Eyes of the Predator (44 page)

Staring through the dim light,
George’s eyes were drawn to something that didn’t look right. A large tree lay
on the ground not fifty feet away, probably knocked over by one of the
springtime Georgia thunderstorms. Protruding up from the fallen trunk was
something not quite right. It was straight. Too straight to be a natural limb
or branch. Peering intently, George saw that it looked to be somewhat
cylindrical. And then…it moved.

It didn’t move greatly. The end
just waivered and swung slightly, making a small arc in the air as if someone
was holding it and was moving. George waited.

When the crown of a head slowly
pulled itself above the fallen tree trunk, it was all George could do to keep
from pulling his head back behind the hickory. But he remained motionless,
knowing that the man holding the shotgun would have a hard time spotting him.
Hurt, bleeding, and in pain, the man with the shotgun would want to hide behind
the fallen tree and lick his wounds, like any animal. George knew that as long
as he remained immobile, it was unlikely that the man would spot him. In the
dim light, he would just appear to be a lump on the side of a tree.

George watched, still and quiet.
After two long minutes of searching, the man slowly withdrew his head down and
out of sight. The barrel of the shotgun, still visible above the tree, wavered
and then settled into a position pointing off to George’s left. The Glock in
George’s hand felt light and insubstantial up against the shotgun, but
considering the situation, it was the right weapon.

Distant sounds of sirens filtered
into the woods, muffled and dispersed by the trees and foliage, but audible.
The EMT’s and backup units from Rye County and the state patrol would be
arriving at any minute.

It took roughly ten seconds for
George to consider the odds. The man was injured, hurt, and bleeding. He was
armed with a shotgun but did not know where George was. George knew exactly
where he was and knew that he was a killer, and that he enjoyed killing in painful,
terrible ways. He would kill again if given the chance because that was what he
loved doing. It was what he needed to do.

During those ten seconds of
taking stock of the situation and considering the odds, the images floated in
front of him. Old Mr. Sims lying in a pool of blood in the church parking lot,
his kidneys and liver turned to jelly by the savage thrusts of the knife. The
girl thrown into the weeds on the side of Ridley Road, a hundred cuts on her
body and then strangled to death. The girl, Lyn, nude on the ground, covered in
the same tortuous cuts and alive by the grace of…who? Young Clay with three
bullets in his chest, turning his shirt bright red. The deputy from Rye County,
not yet found and status unknown, who had decided to check things out, saving
the life of a girl he did not know.

As the last of those ten seconds
ticked away, the images moved away and George sprang from behind the hickory.
Moving to the right, he stayed out of the direct line of the shotgun barrel.

Crashing through the foliage and
fallen limbs covering the ground under the trees, he was heard instantly by the
man with the shotgun. A roaring burst went crashing through the woods to his
left. The killer’s head popped above the tree trunk searching for his target.
It took him several seconds to acquire the man crouching and running towards
him through the trees. George stumbled, then steadied himself and leapt the
fallen tree trunk as the man was trying to bring the barrel of the shotgun
around to bear.

George slid in the leaves and
debris as he landed, twisting his knee painfully. It didn’t matter.

Looking into the barrel of the
Glock from a distance of five feet, the man’s hand froze. The eyes staring back
at him over the sights of the handgun were focused and hard. There would be no
hesitation with this man. No moment of uncertainty. Slowly and deliberately, he
laid the shotgun on the ground beside him.

After the shotgun’s roar and the
sounds of George’s rushing assault on the fallen tree trunk, an eerie silence
had enveloped the woods. George looked into the eyes of his quarry and
saw…nothing. They were empty.

The animal spoke.

“You got me, deputy.” Lylee
lifted one hand in surrender while gingerly touching the bloody mess that was
his left knee and leg with the other. “That was a hell of a thing, charging at
me like that…hell of a thing.” He smiled boyishly up at the big deputy holding
the pistol pointed at his face. It was the friendly grin of a boy bested by his
friend in a wrestling match and giving up good-naturedly. It was disarming. It
was one of Lylee’s best performances, considering the pain in his leg and the
pistol in his face. It was a great performance, and it was of no use.

