The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  “So, we have two murders of high profile victims. They seem to be unrelated. They come from different worlds. One a conservative state senator from old money who served decades in the Georgia legislature. The other a liberal civil rights attorney who had served as a superior court judge for almost as long. No apparent connection, except…” She paused to make sure they were following. “Except that both had become disgruntled with the political structure of both parties and both were involved with a blog called ‘Term Limits’. They were active in opposing candidates from both political parties because they felt that the answer to the current state of politics was to vote out all of the incumbents. That’s the short version.”

  “So, you’re saying that some politician had them killed because they were going to lose an election?” George asked, the doubt evident in his voice.

  “No, not that, exactly. Marswell and Somerhill were from opposite ends of the political spectrum.”

  “Except for the ‘Term Limits’ connection,” George interjected.

  “Right,” Sharon nodded. “Except for that. Could be a big business deal that will go bad if incumbents are voted out somewhere in the state. There’s hundreds of those, all of them big dollar deals with lots at stake. Could be a combination of some politician and some big business deal…could be anything. We don’t know at this point, and there is no evidence pointing in any specific direction.”

  “And Timmy Farrin? He was just the manager of the blog. Why did he have to go?”

  “I don’t know, George. I guess Timmy had control of what was posted and had the expertise to keep the blog running and posting and organized. Takes someone with a journalist’s skills to do that. Near as I can figure, they must have thought that without Timmy, the blog would die…go away.”

  George nodded thoughtfully. “So back to my original question. What’s next?”

  Rince could contain himself no longer. “Conspiracy! That’s what you’re saying. That’s what this is, a conspiracy.” He seemed almost exuberant at the idea that he was assigned to a task force investigating a conspiracy.

  “I don’t believe in conspiracy theories, Rince. I believe in facts.” The chastened look on Rince’s face made Sharon add, “If the fact that someone wanted these people dead means there is a conspiracy, so be it. I want to know who wanted them dead and why. We need to gather those facts.”

  Sharon’s cell phone chimed, as if on cue to let everyone take a breath. Taking the phone from the case on her belt, she answered.

  “Price.”

  “Sharon, Bob here with Andy. Where are you and who are you with?”

  “At the scene where the truck that killed Timmy Farrin was recovered. George and Rince are with me. We are alone, otherwise.”

  “Rince? Who the hell is Rince?”

  “He’s our pilot, Bob. Assigned to support the task force, remember. You arranged it.”

  “I arranged air support, I didn’t think the pilot would end up in the field with you. You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “I trust him, Bob.” She looked over at Rince who was listening intently to her side of the conversation. He gave her a solemn, ‘you can trust me’ nod.

  Bob Shaklee was not used to the word ‘trust’ coming out of Sharon Price’s mouth. She was all investigator and suspicion was her normal state of mind. If she trusted Rince, he wasn’t going to argue with her…now at least. He looked over at Andy Barnes, who just shrugged as if to say, I’m not getting into the middle of this particular debate.

  “Okay, fine. Put me on speaker.”

  Sharon punched the button. “You’re on, Bob.”

  “Before I get into this, is everyone up to speed?”

  “As much as we can be right now, Bob,” George said. “Go ahead.”

  Sharon was relieved to see that Rince was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  “Okay, we’ve been going over the list again this morning. The list of ‘Term Limits’ contributors you were working on, Sharon. Andy found an interesting correlation that we need to follow up on quickly. He’s going to brief you on what he found.”

  There was silence and the shuffling of papers, then a different voice came on the phone.

  “Here it is. Not much really. I took the list you were working on, Sharon, and compared it to activity in the blog. You know, number of posts by contributors, interactions, and so forth. When I did that, it just happens that the three top blog contributors are the three victims of Sunday’s murders.”

  There was a moment of silence as all considered the implications of that information, and then Sharon spoke. “So you are saying that Marswell, Somerhill and Farrin were the three top contributors?”

