by Glenn Trust
They were miles from Toccoa in the rising foothill and mountain country when the radio chattered to life.
“All units, all units, be advised, Rye County deputy reports the possible suspect vehicle associated with the homicides in Pickham County, older model Chevrolet bearing Texas plates, now possibly located at the Creek Side Cabins, ten miles north of Crichton on the state highway. Units responding advise.”
The radio crackled and a trooper on a traffic stop on I-85 advised he was enroute to Crichton. Some lucky motorist was about to be sent on their way with a warning. Another trooper in Toccoa responded, and then George picked up the mike.
“Pickham County 301 responding with State 155,” he said firmly and then added, “Advise the Rye County unit and all responding units that the male suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. If possible and there are no signs of immediate threat to the female, stand by for this unit.”
“10-4, Pickham 301.” The pickup grew quiet while the dispatcher switched to other frequencies to relay the information to other law enforcement agencies in the area responding.
“Which way?”
Sharon looked up, squinting from the map. Her finger pointed to an almost invisible dot. “That’s where we’re headed. Take a right on the next county road. It winds around that mountain there, but looks like the shortest route.”
“How long?”
Sharon studied the map for a second. “Thirty minutes…maybe. We’re closer than we would have been back in Toccoa, but the way the roads wind, it’s hard to say.”
George’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator, trying to shave some minutes off their arrival time. Lucky break, maybe. They were certainly due for some luck.
The hunter in George knew that he had to capitalize on the luck of the hunt, or it meant nothing. If you stumbled upon your prey but didn’t get the shot off, or missed or just stood there in surprise, your luck would change. To this point, the man in the Chevy had had it all his way. Luck, predatory skill, or a combination of both, he had been invisible to them. But now, they had their break.
The pickup truck fishtailed slightly as he made the turn onto the county road and increased speed again. They did not speak. George Mackey and Sharon Price stared ahead, as if willing the pickup to the Creek Side Cabins outside Crichton, Georgia. They would not miss their shot. It was time to end the hunt. They would put this animal down, if they could just get there in time.
George leaned forward into the wheel as if willing the truck forward, faster.
78. No Need to Complicate it
The jerk of his legs at the radio’s blaring alert almost spilled the large drink cup Clay had nestled between his knees as he drove. Arriving in Toccoa, he had passed the state patrol post and seen the Pickham County pickup parked by the front door. He had no idea what to do, but knew that he had better not be seen staking out the deputy from Pickham County.
After an endless thirty minutes in the parking lot of a nearby convenience store, Clay had decided to explore the area, listening carefully to the radio on the seat. The deputy and GBI must be here for a reason, although that reason was not altogether clear to Clay.
The radio broke squelch with a burst of static.
“Pickham 301, 10-8 from Toccoa post. Circulating in the area.”
“10-4, Pickham 301.”
Jerking the truck into gear, Clay raced back to the state patrol post. Keeping the Pickham County deputy close was the key to finding the girl, or at least was his best chance. But as he passed the post, he saw that the deputy’s pickup was gone. He swallowed down the lump that had immediately formed in his throat. Now what? Which way?
Hitting the steering wheel with his fist, he could not suppress a shouted, “SHIT!” and cursed himself for not staying closer and watching.
Reaching for the radio on the seat, he turned the little knob for volume up a bit. There had been no radio traffic about the Chevy, just Pickham 301 saying he was circulating in the area, whatever that meant.
Despair settled down on him. Having come so far, the thought of turning back did not occur to him, but now he had no plan. He had no idea which way the deputy had gone. He could only listen to the radio and hope for some information.
Driving in aimless circles through the back roads of north Georgia, Clay wound his way out of the Toccoa area. The heavy darkness of the lost cause settled in on him. What was he doing? What was he going to do?
The thought of the girl’s voice and the message on his cell phone, which was now in the custody of the GBI, rang in his ears. It was a moment of clarity. That was the reason he was here. No need to complicate it more than that. He was young and he was on a quest, an adventure. It was the one wild thing he had ever done, and he would pay the price when he got home. Cy would see to that. But for now, it was the voice on the phone that vibrated in his ears. That was enough.
The radio crackled, and a state trooper advised the dispatcher that he was on a traffic stop on I-85 near the Toccoa exit.
Another burst of static, and a trooper advised he was out at the Toccoa post.
Silence. Wooded hills and back roads flowed by.
And then another crackle, “All units, all units, be advised, Rye County deputy reports the possible suspect vehicle …” Clay struggled to steady the drink cup between his knees while reaching for the radio. He guided the truck to the shoulder as the dispatcher gave the lookout.
Grabbing the tattered, unfolded map from the passenger side floor, he laid it across the steering wheel. Crichton. His finger swirled over the map searching for the small dot indicating the town’s location.
