Beneath A Pagan Sky

By Everly Hartland

In 1951 idyllic Ozark life turned to fear as a machinegun-wielding gang of bank robbers began shooting their way across the south, unleashing the largest manhunt in American history. For weeks, State Troopers Don Tucker and Crawford Henley pursue sociopath Jimmy Haggard's crew until they realize the men they are after may have been responsible for Don's parents' fatal house fire ten years earlier!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Everly Hartland
• Release date: Jan 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452344676

Everly Hartland

I have lived many hats so far (yes, I meant to say that). I've worn farmer, teacher, artist, rancher, builder, parent and lover, among other. Sometime you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you but it gives me something to write about either way.My family, critters and I live in the woods, near a lake in the country. Thank you for taking time to read me.

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FOREWORD

My name is Donald Ray Tucker. I’m an old man now but once I was a state trooper. When Mr. Hartland contacted me about writing this book, I agreed to help him on the condition that he state events accurately and not Hollywood the hell out of it. As best I see, he has written the major things truthfully although some things about the criminals he must have surmised since no one can know what was going on in those guys’ heads.

I would like the book to be dedicated to my old friend Crawford Henley, the bravest and toughest man I ever knew. Also, to my mother and father Nils and Maria Tucker and, especially, to my little sister, Bum.

May the circle be unbroken, by and by.

Don Tucker

July, 2004

Something was wrong. They put on civilian clothes again and looked to their mothers and wives very much like the young men who had gone to business in the peaceful days before. But they had not come back the same men. Something had altered in them.

- War correspondent Phillip Gibbs writing about combat stress disorder in WWI

Relentless shadows, cold and green, draw enerringly nigh

While hapless mortals dance their dreams beneath a pagan sky.

-- by the author

Pearl Harbor had been a juxtaposition, a tropical paradise as well as a burning hell where bloated bodies drifted out of the darkness and laid their cold, rotting flesh up against the side of your face while you choked back a scream in the diving helmet. Where the scent of papaya and coconut mingled with diesel oil and formaldehyde. A cacophony of heavy equipment, generators and pumps. An 18-year old Marine breaking down alone in the shade of a fuel dump. A friend that committed suicide upon learning his leave was cancelled and that he was ordered to the mortician detail.

War is goddamn hard on human beings.

-- Donald Ray Tucker

Prelude

Once the screaming stopped a warm and humid Gulf breeze stirred the cedars and seemed to charm the locusts back into song. But the water was cold on his bare legs and the man shivered as he sat down naked in the streambed. The moon glittered off the rippling water while it coursed down the mountain toward the Black River far below. Fireflies twinkled along the cedared banks of the creek.

As the killer absently scrubbed the blood off his body it occurred to him that Arkansas might be the most beautiful place on earth tonight. He was calm again, sated, and motionless, at least for now. Stream water trickled.

The breeze stilled. His breath slowed.

Minutes passed.

Then like a dog that couldn’t stop chasing its tail, his head began to buzz and old pictures flickered to life like pop-up dioramas in a child’s book.

"Ma, please don’t make me go to Charlie’s. I can stay here by myself, I’m almost eleven!"

"Don’t be silly. I won’t leave you home alone. I have to work so we can go to the market tomorrow. You do want to eat, don’t you?"

"Ma, he makes me and Ricky do things. He -"

"Stop it! I won’t hear of it."

"But, Ma -"

"Young man, I said stop it! This is difficult for me too. It’s not easy trying to raise a kid by myself! Now, get dressed, I’m going to be late."

A red light flashed and banged in his brain. Something down low rumbled, crackled, then subsided, crawling away again.

Bitch! he spat, hurling a handful of wet gravel into the night, his breathing elevated, fire rushing round his head. A growl rose up from within him, something like a wounded coyote. Goddamn fucking bitch!

The breeze returned.

Moments later his bitter little convulsion was gone but its passing left him cold and mean.

He stood and climbed up onto the bank. It was fifty moonlit yards down a gravel logging trail back to the car, where his clothes were neatly folded on the hood. He stepped over the kid, dried himself with the boy’s torn shirt and casually began to dress.

He smoothed silk socks, zipped wool trousers, pulled on snakeskin boots, fastened suspenders, combed his hair back and set the Fedora low over one eye.

