by Darrell Case
"Eric Warren! Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up!"
In the light of a sign advertising seed corn, Bob could see Eric's shoulders slump. His gun crashed to the floor and at that moment, a shot rang out, the sound echoing around the walls of the small store. Eric dove behind the counter that ran the length of the store.
"Hold your fire! Eric, come out with your hands up!"
"No!" Eric shouted. "If I do. you'll kill me."
"Give it up Eric; no one is going to kill you. We know all about you."
Cautiously Eric stood up. He raised his hands, expecting the bullet that would end his life.
"But Sheriff, they released me. They said I was free." Twisting Eric's arms behind his back, Ike clamped the handcuffs on his wrists.
"I don't understand you. Why did you kill them?" Curry asked angrily. "And why did you kill Lonnie Greggs?"
Eric felt as if someone had closed his coffin.
"You can't think I did it," Eric stammered. "Billy Bob, you know me. You've worked for me, tell them."
Billy Bob just shook his head and walked away. "I'm going to look around, Sheriff," he said, taking a key from a ring beside the door. Within a few minutes, he was back.
"Not a very good hiding place," he said to Eric, holding up a large hunting knife encrusted in a brownish-red substance.
"That's not mine."
"I bet you never saw it before in your life," Ike said sarcastically.
"No. No. I never have."
In his cell, Eric felt himself transported back in time to another county jail. The old feeling of despair visited him again. Why not just give up, quit trying? No, I'm not going back to prison.
"Hey preacher killer!"
"You talking to me?" Eric asked, swinging to face the man leaning into his open cell door.
Further back in the bullpen stood two other men, their stares telling Eric there was going to be a fight.
"Yeah, you rotten coward. Pastor Jim was a friend of mine. He used to come and have Bible study with us every Saturday. Now you killed him and he don't come anymore."
"Yeah!" the other two yelled out behind him.
"He don't come here any more."
"No one does," another added.
****
Jack expected to feel relieved now that the killer was in jail. After all, the murderer was even at this moment safely locked up. But all he felt was emptiness and sorrow. His friend...or the man he thought was his friend, had murdered his own daughter. Tomorrow Eric would be charged with the murder of Jim, Kristie, and Lonnie...no, today! It was almost morning.
****
The knocking on the door was loud and insistent. Billy Bob stood on the porch. His uniform was askew and his hair stuck out in all directions, giving him the appearance of a scarecrow.
"He's escaped," he blurted out before Jack could even open the door.
Jack could see tears in the man's eyes. He couldn't help but feel sorry for him. The biggest arrest in the county's history, now Eric was gone.
Billy Bob's aggravation came not only from Eric's escape but from Bob Curry's lecture on firearms.
"I don't know what's wrong with you. You of all people know better than to shoot at a suspect when he's already surrendered."
"I'm sorry sir; I was just trying to scare him."
"Scare him? I should say you did. That bullet almost shaved him," Bob said. "Now get out of here, I've got to finish the paperwork."
At hearing the news, Jack's anger raged at Billy Bob. "How did they let him escape?"
"There was a fight in the jail, the dispatcher went in by himself to break it up, and when it was all over, Eric was gone," Billy Bob said, his voice breaking.
"How could you guys let this happen? What are doing about it?"
"We have every available man out searching for him, and the state police too."
"Then what are you doing here?"
"Sheriff Curry sent me to protect you and your family."
"I can take care of Ruth and Emily myself. You get out there and find him," Jack said, gritting his teeth.
"I'm sorry sir, I have my orders."
"Well then, come on in. You're letting all the heat out."
"No, I'll stay out here."
Chapter 17
"I just can't believe Eric killed them," Jack said to Billy Bob.
"I know it's difficult to believe, sir, but we do have the evidence," Billy Bob said, helping himself to the last two strips of bacon.
Two nights had passed without incident but that did nothing to relieve either man's anxiety. Ruth poured coffee all around, then sat down. If Curry didn't find Eric soon, it was going to diminish her winter food supply. Billy Bob had been a guest at their table for less than forty-eight hours and already she had made three trips to the basement for more canned goods.
"Delicious breakfast, Mrs. Johnson," Billy Bob said, carefully wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Thank you," Ruth said, gathering the dishes.
"But how do we know the murderer didn't plant the evidence?" Jack insisted, refusing to be put off.
Jack saw something in Billy Bob's eyes, then as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"He and Jack have been friends for years, he seemed like such a nice young man," Ruth chimed in.
"I have to go but I'll be back about five. If you see anything, call the sheriff and I'll be here in a few minutes."
Jack was chopping wood when the mail came. Rightly named for his flaming locks, 'Red' Miller took his job seriously.
"Jack, if somebody wants to leave you a note, tell 'em to stick it in your door. Anything goes in the mailbox gotta have a stamp on it," Red said, thrusting a white envelope into Jack's hand. Then he sped off on his appointed rounds.