  “Right, actually Timothy Farrin was the top contributor. Makes sense, he managed the blog and put out a lot of the editorials. Marswell was next and then Somerhill.”

  “That means the list is…” George said, pausing to consider what he was hearing.

  “The list is a hit list,” Andy interjected. “At least if you rank it in order of the number of blog contributions and assumed influence, we should be able to tell who else has been identified by the killers for elimination.”

  “Can it be that simple?” Sharon considered the possibility.

  “Not sure how simple it is, Sharon. Andy found the connection with the posts. I don’t think I would have come up with that. In any event, we have three bodies, all killed under suspicious circumstances, and all three the top contributors to the ‘Term Limits’ blog. The coincidences keep piling up, don’t you think?”

  Sharon made no response. Her analytical brain was considering the probability of coincidence versus design.

  “Who’s next?”

  George’s question drew Sharon out of her thoughts. Leave it to George to get to the point.

  Andy smiled and nodded appreciatively in the conference room in Atlanta. He and the deputy down in Pickham County had something in common. Let’s cut the bullshit.

  “Next is a Rubin Martz. Fourth highest contributor to the blog. He owns a jewelry store in Savannah. Seems that he is a local liberal activist and ardent contributor to the ‘Term Limits’ blog and supporter of the ‘Vote Them Out’ movement. The sitting mayor and two city councilpersons in Savannah are likely to lose their seats in November because of his efforts.”

  “You just said he’s an activist,” George said. “He would be working against the incumbents in any event, wouldn’t he?”

  “I said he’s a liberal activist. One of the councilpersons he is opposing is a conservative from a suburban area. The mayor and other city councilperson are lifelong liberals. He is opposing them all…and having success.”

  “I’ll be damned.” A hit list. The small group standing beside George’s pickup looked at each other considering the implications.

  “The fifth person on the list is down there in Pickham County,” Andy continued.

  George’s ears perked up. “Who?”

  “Man named Porter Wright. He owns the newspaper and funded ‘Term Limits’.”

  “I know,” George said. Shit, he thought, first Timmy and now Porter. Goddamned sons of bitches.

  “So they really are crossing party lines,” Sharon said, letting it all sink in.

  “They are,” Shaklee said, “and we need to move.”

  “Tell us what you want us to do.”

  “I want George to get to Savannah and warn Martz and speak to the Savannah PD. Let them know and have them keep an eye on Martz.”

  “Why me, Bob. Seems like I should find Porter and make sure nothing happens to him.”

  “One simple reason, George. I don’t trust Klineman. He’ll be watching you.”

  They all considered this and George nodded. Bob was smart and he was right. Klineman was watching him.

  “Are you saying that you think Klineman is complicit in the murders, in the…” Sharon looked at Rince hating to say the next word, “conspiracy to commit murder?”

  “I am saying that, at this po
int, I don’t think we can trust too many people. Even if they are not complicit, they may be influenced by…other factors. I am saying Klineman is weak. His weakness makes him untrustworthy.”

  She nodded, looking at George who shrugged as if to say, he’s right. Bob usually was about such matters.

  “So, George is going to Savannah to see Martz. I assume I am to see Porter Wright and warn him.”

  “Yes, that and also to brief Ronnie Kupman. I think it is time we strengthened the task force. I trust Kupman.”

  “So do I,” she said nodding. They both knew there was no reason to ask George, who had made it clear that he trusted Ronnie completely.

  “I would like to get George to Savannah and back today. Is that do-able?

  Rince eagerly interjected himself into the briefing for the first time. “Absolutely! The Cessna is fueled and ready, standing by at the airport. I can have Deputy Mackey on the ground in Savannah an hour and a half after we leave Everett. Back in time for supper and a beer.”

  His excitement to be part of the plan was evident even to Shaklee and Barnes in the conference room more than three hundred miles away. “All right then. Let’s get George to Savannah. Sharon, you brief Kupman and speak to Wright. Get some sort of protective watch on him. Work that out with Kupman. Andy and I are going to bring in one more to the team here in Atlanta. Perry Boyd is his captain in the homicide squad. Andy feels about him the way you do about Ronnie Kupman, George.”

