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

by Glenn Trust

  “Believe I’ll join you.” Tobin reached into the cooler and pulled out a beer for himself. By mutual, unspoken agreement, the cooler was always between the two porch chairs and was absolutely never empty. Both men threw the beer contributions in when it got low and added ice periodically.

  George had come across the old man while looking for a place to stay during a drawn out and messy divorce. His friends all told him that divorce was an occupational hazard in law enforcement, even for deputies in a rural Georgia county. He had a different theory. His ex-wife, Darlene, hated him. It was a theory, elegant in its simplicity that seemed reasonably sound.

  He admitted that she probably had good reasons. The list included her husband’s good old boy, country ways, always worrying about the next paycheck and which bills to pay, the small, plain house they would probably spend the rest of their lives in, and the fact that Pickham County was what it was. Darlene wanted more, and after the new had worn off their marriage, she had filed for divorce. To her credit, it had taken ten years and two daughters to bring her to that point. In the end, it all boiled down to the same thing. She hated the life they had led while they were married, which meant that by default she hated him. At least, that’s how George saw it.

  He had asked her once during the fighting why she hated him so much. The question had made her catch her breath. After a few seconds of silence, she had looked him in the eye and said, “Because you’re late, George. You are always late. Late to pay the bills. Late to come home. Late to make sergeant at the Sheriff’s Department. Late to apply for the Patrol. You were even late for the births of our daughters, busy with something or other in the county, but late just the same.” She had taken a breath and ended with finality, “Late, George. You are always late and always will be.”

  For his part, George had quietly signed the papers and given her everything she wanted, which was everything. It didn’t matter. It was the price of peace, and it was worth it.

  He understood. It was true. He was always late. Late to be what she needed and to give her what she wanted. Darlene had remarried a year later to a man who was a supervisor at a paper mill plant out on the Georgia coast, and who was never late. George had found old Fel Tobin. It was a good trade to his way of thinking.

  The day he had moved out of the house, he had gone to the grocery store bulletin board in Everett, the county seat. Everything was advertised there, free of charge. A card with a telephone number had the words ‘Room to Rent’ printed in pencil in large block letters. As it turned out, it was two rooms and a small bathroom over an old barn. He went to the location and found an old man riding randomly around on a lawn mower, not really mowing anything in particular. It was a quick deal. George looked around and handed old Fel Tobin some cash, and it was done.

  “So. You gonna say anything about it?”

  “What? Oh, the night.” George sipped his beer. “Had a stabbing last night. Old man was stabbed in the A.M.E. church parking lot out on Jax Highway. He’s dead.”

  “The hell you say. Stabbed dead in a church parking lot? The hell you say.”

  “Yep. He’s dead, and we don’t know who did it, but it was a real bad person.”

  “Well, it would have to be a bad person to stab someone to death in a churchyard.”

  “It’s more than that. Person who did this, did it to cause a lot of pain.”

  “Oh,” Fel thought this over a bit, sipping his beer. “Who was it?”

  “Don’t know. We’re looking for him now, but not much to go on.”

  “I mean the person that got stabbed. Who was it?”

  “Oh,” George said trying to shake out the memory of Mrs. Sims pointing at him and admonishing him to catch the person who took her husband. “Harold Sims. He and his wife live over on Power Line Road.”

  “I know Harry. Bought a hog from him once. Damn, stabbed in a churchyard.” He sipped his beer again and then repeated for emphasis, “Damn. You sure he’s dead?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Damn. Harry Sims stabbed dead in a churchyard. Damn.”

  “Yeah,” George nodded in agreement and sipped his beer.

  Minutes ticked quietly by, broken only by the sound of George retrieving another beer and popping the top. Although still morning, the day was heating up, and the heat filled the air with the rich aroma of green living things. Grasshoppers buzzed around in the scalped grass that Fel never stopped mowing. A bluebird darted to the grass from its concealment in a forsythia and impaled a grasshopper, darting quickly back to its perch.

  The two spent a lot of time on the porch. Cold, sweating beer cans in hand, they might not say much, just sitting there in the humid evening, watching the twilight and then full night coming on. To say that they sat there contemplating the meaning of life would have been too grand a description. Usually, they just sat watching drops of water slide down the cold cans and drip onto the dusty planks of the porch, considering the puzzle of life. Sometimes it seemed that the puzzle pieces were pushed around and forced together, causing the picture to warp and buckle.

  George stood up and tossed the empty can into the old wooden crate by the front door. It clanked against the fifty or so others that had been deposited inside. He picked the Sam Brown belt up off the porch and slung it over his shoulder, the handcuffs and keys jingling, and the pistol thumping him in the side.

  “Well, guess I’ll turn in,” he said starting down the creaking steps. “You mowin’ today?” He threw the question back over his shoulder, knowing the answer.

  “Yep. Just like always.”

  George nodded and walked around the side of the house and across the yard towards the barn where his apartment was. An acorn thumped onto the hood of his county pickup parked under an old oak. As he climbed the steps outside to the second floor of the barn, the sound of Fel’s lawn mower sputtering and then roaring to life filled the air. George knew he would spend the morning mowing before the day got too hot.

