A big city cop finds himself mixed up in small town murder.
Decatur County, Tennessee is an idyllic getaway for sportsmen of all variety, but two brutal murders have tarnished the image of the small community on the Tennessee River.
Memphis police officer Quentin Farrow is smart, street-wise, and a true southern gentleman, but even a gentleman can be pushed beyond his limits. After a violent confrontation with his supervisor, Quentin decides to ride out his suspension at his fishing retreat, a 1972 Airstream parked in a tiny cove in Decatur County; but a killer has other plans for Quentin. Drawn into the investigation, the veteran street cop begins to suspect that the killer may be closer than he wanted to believe, maybe even one of his six neighbors.
Excerpt
“Point it to the sky and hand it to me with your left hand,” I said. “You do know which one is your left, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said as the barrel of the rifle tipped upward and he slowly passed it over to me.
My intent in that moment was to holster my own weapon and secure the rifle by removing the magazine of extra rounds, and release any bullet that might have been in the firing chamber. I lost that thought with Art’s next act. He let loose a shrill whistle, the kind a man makes by pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth, and something in the bushes came alive.
It is said that in times of great stress, a well-trained lawman will resort to his training, leaving instinct behind and relying on muscle memory to accomplish the task with which he is faced. Fortunately, at least two of my companions in the woods had a firm foothold of training to fall back on in the next moment.
The scene around me erupted with movement as if I had stepped unwittingly into a den of snakes as they lay warming their blood in the sun. As Art swung around toward me, his intent to relieve me of the recently acquired rifle, Rudy stepped forward and shoved the barrel of his own pistol into the big man’s face immediately shutting down his attempted revolt.
The underbrush parted and two masses of snarling black flesh burst into the clearing on opposite sides of the circle. The matching set of Rottweilers were solid rock wrapped in muscle, each behind a row of teeth like a bear trap. One target-locked on me, the other made a beeline for Kershaw. Mine was closer and closed the distance with frightening speed.
I hurled Art’s rifle toward the charging beast, hoping to offset his attack. He avoided the flying weapon as if he had calculated the possibility of the obstacle into his attack plan. I brought up my gun and aimed as the dog appeared to zigzag before my sights. I couldn’t get the pistol fixed on the dog, and time was slipping away through a shattered hourglass.
I fired a shot just as the dog leapt into the air, his mouth wide, eating the bullet as it left the barrel. The dog’s full weight fell against me, knocking my breath from my body and dropping me to the ground, my pistol skittering away into the brush. I heard a yelp as the animal hit the ground and rolled away from me.
Kershaw, old-school cop that he was, always opted for stopping power over accuracy and distance. He skinned the Colt Commander .45 automatic from his holster, thumbed the safety, and fired a shot from the hip while the gun was still arcing upward. The dog that had, only a second before been approaching on a rampage, fell away and slammed hard into a tree with bone crushing impact and a cloud of dust.
Colt Presley stood in the clearing, his head moving back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match as he watched the scene play out in front of him. He remained in his original position, useless except as a witness to the events.
In the aftermath, Kershaw’s face glowed with solar radiance, his anger unabashed as he walked over to Art, his pistol still smoking in his hand. The man watched as Kershaw passed him and stepped over to help me up from the ground, his eyes never leaving Art, the two locked in a terminal stare-down.
A pathetic whine arose from behind me and I turned to see the dog I had shot, lying on the dirt, bleeding from his mouth. His breathing was labored, his mighty chest heaving in agonizing waves as red foam bubbled from his snout.
Kershaw walked over to the dog, pointed the pistol, and fired another shot into the suffering animal, his gaze never breaking from Art’s intimidating stare. Just before the shot, the big man started to take a breath, considered offering a protest, but opted for silence in the end.
Kershaw holstered his pistol, breaking his stare away from the defeated foe. “And I like dogs.” He said. “You wanna go another round?”
Art looked away and placed his hands behind his back, bending slightly at the waist.
“Another day, maybe,” he said.
Prime-Time Crime Time (600 pages) is a collection of 35 fictional crime/detective stories and the work is author Jay Dubya's 43rd published hardcover/paperback book.
In June, 2000, two college students — Amy Shute and Jason Burgeson — were approached by a group of men. Forced into the backseat and driven to a remote location, they were murdered in cold blood.
Following this brutal double homicide, Johnston, RI D
