Eyes of the Predator (26 page)

Gravel crunched and dust swirled
as the crime scene SUV pulled into the lot. Shaklee turned towards the room.

“Let’s get to work.”

George followed him into the room
that the girl never walked from.

On the front wall outside the
truck stop cafe, there were a couple of old, beat up pay phones. Lyn stood in
front of one. It was dirty. In the age of cell phones, they bore the signs of
neglect. A brownish substance was hardened to the mouthpiece.

Only the poorest people used them
anymore, Lyn knew. She knew that most people nowadays had cell phones, although
she had never had one. She had seen many drivers walking around the truck stop
with cell phones to their ears. She wondered what that would be like. Just take
a phone out of your pocket and call someone on your own phone. She wondered who
she would call. Clay Purcell, she thought. Today she would call Clay on one of
those cell phones, if she had one. Clay had one. That was the number he had
written on the napkin for her.

Lyn was used to the frustration
of seeing the modern world around you, a world filled with convenience and
wonders, but never knowing what it was like to participate in that world fully.
She could only see it at arm’s distance.

Lyn studied the folded napkin
with Clay’s number on it and took a deep breath. Reaching for the dirty pay
phone, she shoved her hand in the pocket of her jeans searching for coins.

“Here, you might want to use
this.”

Lyn was startled by a deep voice
behind her. It was Leon, the big truck driver. He held a cell phone in his hand
and raised his arm, offering it to her.

“Oh…uh no, I couldn’t,” Lyn
stammered, “I don’t even know…”

“Here,” the big man insisted,
then showing her, he opened the phone, “Just press these buttons for the
numbers, and then press this green one. That makes the call go through. Hold
this up to your ear to talk and hear. Just close it up when you’re done. I’ll
be in the store. You can bring it in to me.”

Leon pushed the phone into her
small hand and turned abruptly heading back into the store.

Lyn stood there with the small
thing in her hand. She was surprised at how light it was. Not like a regular
phone, but then it was a lot smaller.

Tentatively, she opened the phone
and then opened the napkin with Clay’s number on it. It was awkward, but she
managed to read the numbers and then press each one on the phone. She was
surprised to see the numbers come up on a little screen. She fumbled with
holding the napkin and then pressing the numbers, but once they were all
entered, she compared what was on the screen with the numbers that Clay had
scrawled for her. They matched.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed
the green button. It had a picture of a regular telephone receiver on it, which
was not anything at all like the little device she held in her hand. Holding it
up to her ear as Leon had instructed, Lyn heard ringing, just like on a regular
phone.

The ringing went on for several
seconds. Lyn thought no one was going to answer, but then she heard Clay’s
voice.

“Hi, this is Clay…”

“Hello, uh Clay, this is Lyn…,”
Lyn was cut off because Clay kept talking.

“…can’t take your call right now,
but leave a message and I’ll call you back,” Clay said and then there was a
loud beep.

Lyn stood there with the phone at
her ear not knowing what to do. After a few seconds, she closed it up the way
Leon had said. Voice mail was something she had never encountered in the swampy
backcountry of south Georgia.

 The phone hung loosely from
the end of her arm as she looked at the ground. She was frustrated. She was
alone. She fought back the tears that welled up in her eyes.

Opening the phone again, she
carefully pressed the numbers and then the green button. Again, the phone rang.
She counted six rings, then Clay’s voice. This time she said nothing but waited
a moment. Clay continued talking as he had before, telling her to leave a
message. When he finished talking, Lyn spoke.

“Uh, hello, Clay. This is Lyn,
the girl you gave a ride to. If you still want to come pick me up here, I’ll be
at the truck stop. I, uh…” she didn’t know what else to say, and for a few
seconds, there was just silence until she realized she should just close the
phone up.

What now, she thought. Just wait.
What if Clay changed his mind? What if he didn’t get the message? What if she
was just left alone here? The tears began welling in her eyes again.

Maybe she should just go home,
but then no, she thought, and then more emphatically, NO. Mama had risked
everything last night, and there was no telling what Daddy would do if she came
back. Actually, she knew exactly what he would do if she returned and he could
get his hands on her. She felt the bruise on her arm.

