The Hunters Series Box Set

by Glenn Trust

  As Boyd pulled the car into the parking garage, Perkins shook himself out of his thoughts and said, “Hey, man. Where we goin’. This ain’t the police. Where is this?”

  “GBI,” Bob said without looking around.

  “GBI? GBI, that’s bullshit.” Perkins voice had taken on a whining tone as if to say that they weren’t playing fairly with him.

  “Not bullshit, Terrell. Captain Boyd and I are part of a GBI task force.”

  “A what?”

  “A GBI task force. It’s a group of investigators that have been assigned to round up all the killers of…well you know, don’t you, Terrell?”

  “All the killers? You mean…?” Terrell was smart enough to stop speaking at that point, but it was clear his mind was whirling with concern and confusion.

  All the killers? Did that mean they have some of the others arrested already, he wondered. Fuck, if they did, and they gave him up, he could be left taking the shit for all of them assholes. He was the new guy. They’d give him up in a second. He knew that because that’s what he would do.

  “That’s right, Terrell We’re bringing in all of the killers.” Shaklee saw no reason to let Terrell Perkins know that, at this point, Perkins was all of the killers they had in custody.

  62. Uncomfortable

  Sharon steered the big white SUV over the sandy road. Naomi Wright had given her the keys as they prepared to depart Everett saying that she was in no condition to drive. This was true. Still red-eyed from two days of crying and carrying tissues that she continually used to dab the moisture from her eyes, she struggled with the fact that her family was in danger. Her husband’s condition was unknown. Porter Wright might be safe in the remote cabin or might already be the victim of the killers who were searching out those involved with ‘Term Limits.’ The uncertainty had made her a basket case.

  Sharon was glad to take possession of the keys. She had no idea where they were headed, and like most people, she found it difficult to keep the directions straight if she was not actually driving.

  The paved two-lane county roads had changed to sandy dirt, sometimes no more than trails through the sawgrass. Passing through cypress forests standing in the black swamp waters, they would break occasionally into a clearing where the road would rise onto a dike to cross over wetlands. Herons and egrets walked through the water stalking prey. Waterfowl of enormous variety rose from or settled into the water as the SUV passed.

  In the back seat, the Wright children sat quietly. They had never seen their mother like this. She was always their rock, the one they could turn to when things weren’t right in their world. Now, her pain and fear for them and her husband hung darkly over their family.

  Sharon came to a fork in the dirt road and stopped the big car.

  “Naomi, which way?” She looked over at Naomi Wright who sat staring out the side window at the cypress trees.

  “Naomi…?”

  “Yes?” She turned her tear stained face to Sharon.

  “Which way, Naomi? Do I take the left or the right fork?”

  Mrs. Wright peered around, squinting through the glass. For a moment, Sharon thought that she had become lost, and without her directions, she knew she would have a hard time finding the cabin on her own.

  Looking at Sharon, she said, “Left. Take the left fork.”

  “You sure?” Naomi’s tone had seemed less than certain

  She nodded. “I’m sure. Go left. It’s about another ten miles. We’re almost there.”

  Reassured, Sharon started the car forward down the left fork of the road. Another ten miles. Good. She would be happy to get out of the car and stand. Driving through the swamp country felt like being at sea. Couldn’t really get out and walk around. She was familiar with the country, but this was different. Where the ground was dry, the tall grass made her worry about snakes. Where the grass was shorter, she had seen gators sunning themselves in some places, and she had no idea which areas were preferred by the alligators for their sunbaths. It felt safer to just stay in the car and keep moving. The world outside the big car’s windows was uncomfortable and alien to someone accustomed to the oak and hickory forests further north.

  Wondering what George was doing, she smiled. The memory of the night before replayed in her mind as she drove. It would be good to see him again when this was all over. Maybe they could figure out what last night was for them. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. Still, the memory made her smile.

  Andy Barnes strapped himself in the right hand seat much the same way that Sharon had the day before. The ever-active Rince busied himself with taxiing the plane and communicating with the tower.

  Pickham County, Andy thought. Shit. Never been there before. Things were moving fast, too fast, as if events were pushing them and that, in some way, they were not in control of their own investigation. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like being watched, someone countering every move they made. Mackey visits Rubin Martz and a few hours later Martz is dead. Coincidence? Maybe.

  The Cessna lifted from the runway, and the houses and trees began to shrink away below. What would be next, he wondered. Would something happen to counter his trip to Pickham County?

  Somehow, he felt he should be in Atlanta, focused on the Marswell case. But someone was behind the murders and they were linked. He was sure of that. He had been the one to figure out the hit list order, which had been confirmed the hard way…by Rubin Martz’s murder. Someone was killing people on the ‘Term Limits’ list. If going to Pickham County could help find them, then he supposed that was where he should be.