“Pickham County 301 responding,” Clay’s head jerked up, recognizing the thick voice of the deputy from Pickham County. Reflexively, he wrinkled the map in his fists as the deputy’s voice calmly and firmly added, “Advise the Rye County unit and all responding units that the male suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. If possible and there are no signs of immediate threat to the female, stand by for this unit.”
Scanning the map frantically, Clay searched for the dot that was Crichton. After a minute of frantically tracing various routes on the map, it was there. It seemed to loom suddenly at him off the page. A blunt finger traced a course to it from what he thought his present location was on the map.
Seconds later the dirt clods spun out from under the truck’s tires as Clay made a u-turn across the road, engine roaring.
79. Not Yet
Dragging the knife blade across the girl’s flesh, he stroked himself. He moved the blade to a spot that had previously been cut and had dried. He let it drop heavily onto the cut and opened the wound again so that it started bleeding. The cuts were shallow, made only by the weight of the knife, but the knife was sharp and the cuts were painful, bleeding wounds that widened and gaped with every touch of the knife.
For a brief moment, he saw the flicker of awareness and pain cross the girl’s face and then it vanished. He knew that she had run to some faraway place, trying to hide from him. He smiled, that was fine, little girl. He would bring her back little by little, cut by cut. He would show her there was no escape, and then her desperation and fear would overwhelm her. And as her fear overwhelmed her, Lylee would be completely and entirely satisfied and filled.
His body quivered at the thought. He let the blade drop heavily to the top of her left breast where the point made a little hole that started bleeding. His arousal grew.
He stared at the girl’s tormented body. Blood trickled from her shoulders and over her breasts. His hand moved to his groin again. He could see the goose bumps on her flesh. She quivered and shook slightly in the cold. Her eyes were fixed somewhere behind him. He lifted the big knife blade and let it fall again on her shoulder, sawing it slightly back and forth to open the small cut further. Still holding the knife, he turned the back of his hand to the girl and rubbed it in the flow of blood. Something flickered in the girl’s eyes, and then she fled away again. He smiled. Soon, he thought. Soon you will not be able
to hide.
Lylee’s body tensed for a moment.
Drained, he threw himself backwards onto the bed. He put his hand behind his head and lay there looking at her. Yes, this one was special. He could not bring himself to end it.
Normally, he would have been long finished with the girl, the duct tape over her mouth muffling her screams and cries. His hands would already have closed around her throat as he looked into her panicked eyes. The realization would have already come into those eyes that there would be no deliverance, no escape. The fear would be so strong that he would smell it in her sweat and the urine that escaped her bladder. Slowly, painfully, her life would be choked away. It would be his.
Normally, but not this time. Not yet. Lylee wanted to bring her back from that place her escape had taken her. He wanted the complete victory that came with the perfect kill. Her awareness of her own death and impotence to prevent it would bring Lylee the awareness of his own power, and the force within him.
Somewhere deep inside, the predator’s voice called to him. Beware. Caution. For a moment, he thought that maybe he should listen. End it now and move on. But the nude girl sitting there, her underwear cut off in tatters around the chair, blood dripping over her breasts, her eyes gazing into some far distant place, pulled him away from the warning voice.
Lylee lifted his hand to his face. He could smell her blood on it. He put it to his mouth and tasted it with his tongue. No not yet. Just a little longer, and he would bring her back. He would taste her fear along with her blood.
A shiver of excitement coursed through his body as he drifted to sleep.
80. What the Hell
Clods of red clay and gravel spun in arcs from under the brown sheriff’s car as it bumped roughly down the dirt drive to the Creek Side Cabins, jarring Deputy Grover Parsons’ teeth in the process. Roots of the large trees lining the drive had caused the surface to buckle and swell in places, and the car was almost airborne as it took some of the bigger bumps in the drive, which had definitely not been graded for such high speed.
Gannet Carlson, proprietor of the ‘Cabins’, as they were known locally, struggled to keep up. When he got to the office, which was also the home he and his wife Margaret shared, he found Grover standing outside his vehicle in a cloud of dust.
The front door to the office creaked open, and the old woman who had checked in the young man from Texas bustled out onto the porch in none too good a humor.
“Grover Parsons! What on God’s green earth…” She stopped in mid-sentence as more swirling dust from her husband’s sliding pickup billowed up onto and over the porch.
“Gannet! You tell me what is going on and do it right now.”
Her husband stood beside his truck waving the dust away from his face as he answered, “Don’t really know, Marge. Grover here said he had to check something out. Something about that young fella that came in this morning. One from Texas.”
Marge Carlson looked Deputy Parsons in the eye. “Tell me what’s going on, Grover.”
“Don’t know for sure, Mrs. Carlson. The man you checked in and the car match the description of a man we’re after…the whole state’s after.”
“What did he do, Grover?”
“Don’t know that he did anything. Just matches the description is all. I need to check it out. That’s all.”
“Well then, why all the commotion, coming in here like you was after Billy the Kid.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Carlson. Can you tell me which cabin they’re in?”
