4 The Marathon Murders Read Free Page B

Hendersonville as the sun
dropped behind us into a smorgasbord of clouds, shooting out rays that exploded
into a kaleidoscope of color. I hoped the light show was a good omen, but I
didn’t count on it after that phone call. Merging onto 31E, we passed the
mushrooming, high-ticket subdivisions of neighboring Sumner County, turned onto
Highway 25 and cruised through the less hectic historic center of Gallatin. It
was hardly fifteen miles across rolling farmland to the rural community of
Walnut Grove.
    On the way Jill checked with a
phone company source and learned that Pierce Bradley lived on Carey Lane, where
the cell phone had been found, just inside Trousdale County.
    The multi-hued sunset was fading to
black by the time we pulled into a convenience store/service station at a
four-way stop where two main highways crossed. Bright lights welcomed us to the
small oasis in a darkening world of cow pastures and cornfields. The farmhand
who found Bradley’s cell phone said he would leave it at the market.
    I parked beside two vintage cars
and a pair of dusty pickups. We walked inside to find two young boys ogling a
candy display like a couple of small barn owls eyeing a pack of field mice.
Nearby, two bearded guys chatted with a lanky younger man who stood behind a
counter laden with overpriced knick-knacks. A youthful customer with a crew cut
and baggy jeans that appeared in danger of sliding off his backside strolled up
and plunked a six pack beside the cash register.
    The clerk cast a curious gaze at
Jill and me. I speculated that he was gauging the possibility of our being
clandestine inspectors from the Beer Board. He turned to the boy and said, “You
sure you’re old enough to buy that beer?”
    The boy frowned and pulled a card
from his pocket. “This says I’m twenty-one.”
    The clerk looked at the card and
grinned. “You make this one yourself or buy it somewhere?”
    The boy grabbed the pack and
stomped toward the beer display. “To hell with you! Damned if I’ll trade here anymore.”
    “Watch your language, sonny.
There’s a lady in the store.” The clerk gave a tentative shake of his bushy
head and turned to us. “What can I get for you?”
    “Am I old enough for a six pack?”
    “I’d have to check your ID.”
    I grinned. “I’m Greg McKenzie. A
fellow was supposed to leave a cell phone here for me.”
    He reached under the counter and
pulled out a small flip-top phone. Instead of handing it over, though, he
gripped it in his hand. “The guy said this belongs to Pierce Bradley. What’s
your interest in it?”
    “I’m headed for Pierce’s. I intend
to give it to him.”
    “Where’re you from?”
    “Nashville.” I took out a business
card and handed it to him. “He has some information for us. I know he lives on
Carey Lane, but I’m not sure exactly where his house is. Could you help us
out?”
    “How come he didn’t tell you?”
    I’m a pro at bluffing my way
around. I gave him a disarming smile. “We called his home but he doesn’t
answer. On a night like this, he’s probably outside in the hammock.”
    One of the bearded men laughed. He
had the look of a life spent outdoors—gray hair, tanned, muscular arms, a
weathered face. I could picture him out in the field astride a chugging John
Deere.
    “Pierce ain’t got no hammock,” he said. “Anyways, the skeeters would eat him alive laying out there tonight. More’n likely he’s somewhere with his coon dog.”
    “Is that Reba’s boy?” asked the
other man. He was slightly stooped, with a corncob pipe sticking out of his
blue work shirt pocket.
    “Yeah. Don’t live too far from my place.” He nodded to his friend, then turned back to me. “Carey’s the next road toward Hartsville. Take a right. Go
down about a mile, maybe a little more, till you see a fancy brick entrance
gate on the left. A school bus’ll be parked in the
driveway of the next house. The one after that is Pierce Bradley’s. It’s a nice
looking