WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (Part 12)

72

There was an explosion. Sheriff Mike Bridges struggled back up onto his knees, saw the flames from the bottom of the ravine. He seldom made the mistake of underestimating the people he’d come into contact with during his time as a law enforcement officer. But it had happened tonight, with Ty Hamilton.

Hamilton had no criminal background. Nothing more than the occasional traffic ticket. Nothing about the guy said ‘trouble maker,’ or ‘badass’. There was no reason to expect him to put up much more than a token resistance when confronted by a law enforcement officer, cuffed and shoved into the back of the unmarked cruiser. It should have been a simple matter, bringing him out here in the middle of nowhere, getting rid of him.

So, Hamilton had successfully fought for his life against a professional killer. The sheriff cursed himself for not thinking Hamilton might fight for his life again, when forced to dig his own grave. I should have just shot him and dug the hole myself.

Sheriff Bridges hurt like hell, but thankfully, he was breathing. He’d seen the shovel blade just in time to lower his head. The blade struck him just under the chin and scraped along the jawline back to the throat. He was bloodied and in pain, but he survived.

Hamilton’s lucky, he thought as he watched the flames. If he’d lived through the crash, I would have made him beg me to kill him.

Sheriff Bridges reached for his cell phone, went to the contact list, and selected the number for Page County Coroner Perry Winters.

“Hello?” Winters said. “Mike?”

The sheriff struggled to speak. He was choking, and his injury prevented it. “Hello?” Winters repeated. “Talk to me, Mike.”

The sheriff terminated the call. He couldn’t talk, but he could text.

73

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have called 911, gotten medical help. But these were not ordinary circumstances and he was a long way from Page County, Indiana. Using police “10” codes, which he knew that the coroner would understand, he texted to Perry Winters:

1024 1018 100 1087.

Translation: Trouble, send help; urgent; fatality; pick-up.

And to Larry Brown:

1018 1051 100

Translation: Urgent; wrecker; fatality.

Then, using the compass function on his iPhone to determine exactly where he was, he sent another, addressed to both:

The code 1020, followed by the latitude/longitude coordinates to give him his location, and 1077, to request an ETA.

Perry Winters received the message almost immediately. He’d been worried moments before, when Sheriff Bridges had called, and wasn’t there on the other end when Winters had answered. Being the coroner, Winters had a familiarity with the police codes. 10-24 Trouble; 10-18 Send help; 10-0 Fatality; and 10-87 Pick-up.

74

Larry Brown, on the other hand, was busy with Linda, one of his two live-in women, in the master bedroom of his mobile home. It was a good hour before he was ready to call it quits, and made his way down the hall to the refrigerator to grab a beer and watch the ballgame. The Reds were playing the Dodgers out on the west coast, and the game should be starting in a couple of minutes.

Out of habit, he retrieved his cell phone from where it was charging on the kitchen counter, checked for missed calls and messages.

From a number that he recognized as Sheriff Bridges throwaway phone, he saw the text: 1018 1051 100.

Larry was not as familiar with the police codes, and had to look it up. He jotted down the numbers. The easiest way to find anything was with Google.

10-18 meant Urgent; 10-51 meant tow truck; and Holy Shit!—10-0 meant fatality. Larry called Leon. “Hey, Leon.”

“Hi Larry.”

 “Listen, we gotta saddle up and go. Got an emergency.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where we goin’?”

“Don’t know.”

“Okay.”

75

Ty Hamilton

I walked back to Messerton, just as I had walked a few days ago back to the boat launch. I was hurt. My face dinged-up by the airbag. My arm pierced by buckshot, was hurting like a son of a bitch. And my inner thighs were chafing from all the walking I’d been doing lately. This time, though, I had shoes.

Fog was beginning to form over the river that bordered the airport where I had earlier seen the Cherokee Six. And then I had an idea.

I walked alongside the blacktop road to the airport, ready to dive into the ditch if a vehicle came along. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out.

There was a double-wide mobile home situated near the rotating beacon, about fifty yards from the ramp boundary fence. I assumed that would be the residence of the airport manager or an employee. I kept away from it, moving in the shadows.

Near the office building sat a picnic table. I made my way to it, grabbed one end and drug it to the fence. Using the table, I was able to position myself to place both hands on the top rail and hop over to the other side.

