The sound of a telephone bell to Tom was like the whistle to a well trained gun dog. No matter what was happening, the telephone bell had only to sound and Tom was there.
He heard Ross say, “Tom! Get over here pronto! We have big trouble,” and Ross hung up.
Carrie sat up on the bed and glared at Tom as, without even looking at her, he began to throw on his clothes. “What do you imagine you’re doing?” she screamed.
“An emergency!” Tom said, zipping up his khaki pants. “I’ve got to go.”
“Listen, stupid,” Carrie yelled. “Do you remember what we were doing just now?” Tom zipped up his blouse, then grabbed his gun belt.
“Sure... sure. The old man wants me. I’ve got to go!”
“Emergency! Some snot nosed kid’s got his dingle in a mangle! Emergency! What emergency is more important...”
“Sorry,” Tom said. “I’ve got to go.” He dragged on his boots.
“So what do I do?” Carrie demanded. “Who’s going to drive me home in this bloody rain?”
“Just stay put,” Tom said as he scrambled into his slicker. “Watch your mouth, baby. See you,” and, cramming on his Stetson hat, he plunged out into the rain.
A three minute drive brought him to the Sheriff’s office. As he pulled up, he saw the lights were on. Head bent against the pelting rain, he shoved open the door and entered, rain dripping off his slicker and making small puddles.
Sheriff Ross was talking on the telephone. He hung up as Tom pulled off his slicker.
“What a night!” Tom exclaimed. “What’s the excitement, Jeff?” He moved into the big, old-fashioned office, typical of a small town Sheriff’s office, with two cells, a locked gun rack, two desks and wall hooks on which hung handcuffs.
“Jenner reports there’s a killer on the run,” Ross said. “This guy escaped from arrest at Losseville and could be heading our way. Instructions are to call all outlying farms in our district and warn the farmers to hide their guns, lock their homes and keep indoors. This guy seems to be real vicious. He killed an officer trying to arrest him and he’s killed a gas station attendant. I’ve listed the farms to call and the killer’s description. You get on the other phone and let’s get moving.” He handed Tom a sheet of paper, then began dialling.
This was the first piece of action Tom had experienced since he had been appointed Deputy Sheriff and his eyes lit up. Carrie Smitz forgotten, he went to his desk and pulled the second telephone towards him.
The warning to the farmers took longer than either of the men anticipated.
First, the farmers wanted more details. They seemed to take the news as a joke. It wasn’t until both Ross and Tom began to bark at them that they slowly came to realize the seriousness of the situation.
“Keep indoors?” one farmer said and laughed. “Who the hell would want to go out on a night like this? It’s raining up here fit to drown a duck.”
“Ted, be serious!” Ross barked. “Hide your shotgun. This guy could make a break-in. His description will be on TV and radio in a while. This guy’s a killer.”
“Well, what the hell do we have cops for?” the farmer demanded. “If it’s that bad, we need protection out here.”
Ross contained his feeling of exasperation. “Right now, Ted, you’ve got to look after yourself and your family. There’s a big search going on, but he could visit you.”
“If he does, I’ll shoot his balls off,” the farmer said, a quaver in his voice.
“Do just that,” Ross said and hung up.
Tom was having the same kind of trouble. The various farmers he called kept asking to speak to Ross, but Tom hammered home the message.
“The Sheriff is calling other folk,” he explained. “Keep indoors and hide your gun.”
After an hour of this, Ross dialled Jud Loss’s number. Loss’s farm was the nearest to Rockville and Ross had left him until the last. He had decided first the outlying farms, then the near farms.
Tom had finished his rota. Every farmer on his list had been warned, but he felt frustrated. Why couldn’t these dopes understand a simple thing like this? Why must they yak, laugh and not take him seriously?
Ross said, “I’m not getting any answer from Jud Loss.”
Tom stiffened. “He’s probably in bed.”
“Could be.” Ross listened to the burr-burr sound on the telephone line, settled his big frame more comfortably and waited.
Both men were aware of the sound of the rain hammering on the roof of the office.
“Still no answer,” Ross said.
The two men looked at each other.
“He can’t be out,” Tom said uneasily.
“I guess someone should be answering by now. There’s Doris and Lilly. They can’t all be out.” Ross broke the connection, then dialled again.
Tom became aware that tension was building up in the office. He sat back, watching Ross as he held the receiver to his ear. Finally, after a long three minutes, Ross hung up.
“No one’s answering.”
“Do you think...?” Tom began and stopped.
“Someone should be answering. I don’t like it, Tom.” Ross dialled the number again, but again there was no answer.
“I’ll go up there and take a look-see,” Tom said. “There’s nothing for me to do here now.” He reached for his slicker.
“Well, I guess,” Ross said reluctantly. “Yeah. They could be in trouble. Be careful, Tom. That’ll be a nasty drive.”
As Tom put on his slicker, he wasn’t thinking about the drive, he was thinking that maybe somewhere around the farm, a runaway, vicious killer might be lurking.
He checked his .38 police special as Ross watched him.
“I’ll alert Jenner,” Ross said. “Maybe he can get a couple of his men up there. I don’t like you going up on your own, Tom.”
Tom forced a grin. “Could be they have their TV at full blast and don’t hear the phone,” he said without much hope. “Still, I’d better check.” He put on his Stetson. “I’ll keep in touch on the radio.”
“I’ll be listening. Be careful, Tom.”
“You bet,” and Tom went out into the drowning rain.
Jud Loss’s farm consisted of a comfortable bungalow, several barns and a chicken-run. The farm was modest, but thriving. Loss owned some sixty acres of orange trees and employed three blacks, and, when picking time came, some twenty blacks.
The three permanent blacks had cabins well away from Loss’s bungalow. They had been with him for the past ten years. They and their families handled most of the heavy work.
Tom thought of these black people as he drove up the narrow road towards the farm, wrestling with the steering wheel as his back wheels slipped on the mud, his windshield wipers scarcely able to cope with the pouring rain. What were these blacks doing? Probably at home, glued to the TV. He knew them well.
If there was an emergency at the bungalow, he was sure he could rely on them for help.
His big Ford slid in the mud and he again wrestled with the steering wheel. Not much further. He switched on his radio.
“Sheriff? Mason calling.” Tom was always formal when using the radio.
“Hi, Tom, I’m hearing you.”
“I’m now approaching the farm,” Tom said. “It’s been heavy going. Lots of mud.”
“I’m still trying to contact Loss. Still no answer. Careful how you approach.”
“Yeah. I’m turning off my headlights. I’m on the crest of the hill down to the farm— I can see the farm now. There are lights showing. I guess I’ll leave the car and approach on foot.”
“Do that, Tom. Look for trouble. Jenner says there’s a patrol car diverted your way, but won’t be with you for at least half an hour. Look, Tom, maybe you’d better wait for them.”