Inside the car, he found the half-empty pint of Old Crow, which he tipped up and drained. Shuddering, he wiped his mouth and threw the bottle into the darkness. He returned to the boy, grabbed the kid by an arm and a leg and dragged him to the edge of the escarpment, being careful not to get blood on his trousers.

The boy moaned. Surprised, the man stopped and bent to look.

In the gloom he could barely see the kid looking up at him through swollen eyes. The eyes widened, the boy gasped, stiffened and began to struggle feebly again, weak from his castration. But the man was far stronger and no longer interested in torment. He gripped an ankle and a wrist, stood, spun a half turn and simply flung the kid out into space. The boy screamed all the way down to the rocky bottom of the ravine, two hundred feet below.

The killer stood there for a minute gazing out across the dark foothills. The breeze stirred again. In the east the sky was getting pink, in the west lightning flickered across the blackness.

He bundled the kid’s clothes into a ball and threw them over the edge, then turned toward the car.

Damn, he was tired.

Chapter 1

The Dust Off

Caulville, Missouri

Population 312

May 22, 1951, 3:15 PM

97 degrees and humid

Do I look like I care what other people think?

He bit the words back. You don’t give an attitude to your boss’s boss, not even when the weight of the world is crushing down, your strength is nearly gone and all you want to do is crawl into bed.

His car was dirty. Wrinkles on his shirt. Scuffs on his shoes. Jesus.

In the greater scheme of things, in a world where people killed each other for the color of their skin or flag, where people were burned to death in their beds, how could anyone care about dirty cars and wrinkled clothes?

Don Tucker was in one of his dark times. It had been that way, off and on, since the war. No, since Pearl. This one was harder and deeper than most and it was just beginning. It always passed after a few days or weeks but in the meantime, he was caught in one a rip tide between his despair versus the demands of daily life and his job.

He really didn’t have the luxury of dropping out or taking a day off. Duty called and he had little choice but to answer or find a different line of work.

Besides, he liked Major Drake. The guy was stand-up Highway Patrol all the way. No bullshit, honest and realistic in his expectations. Don had real respect for the guy.

Major, sir... I apologize. I don’t have a real excuse for not keeping up on things. A moment passed and Drake let it. It’s – I kinda been dealing with some stuff., back in the war.

For a second it seemed like Don was going to go on, but then he stopped and his face might have flushed a bit. Shut up.

Major Drake knelt beside Don's patrol car window and spoke softly. You’re a good trooper, Tucker. I want you to know I have no real complaint with you, just some details need tidied up, that’s all. He stood, patted him on the shoulder and started to walk away. But he didn’t.

Son, if you need some time off, you got it. If you need to talk with somebody, then do that too. A breeze came up and cooled the sweat trickling down Don’s temples. I meant it when I said you were a good trooper and I’m concerned for you. Now let’s see some improvement. We need the public’s respect and support. People want to see you looking sharp. Alright? Image is important.

Trooper Donny Ray Tucker mumbled an Aye Sir and a Sorry, then sat staring out the windshield feeling disconnected but embarrassed about the whole thing as Major Drake turned toward his own car and left.

It was the same old story, after all these years. The war had twisted him up and it was taking forever to get straightened back out. At times he was glad to be alive and other times he just wanted to crawl into a hole. He wondered if other guys dealt with it as bad as he did.

He wearily started the car and backed out.

I understand how you feel, son. Lots of men do. But you’re just going to have to shake it off. You don’t want people thinking you’re yellow. The old Navy shrink was the epitome of military sensitivity. Give it time, sailor. The nightmares will pass, you’re okay. You’re okay if you can sleep without screaming and work without sleeping. You’re okay if you don’t suck a bullet.

Five miles and twenty minutes later he sat in the car, as the gas pump dinged lazily, counting out the gallons flowing into his patrol car. Far overhead an airplane droned unseen in the clear afternoon sky. A soft breeze carried the smells of clover, straw and alfalfa from the old Feed and Seed across the street and a couple of blocks away some boys were playing baseball . God, to be kid again.

It was his twenty-eighth birthday, two weeks shy of his fifth year as a trooper and no one but him remembered it. No one, especially him, cared much either.