I hustled across the ramp, toward the T hangars, hoping to find an airplane I could steal. In the back of my mind I was trying to recall the last time I’d flown and asking myself if I was up to flying in instrument conditions if the fog got any worse. And where would I go? I decided I would worry about that when the time came.

I was pleased to see the Six was parked in the first bay. I scaled up onto the right wing and opened the unlocked cockpit door. No key in the ignition.

I checked the side pouches, seat pouches, and trays. Nothing.

There were a couple other airplanes in the hangar. A Cessna and a Beechcraft Baron. The Baron I could start without a key, and it would be faster. Unfortunately the doors were locked.

Just as I was approaching the Cessna the hangar door opened, revealing three men getting out of a pickup truck. I managed to position myself behind the tail of the Baron just as the hangar lights came on.

“How long we gonna be, Bill?” one of the men asked.

“I’ll have her ready to go in about five minutes. Then it’s a forty-five minute flight to Peoria.”

“Ok. I’m gonna take a leak.”

“TMI, Johnny. TMI.”

I moved quietly to reposition myself in front of the Baron’s right engine as the one called Johnny walked over to the wall behind the Baron, only a few feet away, and proceeded to relieve himself.

Soon, the Cessna was sitting on the ramp, ready to go. Two of the three men were in the airplane while the third parked the pickup in the hangar and then proceeded to the airplane. Moments later they were taxiing toward the runway.

I hoped they would leave the truck unlocked with the key fob inside, but luck determined otherwise. There were no good options, I was going to have to walk.

By the time I got to the pizza parlor’s parking lot, I was exhausted. The thought of walking the remaining distance to Mulligan’s house held no appeal. I would take the truck. I would pull into the driveway, and I would use the key on the same ring as the truck key to get in. If that didn’t work, I would break in. And if a cop came along, I would take the throwaway gun I’d found in the sheriff’s car and put it in my mouth.

Screw trying to explain. Screw going to trial. And screw going to prison. They would never take me alive.

76

Perry Winters checked the lat/long coordinates and determined that Sheriff Bridges was outside of Messerton, Illinois. Something had obviously gone wrong. The sheriff would fill him in when he got there. Or not. Sometimes it was better not to know, and he trusted Mike Bridges’ judgment on that.

77

After nearly two hours, Larry Brown and his cousin Leon crossed the Wabash River and the Illinois state line. Larry looked over at Leon, his face pressed against the window, fast asleep.

Leon was twice as big as Larry, and maybe half as bright. Not management material, but a loyal employee nonetheless. That’s all Leon was to Larry, an employee, and a cousin, although Leon thought they were friends. He would do anything Larry asked of him.

Larry pressed the window control for the passenger side. The glass rubbed against Leon’s face, waking him as it lowered.

“Huh? What’s going on?” Leon said, groggy and confused.

“What’s wrong, Leon?” Larry said. “You havin’ a dream?”

“My window came down.”

“You must’ve pushed down on the button while you were leaning against the door,” Larry said. “Hey, how’s your nose doing?”

“It hurts, Larry. I still think I should go see a doctor at the emergency room.”

“Can’t do that. Remember, I told you, they find out a honey badger bit you, and then it gets out of control. They have to call it in. Fish and Wildlife, and who knows what other government agencies will be crawling up my ass before it’s all said and done. No doctors, Leon.”

“Okay.”

Larry laughed. “You got any idea how ridiculous you look, with your nose all bandaged up like that?”

“I can’t help it, Larry.”

“All because you wanted to pet a honey badger.”

“I just thought—“

“What, Leon? What’d you think?” Larry said. “Oh looky at the purdy aminal. I will hug him and hold him and love him and squeeze him. And he will be my very own!” Larry laughed. “And I will name him George!”

“Stop it, Larry,” Leon said.

“You’re lucky that sumbitch didn’t take your nose clean off.”

“Where is it we’re goin’, Larry?”

“A place called Messerton, Leon,” Larry said. Like Perry Winters, he had gotten the lat/long coordinates. Apparently, whatever kind of mess Sheriff Bridges had gotten himself into, it wasn’t anywhere that would have an address. “That’s in Illinois. Not much further.”

“Good,” Leon said, “On accounta I gotta pee.”