Nothing to do but wait for Clay.
If he didn’t come, then Canada. The Canada running away dream that she and her
brother had made up was still there.

Dabbing her eyes on her sleeve,
she turned and walked back into the store. Leon was standing quietly by the
magazine rack. She walked over to him and held the phone out.

“Get hold of your friend?” his
deep rumbling voice asked.

“Yes…yes I did,” she answered.

“He coming for you?”

“Yes, he said he would be here in
a while.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll be all right.
Just gonna wait here for him,” Lyn answered not looking him in the eye.

Leon didn’t know what else to do.
He took the phone in his hand. For once, there was a soft look on his big, gruff
face and he gave her a smile.

“Okay then. Well, we gotta be
going soon. Here,” Leon took a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Lyn.
“This is us, me and Bob. It’s got our phone numbers on it if you need to call.
Okay?”

Lyn took the somewhat battered,
slightly dirty card. It had big letters that said B&L Trucking and then
some phone numbers.

She looked up and Leon’s smile
made her feel a little better.

“Thanks. I’m grateful.”

Leon stood there for a few more
seconds not knowing what else to do. Then he turned and walked to the end of
the aisle where Bob waited for him. They walked out the front door and across
the lot to their rigs, parked side by side in the gravel.

Lyn was alone again.

By Georgia standards, Pickham
County was average in size. In a state with one hundred and fifty-nine
counties, you were never more than twenty or thirty miles from the next county
line. In some cases, the distance was much less. Almost every county had their
own sheriff and in the larger metropolitan counties, a separate police
department. Throw in the various cities and state law enforcement agencies and
there were a lot of cops in Georgia. Some thought too many, others too few. At
this moment, there were a lot in Roydon, Georgia.

No less than eight law
enforcement vehicles were gathered in the lot of the StarLite Motel, divided
between Pickham County, GBI, crime scene technicians and the State Patrol. More
gravel crunched and spit from under the tires of two more vehicles, and there
were now ten vehicles in the lot. George looked up and saw that it was Sheriff
Klineman with Ronnie Kupman, followed by Timmy Farrin in the old radio station
van. Time for Timmy’s shot at an interview, George thought.

Sharon Price had arrived earlier
and was going through the motel room with the crime scene techs while George
and Bob Shaklee engaged in a heart-to-heart conversation with the StarLite’s
desk clerk, Vernon Taft. Mr. Taft was reluctant, at best, to remember any
details about the guest who had rented the end room, and who had removed the
bedspread upon his departure.

Cornered in the back of George’s
truck, he looked frequently at the small crowd that was growing outside of
Pete’s Place across the street. The larger the crowd grew, the more reluctant
he became. George and Bob Shaklee stood in the open door on one side of the
vehicle making sure the other side was clear and Taft’s view of Pete’s Place
unobstructed.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist
to know why he was nervous. Conversing with the law in Roydon was an unhealthy
practice, especially in broad daylight.

 “You know, Vernon,” George
interjected during a break in the questioning. “You might as well tell us what
we want to know, and tell us now so we can get you out of here.” He nodded at
the crowd across the street. “You think they’re gonna think you said nothing,
no matter what you tell them later. Even if they believe you, they won’t be of
a mind to take any chances in the future. Maybe you talked, maybe you didn’t,
but why take chances? Yep, I can hear Roy Budroe saying it now, ‘Why take
chances?’” George let the words sink in for effect. “And somewhere tonight a
gator out in the Okeefenokee is going to have a fat supper.”

“Bullshit. None of this has
anything to do with anyone in Roydon or anyone at Pete’s. Why should they
care?” Vernon Taft’s voice cracked in a plaintiff whine that did not have the
bluster of his words. This was all so unfair.

“Great point, Vernon,” George
said nodding in agreement. “Go tell them that,” he added, jerking his head toward
the crowd.

