by Glenn Trust
“I’m not following,” Wright said, trying to get a grasp on Price’s meaning.
It was natural. Wright had his family safe and secure in the cabin. Outside there was danger. Inside there was safety. Stay put and all would be well. But Sharon knew that the safety of the cabin was an illusion.
“Porter, when night comes, he will be able to move about freely. He can move and lay in ambush, waiting for us to come out, but I don’t think he will.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not what I would do. If I wanted whoever was in the cabin, it would be simple enough to burn them out in the middle of the night. Force them out into the open. Then from a concealed position, I could do whatever I wanted.” She left unsaid the final piece of her explanation. It was not necessary. The understanding in Porter Wright’s eyes showed that he knew what would happen. They would be picked off.
“I understand,” Wright said nodding. “So what do we do?”
“We do nothing,” Sharon said. “I am going out to see if I can get the drop on the guy in the trees. You are going to cover me with that twelve gauge from here.” Turning, she looked at Roger, the oldest Wright child standing between his mother and siblings and the front door. Like his father, he held a shotgun. “Roger, you back your father up. If someone besides me tries to come through the door or a window, you pull the trigger in their direction and let loose.”
Fifteen-year-old Roger nodded somberly. It was tough duty for a boy, and it made Sharon feel like shit, but she would feel worse if something happened to her and the family was not ready to defend themselves.
Wright and his son acknowledged their understanding as Sharon turned and moved past the rest of the family in the kitchen. Opening the back door a crack, she scanned the exterior. Nothing was visible, but that was no real comfort. Looking at the dense trees and undergrowth just yards from the cabin, she knew that an elephant could be concealed there, and she would never know it unless it sneezed. She doubted that whoever might be lurking in the woods would sneeze.
Easing herself through the barely open door, she moved along the back wall of the cabin to a point where a live oak hung its branches close to the ground within a few feet of the cabin wall. Silently, she crouched low and followed the thick limb along the ground to the tree’s massive trunk where she stopped and plastered herself against the bark, trying as hard as possible to become invisible.
Taking a few deep breaths, Sharon scanned the area on all sides. There was no movement. The afternoon sun lowered by the minute, side lighting everything brilliantly from one direction and casting deep shadows on the opposite side. The shadows were perfect concealment for anyone watching the cabin, or her.
Taking another deep breath, she moved cautiously into the woods, taking one careful, slow step after another. The ground was damp, as it usually was in the area. The dampness worked in her favor. Padding carefully through the foliage close to the ground, she could avoid stepping on dry twigs and brush that might snap and alert the man on the other side of the cabin that she was coming.
Working her way slowly through the woods, she came around to the front side of the cabin and stopped. Standing fifty feet or so back in the woods, she scanned through trees towards the clearing around the cabin, searching for the man she had seen squatting against the tree.
Their eyes met, startling both for a moment. The man sitting against the tree had not expected company from the rear and leaned forward awkwardly as he reached his hand behind to his rear waistband. Although startled at suddenly seeing the man’s outline in the gloom of the shadows, Sharon was ready. Pushing through the surrounding foliage, her pistol held in a two handed grip, she shook her head side to side as a warning.
“Don’t do it.”
The man slowly moved his hand from behind his back, showing it to Sharon. He smiled.
“Stand up.”
The man stood. Sharon was ten feet away, the pistol pointed directly at his chest. Looking into her eyes, Sim Lee could tell that she was cautious, but not frightened. He had no doubt that she would not miss if she pulled the nine-millimeter’s trigger.
“Well, looks like you got…” Lee started to speak.
“Shut up. Don’t talk unless I tell you to.” She motioned with the muzzle of her pistol towards the clearing. “Keep your hands out, away from your body.”
Lee extended his arms outward.
“Now move.”
Lee walked towards the clearing, saying nothing and following the GBI agent’s instructions carefully. Pushing out into the sunlight of the clearing, he slowed and squinted across the yard to the spot where Bill Quince was concealed in the trees. He was invisible, but Lee knew he was watching.
