The Dummy Line by Bobby Cole Read Free Book Online Page B

begged for the umpteenth time, knowing it wouldn’t do any good.
    “Yes sir.” She gave him the phone number.
    Ollie had been to Birmingham that day to play golf in a charity tournament at the Greystone Country Club. His football legacy made him an in-state celebrity. He was exhausted from the day’s events and the not-so-small amount of alcohol he had consumed on the sly. Golf simply wore him out. It must have been the sun. He slowly walked into the kitchen intending to microwave a cup of coffee. But he sat down on a barstool and picked up the cordless phone.
    “Mick. Ollie. What can I help you with?” he asked in his most official voice.
    “Ollie, I got the strangest phone call from a friend of mine about an hour ago. I couldn’t understand all of it, but he said it was an emergency.”
    “What’s his problem?” Ollie asked with a yawn.
    “Well, he’s from Mississippi; his name’s Jake Crosby. I got him into the Bogue Chitto hunting club. I assumed that’s where he was calling from. We got disconnected, so I rode out there. And…well…it’s weird…all the lights were on in his camper and the door was open, but he wasn’t anywhere around.”
    “Is that the place that backs up to the big area of wilderness along the Noxubee River on County Road Sixteen?”
    “Yeah, that’s it, but listen…when I got home my pants were covered in blood…fresh blood.”
    “Blood?” Ollie became fully alert. “Could it have been turkey blood?”
    “Well…I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose, but there was a bunch of it.”
    “Have you tried his cell again?”
    “Yeah, I tried, but that area’s got awful reception. I couldn’t get him.”
    “I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes, and you can follow me. I’m gonna call R.C. and get him on out there. He stays out in that part of the county,” Ollie explained, studying the kitchen clock.
    “I’ll be ready.”
    Ollie hung up the phone and pondered the possibilities. He needed details. This situation was much more interesting than his typical daily duties. He would call his most trusted deputy, R.C. Smithson. R.C. was a little eccentric, but Ollie could depend on him. He dialed the number. It was ringing when he put the receiver to his ear.
    “Yes, Chief.” R.C. answered on the second ring.
    “Quit calling me Chief, and how did you know it was me…you’re too much of a tightwad to have Caller ID.”
    “You’re the only person who ever calls me at this hour.”
    “Listen. Something serious may have gone down at the clubhouse at the Bo Cheeter something or other hunting club.”
    “Bogue Chitto. It’s Choctaw for big—”
    “Shut up, R.C., and listen,” Ollie interrupted and paused. R.C.’s trivia drove him crazy.
    “A friend of Mick Johnson’s from Mississippi called him and said something about some kind of emergency. Mick thinks he was at that camp, and he lost communication with him. I’m about to roll and pick up Mick. I’ll be there in thirty to forty-five minutes. Go secure the area. See what you can find out. Be careful. We already know there’s a bunch of blood near the camp house. Don’t violate my crime scene if there is one, you hear?”
    “Okey-dokey.”
    “Quit saying ‘okey-dokey’…and get goin’. Call me on the radio if you see anything.” Ollie sighed deeply.
    “Yes sir, boss,” R.C. said then hung up. He used the remote to turn off the TV. He had been watching a movie on his pirated HBO package.
    R.C. Smithson was not unlikable. All he wanted for a career was be a deputy. He was single. He played video games at all hours of the night and read fly-fishing magazines, though he’d never held a fly rod. Two years ago, he’d met a dancer at Danny’s Strip Club in Birmingham; he now considered her his girlfriend. They had never been out on an actual date. Their “dates” were always at Danny’s, except once when she met him at the Waffle House and they ate pecan waffles as she told him about her crack-addict