  Looking over at Rince, he watched him with interest. He was focused and intent, but relaxed at the same time. There was an exactness about his movements and actions. His crisp communications over the radio were somehow pleasing. It brought a sense of order to things. Andy wished his part in the investigation were that exact. The uncertainties seemed to outweigh by far the things they knew about the case. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

  63. “He don’t trust us…”

  Leaning on the bar at Pete’s Place, Sim Lee took out his cell phone. Seeing the phone, Roy Budroe, who had been chatting with Bill Quince, moved away. Not listening to other people’s conversations was not just a matter of etiquette at Pete’s Place. It was a matter of self-preservation.

  Lee placed the phone on the bar top, picked up the shot of bourbon before him, and threw it back in one gulp. He caught Budroe’s eye. The owner of Pete’s Place walked over with the bottle and poured another, leaving the bottle, and walked away again.

  This was not a call Lee wanted to make. He threw back the second shot and picked up the phone. Bill Quince stood quietly by his side, sipping a beer.

  Lee punched the speed dial number and waited for Rodney Puckett’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “We found them.”

  There was a pause, then. “You found them? What does that mean?” Puckett had expected to hear of the disappearance of one Porter Wright. Finding him should have been an easy task. And them…who was them?

  “It means that he has disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Why?”

  “Don’t know that.”

  “Did you do something to blow your cover, let him know you were around, coming for him?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” Lee spoke emphatically trying his best to be convincing. Disappointing a man like Rodney Puckett was a dangerous thing. “He was gone before we got here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that.”

  “What do you know?” The sarcasm and annoyance were obvious in his voice.

  “We know where they are. We’ll get to them.”

  “Them? Who is them?”

  “His family is going to join him where he is. That’s how we found him…them.”

  “You need to talk plain and right now. What the hell is going on down there?”

  “I told you, he was gone when we got here. Saw a sheriff car at his house when we d
id a drive-by. Then this morning the house is empty, family gone. We found out where they went from a neighbor.”

  “A neighbor?”

  Lee winced as Puckett’s elevated voice crashed from the phone’s speaker into his eardrum. Taking a deep breath, he explained. “We had to find them. It was pretty certain that where they went was where he is. We didn’t tip them off. Like I said, he was gone when we got here. We got the neighbor to talk. Wasn’t that hard.”

  “And the neighbor?” Puckett asked trying to calm himself.

  “She won’t be talking to anyone.”

  The phone was silent while Puckett considered what he had just heard. Lee and Quince were reliable. They were careful. If they said that the neighbor would not be talking, he knew what that meant.

  “Can anyone tie you to the neighbor? Think hard. Tell me the truth.”

  “No. Absolutely not. We were careful. No one saw us. No one can ID us. We were in and out.”

  “All right.” Lee heard Puckett take a deep breath. “Tell me where they are, exactly.”

  Pulling the map that Martha Crandall had drawn from his pocket, he described the route to the cabin in the swamp. Puckett asked questions occasionally, some of the same ones Lee had asked of Crandall. After a time he seemed satisfied.

  “Okay. You two sit tight. We’re flying down. We’ll get this taken care of.”

  “Fly down?” Lee’s voice rose this time, but only slightly.

  “Yeah, fly down. We’ll go into Jacksonville, rent a car, and meet you at the place you’re at right now.”

  “What are you saying?” A tone of resentment rose in Lee’s voice.

  “I’m saying that we are coming down, and together we get this fixed. Things have gotten out of control down there. We need to wrap it up and move on.” Puckett stopped, realizing he needed to sooth the ego of his main man, Simon Lee. “Not your fault. Not blaming you. We just need to wrap it up, and you know I feel better about things like this when I’m there. Right?”

  “Right.” Lee did not sound convinced, but there was nothing else for him to say.

  Putting the phone back in his pocket, Lee reached for the bottle and poured another shot of bourbon. He downed that one and poured another.

  “What’s the matter?” Quince eyed his partner with concern. Lee was usually controlled. It wasn’t like him to be hitting the bourbon so early and so hard.

  “They’re coming down. Tomorrow.”

  “Really? Why”

  “Why do you think?” Lee looked at the big man, wishing that sometimes he would catch up to what was going on, without Lee having to explain everything.

  “Don’t know.” Quince shrugged and sipped his beer.

  “He don’t trust us, Bill, that’s why.” He lifted the bourbon, held it to his lips, and then put it back on the bar without taking a sip. “He don’t trust us, and if he comes down to take care of business, that means we get our share cut.” He lifted the glass and sipped. “Yeah, cut our share.” Lee said it softly, lost in thought as he sipped the bourbon. They’d just have to see about that.

  64. Interesting

  This is bullshit, Terrell Perkins thought. This ain’t no real police station. Sitting with his hands cuffed around the leg of the conference room table, he swiveled his head around trying to see the room behind him. They can’t be doing this. This was just a room for people to meet in. These dudes might not even be real po-lice. Yeah, this is bullshit, he thought for the hundredth time since being cuffed to the table.

  There was no window with one-way glass in the room for Shaklee and Boyd to watch their prime suspect sweat out the wait. They sat in the conference room next door that had become the task force office and center of operations. Files were stacked and laptops scattered across the table. A television monitor had been set up at the end of the table. The color image on the screen showed Perkins in the next room bent slightly over, elbows on his knees because of the cuffs linked around the table leg.