Sharon stopped at the edge of the clearing and scanned the yard and surrounding trees. “Move out into the center of the yard, slowly.” She kept the pistol pointing at the center of the man’s back.
As he walked ahead, she followed slowly, alert and watching the trees.
“Stop here.” Lee did as instructed. “Down on your knees. I want you face down in the dirt.”
Sharon looked at the cabin and saw that Wright had opened the window and had the muzzle of his shotgun pointing towards the man. She nodded at him.
Smiling, Sim Lee knelt, his arms still extended outward, and then prostrated himself on the ground. Pistol in her right hand, Sharon pulled a pair of handcuffs from the case on her belt with her left. She took a step towards Lee, who remained motionless on the ground.
“Put your right hand behind your back.” She took a step closer.
The crack and roar of the rifle followed instantaneously by a second roar filled the small clearing around the cabin. Sharon dropped.
Quiet filled the clearing again. Inside the cabin, Porter Wright could hear a bird chirping in the trees outside. Peering through the glass, he saw the man lying quietly in the dirt, aware of Wright’s shotgun covering him. A few feet away, Sharon lay face down, her hand still holding her unfired pistol.
“You, okay?”
Looking up from her prone position, Sharon saw Ronnie Kupman step from the trees on the other side of the yard. He walked towards her, an old M-1 military carbine in one hand and a Winchester lever action rifle in the other.
She stood up and dusted herself. “You mean except for shitting my pants, yeah, I guess I’m okay.” She shook the dirt out of her hair. “What the fuck just happened? Oh, and it is really good to see you, Ronnie.”
“Rince let me know about the blue pickup in the area. I headed this way. About half a mile back, I saw the pickup stopped on the road, empty, so I walked in, careful. Heard the commotion as I was coming up to the clearing and saw this big guy in the woods sighting in on you. No time to do anything but get a round off to stop him.”
Sharon nodded. “Dead?”
“Absolutely.” Kupman held up the Winchester for examination and looked down at Lee. “What’s your name, partner?”
Lee, still face down in the dirt, turned his head sideways and puffed to blow some dust off of his lips. “What happened to, Bill?”
“That his name? Bill?” Kupman stood over him, holding his own rifle and Quince’s 30 – 30.
Lee put his face back down in the dirt, saying nothing.
“Didn’t figure you for a talker, anyway,” Ronnie said holding the muzzle of the carbine a few inches from Lee’s face.
Holstering her pistol, Sharon jerked the prostrate man’s right arm behind him, ratcheting on one cuff and then pulled the left arm back and banged the other cuff closed on him. She patted down his pants and shirt, back to front, removing the Smith and Wesson M & P nine-millimeter pistol from his waistband, and then stood up.
“Get up.” She stood to one side as Lee lifted himself clumsily to his knees with his hands cuffed behind. “All the way.” Sharon’s face was stone.
As Lee pulled himself to full height, he swiveled his head back and forth from Price to Kupman to Price and then grinned. “Guess you got me.”
/> Kupman motioned with the carbine towards the cabin. “Walk.”
Lee walked towards the front door where Porter Wright stood, the shotgun clenched firmly in his hands.
“Stop there,” Kupman said. “Turn around, put your back against the wall, and sit your ass down on the ground.”
When Lee had complied, Ronnie looked at Wright. “You keep an eye on him for a few minutes, Porter. Just going to check the other one in the woods.”
Standing over Simon Lee as Kupman and Price went to examine the body of Bill Quince, Wright looked intently at the face of the man who had come to kill him and, if necessary, his family. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about the man. He was just…average. How would you pick him out of a crowd as a killer. Bottom line is, you wouldn’t. Sim Lee was an average enough looking person involved in a very deadly profession. Wright wondered if it was always that way.
Conscious of Wright’s gaze, Lee pulled his head up from his knees where he had rested his chin, leaning forward, hands cuffed behind. “What you looking at, man?”
