WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (71- 75)

71

Ty Hamilton

I hadn’t had time to buckle the seatbelt when I accelerated away from Sheriff Bridges, and had it not been for the airbag, I probably would have died right then and there. When the air bag deployed, I remember it felt as though someone had back-handed me full force right in the nose, and an acrid smell, sort of like that of a sulfur match when you strike it, only stronger. And dust. Lots of dust.

I don’t remember if the explosion happened immediately on impact, or if it was later as I was crawling out of the car. I only know I felt an intense heat. And the urge to go back up, away from the flames to the top of the ravine. But that would not be smart.

How Sheriff Bridges had lived long enough to shoot me, I had no idea. I was certain I had driven the blade of the shovel into his throat with authority. The last thing I remembered seeing just before running off the dirt road and into the ravine, was him dropping the shotgun, falling to his knees, clutching his throat, and then plopping forward, face first onto the ground. He would surely be dead by now. But, someone would see the flames, and make the 911 call. People would be coming. People who could help me with my injuries, yes. But also people who could send me to jail for the rest of my life.

I crawled downhill, away from it all. When I reached the creek bank, I reached down, found a handful of mud, and covered my gunshot wound. And for the second time in less than a week, I puked.

I had killed two men now. There was no reason for me to think that it would help to tell the truth about Mulligan. About what had happened that night on the island. About what had just happened with the sheriff. No one on Earth would believe me.

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.

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.