Sergeant Hank Hollis and Patrol Officer Jerry Davis sat side by side in the big patrol car, with Hollis driving. Every man of the Florida Highway Patrol had been pressed into service to find and arrest the escaped killer, Chet Logan.
Davis, aged twenty five, had been enjoying a chicken dinner, prepared by his pretty wife, when Sergeant Hollis had pulled up outside his bungalow. Five minutes later, Davis, cursing under his breath, had buckled on his gun belt, thrown on his slicker and Stetson hat and followed Hollis out into the pelting rain.
“Orders to get to Jud Loss’s farm fast,” Hollis said, as he started the car engine. “You know where it is?”
“I know,” Davis said, his mouth full of half eaten chicken. “Isn’t that swell! Just when I was having dinner!”
“This killer could be there. Tom Mason’s investigating,” Hollis said, edging the car onto the highway. “He’s asking for support.”
“These goddam deputy sheriffs,” Davis growled, “can’t they do anything without us?”
“If the killer’s there, Mason will need support.”
“Yeah? If he’s there. But suppose he ain’t? A nice ten mile drive in this goddam rain just to hold Mason’s hand.”
“Stop griping, Jerry, this is a job!” Hollis said, a snap in his voice. “Every man on the force is out in this rain. Logan’s got to be caught!”
“Okay, so we catch him. How many medals do we get?” Davis muttered, then shrugged. “A mile ahead, Sarge, there’s a turning on the left, and then up a dirt road. In this rain, the road will be a beauty. Then five miles further on, if we get that far, there’s a fork in the road and we go left, and in another five miles, if we haven’t bogged down, it brings us to Loss’s farm.” He leaned back and switched on the radio to report their position to the dispatcher at headquarters.
The drive was dangerous and slow. Once off the highway, Hollis struck mud. Every now and then the car got into a skid which Hollis corrected with expert ease. As the car began to climb, the mud increased, but Hollis kept going, skidding more often.
“Man! Am I loving this!” Davis exclaimed after a while. “Here’s the fork. Keep left. We’ve only got another five bloody miles to go.”
“I’ve known worse,” Hollis said. The tires bit tarmac and the car surged forward for a mile or so, then hit mud again and Hollis had to start wrestling the car out of another skid.
The radio came to life. Headquarter’s dispatcher said, “Calling car ten. Come in, car ten.” Both Hollis and Davis became alert. “Report from Sheriff Ross of Rockville. Something’s badly wrong at Loss’s farm. Mason’s there. Last contact is he was approaching the farm. No reply on his radio. Sounds on the telephone, before it packed up, indicate a struggle. We are diverting two patrol cars to you. Approach with caution. Logan is highly dangerous.”
“Hear you and out,” Davis said. He opened his slicker and loosened his gun in its holster. “Maybe this sonofabitch is there after all.” Taking chances, Hollis increased the speed of the car.
“Man! Did I choose the wrong job!” Davis exclaimed. “Franklin has it dead easy. He sits in the dry and yaks while we poor sods do the work.”
Hollis reduced speed. In less than ten minutes, they began to climb the crest of the hill.
“We’re nearly there, Sarge.”
Hollis snapped off his headlights and slowed the car. He edged the car forward and pulled up beside Mason’s big Ford.
Davis went on the air.
“Car ten has arrived. We can see the farm. Lights are showing. We’re right by Mason’s car.” He lowered his window and peered at the big Ford, feeling the rain beating against his face. “Mason’s not in his car. We’re investigating. Over and out,” and he snapped off the radio.
The two men spilled out of their car into the pelting rain.
“I’ll go first,” Hollis said, drawing his gun. “Give me two minutes, then follow me. You move around to the back. If Logan is still in there and makes a bolt, I want you at the back. Take no chances with him.”
“I don’t imagine he is there,” Davis said, “but you watch it, Sarge.”
Moving fast, Hollis began to run down the crest. Davis waited until Hollis had nearly reached the bungalow, then he set off fast across the sodden, muddy grass, circling around to the back of the bungalow.
Reaching the open front door of the bungalow Hollis paused to listen, but except for the drumming of the rain no sound came to him.
During his move up to the rank of Sergeant, Hollis had faced many dangerous situations. He was a man without nerves. He was determined, if Logan was in the bungalow, that this would be the end of his vicious road.
Moving silently, his gun at the ready, Hollis entered the lighted lobby, rain from his slicker making puddles on the polished floor that Doris Loss had taken so much pride in keeping immaculate.
Cautiously, he peered into the living room. The first thing he saw was Tom Mason’s body, lying face down amid the wreckage of the table. Hollis didn’t move. He stared at Mason, and unpleasant facts registered in his alert mind.
Mason should have been wearing his Stetson hat, his slicker and his gun belt. He wasn’t wearing any of these articles.
Hollis’s mind moved swiftly. If Logan was here or had been here, he had taken Mason’s hat, slicker and gun.
Was he still in the bungalow? Logan was now armed with a .38 revolver and a cartridge belt.
Hollis slammed back the door and jumped into the room. Looking around swiftly, he saw only the bodies of Jud and Doris Loss. He backed out of the room, moved across the lobby and kicked open the dark bedroom door.
That room was empty. Moving cautiously, he checked the kitchen and the bathroom, then returned to the lobby. He regarded the steep stairs, leading to Lilly’s bedroom. Was Logan up there? Crouching, his gun pushed forward, Hollis climbed the stairs, paused at the open bedroom door, then edged forward and reached for the light switch. It took him only seconds to assure himself Logan wasn’t in the bungalow. He paused for a moment to stare at Lilly’s body, then, turning, he rushed down the stairs and into the rain. He bawled for Davis who came from around the back of the bungalow at a run.
“He’s skipped,” Hollis said. “We have a goddam massacre inside. Take a look.”
The two men entered the living room. While Davis checked the bodies of Jud and Doris, Hollis bent over Mason.
“He’s still alive,” he said, squatting on his heels. “These two ain’t.”
Davis came to kneel by Mason. Hollis turned him gently. “Hit on the head like the other two. The girl’s dead. She’s upstairs.”
Hollis straightened. “We’ve got to get help. Use the telephone.” Davis snatched up the telephone from the floor, then cursed. The connecting wire hung loose.
“The sonofabitch is playing it smart.”
“Sure is. He’s stolen Mason’s hat, slicker and gun,” Hollis said. “In that disguise— Listen!” The two men paused.
Faintly, above the sound of the rain, they heard a car engine start up. “He’s getting away!” Hollis shouted.
Both men, slipping and sliding in the mud, raced up the crest. The sound of a fading car, moving fast in low gear, was now audible as the two men reached their car. Mason’s car was no longer there.
“Call Jenner!” Hollis said, scrambling into the car. “We’ll go after him! We could catch him, but alert Jenner!”
As Davis got in the car, Hollis switched on the ignition, then pressed down the gas pedal. Nothing happened. Davis was pressing the radio button, but no light appeared.