He leaned his head back against the door pillar and drew a weary breath, aware of a young redheaded man watching him from the other side of the driveway. A farm truck went by, unrolling a cloud of dust as it passed. When the dust cleared, the young guy was gone.

Will that be all, ma’am? the old service station attendant asked the lady in the next car. She was driving a new black Mercury and was, Don guessed, a banker’s wife or maybe an executive secretary to one of the lumber big shots in town. Her car radio was playing Patti Page, The Tennessee Waltz.

That’s it, she replied, handing the man a five-dollar bill. The attendant walked toward the station door to get her change and the woman began to fuss with her hair in the rear view mirror. Pretty lady, he thought, distantly.

While he stewed on the Major’s directive that he clean his act up, the lady got out of her car and walked toward the soda pop machine. Don’s eyes became heavy and he fought the desire to snooze. Gotta get some sleep tonight.

Another truck clattered past, its gearbox whining loudly as it, too, blew a curtain of dust across the driveway.

"What are you doing?" the woman’s voice suddenly rose.

He looked around and was surprised to see the lady struggling with the young red haired man who had somehow reappeared in the driveway. Did she know him? The guy had the lady’s car door open and was trying to get in her car. Get away! she yelled. Don sat upright, rubbed his hand over his face and drew a deep breath.

The woman slapped the kid. He slapped her back.

Hey! Knock it off! Don shouted as he opened his door and swung into action. Just great.

The kid shoved her away and twisted toward her car. What’s, he trying to steal the car? The woman rushed back , grabbed the kid’s shirt and began punching him with her fists. He slapped her again, hard in the face. Immediately, Don began to see himself, knocking the kid’s teeth out or breaking his jaw.

But he had barely gotten out of the car when the young man pulled a pistol from his belt and swirled to face him. Oblivious, the attendant stepped out of the office with the woman’s change.

The trooper yelled Get down! just as the young guy banged off a shot.

The bullet barely missed the old man, hummed past Don’s ear and smacked into the brick wall behind him. The attendant looked both ways, muttered Holy shit! and dropped to the ground.

Time thickened and slowed like cold axle grease as Don’s newly-alerted mind focused intently on the other guy’s gun barrel. A knot in his stomach twisted like a meat hook.

Within a second of the first shot, Trooper Tucker drew his gun and fired back, a strangely involuntary reflex. The bullet was wide by an inch, blowing the chrome mirror off the door of the Mercury. The guy jerked sideways, startled as fragments of pot metal and glass lashed the side of his face. Now he was scared.

It had been just a few seconds since the commotion started and, for a moment, everything stopped. No one in the gas station driveway moved, their hearts pounding. All other sound gave way to the ringing in each person’s ears. Terrified, the woman and the old man tried to become small. The kid’s face looked scared, so the trooper waited to see if he would give up.

Drop your gun! Now, goddammit! he shouted over his thumping heart.

The young guy was sweating and breathing hard. He licked his lips and his gun hand trembled as his eyes flicked from the barrel of Don’s pistol to the Merc and then to the street. The wild look in the cop’s eyes definitely gave him pause. A car sped by, and white dust rolled thickly across the driveway. In that brief, sightless moment there was a gritty rustling and a car door slammed. The woman screamed Don’t! just as the young guy started the Mercury, jammed it in gear and peeled out.

Squinting through the choking dust, Trooper Tucker took a step forward, shouted Halt! but a car rounded the corner a half block away, directly behind the fleeing Mercury. He holstered his gun, pulled the gas nozzle from his car, jumped in and started it up. The woman got to her feet and ran to his car window.

Don’t shoot at him! the woman screamed. Stop shooting! My baby’s in that car!

He stared at her for a second, said Oh, shit, and gunned the engine.

Tires howled as the stolen Mercury heeled around a corner and accelerated. The late afternoon sun was hard in the thief’s face as he raced wildly down the street. Glancing in the mirror, he took another turn and swerved between parked cars and a school bus, ignoring a blast from the bus driver’s horn. A block behind him the state trooper was in hot pursuit, the gunshots and woman’s voice still ringing in his ears.

Stealing a car right in front of a cop! The world was going to hell in a handcart.

Tucker keyed his microphone.473. Every tendon, muscle and fiber was humming like a telephone wire.

