chapter 108
THE COUNTY GAME warden was patrolling the back roads that night, looking for spotlighters. He had received a tip that some Louisiana boys, staying near Columbus, planned to poach wherever they could jump a fence or find a clean stretch of road. The warden was by himself, as usual. His wife had reminded him for the millionth time to be careful. Everyone he ran across, particularly at night, was armed and potentially involved in some illegal activity. As he drove, he monitored the various law enforcement agencies’ frequencies, in case he needed to help. His friendship with one of the locally stationed Mississippi troopers had really been helpful in covering his own back and backyard and was much appreciated. As a game warden, he encountered all sorts of riffraff these days, especially with meth labs popping up in old barns and outbuildings everywhere. Plus, the newest “shake and bake” method of manufacturing methamphetamine in a two-liter plastic bottle was a constant physical and psychological drain, since any seemingly benign situation could turn deadly in a breath.
He had listened to all of the radio reports regarding Jake Crosby’s disappearance. He had first met Jake at a National Wild Turkey Federation banquet a few years back and had since checked him on a few dove shoots. Jake was a good guy, always polite and always legal. He wrote down the description and tag of Jake’s pickup, just in case.
When his cell phone rang, he checked the caller ID and saw that it was the general from the Columbus Air Force Base. This guy was the most rabid duck hunter he had ever known. He’d lived on base for longer than the warden could remember, and the general considered the public hunting areas along the river to be his personal domain. During duck season, the general had his pilots buzz certain areas for daily duck reports. The warden was happy to answer the call.
“Hello, General.”
“Hey there, Warden. Sorry to be callin’ so late.”
“Not a problem. What can I do for ya?”
“At nineteen hundred I was bein’ flown back from a meeting. Our approach was low due to the ceilin’. At any rate, I clearly saw a truck with its lights on inside the Buttahatchee area.”
The warden knew that no vehicles should be inside those locked gates. It was strictly a walk-in area. He also knew that the general was extremely concerned that poachers were wreaking havoc all over the area.
“Are you sure the lights were on the inside of the gates? I mean…it’s dark and y’all woulda been flying pretty fast.”
“Hell yes, they were inside. You know that pond that I call the Honey Hole, where I always kill so many pintails? That’s where the vehicle was. It wasn’t a four-wheeler either. The lights were too far apart and too bright. It was parked on the levee, pointing out on the water.”
“It coulda been some Corps of Engineer boys workin’ late.”
“No way. It was a civilian’s truck,” the general replied bluntly.
“Okay, I’ll check it out.”
“Duck season’s close, and I bet it was somebody baitin’ my hole.”
The warden smiled. They were picking right up where they had left off last January.
“You know that I don’t see much baitin’ on public areas, sir.”
“They’re tryin’ to set me up.”
The warden smiled, knowing that the general worried more about ducks than anything else. “I tell you what, I’ll call a Corps buddy of mine and find out if they are workin’ around there, and if not, I’ll drive by and take a look.”
“Please let me know what you find out.”
The warden was amazed at how clearly the general could see at night while riding in a Lear. Good military training, he thought.
“Will do, General.”