The rest of the mail fell from Jack's trembling fingers as he stared stupidly at the envelope bearing his name. Numbly, he tore it open.
Jack, I'm sorry I had to do what I did. Jim knew about my stretch in prison.
I know it's too much to ask your and Ruth's forgiveness, but Kristie and Lonnie were unfortunate accidents. I can't go back to prison.
This note is your last warning. Please don't try to find me.
I would hate to have to hurt you. Don't tell the police about this note or you'll be sorry.
Good bye, Eric.
After some discussion, Ruth persuaded Jack to call the sheriff. Within the hour, a net was thrown up, its dimensions reaching from several miles behind the farm, up to and including Elm Grove.
The usually quiet town went into a panic. Doors left unlocked day and night were now double locked. Harry Blackburn kept busy selling locks, then chains after he sold out of locks. Mothers once content to let their children wander home, stopping to play at a friend's house or at the park, came to the school demanding that it be closed. After a hurried conference with the superintendent, the principal declared classes over at one 'clock.
Yellow buses rumbled over country roads. Children stared bug-eyed as their buses were stopped at roadblocks and searched by policemen wielding 12 gauge shotguns, looking to the children as big as missiles. Farmers that normally kept busy in their fields caring for their livestock stayed close to home. Loading their guns, they made short patrols, checking and rechecking their out buildings.
Harriet kept busy answering questions and ringing up loved ones. Guarding their homes, each man reflected on the one they called 'Eric Grey', wondering what did they really know about the man.
As darkness fell, the nervousness increased. Eric was seen everywhere. A stump became a man. Dogs, sensing their masters' moods, barked at everything and nothing at all.
At a half-hour past sunset, they called off the search until daylight. Keeping the roadblocks in place, they guarded every possible escape route. Curry stationed one man at the farm store.
"I don't believe he's dumb enough to come back here, but you never know, so keep your eyes peeled," Curry said to the deputy.
Tensions ran high among the vet
eran lawmen who knew the kind of criminal they faced. News crews converged on the area. The manhunt drew national attention.
With the permission of the deacons, Sheriff Curry set up a command post in the church.
Cornering him, a field correspondent from CBS asked Sheriff Curry, "Is it true you believe the death of Dennis Brown is connected with the Elm Grove murders? Wasn't the teenager's death ruled a suicide?"
"I'm sorry I have nothing to say on the matter," he said, brushing past the man. "Now if you'll excuse me."
Taking pity on the shivering reporters, Jacob addressed them as a whole.
"Men, you are welcome to use the parsonage. There's wood out back for the fireplace. Please make yourselves comfortable," he said as he unlocked the door.
"Who does the old man think we are? He should build the fire for us," a green reporter whispered, loud enough for Jacob to hear.
An aged correspondent who had served with Ernie Pyle answered him with contempt, "If you don't like it, stay outside."
Turning to Jacob, he said, "Thank you, sir. We'll take good care of the house."
Jack felt as if he were a prisoner in his own home. Over Billy Bob's protest, he took to walking around the house and barn with his shotgun loaded and ready.
"Mr. Johnson, I'm afraid I might mistake you for Eric and shoot you accidentally."
"If you can't tell the difference between me and Eric, you shouldn't be wearing a badge."
The next morning, the hunt resumed. The lawmen trudged through fields, pastures, and woods, warning the news media who accompanied them to stay well behind, out of the line of fire.
Dogs were brought in from Vigo County. The braying of the hounds did nothing to calm each mother's nerves. Their children pleaded to go outside to play, promising to stay in their own yards but their pleas fell on deaf ears. With the net tightening around the town, it remained shut down. Businessmen stood behind locked doors, ready to turn away customers but finding it unnecessary. The only one venturing out was Doc Pritchard on an emergency run to the Wilson farm, one of the lawmen having fallen down a small hill.
"He's got some cuts and bruises and a broken arm. You want me to send an escort with you, Doc?" Curry asked.
"That won't be necessary. I've been driving these roads for thirty years and no two-bit crook is going to stop me."
"Thank you, Doc. Be careful," Curry said, hanging up the phone.
By dusk, Curry had called an end to the search. They had reached the town at noon, taking it street by street like an invading army going door to door. They had even entered occupied homes.
At six, Curry called Jack, telling him that Eric had somehow slipped by them. Listening in, Harriet alerted the town. Eric was gone.
Randy Farley waved Billy Bob down on his way into town.
"I don't think we'll need your services any more, Billy Bob. It looks like the danger's past."
"But who will protect Elm Grove?"
"Well," Randy drew back, reluctant to approach the subject. "I think Elm Grove has proven we are capable of protecting ourselves. With Sheriff Curry and the state police's help, of course."