473, go ahead. The dispatcher could hear the siren in the background.

I’m in pursuit of a late model black Merc, a ‘49 or ’50, Missouri license Adam Baker Six, 738. Headed north on Highway Four, just leaving Caulville. The vehicle was stolen from in front of a service station with a baby still in the car. Suspect took a shot at me and is making a run for it. Request available cars move to intercept.

Roger that, 473. I copy the Highway Patrol in pursuit of a stolen auto, black ’49 or ’50 Merc, license Adam Baker Six 738, heading north on Four from Caulville. Trooper reports shots fired and baby in car. Notifying County and Greenley township units. Have you got a description of the driver?

He retrieved a matchstick from his shirt pocket and put it between his teeth. Yeah. White male, early twenties, slicked-back red hair, duck tail, white T-shirt. Has a tattoo on his forearm, I think it says ‘Born To Lose.’ Sound familiar?

Dispatch copies white male, in his twenties, red duck tail, white T, tattoo. Sounds like the same guy that stole the mayor’s car.

The week before, the Mayor of Jefferson City had told a newspaperman that police were winning the battle against the recent rash of car thefts. The cops privately got a chuckle out of that. The next day His Honor’s new Cadillac was stolen from in front of city hall in broad daylight. The cops were in stitches.

An elderly woman stepped into the street up ahead and began to walk across. The driver of the Mercury laid on the horn, swerved and clipped a parked car. A cloud of dust and dirt clods exploded from it and a piece of chrome went clattering across the road. The old woman jumped back and fell to the ground just as the two cars roared past.

Don dropped the microphone in his lap and focused on the pursuit while the dispatcher relayed the report ahead to other jurisdictions. His speed was approaching eighty miles an hour as they blew past the city limits sign, a church, sawmill and tavern and into open countryside.

He was having trouble keeping up with the powerful Mercury. In fact, if it weren’t for the curves, the heavier Merc would have been long gone. The Highway Patrol’s hump-backed, six-cylinder Chevys were no match for the V8s that crooks preferred but, being lighter, they held the road pretty well. That was important now because this road, Highway Four, was infamous.

Since 1930 when it was paved, this stretch of blacktop had earned a reputation as a man killer. It was one hundred thirty miles of blind curves, narrow shoulders and dips that could hide an entire automobile beneath a watery mirage before popping it up in front of an oncoming driver. Sideswipes were common, cars-into-trees too, but the head-ons were what caused police and tow operators to dread the ringing phone. You didn't want to speed on Missouri Four, or extricate someone who had.

The Merc slowed as the two cars swept through a wide, flat curve, passing a hay truck loaded high. Don felt sweat trickling down his sides. The adrenaline was pumping.

473 be advised Martin County is setting up a roadblock across Four Highway approximately two miles south of Greenley. They ask that you call out your 20 when you are near.

He double-clicked the mike to acknowledge.

The highway intersected another road just ahead. The driver of the Mercury braked hard, turned right then immediately cut it back onto the main road, trying to throw Don off. Don jinked to follow, almost lost it, then recovered and resumed the pursuit. Nice try, asshole he said, grinding gears.

The two cars began to regain speed, the Mercury pulling away. They rounded a curve, tires squealing, then down a hill and up another. Just as they crested the hill, the sun flashed off an oncoming car. No! Two oncoming cars! One car was passing the other and they were filling both lanes! Oh, shit!

The Mercury cut off onto the right shoulder and Don followed, his wheels banging and bumping on the rough ground as they blasted dirt and gravel onto the oncoming cars. He and the Merc were forced to slow down until they got back on the pavement, then the chase resumed. You crazy son of a bitch! Don yelled, his sweating hands slick on the steering wheel.

A few miles later they were back up near a hundred miles an hour and passing a farm tractor pulling an old truck. As they got around the tractor, the kid cut the Merc back too hard and lost it. The big car did a slow motion spin out, momentarily facing Don as it skidded backwards down the highway. It went completely around and fishtailed a couple times on the other shoulder before the kid recovered, downshifted and pulled away again.

Don was becoming very afraid that someone was going to get killed if he didn’t get this guy stopped. What to do? What to do? You son of a bitch, when I catch you, your ass is a grease spot!

