“So he has no alibi, he’s apparently left town, and he’s turned his phone off.” For the first time, Sheriff Griffith’s tone contained a trace of hope. “Suspicious, I’d say.”
“No doubt,” Hatty agreed.
“Any thought as to where he might be? Did Burns say anything?”
“Burns told us that he thought Pike said he was from somewhere in Florida or Georgia, so we’ve sent an APB to all counties in both states.” Everyone in Guntersville called Jackson Burns, the owner of Burns Nissan Mazda, by his last name.
“Not much to go on,” the sheriff lamented.
Hatty held out her hands. “We’ve got nothing else.”
The room was silent for several seconds. Finally, Griffith stood. “I’ve got a press conference in the morning. Unless we get a break between now and then, I’ll say the investigation is ongoing, and we’re pursuing several leads. We don’t have forever, people. Every day that goes forward without a suspect charged with this murder is a day that makes it harder for Shay Lankford to get a conviction, and you can bet your ass that she’s riding mine twenty-four seven. We need to make a damn arrest.”
“We do, Sheriff,” Hatty said, also standing and trying to make eye contact with as many of the officers as possible. “But first things first.”
Griffith rubbed the back of his neck and gazed at her. “We have to find Waylon Pike.”
11
Waylon couldn’t help himself. He’d been back home a week, and he was restless. He was also tired of his mother. The way she frowned and pursed her lips every time he described his work in Guntersville was a dead giveaway that she knew he was in trouble. Slinking home after getting in a fix had been Waylon’s pattern his whole life, and Lynette Pike was no fool.
I’ve got to get out of here . . .
His instructions had been clear. Lay low. Stay the hell out of Marshall County. Don’t bring any attention to himself.
He’d planned to take some of his blood money and go to the beach. Drink beer on the sand for a couple of weeks. But, if he were honest with himself, that was a pipe dream. Waylon Pike didn’t have the first clue about how to have fun on the coast, and sitting in a lawn chair all day in the hot sun sounded boring. Maybe the mountains then, he’d thought. Hike the Appalachian Trail? Get a cabin in Gatlinburg? Or what about the lake? He’d worked on a lot of boathouses around Lake Guntersville. He could rent a place over by the Nickajack Dam near Chattanooga. Or how about Lake Burton over in Georgia? Wasn’t that where they filmed Deliverance? He loved that movie. Hell, screw this local mess. Why not see the country? He had enough cash to easily get him to California. Or Colorado. He could maybe become a ranch hand or something on a spread like the one in Yellowstone. Maybe get branded like those bunkhouse boys. Cool, right?
Wrong.
All his ideas sounded lame or like they required too much work.
Truth was that the only vocation Waylon Pike enjoyed was crime, the only thing in life that he’d ever been good at.
And he’d just killed a man. His first murder. He’d hit the top of the criminal food chain, and it had been easy as damn pie. A week had passed, and the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department hadn’t come calling. From what he’d read on the internet, they didn’t have a clue.
He wanted to celebrate. To get drunk and blow off steam.
And he wanted to be with a woman. Yes, by God, he missed some of the female companionship he’d enjoyed in Guntersville, and all the adrenaline and success of his latest venture had made him horny as hell. Being cooped up in his mother’s shack for a week had only heightened his desires. He’d thought about paying for a whore. He knew where to look for that kind of fun and wasn’t above it.
But Waylon was a man of means now. Well heeled, as he’d heard his mother describe rich folks. With the kind of cash he could sling around, he ought to be able to pick up a woman. Maybe not Jana Waters quality, but something.
So on July 11, seven days after killing Dr. Braxton Waters, Waylon drove across the Alabama state line and stopped at Fat Boys Bar & Grill in Bridgeport. When he saw the Harley Davidson motorcycles parked out front, Waylon smiled, breathing in the scent of exhaust and, from inside the building, grilled burgers.
He took a seat at the bar and ordered a cold PBR, cheeseburger, and fries. Waylon took a long sip from the chilly mug and exhaled.
He had $1,000 cash in his pocket. He was about to get drunk, and judging by the three or four good-looking women he’d already seen in the place, he’d have every opportunity to get thoroughly laid. After drinking another long gulp from the beer, he held up his glass to the mirror behind the bar and winked at himself.