  It all seemed so natural. The acorn dropping, the grasshoppers in the grass, the bluebird in the forsythia, the smell of the vegetation, the noise of the mower. How could those things exist in the same world as the dark stain in the gravel and dust of the church parking lot, and the old woman’s brown, weathered hand pointing at him. “You catch him Deputy. You catch the person.”

  It was too complicated for George, and he was too tired to think about it. He hoped he would sleep.

  29. Things Less Clear

  The glow of the Savannah city lights ahead had been slowly overpowered by the sun rising to the east over the Atlantic. Cy wondered how breakfast at the I-95 Diner had led to this. Dropping the girl off at the truck stop seemed a simple task, but it had the feel of something different, and he wasn’t sure what. It was something just beyond his ability to discern and understand. It was clear that Clay felt it too, and was being taken in; maybe sucked into a situation they were happily ignorant of just a couple of hours earlier. As the light coming in from the east was changing the way things looked over the Georgia countryside, things for the brothers looked different than they had just a few hours before. Cy was not happy about it.

  Up ahead a large sign lit in red, white, and blue letters said ‘AcrossAmerica’. Cy took the exit, turned right and then left across the road into the lot. The old pick up bumped over potholes and gravel at the entrance torn up by the heavy truck traffic. The truck stop located on the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia was a hive of activity. To one side there were big rigs fueling at the wide lanes around the diesel pumps. On the other side of the main building were gas pumps for cars and smaller trucks. The smell of diesel fuel and exhaust hovered in the air. Air brakes hissed, engines rumbled to life, and transmissions shifted quickly through the lower gears as trucks flowed back towards the interstate and the river of traffic that passed north and south along I-95 and to the west on I-16 towards Atlanta.

  This was a full service truck stop, which meant that truckers could have their rigs serviced, take a shower, rel
ax in the lounge, or play video games or pool while they waited for their next load. A small, attached motel offered cheap rooms for those who had had enough of the cab sleepers in their trucks or for those whose cabs did not have sleepers. Services included a diner, general store, and a gift shop. A few older couples who had stopped for a meal or to gas their motor homes wandered uncertainly across the lot from the pumps to the store. They looked out of place in the midst of the truckers.

  Cy guided the pickup to the few lined parking spaces for cars in front of the main building and parked at the entrance to the diner-cafe-restaurant. It seemed like a good place to look for a ride for the girl. Lyn, he thought, Lyn, although he didn’t want to attach a name to her. The more anonymous she was the better for them, at least as he saw it.

  Clay pushed the creaky truck door open and held it while Lyn climbed out. He pulled her small bag out of the bed and walked inside with her. Cy followed. The plan was to get some coffee, scout things out, and see if they could hook her up with a ride. Someone they could trust. Kathy’s instructions, orders really, from the diner still rang in their ears. She had entrusted Lyn to them, and they knew they had better make a good faith effort to find her a ride, a safe ride, or at least as safe as they could reasonably ensure.

  Finding a table in the restaurant, they ordered coffee, and the boys began looking around. Cy could tell that Clay was having a hard time letting go of the idea that the girl could stay with them, or maybe just letting go of the girl. He had never seen his brother like this. Clay was always the stud with girls lined up, none of them serious, and he moving through them unattached, enjoying whatever they were willing to offer, but oblivious to their attempts to hold him to something more. This girl…the name Lyn crept into his brain although he tried to force it out…was different. Best to find her a ride quickly then. Let her climb into one of the rigs headed north, and let the brothers get back to business.

  The dining room was a busy clatter of dishes and cups punctuated by the scent of eggs and bacon. Truckers were downing coffee and huge platters of eggs in various forms and with various other food items in the eggs or on the side. Interspersed among them were tradesman like Cy and Clay and a few family travelers, usually older people driving big land yachts or the ones who had been fueling their motor homes at the pumps. Oatmeal and bran muffins were apparently not on the menu, or at least were not being consumed. A few read newspapers, others sat in the smoking lounge and chatted with other truckers.

  The Purcell boys and Lyn waited for their coffee and looked around. Cy was beginning to realize that the task they had been given, while simple enough on the surface, might be a bit more tricky than they had thought. He wasn’t sure where to start or exactly who to talk to about getting a ride for Lyn.

  He glanced over at Clay who was intently focused on Lyn. She was going through her purse carefully. It made her look small and vulnerable. She was counting money to herself. Cy felt something briefly tug in his chest, but then forced it away. He saw it coming but was powerless to stop it. Clay spoke to Lyn.

  “You want some breakfast? I’m buying.”

  “Oh, no. It’s okay. I’ve got some money.”

  “Well, you best save your money. Long ways to Canada, you know.”

  The waitress arrived with their coffee, and Clay began ordering breakfast for the girl. Cy gave up and stirred some sugar into his cup. How in the world did they end up here?

