Page 58 of Backtrack
“You have backup?”
Ewell scoffed. “You’re a funny man, LJ. We’re one riot, one Ranger out here in the Wild West. Not like you big city boys in Parker County.”
Johnson started the Caprice. “I’m heading your way now.” He gave his location. “I’m ten, fifteen minutes out if you want to stand by.”
“Appreciate that,” Ewell said. “A little backup would be most welcome … Hold tight a sec … Dispatch, Jack County 9, I’ve got movement in the field. Headlights coming toward me … hundred yards out. Two vehicles. I’ll give you make and model as soon as I can get a better visual.”
The dispatcher answered immediately. “Copy, Jack County 9. Break. Thank you for the assist, Parker County.”
Johnson was already on the road, barreling up 199 toward the cutoff to Wizard Wells. He reached the FM 1156 cutoff in less than two minutes, stomping on the brakes and skidding past the intersection. He threw the patrol car into reverse and backed up in a cloud of dust to make the turn.
Dawn Hatcher called out over the radio again, checking on her deputy. “Jack County 9, status?”
Nothing but dead air.
The dispatcher repeated her safety check. Her voice brimmed with urgency. “Jack County 9, 10-73?”
It was a full five minutes before Gary Ewell finally broke squelch.
The Jack County deputy’s voice was garbled, unintelligible at first, then, “… shots fired! … No! No! Drop—” Gunfire filled the air, and the transmission fell silent.
Johnson held his breath, praying to hear his friend’s voice. Wise and Jack County dispatchers both checked Ewell’s status with the same result.
Dead air.
Dawn Hatcher spoke. Professional but clearly pleading.
“Parker County 68,” she said. “Your location?”
“Northbound on 1156 about to cross 380,” Johnson said. “I’m unfamiliar with the back roads. Can you guide me in?”
“Parker County 68,” she said. “He checked out on North Green Elm, one-and-a-half miles north of Wizard Wells Cemetery. You’ll curve to the west on 1156, then turn right on North Green Elm when you get to Wizard Wells.”
A DPS Highway Patrol trooper named Caudill who was stationed in Wise County jumped in next. His siren yelped in the background as he spoke. “Look for a red clayblock house on your left as you make the turn onto Green Elm. About a third of a mile up, turn right toward the cemetery. I’m right behind you, turning north from 199 now.”
“Ten-four,” Johnson said.
Johnson drifted through the turn in front of the red clayblock house. Green Elm was a gravel road, and dust hung thick in the beam of his headlights on the windless night air. He grabbed the mic and held it to his lips with one hand, peering into the darkness, hoping against hope he’d see Gary Ewell’s headlights emerge from the dust. Nothing.
“Parker County 68,” he said. “I just made the turn on Green Elm. Is there a northbound unit ahead of me?”
“Negative, 68,” the dispatcher said. “You’re the closest unit.”
“Understood,” Johnson said. “Big dust cloud indicates another vehicle was on Green Elm moving at a high rate of speed before I got here. Unable to say direction of travel, but there’s a possibility someone got past me going south and hit one of the side roads before I made the turn.”
“Ten-four,” the dispatcher said. The radio went quiet again, leaving Johnson surrounded by the wailing siren and staccato pop of gravel under his tires as the Chevy chewed up the roadway going north.
Jack County Dispatch spoke again. “All units,” she said, near tears, her voice trembling. “I just received a call from a Mr. Shumway who lives a quarter mile north of 9’s last location. Caller advises he heard multiple gunshots coming from that direction eight minutes ago.”
Eight minutes …
Johnson pushed the boatlike Caprice even faster, willing to risk an accident on the gravel road. His friend was out there alone. When someone was shooting at you, eight minutes was an eternity.
CHAPTER 20
TEN MINUTES EARLIER
The muddy pond formed by the flood plain on the West Fork of the Trinity River served as a passable site to dump Hiram Dietrich’s body. Moffit had insisted on taking two vehicles. He led the way in his International Scout, while Pink drove Duvall’s pickup. Duvall, still gimpy from Moffit’s beatdown, slumped in the passenger seat and grimaced at every bump. Dietrich’s wrapped body was in the bed of the truck under a canvas tarp. It seemed to Pink that two vehicles made them much more likely to get caught. It had also occurred to him that Moffit only planned to keep him and Duvall alive long enough to do the grunt work of lugging around the dead rancher’s body, after which he’d use his fancy Browning Hi-Power to do the Mozambique drill on each of their faces, disposing of three problems for the price of one.