  “What do you think?” Bob looked over at Perry Boyd who was focused on the monitor.

  “I think we let him sit there and stew another half hour,” he said, his eyes not leaving the monitor. “About now he’s trying to convince himself that we have nothing on him. That if he plays it cool, he can walk out of here. That this is all bullshit and all he has to do is ride it out.”

  “He’s only about half wrong, you know.” Shaklee nodded, watching Perkins’ head spin around trying to see the rest of room where he was confined. “We don’t have much on him, except for the Martz murder.”

  “Right,” Boyd said, “but that’s enough to get him to start talking about who else is involved in this…if we play it right. What he doesn’t know is as important as what he does know. What he doesn’t know will make him doubt, make him worry, make him think the others will give him up, if they haven’t already.”

  “Agreed.” Perkins seemed to be staring directly into the camera, his eyes looking directly at them through the monitor. “You handle the lead when we talk to him, Perry. This is more up your alley than mine. I’ll fill in where necessary, but this is your interrogation.”

  Perry turned his head to Bob, nodded and said simply, “All right.”

  “Break him,” Bob added. And they both turned back to the monitor screen, watching Terrell Perkins sweat. It was going to be an interesting day.

  “Report, Sheriff. What do you have?” As usual Elizabeth Crestline was abrupt and to the point.

  Standing at the far side of the parking lot, his phone to his ear, Sheriff Klineman prepared to tell her what he knew, which wasn’t much. “They are following up on local leads.”

  On the other end of the line, Crestline waited for a few seconds, expecting more. “That’s it? Following up on local leads? Of course, they are following up on leads. That’s why the task force is there. What the hell is happening, Sheriff? That’s what I want to know.”

  Klineman cleared his throat nervously. “Well, I know they are working on links between Porter Wright and the murders. They don’t seem to be sure what those links are, but they’ve been to visit him. Wright is the editor of…”

  “I know who Porter Wright is, Sheriff. Owns and operates the Everett Gazette and the cable station,” she said impatiently. “Are you saying that they know where Wright is?”

  “I…uh…I didn’t know he was missing.”

  “Sheriff, do you know anything about what is going on in your county?”

  “I, uh…”

  The call ended abruptly as Crestline slammed her office phone down. She sat for a few minutes considering what she had heard. Klineman was pathetic and useless, but he may have just given her more information than she had at first thought.

  She ran through it in her mind. He knows next to nothing, which means his deputies assigned to the task force don’t trust him with a full briefing. Fact number one, the task force doesn’t trust him and think that someone may be pumping him for information, which was exactly correct, although they probably did not know who was pumping him.

  Fact number two. He knew that they were working on the Porter Wright link. They would have to give him some information, and that would be obvious as they checked around Everett. But they didn’t tell him that Wright was missing. What did that mean?

  She considered it for a few minutes to allow the answer to crystallize in her mind, and then took the phone from its cradle. Montgomery would want to hear this. The task force wasn’t telling Klineman because they didn’t trust him, rightfully so. They had found Porter Wright. Pathetic Richard Klineman had actually provided a valuable piece of information. Amazing and interesting.

  George stood leaning on the county pickup watching the Cessna circle overhead on its approach. Rince leveled the wings as it glided towards the runway. There was just the slightest puff of dust where the wheels touched and began the roll out.

  Once the plane was chocked and secured, the doors opened. Rince popped out on one side, and Andy Barnes climbed out the other. He c
arried a small suitcase and a briefcase.

  Walking over, George put his hand out. “George Mackey.”

  Barnes nodded and returned the handshake. “Andy Barnes. Nice town you got here, at least from the air.”

  George smiled and nodded. “Yeah, we like it.”

  The two stood examining each other for a few seconds, two tough kids sizing one another up. Finally, George said, “Nice hat.”

  “It’s a fedora.”

  “Right, a fedora. Nice fedora.” George looked the Atlanta homicide detective up and down. Dressed in a dark blue suit wearing a charcoal gray fedora, he looked like a throwback to the sixties. He could tell that there was muscle under the suit. Andy Barnes wasn’t some accountant. He returned George’s gaze evenly, waiting, as if ready to settle whatever issues the two tough kids had to settle, right now.

  George smiled. “Like I said. Nice fedora.” He reached down and picked up Andy’s bag. “Everyone wear those in Atlanta? Don’t see much of those kind of hats around here anymore.”

  Andy returned the smile. No issues to settle. “It’s a tradition.”

  “Tradition? How’s that?” George was interested.

  “The homicide squad. When you solve your first murder, everyone chips in and buys you a fedora. Kind of like an award. You know what I mean? If you work Atlanta homicide, you wear the fedora.”

  “Unless you haven’t solved a murder,” George said.

  “You don’t solve a murder, you don’t stay in Atlanta homicide,” Andy replied. “That simple.”

  George nodded and turned towards the pickup. “I get it. Like a badge of respect or a service medal.”

  “Something like that.”

  George placed the suitcase in the back seat of the pickup while Barnes climbed in on the passenger side. “It’s a good tradition,” he said, meaning it. Andy Barnes was seasoned.