Wright made no reply. He simply stared at the would-be killer of his family. Lee returned the stare and looked Wright up and down, letting his eyes rest on the shotgun, still clenched in his hands at port arms.
“What you gonna do with that?” Lee motioned his head at the shotgun. “You ain’t never killed no one. You couldn’t even pull the trigger. You’re outmatched, man. Outmatched and out of your league.”
Porter Wright racked the shotgun’s slide briskly, pumping a 00 buckshot round into the chamber and lowered the barrel towards Sim Lee’s face. He may not have ever killed anyone, but he had never before been face to face with a man who was intent on killing his wife and children to get to him. Looking into Lee’s eyes, he saw that man and knew that it would take very little provocation from Lee for him to take his life and a good portion of his head with one squeeze of the shotgun’s trigger.
Simon Lee recognized the look in Porter Wright’s eyes and was aware that what he did in the next few seconds would determine the outcome of their little confrontation there in the dirt outside the cabin. He chose prudence, for the moment.
Turning his head, he rested his chin back on his knees. The only sound he made was a disdainful, humph. Wright’s grip on the shotgun loosened just slightly as the tension of the moment subsided.
Across the yard, Price and Kupman entered the tree line. Fifteen feet in, Ronnie came to a stop and looked down. Coming up beside him, Sharon gazed at the body of the big man who had almost taken her life, who would have almost certainly taken her life, if Ronnie had not shown up on the scene.
The .30 caliber round from Ronnie’s old M-1 carbine had entered the left rear of Quince’s skull and traversed diagonally through his brain exiting over the right eye, taking a large chunk of skull with it. There was no doubt that he was dead.
“Head shot,” Sharon said.
“I got lucky. He had a bead drawn on you. Couldn’t see much through the trees and brush but his head.”
“Well,” Sharon said looking at Ronnie. “Lucky or not, I’m grateful.”
Kupman shook his head slowly. “You know, I’ve been carrying that carbine around in my car for almost thirty years as a backup. Never fired it on duty until today.” He looked closely at Quince’s face and then turned to Sharon. “Never killed anyone until today.”
She nodded, reached out and patted his arm. “I know, Ronnie. I’m just glad I could be your first,” she said and smiled, breaking the tension. They turned and walked back to the cabin to find something to cover the body.
Bill Quince lay in the dirt, blood pooling around his head, his mouth slightly parted in surprise. His left eye, the one undamaged by the bullet’s impact with his skull, stared vacantly up through the trees at the setting sun.
82. A Curious Sight
The silver gray Chevy SUV popped out of the trees and took a downward plunge into a shallow wash. Brownish, brackish water splashed leaving a film of sandy mud along the bottom third of the SUV’s exterior. Climbing up the opposite bank and back into the woods, Rodney Puckett barely slowed, the tires spinning in the wet sand.
Bud Thompson, who had been focused on inspecting and wiping down the rifle he held in his lap, looked up, annoyed at the rough ride.
Puckett looked over. “That one take you by surprise?” He grinned. “Sorry. I’ll try to give you warning next time.”
Making no reply, Thompson shook his head and went back to his inspection of the rifle. They had bought it and a twelve-gauge shotgun from Roy Budroe. In accordance with the laws of supply and demand, the price had been high, twice as much as the .30–06 rifle would have been in a gun store. Untraceable, quality firearms were at a premium, but were always available if you knew where to look. In their business, weapons were a tool, and, like any good tradesmen, they always bought the best tools for the job regardless of price. Hoping to secure future business from the newcomers to Pete’s Place, Budroe had made one concession. He would refund fifty percent of the purchase price if they returned the weapons unused. All parties were hopeful that that would be the case. Returning the firearms unused would mean that Lee and Quince had successfully completed their mission and that Puckett and Thompson could move on. Roy Budroe could keep half the purchase money and then sell the guns again. A win, win for all… except the Wrights.
