WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (6-10)

 Walkabout

Taking a Mulligan

Wayne Baker writing as Austin Jett

6

He ran through the pasture. Slipped on a cow pie and slid. His leg shot out, his back twisted, and he pulled something. As best he could, he kept moving. After a while, he came to a woven wire fence topped with two strands of barbed wire. He started to climb. The woven wire gave way, and he slipped. His sleeve got caught in the barbed wire. They were coming on ATV’s, shining high intensity spotlights at they searched for him, getting close now.

He yanked his sleeve free from the barbed wire, struggled over the fence. A spotlight found him. “There he is!” someone shouted. The light stayed with him. He could hear the sound of someone running behind him, vaulting the fence, landing with a solid thud, running again. He kept hobbling, not daring to look back. He stumbled and fell.

Up ahead was the beam of headlights. Lightning. Flashlight beam. He stopped. So did the sound of the footsteps from behind.

7

Ty Hamilton

The trees were swaying wildly, like those inflatable air dancers that you see at car dealerships, and the first heavy raindrops began to fall. Remembering that I had left my car windows down. I decided to forget about the supposed poachers. Just as I turned to head back up the hill, there was a blood-curdling “Mreeeeyoww!” and a loud crash in the brush.

In the space of about half a second, I wheeled around, saw the beam of my flashlight illuminate a man, bloody, with fear in his eyes. I nearly soiled my pants.

I dropped my searchlight as I turned to flee, ran into a low-lying tree limb, and flipped ass-over-teakettle onto the ground. I could hear the cat scurrying away in the brush.

8

Ty Hamilton

I struggled to get back up on my feet, fumbling for the backup flashlight on my duty belt. I shined the light at the spot where I had seen the intruder. Then, scanned the area. He was gone.

I got back into my car and drove down to the gate just in case I needed to get the hell out of there in a hurry. Then, I made the 911 call. Gave them my name, identified myself as a security officer employed by Sheepdog Security, and my location, Lanter Construction on County Road 564. I told the dispatcher what I had seen and heard. He said they would send someone out. This time, it took nearly half an hour, and by the time the Sheriff Department cruiser arrived the storm had blown through. Ordinarily, I would have done a thorough check around the buildings for wind damage, but I didn’t want to risk missing the deputy, or worse, running into the intruder I’d seen.

Deputy Smiley again. Just my luck. “I hear you had some more excitement,” Smiley said as she pulled alongside and powered her window down.

Her sarcastic tone did not go unnoticed. I chose to ignore it. “A little less than an hour ago, I heard some thrashing in the brush, and saw some lights in the field over there, to the north.” I proceeded to give her my account of what had happened, with emphasis on the bleeding, half-naked man who had been there one moment and gone the next. She pretended to listen, but did not pretend to be interested, or for that matter, to believe me. The stern facial expression I remembered from before hadn’t changed since our first meeting. I try not to judge people by appearance, but she had a face that could make a freight train take a dirt road.

She said, “I’ll go have a look around.”

“You want me to ride along? Show you where I saw him?” There would most certainly be a blood trail. Maybe I could help her find it.

“Hmfff!” Deputy Smiley snorted, then said condescendingly. “Not necessary.” I swear I thought I saw just a hint of a bemused smile in the corner of her mouth. To my surprise, there was no sound of her face cracking.

To her credit, Deputy Smiley did a reasonably thorough search of the property, short of allowing me to show her where to look for blood that would verify my story. She drove down all the little side roads, shining her spotlight, looking, seeing nothing. I sat there, in my car with the engine running, filling out my activity report.

2300: Signed on post. Patrolled property. Checked all doors locked and secure. All clear at 2325.

0010: Patrolled property in golf cart. All clear at 0022.

0210: Patrolled property on foot. Heard thrashing in bushes at north end of property. Observed lights of all-terrain vehicles on neighboring property to the north. Observed a male subject—white or possibly Hispanic—mid-twenties.

0220: Called 911. Reported intruder on property.

02:49 Page County Sheriff Department arrived.

After approximately fifteen minutes, Officer Smiley returned. “I didn’t see anything,” she said as she handed me her business card with the Sheriff Department logo and contact information, her name and badge number, and the incident number, which she had scribbled on the appropriate blank spot. ”Guess I don’t have to tell you to call us if anything else comes up.”

I smiled and nodded. “I have your number.”

03:14 Sheriff Department found no signs of intruder. Departed property.

I’d no sooner made the entry than a gunshot pierced the air. For the briefest of moments, I considered making another 911 call, decided against it. I rolled up my windows, and turned on the radio, ignored the headlights of the three vehicles on the property next door racing out toward the road. I closed my eyes with the intent to nap for the rest of my shift.   But, of course, I couldn’t. I really did try, but I couldn’t.

9

Ty Hamilton

I started the day in a good mood. I had slept well, and after awakening, I dropped in to Trudy’s Uptown Diner for some ham and hash browns with eggs over easy. I said hello to a few friends who came and went, but mostly I kept to myself, thinking about last night’s shift.

After the deputy had left the property, I couldn’t help myself. I went back to the spot where I had seen the intruder. There were blood droplets on the ground, and I had followed them, remembering the recent gunshot but ignoring any danger that might exist. The blood trail led me into the pasture behind the crematory next door to Lanter Construction.

I knew better, but I gave in to the urge to climb the barbed wire fence and snoop around. I was startled by the sight of a large puddle of blood maybe two hundred feet from where I’d crossed the fence. Shining my flashlight around, I spotted a spent shotgun shell. And a video camera. I took my cell phone, punched 9. Then 1. And then deleted the numbers and put the phone back in my pocket.

10

Ty Hamilton

It was my day off, and a nice one at that—clear skies and a forecasted high in the low seventies. My clubs were in the back of the car, next to my backpack, and I figured to head out to the public course on Airport Road, maybe hook up with a threesome looking for a fourth. Halfway through my breakfast, the Marimba ringtone sounded on my phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Ty?” a male voice said.

“Yes.”

“Larry Maxwell, here. Can you come by the office this morning? Say around eleven?”

I didn’t relish the idea of going in to see the boss on my day off. I did have plans, after all. “Well, I suppose I could      . . . although I was—”

“Okay, great,” Maxwell cut me off. “See you then,” Maxwell said, and hung up.

So much for golf.