Over the engine and wind noise, Don could hear other units on the radio, trying to set up an intercept. Someone was asking for a status.

This is Highway Patrol unit 473, his voice was raised. Still rolling north on Four Highway, approximately five or six miles north of Caulville. We’re going close to a hundred miles an hour.

Clicks and rogers came out of the radio. They crested a hill and in the distance Don glimpsed flashing red lights on the road ahead. County. The Merc slowed a bit, its exhaust bubbling as the driver decided what to do. Don tensed, braking. Maybe the guy was ready to give it up.

They rounded a curve, dove into a low wooded place, passed several oncoming cars then swooped up another hill, sunlight strobing through the trees. On the other side the other car abruptly braked, causing Don to bang into him. Don skidded sideways, his brakes faded and the front fender just missed hitting the Mercury’s rear a second time as both cars fishtailed. A car in front of the Mercury has slowed to make a turn, setting up the collision.

Undeterred, the Merc and its pursuer accelerated again, swerving around the third car. They quickly got up to speed, then the thief abruptly slowed again. The guy was up to something.

Then Don saw it, a gravel road off to the left. The tires on both cars squealed as they plowed off the pavement at forty miles an hour. He could hear the Mercury accelerating over the rumble and clatter of the gravel hitting his floorboards. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the racket.

Dispatch, 473. Suspect has turned off Four Highway. Heading west on an intersecting gravel road approximately five miles north of Caulville.

10-4, 473. Stand by.

There was dead air for a few seconds, then Dispatch came back, All units in the vicinity of Greenley that can move to intercept a stolen auto moving west on County Road J between Four Highway and Highway Six, please advise.

The chalky dust was getting too thick to see, he had to slow down.

Two other units from Hillsdale called in, taking positions on either side of the gravel where it intersected Highway Six.

Brake lights!

The Mercury’s rear end loomed out of the dust. Don swerved, the Chevy’s tail came around and he drifted into the ditch on the right. His adrenaline spiked, flashing a wave of prickly heat through his body. The car hit the ditch hard then bounced back onto the road, spinning completely around. With a rending whack he hit the other ditch, slamming his head and chest into the steering wheel.

The stalled engine ticked and hissed. His vision spun slowly, then began to focus on the dashboard in front of him. He had no idea where he was.

Don coughed out the matchstick. Dust swirled around him, his sunglasses lie broken on the floor. For a moment he just groaned, semi-conscious.

His heart was pounding in his ears, his nose was bleeding hot, coppery blood. His chest hurt. There were voices.

Repeating. 473, do you copy? Over.

Hissing.

473, do you copy? Do any units have visual contact with 473?

What happened? He sat dazed, in a dream perhaps. It felt like he was watching himself from a distance, vaguely aware of where he was. Then his head started to clear.

He’d must have had a wreck. His right arm moved without him telling it to.

He reached for the microphone but it wasn’t in the dash clip, it was in the opposite floorboard. Gingerly leaning over he snagged it by the cord and hauled it in. He fumbled it, then keyed the mike. 473. Get it together now.

Go ahead, Donny. We were starting to worry about you.

Yeah, sorry. Sorry. He was talking a little slow. Perk up. I went in the ditch, but I’m... the sun was in his face, I lost sight of him. He released the Talk button and coughed. His head spun again and for a moment he felt like he was going to faint. Whew!

10-4, 473. Be advised County 256 reports finding a bassinet beside the road about two miles north of you. He says we have a dirty diaper, but the baby’s okay.

It took a moment for it to register. The chase, the baby, it all came back. The guy must have set the kid out once he shook Don off his tail.

Well that’s good, he said finally. "Maybe after 256 gets through there he can come over here and change my diaper too. I sure made a mess here."

He could hear the dispatcher and several others in the background laughing. Roger that, 473. Will advise county to bring you a fresh die-die.

Don hung up the mike and sat there for a minute, letting his heart rate and respiration return to normal.

Nobody saw anything more of the stolen car.

The area, like most Missouri back country, had any number of escape routes and hiding places, many of which the cops knew about, some they didn’t. The dust-off had worked like a charm. He nursed the bent-up Chevy back to headquarters in Jefferson City, stopping twice to put water in the radiator and aspirin in his belly.

It was hotter than hell,