Looking into the deputy’s eyes,
the uselessness of his charming, friendly performance dawned on him. Slowly,
like the sun rising over the swamp chasing away the dark shadows, he
understood. The realization filled his eyes, glaring back at the deputy.

George waited, allowing the
awareness to settle in until…the man, the animal, snarled.

There were no words, just bared
teeth between which the guttural, primal snarl hissed and grunted out.

The Glock bucked in his hand,
filling the silent woods with a single sharp explosion. The echo faded slowly
until there was silence again.

Doubled over on his side, the man
clutched his chest, snarling and thrashing in the dirt. The gray eyes flashed
up at the deputy who had killed him until the light slowly faded from them.
Narrowing to slits, they stared vacantly into the dirt as the man’s head
slumped to the side. Then he was dead.

Covered in a metallic looking
thermal blanket Sharon Price had retrieved from the Pickham County pickup’s
emergency kit, Lyn heard the final roar of thunder. It came distantly,
filtering its way through the woods and out into the open yard of the cabin.

Price, kneeling beside the young
man with three holes in his body, looked up, and her hand moved to the pistol
on her belt. Then all was quiet again, and she went back to her work trying to
stop the blood that oozed from the boy into the red, Georgia clay.

The sound of racing engines and
sirens filled the air. Vehicles began pulling into the drive along the creek,
and as they came to a stop, one by one they cut their sirens until the air
around the cabin was quiet again and hushed except for the rushing of the
creek.

The tumbling water seemed to wash
over everything as if trying to cleanse away what had happened there and to
bring things back to bucolic tranquility. But it would take time and a lot of
washing before that was accomplished. No matter, the creek’s rushing seemed to
offer reassurance that it would be there after the people had departed,
gurgling and washing the evil memories away, until all that would remain were
the trees and the hills and the creek.

An ambulance came roaring up the
rise from the drive into the backyard of the cabin. The doors flung open, and
two paramedics raced towards them. Sharon stood up and saw two troopers and a
Rye County deputy run across the yard on foot towards the woods to be met by
George Mackey making his way out of the tree line. He spoke to them briefly and
then pointed into the woods. The deputy and troopers nodded and then fanned
out, moving deliberately and carefully into the trees.

One of the paramedics looked up
from Clay. She and her partner were working quickly and efficiently to stop the
bleeding and start an IV. She nodded at the girl huddled and shivering under
the thin thermal blanket.

“Injuries?” she queried Sharon.

“A lot of cuts and bruises. Not
lethal, but she bled out a bit. Bleeding seems pretty much stopped. Mostly
shock and mental trauma.”

The paramedic nodded, turning
back to her work on Clay. “There’s a heavier blanket in the back of the
ambulance in the equipment locker. Get it and wrap it around her. Warm her up
good and put her on the cot in the back of the ambulance.”

Rye County Sheriff, John Siler,
walked carefully up the steps of the cabin to the open front door. There was no
movement from inside. Being from the old school, he carried a revolver, not an
automatic, and the Smith and Wesson Model 60, .357 magnum was gripped snugly in
his right hand.

All of the activity was happening
at the back of the cabin and in the woods to the rear. But his deputy was not
in the backyard and had not been seen. He stepped to the side so as not to
approach the doorway head on. Easing along the wall he called out softly,
“Grover, you in there?”

Hearing no response, the sheriff
moved to the door and turned into it, the .357 extended in front of him in a
two handed grip, pointed slightly down.

“Grover, you in…” Sheriff Siler
stopped mid-sentence as his worst fears were realized. Stepping over the young
deputy’s feet, he squatted by his side trying to avoid the pooling blood on the
floor and felt his neck for a carotid pulse. The quantity of blood on the floor
told the experienced law enforcement officer that there was no point in
checking, but he did so anyway, mostly because there was nothing else to do.