"But, but I worked hard. I've worked my days off. I bought my own uniform, I even moved here." Billy Bob said, close to tears as his hands gripped the wheel.
"Yes I know," Randy said, "And I hope you will consider Elm Grove your home. Of course, we will pay you to the end of the month. I'm sorry, Billy Bob. You performed your job well and you can count on me, Jake, or Doc for a recommendation."
Billy Bob's face turned ugly. "Sorry?" he shouted. "Sorry? You just wait until the kill...er. Eric comes back. You'll be sorry alright. You'll come beggin' me to take this lousy low-paying job again and I'll laugh in your face. You hear me. I'll laugh in your face!"
Randy jumped back as Billy Bob sped away.
Chapter 18
The red glow woke all of them, dancing across the walls of their bedrooms like the very flames of hell. Jack had fallen asleep at nine, exhausted from the day's activities. Putting Emily to bed at eight, Ruth spent a quiet time with the Lord before retiring.
"Gram, Gramps! The world's on fire!" Emily cried, running into Jack and Ruth's bedroom.
Half-dressed, Jack was shouting instructions to Ruth. "Call the fire department! Keep Emily in the house!"
"Can you tell what it is?" Ruth asked, knowing and dreading the answer.
"It's the barn, Ruth," Jack answered, stomping into his work boots, not bothering to lace them.
"Oh, dear Lord!"
The flames were licking the north wall by the time Jack reached the barn. Shielding his face with one hand, he ran around the burning structure and threw open the back door. Bawling pitifully, the cows stampeded through the opening almost knocking him off his feet. Jack knew that opening the double doors in front would create a draft, making the fire move faster, but he had no choice. Swinging them open, he propped each door open with the rocks laid there for that purpose. Above the crackle of the fire, Jack could hear the wail of a siren in the distance. The thought flashed through his mind, "They'll never make it."
The paint on the tractor was already starting to blister. Wincing at the pain, Jack climbed onto the seat. Flipping the switch, he pushed the starter button. Nothing! He tried it again. Still nothing. He was about to give up when heard a voice at his side.
"Take it out of gear, Jack, we'll push it out!" Jacob Turner shouted, throwing his weight against the rear wheel.
"It's too late!"
"No, we can get it," Randy Green said from the other side. They pushed it thirty feet and then other hands assisted when it was clear of the burning barn. The yard was filling up with pickups and cars. Jumping from the tractor, Jack started back into the barn. Ernie Wilson stopped him.
"No, Jack, it's gone," Ernie said. Under his hands, he felt Jack's shoulders sag.
"Did you get the cattle out?" a gray-haired man leaning on a cane asked.
The fire trucks came roaring into the yard, followed by the tanker, and they drowned out Jack's answer. Within minutes, a strong stream of water was shooting into the flames. With the outside wall burned away, Jack watched his supply of winter hay go up in smoke.
He felt an arm slip around him. He looked down into Ruth's tear-stained face.
"Mary Skinner's taking care of her," she said, answering Jack's unasked question.
Hardened farmers watched with moist eyes, each picturing what the loss of a barn would mean to them.
The gray light of dawn was coloring the sky as the volunteer firemen loaded up their equipment. Jack walked around the smoldering ruin wondering what he would do. A group of farmers approached him.
Jacob Turner stepped out from the rest.
"Jack, we've been talking and we think together we can spare enough hay to get you through the winter. Also, some of us will be over later this week and help clean up before we put up a new barn."
"Haven't been to a barn raising in years. About time we had one," the man leaning on the cane said.
Heads nodding, the men voiced their approval.
****
"Mr. Johnson, your barn was set on fire. I must say I found it strange that a fire would start from faulty wiring when you informed me the electricity was off. That is right, is it not?" In his years as Fire Marshall, Scot Bell had heard every excuse and then some. Three days after the fire, Bell sat on the living room couch. On the coffee table before him lay his report of the fire. Sheriff Curry stood in front of the fireplace.
"Yes, I had shut it off because the mice had chewed a hole in the wire at the corn crib and I didn't have time to fix it."
"When we dug the switch box out of the rubble, it was on," Bell continued. "If we hadn't found a small amount of accelerant, possibly lighter fluid, I would have ruled this fire electrical, but in light of what you and Sheriff Curry tell me, I believe it was arson."
"Eric! Do you think Eric did this?" Jack choked out.
"I'll let Sheriff Curry answer that question," Bell sa
id, gathering the papers together and stuffing them into his briefcase.
"Jack, the note you got from Eric is not from him. Oh, it's a very good forgery. It had me fooled for a while," Curry said.
"You mean Eric is innocent? Somebody planted the gun and canvas?"
"It could be the note was planted by a prankster. All I can say for the moment is the handwriting isn't Eric's."
****
