot to a lot of people; like maybe some young boys out having a few beers.” George looked her in the eye, his face expressionless.

  “You mean those Gantry boys. They were in here earlier,” she said nodding, although some skepticism still showed in her eyes. “They’re harmless. Good boys just out passing some time.”

  “I mean them and lots of others,” George said. “They may not mean any harm, and ordinarily it wouldn’t even cross their minds, but…a few beers, a wad of cash, a hot night and a pretty girl waiting…it could happen. Probably good boys, but it’d be nice for them to stay that way. No need to put a temptation in front of them that would follow them the rest of their life.”

  “Suppose you’re right,” she nodded. “I’ll tell Mr. Cutchins, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thanks.” He added a question. “By the way, you wouldn’t know where those Gantry boys got the beers I made them pour out in your gravel, would you? Seems like a waste of good beer. Besides, it’s illegal, them being under age, you know.”

  The old woman started to smile, but realized George was serious. “Well Deputy, I make it a point never to lie, especially not to an officer of the law, so I guess it’s best that I just didn’t hear the question.”

  George nodded. “Well, I’m not much for lying myself, so I reckon it’s best I don’t hear an answer. Just remember, it’s illegal, buying and selling in this case.”

  Reaching down into a barrel filled with icy water, George pulled out a can of Coke. He pulled some coins from his pocket and placed them neatly on the counter beside the stacks of bills.

  “Thanks, ‘Mizz’ Cutchins. See you tomorrow,” he said pushing open the creaky screen door and walking out into the night.

  “You too, George,” she said as the screen banged shut, then brushing back the strand of white hair around her forehead, she reached down for the stack of bills and continued her nightly count.

  Standing in the ring of gravel illuminated by the light from the store’s window, George popped back the tab on the drink can and took a long pull. The night air was warm in this part of Georgia, even in the fall. The single light on a pole over the gas pump cast a cool fluorescent glow. A bat circled the swarm of moths and beetles that in turn circled the light. Flitting in what seemed an erratic way, it would dart here and there into the swarm. George knew that the bat’s movements were not erratic at all.

  Each swerve by the bat was the stalk of some unsuspecting insect selected by the bat from the hundreds in the swarming mass of insects. Selection seemed random, or it might be based on some rudimentary judgment by the bat. Size, type of insect, or taste perhaps played a part in the selection of the bat’s victims. Or, maybe it was just proximity to the bat. The closest bug lost.

  There was no way of knowing. One thing was certain though. Each darting attack into the swarm was a kill.

  The light blinked off as Mrs. Cutchins threw the breaker and closed the store. In an instant, the bat and insects scattered into the night, but the hunt continued.

  8. She Didn’t Go Home

  She didn’t go home. She never would now. The Japanese car traveled several miles. The four-lane highway turned into a two-lane road. The area was more suburban now, on the verge of rural. After another mile or two, she stopped at a discount supermarket. It was at the intersection of another larger highway. There were clusters of houses in small developments scattered around. Urban sprawl from the big city, but the area was far more country than city. The clusters of lit homes and buildings surrounded by the dark countryside just made them seem more isolated.

  It was an older store and had a fairly deserted parking lot. He drove by on the main road as the brunette cruised in and found a space midway down the parking row directly in front of the store’s entrance. Turning at the next corner, he pulled into the parking lot from the side entrance and saw her walking across the lot and into the store.

  “Yes.” The word came out slowly and softly with a hiss. Guttural and low, it was the expression of a yearning soon to be fulfilled. Like the deep-throated sound, not quite a growl, that the great cat makes before springing. He wanted her. He would have her.

  Scanning the lot and exterior of the building with practiced eyes, he quickly saw that there were no cameras. This far out in the country, security was considered a minor concern. The only predators people were familiar with were gators along the banks of canals and ponds, and the occasional panther deep in the swamps. That would change.

  Waiting until she had entered the store, he moved the old Chevy beside her parked car, with the passenger door next to her driver’s door. Then, exiting his vehicle and leaving the keys in the ignition, he adjusted the passenger door so that it was slightly ajar. The interior light of the car did not come on. He had removed the bulb. One of the many details he was so careful about.

  He had just started this ‘runaround’. That’s what he called it. When people at work asked where he was going, it was a runaround. They thought it meant a vacation road trip, but it meant something very different.

  It was early in the runaround to be seeking prey. He had stopped, thinking he would just gather some supplies, but the feeling had hit him as he pulled into the mall parking lot. The instinct took over. Within an instant, he had become the predator, and now he was outside the grocery store waiting for the girl.

  Crossing half the country on I-10 in a day and a half, he had only arrived in northern Florida that afternoon. It was early in the trip, but it felt right, safe. Sometimes it worked that way. With a successful hunt here, he might have a chance for another project before the time ran out and he had to return to work. Who knows, maybe even two more. That would be a record, three on one runaround.

  He walked across the parking lot and stood behind a van parked thirty feet away from the two cars. Twenty minutes passed before he saw her walking across the parking lot pushing a grocery cart. She didn’t have much, just a few plastic bags. He readied himself as she pushed the cart to the passenger side of her vehicle and placed the bags on the front seat. For a moment, he thought he had made a tactical error. She looked as if she was going to push the cart to the return stand, which was off to his right and closer to the store. If she had, she might have seen him moving around the van to stay out of sight. Not likely, but still, he was careful, and this was one of those details that might cause him to call it off. If his senses felt that the moment was lost, he would let her go and immediately leave in a different direction.

  But that hadn’t happened. She hesitated as if she sensed there could be some danger in crossing the park
ing lot in the dark. She was smart and careful. But he was ready, prepared, willing, and very experienced. She left the cart by her car and walked around the rear to the driver’s door.

  People usually did that. Even though going around to the front was normally closer, they almost always went around the rear of the vehicle to get to the driver’s side. It was a small idiosyncrasy that he found curious in the way a house cat might curiously regard a mouse trapped in a corner trying to find a direction to run in order to avoid the cat. Of course, the girl had no idea that the cat was so near or that she was trapped. But she was.

  He sensed which direction she would take. It was part of his subliminal, animal cunning, like a leopard sensing which direction the gazelle would leap.

  As she crossed the rear of her car and turned towards the driver’s door, he moved. He was quick and silent. The thirty feet to the car were covered in seconds, long before she had a chance to unlock the car door.

  The hunting knife in his pocket was out in a smooth, practiced motion. He pressed against her, pushing her against his car, the knife at her throat. He was positioned so that anyone in the store looking out would only see his back and not the hand holding the knife. She had only time to give a short, startled gasp before his hand was on her throat. He was not an overly large man, but the grasp was powerful. There was terror in her eyes. He smiled.

  Her mouth opened as if to scream. Shaking his head, he pressed the knife more firmly against her throat, until the blade drew the smallest trickle of blood. Her mouth closed, and her head nodded understanding. No sound.

  With a fluid motion, he opened the passenger door of the car, pushing her in with his body. He forced her down on the seat, holding her there with his weight. Pulling a plastic tie wrap from his pocket, the kind electricians use to bundle wires and cables, he looped it around her wrists and pulled hard. He knew that police officers used similar tie wraps to secure prisoners when they ran out of hand cuffs. Smart boys, those cops were.