A large hunting knife protruded
in an ugly way from the boy’s side. Siler almost reached out to remove the
offending blade, but refrained. Removing the knife could worsen the deputy’s
injuries, but Grover was dead. His injuries could be no worse. The sheriff left
the knife in place because it was evidence. It would be retrieved during the
crime scene investigation or after the autopsy.

Reaching for his portable radio,
he started to call for the paramedics, but then put the radio back in its
holder on his belt. Grover Parsons was gone. The others might make it. Grover
would not. It was a matter of logic, reason, and best use of available
resources, and it broke Siler’s heart.

The sheriff stepped out onto the
front porch, sat down on the top step, put his head in his hands, and cried for
the boy, who less than an hour ago, he had tried to convince over the radio to
wait for backup. Grover Parsons had done what he had to do. He did his duty,
and the young girl would survive because of it.

Sheriff Siler would now do his
duty and try to explain to Gerald Parsons that his son, who just happened to be
on duty, and who just happened to stop for lunch in Crichton, had had a
friendly conversation with Gannet Carlson. And during that friendly chat, he
discovered that a murderer and his next victim were holed up in a cabin at the
Carlson’s. He would explain that the son, who was the pride and joy of his
daddy, was gone, never to return, a hunting knife protruding obscenely from his
side while blood pooled thickly around his cold body.

He would do his duty and tell
Gerald Parsons all of this, but first Sheriff Siler sat on the top step while
his tears dripped softly onto the boards of the porch steps and soaked slowly
into the weathered wood.

More sirens and more units
arrived on the drive beside the creek. The ambulance backed rapidly across the
cabin’s yard guided by deputies and volunteer firefighters who had arrived at
the scene. Sharon watched it bump down onto the drive and accelerate rapidly up
the hill towards the highway.

In the rear, the young girl, Lyn,
lay on one side, wrapped in blankets, traumatized and nearly comatose from her
ordeal. Clay lay across from her, carefully attended to by the paramedic and
fighting for his life. On the winding roads, the ambulance would take twenty
minutes at high-speed, to make the journey to the little league field in
Crichton where there was space enough for the life flight helicopter to land
and take the two patients aboard. From there they would be transported to the
emergency trauma center in Athens.

The girl would survive her
physical injuries. The mental and emotional traumas were a different matter.
Undoubtedly, those scars would leave far deeper marks on her, and their effect
would be far more devastating in the coming years.

The young man was a different
story. His hold on life was tenuous. The bullets had managed to miss his heart
and aorta. A hit to either would have surely resulted in his immediate death,
and the round from the shotgun that slowed the killer and his execution of the
girl might never have been fired.

Fortunately for Clay, the rounds
from the short-barreled .38 were underpowered, hardball ammunition. Had Harold
Sims loaded the weapon with high-powered hollow points, Clay would not be
unconscious in the rear of the ambulance. He would be lying in the cabin’s
backyard waiting for the crime scene techs to take their pictures and gather
evidence from around his corpse.

Still, the outcome for Clay was
very much in doubt. Knowing this, the medic driver pushed the unwieldy
ambulance to its limits around the curves while those in the back hung on.

George Mackey limped over to the
spot where the young man had lain. The ground was stained with his blood. A few
feet away, a smaller stain marked the spot where the shotgun pellets had torn
into the killer’s leg.

Footsteps approached from behind
and George turned. Sharon Price looked him squarely in the eye from a distance
of three feet. No words were spoken. After a few seconds, George nodded and
Sharon returned the nod. Words were unnecessary. It was done.

Three days later, Chief Deputy
Ronnie Kupman sat across from Sheriff Klineman’s desk while the latter studied
the papers clipped neatly into a manila file. After several minutes, the
sheriff straightened the papers and closed the file, placing it neatly in the
center of his desk and then pushing it with two fingers towards his chief
deputy as if its continued presence might be infectious.