  “Works for me,” George said. “Way this is going, we’re gonna need as many as we can trust.”

  “Let’s go.” Rince was climbing in the back of the county pickup ready to get flying.

  43. One of Us

  Wheezing and gasping sounds escaped from his throat as Stanton James watched the tall man approach in the sports car’s rearview mirror. His lips opened and closed as if he was trying to speak, or scream, or pray, but he did none of those things. He simply gasped and wheezed.

  Trying to rise from the bucket seat, he found himself held in place by Bud Thompson’s firm grasp on his shoulder. The big man was more than a match for James on a normal day. Now, holding James in place was like resting his arm on a fence post while speaking to a neighbor. It required no effort at all, and the smaller man’s squirming in his piss-filled seat brought a small disgusted smirk to Thompson’s face.

  “Road blocked?” Bud asked as Puckett reached the car.

  “Yep. Around the bend. Put out signs. ‘Construction. Wait for pilot vehicle’.”

  They had stolen the signs yesterday while making preparations for today. They were from the side of a road construction project fifty miles away that had halted for the night.

  “Everything ready here?”

  Thompson nodded and motioned with his head to the side of the road where his truck was parked. A steep gravel logging road extended up the mountainside from that point. The area was leased by a local logger who had rights to clear a portion of the timber every year.

  “The driver?” Puckett asked, knowing the answer.

  “Oh, he had an accident,” Thompson replied with a shrug. “Broke his neck.”

  The logger, Rigby Story, had been loading tree length logs onto the trailer of his semi rig a short time earlier when he met with his unfortunate accident. He had never seen Bud Thompson approach from behind. Now, Rigby sat in the passenger seat of the big eighty thousand pound tractor-trailer, his head twisted at an uncomfortable angle. He seemed to be waiting.

  Stanton James craned his head trying to see and understand what was happening. He could see the man across the road in the truck, a couple of hundred feet up the steep logging trail. James’ head bobbed and swiveled, looking into the faces of Thompson and then Puckett, trying to understand. Their calm, indifferent looks only ratcheted up his level of apprehension and fear.

  Puckett reached a hand into his pocket and took out a plastic zip tie of the sort used by electricians to bundle wires and cables together. While Thompson’s beefy hand held James in place, Puckett looped the tie wrap around James’ left hand and the car’s steering wheel, binding his hand tightly to the wheel. Then nodding at Big Bud, he stepped back beyond the rear of the car. Bud walked to the tractor-trailer rig on the logging road.

  “What’s going on? What…What are you doing?” James’ voice had returned, but he had lost all control of it. He shrieked and screamed in uncontrollable panic. His mind could not fathom what was about to happen. He only knew he wanted to go home. He wanted to go away. He wanted not to be afraid.

  But it was too late for that. Terror and panic consumed Stanton James.

  The roar of the big truck’s engine caused his head to swivel. James could see Bud Thompson behind the wheel. He revved the truck engine. The caps on the exhaust stacks raised and lowered as black diesel smoke blew out each time Bud pressed the accelerator throttle.

  “What?” James screamed. “Whaaaattt!”

  Standing to the rear of the car, Puckett shook his head in disgust. Sure James was going to die, but he didn’t have to put on such a pathetic display. Mercy and sympathy were not a factor for Puckett. James should at least try to die with some dignity. Embarrassed by James’ display, he wanted to look away, but Rodney Puckett would not miss the show he had orchestrated, no matter how disgusted he was.

  Thompson, focused on his assignment, did not think about the screams at all. He was about to offer the final proof of his worthiness for entry into Puckett’s team.

  Releasing the brakes with a loud hiss, Thompson eased the truck forward slowly. The body of Rigby Story in the passenger seat bounced and slumped forward onto the dashboard. Thompson ignored it, focusing solely on his target. The alignment had to be perfect, otherwise he would have to back up and start again. He did not want to do that, knowing that he would take flak from Puckett if it didn’t go perfectly.