The guns Budroe supplied were in good shape, almost new. Satisfied with his inspection, Bud closed the bolt on the rifle, reached over the seat and laid it on the back seat. He would use the rifle, and Puckett would have the shotgun for any close work that was needed.
Both men had packed pistols in their checked luggage, a Colt 1911 .45 ACP for Puckett, and a .40 caliber Smith and Wesson for Thompson. Their personal weapons had also been acquired without the formalities of going to firearms dealers and filling out the required paperwork. Even if they had, the required federal background check would not have prevented the sale. Their long and successful careers had never resulted in any arrest more serious than a traffic ticket. They were careful men working in a dangerous trade. Puckett had been more financially successful through his connections with Montgomery, but Thompson was no less professional. Neither would have turned up a blip on any background check. Nevertheless, they would never have risked the possibility. The weapons they carried could never have been traced to their owners.
“Hold on,” Puckett said as the SUV plunged downward again and then abruptly up again. A moment later, he slid the tires on the loose sand road. They had come to a fork in the trail.
Thompson, held up the map they had drawn from Lee’s instructions, studying it closely. “Looks like we take the left fork. Not much farther now.”
Puckett nodded and moved forward cautiously. He doubted that the engine noise could be heard more than a few yards into the surrounding woods, but they would take no chances. Besides, if Lee and Quince were up ahead taking care of business, they did not want to disturb what was taking place.
The sun was sinking behind the trees when they came upon a curious sight and stopped. A hundred yards ahead, Quince’s big, blue Dodge pickup was stopped in the road. Behind it was a brown Pickham County car. Both appeared abandoned.
Slowly, Puckett reversed gears and backed the SUV around a bend in the trail where he cut the engine. Both men exited, taking the rifle and shotgun from the back seat.
Without speaking, they moved into the brush on either side of the dirt road. Slowly, they approached the two vehicles alert to any movement on the road or in the surrounding woods. Making a wide circuit through the woods in different directions, they finally met at the vehicles on the road.
“What do you think?” Thompson asked, peering into the window of the sheriff’s car.
“Hard to say.” Puckett walked around the area scanning the ground for shell casings, blood trails, or anything else that might give a clue as to what had taken place. “Maybe nothing, here at least. Looks like maybe Lee and Quince decided to walk in.”
>
Bud nodded. That’s how he would have done it. “Sheriff came along after, saw the truck and got out to investigate. Followed them in.”
“Yeah.” Puckett stood quietly, looking down the road in the direction of the cabin. “Yeah,” he repeated softly, considering the possibilities. Could be the boys took care of business and then took care of the deputy. Could be. Of course, there were some other possibilities. There was only one way to find out.
“Let’s go.” He moved back into the brush on the side of the road. “Look out for water.”
Thompson nodded as he moved off the road on his side. He had seen the long dark shapes cruising slowly in the canals and ponds they had crossed as they moved further into the backcountry. This was gator country. He did not intend to become gator shit. Bud Thompson felt reassuringly for the Smith .40 at his waist.
83. “I’ll bring the pen.”
It had taken some time for Perry Boyd to explain over the telephone the case and elements of the search and arrest warrant affidavit to Judge Virgil Turnfeld. When he got to the possible named suspects to be arrested, Turnfeld interrupted.
“Are you boys out of your collective minds?”
“Maybe,” Perry Boyd said, knowing that bluster and argument would not be received well by the judge. He continued his reasoning. “Maybe so, Judge, but we have a string of murders and a list, and so far the killers are ahead four to zip with one currently missing, status unknown, down in Pickham.”
“So you want me to sign off on your arrest of a United States senator and congressman because it is the best lead you have? Whatever happened to probable cause, Perry? You know, that little requirement of the Fourth Amendment. It’s kind of what makes us different. You can’t just be arrested because it looks like you might have committed a crime. You know that.”
Shaklee and Boyd looked at each other. The problem was they agreed with Turnfeld. Did the evidence they had constitute probable cause sufficient to make the arrest? Shaklee thought that through for a few seconds and then spoke.