  A reddish beam of light pierced the dirty café window as the sun broke suddenly above the window sill. The bright rays lit everything up from the side, making things stand out clearly in the contrast with the dark shadows. Cy squinted at the window as a waitress moved over to close the blinds. The higher the sun rose, the less direct the light, and as the shadows faded, the less clear and defined things would be. The world always appeared washed out and bland in the day sun. Without the side lit shadows, things were less clear. And that was how it felt. Things were becoming much less clear for the brothers.

  30. Gassing Up

  The northbound traffic was light this time of day. Mostly trucks trying to make some miles before the heavy traffic crowded I-95. The old Chevy proceeded northbound keeping pace with the trucks.

  His little bit of business done, Lylee settled back and began looking for a gas station and convenience store where he could fill the tank up in the old car and get some coffee. Just a guy on the road making miles. He could have been anyone.

  The early morning hour made him feel alive after the night’s activity. For much the same reason that Tom Ridley liked relieving himself in the yard in the early morning darkness, it was his time. Quiet and solitary time. It gave him a sense of freedom.

  The lights of a gas station lit up the horizon a couple of miles up the interstate. Pulling off at the exit, he drove up to the regular pump and started filling the tank. There were no other cars around. The digital numbers on the pump whirred quickly by.

  Walking inside the little convenience store, he could smell coffee brewing. He found the pot and poured himself a cup. He was looking around for the clerk when she startled him coming out of the drink and beer cooler. A small laugh escaped from her when she saw him start.

  “Sorry,” the little blond said. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. “I could see you through the glass door on the cooler. Just stocking the shelves for the day.”

  His ‘charming’ smile spread across his face. It was one of the many faces he could present to the world.

  “No problem. Just thought there might be something wrong.”

  She smiled back, her ‘be nice to the customers smile’.

  “Nope. No problem.”

  She was still smiling. Lylee stood there in a casual way, staying away from the cash register and sipping his coffee, taking everything in.

  “It would make me nervous working here at night on my own,” he offered as an opener.

  “Naw,” she said matter-of-factly. “I guess I was a little nervous at first, but I been here seven months now and never had a problem. The deputies and state patrol usually stop by a couple times a night. Didn’t see them last night though. They must have been busy.

  Lylee nodded. Yep, they were busy. Definitely busy. They would be busier still, soon.

  “And there’s always a trucker or someone like you comin’ in,” she continued, “So I’m not alone here much.”

  “Besides,” she added, “we got a camera”. She nodded her head in the direction of the wall.

  Lylee looked up with mild interest in the direction she indicated. It wasn’t necessary. He had seen the camera right off. He had also seen that it was focused on the cash register and that if he didn’t get within three feet…say five feet to be safe…it would never see him. He would just be someone off to the left talking to the pretty blond.

  This was not a sign of a superior intellect. It was just a part of his instinctive cunning. Possessing the innate ability to react quickly to changing circumstances and his environment, the predator in him was always calculating, figuring the odds, the probability of success or failure, and assessing danger. He was good at it. He had the knack of self-preservation, and of course, there was that luck that seemed to follow him and watch over him on his runarounds.

  He made these little trips every few months or so and told his few acquaintances at work that he just went for driving tours to some national park or historic site or city. He made sure that he actually researched the places he was supposed to visit so that he could answer questions for the few people who would give a shit about what he’d been up to. It wasn’t a very large group. Still, the research was another detail he made sure of instinctively.

  The excursions kept him sane, like a good vacation for most people. Of course, in Lylee’s case, sane was a very relative term. If the details of the runarounds had been known to those who were acquainted with him, it is unlikely that sane would have been an adjective that anyone used in connection with Leyland Torkman. But then, the details were
not known. To his few acquaintances, he was a solitary man with an occasionally surly attitude, but mostly just quiet, and vaguely intimidating.

  Now his fox-like cunning was calculating the odds of having the pretty little blond join him on this runaround as number two. He carefully scanned outside and around the store with his eyes, not moving his head. He wondered how she would react if she knew about the bundle he had dropped off not ten miles from here. Would she still have that cute little smile on her face? Maybe not, but it made him smile to think of it.

  “What? Did I say something silly?” the blond asked, seeing the smile.

  “Huh? Oh, no, not at all. I was just enjoying your company and sipping my coffee, thinking what an unexpected pleasure to be able to spend a few minutes with a girl as pretty as you on a long trip.”

  This time he smiled for real. He really could be quite charming when he wanted. It was part of the disguise; high grass to hide what lurked below. Blend in so that they wouldn’t see the claws and fangs until he wanted them to. It was the ability to appear to be what others wanted him to be, at least long enough to get what he wanted.

  Now she was smiling, and said softly, “That’s nice. Men around here don’t talk like you do.”

  Her Georgia drawl was a little softer and more syrupy than it was a minute ago. A few more minutes, he thought. She was still unsure, but soon he could invite her to breakfast or find some other pretext to get her from behind the counter and away from the camera.

  “So where are you headed?”

  “Oh, just taking a little road trip,” he said sipping his coffee. “Thought I would go up to Maine. There’s a place where the sun rises first in the entire United States.”

  “Really? That would be fun to see.” The customer smile was gone, replaced by her ‘I might want to know you better’ smile. She leaned forward on the counter a bit. “I never really go anywhere.”