Taft turned his head looking out
the side window. Roy Budroe stood there chewing a cigar, staring in his
direction, his big meaty fists balled at his side. Vernon raised a shaking hand
to wipe the sweat from his greasy brow. The inside of the pickup reeked of the
alcohol that was boiling out of his pores with the perspiration. George would
air it out later and hoped that that would be the only stench he had to air out
of the truck. Vernon was powerfully scared, caught between the proverbial rock
and hard place. No doubt, he would be changing underwear later, provided he was
wearing any.

Shaklee leaned forward into the
truck. “One more thing you might consider, Vernon. At this point, we know that
this room is connected with a major felony. Your failure to cooperate and
provide a description of the person who rented the room constitutes obstruction
of an investigation, and I can assure you that the GBI takes that very
seriously and will not hesitate to prosecute anyone who stands in the way of the
investigation. And then there is the fact that your actions make you an
accessory to…,” Now Shaklee paused for effect. “An accessory to murder.”

George and Shaklee watched the
blood drain from Taft’s already pale face.

“You didn’t know that, did you
Vernon?” Shaklee continued. “We’re investigating a murder and that makes you,
as it stands now, an accessory to murder. And I mean the big one. Capital
murder. Murder in the first degree. And maybe you haven’t forgotten that
Georgia still kills murderers. Frankly, it’s one of the things I love about the
state, and my job.”

Vernon finally managed to get
something out. “You asshole.”

Shaklee smiled, “Been told that
before, Vernon. Hell, it’s probably true.” Then looking him hard in the eye,
Shaklee added, “But don’t doubt me. I will prosecute you as an accessory to
murder without hesitation.”

Shaklee moved back from the door.
George’s turn. Taft was almost at the breaking point; one more straw on his
frail, alcoholic back, and he would crumble.

“Well, Vernon, I think Agent
Shaklee has made it pretty clear where we stand. By the way, weren’t you gone
for a while doing time? I don’t mean any soft time in the county jail, you did
some drug time, didn’t you?” George knew full well that he had, having already
had dispatch run a GCIC criminal history check on Mr. Taft. “Keep in mind that
you won’t be a trustee washing cars this time. You’ll be doing hard time, maybe
waiting for the needle. Think it over, Vernon. You only have one play here.”

Vernon Taft sat trembling in the
back of Deputy George Mackey’s county pickup. His chin fell onto his chest and
a long sigh wheezed out of his bony chest.

“I don’t know much, but what can
I get if I talk? Can you get me away from here? I won’t last long in Roydon if
they think I cooperated with the law on anything.” He looked out the window
towards Pete’s Place.

“You tell us everything you know,
and I will see that you get to someplace safe.”

“Sister in Valdosta. That’s where
I want to go.”

“Okay, your sister’s place in
Valdosta. You can dry out and figure out what to do from there. Of course, we
will want to know exactly where you are in case we need anything else.” George
left out the part about testifying in open court when they caught the killer.

Vernon Taft, alcoholic, former
small-time drug runner, country boy gone bad turned shady old man, sagged in
the seat and nodded his head. “I saw him, the man who rented the room.”

“Right. Anyone with him?

“No, he was alone least as far as
I could tell.”

“Talk, Vernon.” And Vernon did.
George pulled out his notepad.

Five minutes later, Vernon Taft,
recently of Roydon, Georgia, had related everything he remembered about the
thin, severe man who had rented the room at the far end of the StarLite Motel.
True to his word, there wasn’t much he could add to what the authorities
already knew. White male, light brown hair, medium build, thin face. He paid in
cash. Vernon hadn’t paid attention to any rings that he might have been
wearing. In fact, the man didn’t go to his room until Vernon had gone back to
the cot in the clerk’s office.

One thing though, the man didn’t
know that as he backed and then pulled his car over to his room, Vernon had
stood in the darkened office and watched, mostly because he was annoyed at the
man’s threatening attitude. Vernon was able to note that the car he drove was a
1992 Chevrolet with faded burgundy paint that showed gray primer through on the
hood and roof. Vernon knew this because he had owned the same make and model
back in the nineties when they were new. He had run drugs up and down the
interstate in his Chevy. Yes, it was a Chevy, old, but it ran good. Was that
enough to get him protection from Roy Budroe?