Chapter 19
Lafayette Johnson ran over a clueless armadillo and had a near miss with a smug possum by the time he crossed the Jack County line at five minutes past one o’clock in the morning.
He’d sung “Come Monday,” “Margaritaville,” and every other Jimmy Buffett song he could think of.
Twice. He was just happy to be out hunting bad men—even if that meant something as mundane as distributing sketches of Ricky Lee Pink.
Running on sheer giddiness, he started in on Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It was a hard one to sing even if you understood all the words—which he did not.
Here he was, by all accounts a know-nothing, sorry sack of mediocre, wearing a badge and carrying a gun, not to mention out after midnight solving murders.
His mother had ordered him some cool business cards with the Parker County SO star on the corner.
He’d used a little strip of Scotch Tape to stick one to the center of his steering wheel so he could look down and see it every once in a while.
It was good to remind himself he was the real deal and not a pimple-faced kid at Weatherford High School anymore.
Pretty heady stuff for a guy barely old enough to buy his own bullets.
But fatigue eventually crept in, and the giddiness began to wear off.
Johnson yawned and grabbed the steering wheel harder, rocking forward and back, singing louder.
He needed a cup of coffee. Much of his trip was on farm-to-market roads, few streetlights and all but deserted this time of night.
There was no moon, leaving him alone with the faint glow of the dashboard and his only view of the outside world the finite little piece of real estate illuminated by the Caprice’s headlights.
He’d made a big loop, starting with Palo Pinto, then working south and east to hit Hood and Johnson Counties, finally catching Deputy Ben Stillwater with Tarrant County Sheriff’s Office as he drove north through Fort Worth.
He’d taken Highway 199 through the tiny berg of Springtown and on into Wise County, where he’d dropped copies of the sketch with the midnight shift road toad.
Each deputy would pass along copies of the sketch to their surrounding counties, greatly expanding the scope of the search.
Conventional wisdom said cold-blooded murderers would have quit the country by now, but these bozos had broken into Ray Gene Bryant’s place, indicating they were hanging around for some reason.
One thing was for sure: People like that would not hesitate to kill again.
It was almost one thirty by the time Johnson turned off State Highway 199 onto FM 2210 and made a three-point U-turn to face the highway intersection.
Gary Ewell, his friend and former classmate at the regional law enforcement academy in Arlington, was supposed to meet him here.
The narrow two-lane had no shoulder to speak of, so Johnson pulled over on the grass to wait.
The elder of the two deputies by five years, Ewell was the top shot of their class.
Johnson was consistently average. They’d remained close friends after graduation, trauma bonding over the special hell that was field training.
Both were on their own now, and often compared notes over the phone.
Johnson looked forward to catching up for a few minutes, then heading for home before he turned into a pumpkin.
Another armadillo trundled along the edge of the road—daring someone to run over him—but there was no sign of Ewell.
Johnson called out on the radio.
“Parker County 68 to Jack County 9; 10-20?”
Nothing.
Johnson drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel and watched the armadillo hustle into the tall grass. Nothing hustled quite like an armadillo.
There was zero traffic out at this time of the night, but Johnson made sure he was well off the road before he turned off the engine.
He killed the headlights and rolled down his window, letting the call of crickets and night birds wash over him with the warm Texas air.
The old Caprice ticked and popped as it began to cool.
Ewell was beyond dependable. He must have gotten a call.
Johnson grabbed the mic off his dash and started to call again, but his friend beat him to the punch.
“Jack County 9, Dispatch. I’ll be out approximately a mile north of Wizard Wells Cemetery with suspicious lights. It’s that field where we got those trespassing complaints last week.”
“Ten-four, 9,” the dispatcher said. Johnson recognized her as Dawn Hatcher, Ewell’s girlfriend. She’d been at their graduation.
“Jack 9 to Parker 68. Sorry I’m late, bud. I’ll head your way shortly.”
Johnson glanced at his watch. One thirty-eight. He keyed the mic again.
“Lights? Are you thinking cattle theft?”
“Maybe,” Ewell said. “They’re out on some private property running along the West Fork of the Trinity River. It feeds into the lake there. More likely kids going down to party.”
“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.