  James sat frozen in his bucket seat, his left wrist strapped to the steering wheel, mesmerized by the big truck rolling slowly towards him. Finally, somewhere deep in his paralyzed subconscious, the immediate need for flight and escape surfaced, and he pulled and wrenched violently at the steering wheel. He stood in the seat trying find a way out of the car, but the plastic tie held firm, and he remained positioned in the driver’s seat.

  Slowly, Bud turned the wheel making a slight adjustment, aligning the left front wheel of the truck. Standing in the seat, James caught sight of Thompson’s face, and its look of complete concentration.

  “Nooo!” he shrieked. “Bud…nnnooo!”

  The big tire struck the sports car in the center of the door. Thompson slowed to a stop for a second and peered down over the dashboard to make certain that James was still positioned directly below and in front of the wheel. He could see James writhing and squirming in the seat, unable to move more than a few inches. A few inches would make no difference.

  Bud was impressed, however. He had had doubts about the plastic tie wrap being able to hold James in place, but there he was right where he was supposed to be. He would have to compliment Puckett on that idea. He really was a master at this sort of work.

  Bud allowed the truck to roll forward. The big tire crushed the door and side of the car and continued forward, directly over the spot where Stanton James, the boy he had watched climbing in his father’s pecan trees, squirmed and begged until the life was crushed out of him.

  Looking to the right, he saw the thumbs up from Puckett and put the truck in reverse. The truck bounced out of the sports car, and Bud backed it across the main road and two hundred feet up the steep logging road. He could see Puckett checking James’ body for any signs of life. There weren’t any. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he cut through the plastic tie wrap that was still around James’ wrist and the car’s steering wheel. Bud noticed that he picked up the pieces of plastic and put them in his pocket. Puckett never left a detail to chance, and he was learning from him.

  Thompson waited while Puckett finished his check of the mangled remains of Stanton James. When he was
done, he took huge rubber blocks from the bed of Thompson’s pickup and walked slowly up the road to the big logging truck. There was no hurry.

  Big Bud waited patiently while Puckett blocked the tractor’s front tires with large chocks used to keep airliners from rolling. He had gotten them from one of his crew that worked baggage at Hartsfield airport. They cost him five hundred dollars each, but the price would be far surpassed by the payoff from the day’s work.

  Thompson kept the engine running and his foot on the brake while Puckett worked. When Puckett had the chocks in place, he returned to Thompson’s pickup and pulled the steel cable from the winch they had mounted in the bed. Mounting it had been one of the preparations they had performed the day before. Puckett told Thompson he could keep the winch when the job was done. Fuck the winch, Bud had thought. He wanted that big-ass boat.

  Puckett attached the split ends of the cable to the steel rings in the airplane chocks and stepped back. Looking things over and satisfied, he gave another thumbs up to Thompson.

  This was another part of the plan he had not been sure of, but Puckett had been confident. And again, Puckett was right. The truck held in place. Thompson could feel it strain to go forward though and worked quickly. They had agreed that, if he had to, he would jump from the cab as it started rolling down the hill. Bud absolutely did not want to do that.

  Quickly, he pulled Rigby Story’s body over the truck console. Opening the door, he stepped onto the top exterior step and pulled Rigby fully into the driver’s seat, placing his arms through the spokes of the steering wheel.

  Slamming the door shut, he jumped to the ground. Puckett was chuckling at the look of relief on Thompson’s face.

  “You look a little nervous, Bud.”

  “Bite me, Rodney.” Thompson had never used Puckett’s given name to this point, but felt he had earned the right today. Puckett just laughed louder.

  They walked down the hill to Thompson’s pickup. Bud reached in the bed and started the electric generator that powered the winch and then engaged the winch drive. The slack was slowly pulled from the cable until it was taut.