“Of course I can, Grover. I checked them in, didn’t I?” The old woman slapped her hands down the front of her shirt in an effort to beat some of the dust off. “They’re in twenty-three, creek side. Around the bend and last cabin. They wanted some place quiet where they could rest up. Been driving all night.”
“All right then. You and Gannet stay here in the office. I’ll check things out. There may be some other folks coming. More deputies, state patrol maybe too…”
“More?” Marge Carlson’s voice rose in a small crescendo of concern.
“Yes, ma’am. If they do, just point them in my direction, please.”
“Right, Grover. We’ll do that.” Gannet moved onto the porch beside his wife and took her hand. It was clear that there was more to this than just checking something out. “You be careful now, Grover, you hear.”
“Yes, sir, I will. You two stay here now. No matter what. Okay?”
The couple nodded solemnly at the young deputy who climbed back into his car and moved forward down the drive. The car disappeared into the surrounding trees, and Gannet Carlson led his wife into their small home.
A hundred yards down the drive, Deputy Parsons passed the turn off to the left to the forest view cabins. Another fifty yards further, and he came to the turn to the right that led to the creek side cabins.
The car coasted to a gentle stop at the turn with just the slightest squeak of the breaks. Ahead the creek rushed noisily, full from the previous night’s rain. To the right, the drive continued in front of the cabins that lined the creek. Peering down the line of cabins, Deputy Parsons saw the old Chevrolet. It did appear to match the description of the one they had been giving in the BOLO from the state for the last two days. Of course, there were a million other old cars on the road that would also match.
Exiting his car, Deputy Parsons reached down and turned the volume down on his portable radio. The air was crisp and cool by the creek, full of the aroma of the lush vegetation lining its banks. With an eye on the cabin, alert to any movement, Parsons crossed the drive to the creek and went down the short bank to the edge of the water. Crouching low, he then moved along the creek towards the cabin until he could make out the tag on the rear of the Chevy.
Peering up over the bank through the trees and vegetation, there was not much chance that he would be seen, even if someone were watching for him. Still, cautious hunter that he was, he took his time and slowly moved his head up until his eyes could see the cabin and the car.
Curtains fluttered in the window by the door, and he became motionless, watching. After a few seconds, he determined that the window was closed. No one was visible. His eyes shifted to the car. The license plate of the Lone Star State was impossible to mistake. He had confirmed two critical pieces of information, the car and the tag.
Moving slowly, he made his way back down the bank to the spot where the drive came down from the office. His car was there, parked on the drive beside the first creek side cabin and invisible to anyone looking out from the end cabin.
Crouching by the side of the car, Parsons spoke into his portable radio mike and advised the dispatcher and responding units that the vehicle was an older model Chevrolet bearing a Texas license plate. He had seen no one and could not confirm who the occupants were or if the female was in danger.
“10-4 Rye County. Be advised, instructions remain to standby unless there is imminent threat to the female.”
“10-4,” he acknowledged.
Imminent threat. How the hell was he supposed to know what was happening in the cabin. The girl could be imminently threatened right now, and he would never know it.
Still crouching beside his car, he leaned back against it. Wondering what to do. Standby. Those were the instructions. If the man in the cabin was the suspect they were looking for, he was definitely armed and dangerous and had killed at least two people in the last couple of days. That thought definitely made standing by seem like the best course of action.
But there was the girl, if she was there. The Carlsons never actually saw her, after all. If this was the right car and the right suspect, the girl might be in no immediate danger. Or, she might already be dead. He pushed that thought away.
Watching the cabin, he contemplated the best way to approach and maintain the element of surprise. They would need to have a plan when the other officers arrived. He could at least help with that.
Crouching beside his car, Deputy Parsons considered the best ways to approach the cabi
n and maintain the element of surprise. Surprise would be critical.
Minutes ticked by. Parsons had come up with a plan of approach. It was really pretty simple. Start from here on foot. Stay close to the fronts of the line cabins so that you were invisible to anyone looking out the front window of the cabin at the far end, until you went up on the porch that is. Surprise would be gone then. Still it was the best you could do.
A few more minutes ticked by as Deputy Grover Parsons watched the cabin. A woodpecker rapped a staccato beat on a nearby tree. It was the only sound audible above the rushing of the creek.
He looked up into the cool, clear autumn sky. Dappled sunlight filtered down through the trees, most of which still had their leaves. Mid-afternoon, he thought, taking a deep breath of the cool air.
The sound of a vehicle approaching slowly on the dirt drive turned his head, and he stood up. About time, he thought, and then added in a mixture of surprise and consternation, “What the hell?”
81. Confronting the Beast
The sign to the Creek Side Cabins caught Clay by surprise, and he slid the truck’s tires trying to slow enough to make the turn. Not knowing what to expect, and expecting to be in some trouble with the GBI and the big Pickham County deputy if they saw him, he proceeded down the drive cautiously and much less recklessly than Deputy Parsons had before him.
