Terry Yeakey, they killed him

This is an excerpt from And I Suppose Nobody Died When Johnny Carson Was Buried At Sea, Either?

[This is a fictional account.]

The land is flat, and the views are awesomely extensive; horses, herds of cattle, a white cluster of grain elevators rising as gracefully as Greek temples are visible long before a traveler reaches them.

— Truman Capote, In Cold Blood

Terrance Yeakey was born September 19, 1965. He was a 1984 graduate of Booker T. Washington High School in Tulsa and attended Redlands Community College in El Reno for two years.

He was just going to shake these feds following him and then they'd get together to have dinner and catch up on what's been happening.

That's what Terry Yeakey told his friend.

Yeakey, a newly named sergeant on the Oklahoma City police force, was headed to Kingfisher to stash some documents in a storage locker.

He felt, knew, he was being followed by individuals who most likely did not wish for him to shield the papers from lying eyes and beyond the reach of the United States government.

Yeakey, 30, had been one of the first to arrive on the scene of the Oklahoma City Murrah Building bombing now already more than a year past.

Having spent much of the day of April 19, 1995 rushing in and out of the wreckage, credited with saving eight lives, in a few days he was scheduled to receive the Oklahoma City Medal of Valor for his heroism, and yet, he was one of those still questioning the official account of what happened on that day, and on this day, May 8, 1996, he was using a day off to safely secure records he knew were important.

It looked to be a beautiful day as he left his apartment on Douglas Avenue in Oklahoma City.

He knew they were out there, they were always there, lurking, the two men in the tan SUV and the forest green vehicle, maybe a Chevy. He only had to look and they'd be there, like magic.

Walking out of his apartment to the parking lot he did not look. He pulled his prized red Ford Mustang out of the lot and turned right onto Douglas and there was Mr. Green, pulling out and taking his place on scene in Yeakey's mirror. He adjusted it to let them know, he knew.

He was in line for a new job with the FBI in Dallas and he and his estranged wife had begun to patch things over. The seven-year veteran of the OKC police department had served in the military during the first Gulf War, and had reported being under strain from pressure he was receiving due to not being willing to go along with the official accounting of the details surrounding the Murrah bombing.

Jack Colvert, Jackie Majors, Buddy Youngblood, Don Chumley, Mike Loudenslager, and Kenneth Trentadue had already died, possibly in relation to what they knew or how they were perceived in relation to the facts of the bombing.

Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols had recently been transferred from the El Reno FCI, not far from where Yeakey was now traveling, to the federal prison in Florence, Colorado.

Yeakey had reportedly told his wife recently, "It's not true. It's not what they are saying. It didn't happen that way," and he had turned down a trip to a local hospital emergency room to deal with an illness, telling his sister that he could not go, "because they can find me there."

Juan and Charles in the tan Tahoe followed a block behind, talking to Tony and Jack in the green Pathfinder. Charles in the passenger seat waved and smiled as Terry moved his rear mirror, then gave him the finger, half a fuck, as he called it, since the middle finger on his right hand was chopped at the first knuckle, a high school shop class mishap. He laughed and looked over at Juan who didn't like that shit. Charles held the mic and talked to Tony up ahead.

The four had been together for a while, maybe, hmm, two, no close to three years now. They spent way more time together than they did with their families and that was hard, and sometimes it didn't work out. Jack, gramps, was at the wheel of the Pathfinder today, well, he had been at Pine Ridge for one thing, so the other guys got on him a little, of course. He'd told them one night in The Tam, in Boston, that he'd been the one who shot Joe Stuntz, "laid him right out." Jack tapped the middle of his forehead. They wanted to know who Joe Stuntz was and Jack just shook his head, then told them.

He stopped at a green light, on Western, right at the crosswalk.

Jack smiled into the rearview and pulled to the shoulder.

Juan hit the brakes, then slowly passed Yeakey, into the intersection then hit the brakes again then finally pulled over behind Jack.

Terry sat there through the red and the next green and then pulled out, left, moving fast. Jack flipped on his blinker, pulled away, cranked it, gunned it through the yellow and caught up while Juan and Charles fiddled with the next red and a stream of turning traffic.

"Where you at?" said Tony.

"We're comin', we're comin'," said Charles, "just don't lose 'im, 'kay?"

"Fuckin' amateurs," said Tony into the walkie-talkie, knowing it would drive Charles crazy.

They'd been in the area for a while now, so Jack knew his way around pretty much and anticipated Yeakey's next move, slowing for the next intersection.

"That's a one-way," said Tony, "oh, okay, go, go."

With cars parked on both sides facing toward them, they didn't even try to stay out of sight, just keeping the red car in sight. Tony let Charles know where they were and they plowed ahead, the three vehicles down the one-way street.

Charles put one foot up on the dash, pulled up his pants leg to show Juan.

"My lucky socks," he said.

Juan scowled, but he looked.

"Scooby-Do," said Charles.

"My son gave them to me. And he's always askin' if I'm wearin' his lucky socks. It kills me if he asks and I'm not wearin' his freaking socks. I got about six pairs now, just to make sure."

"How you know which pair is lucky?" said Juan.

"I'm always lucky, you kiddin'?" said Charles.

"Hey, lookout," he pointed ahead.

Somehow Terry had managed to get around a white Jeep coming their way and now the Jeep was blocking Jack and now they were all three stacked up while the red Mustang was floating into the distance like a red ball tossed into the lake from the dock.

"You fucking kidding me!"

Jack's white head stuck out his window hollering at the young guy driving the Jeep. Tony held out his wallet and badge out his window, shouting, "federal agents!"

The guy in the Jeep also had his head out his window while he pushed hard on his steering wheel, honking his horn.

"Yeah, right!" he hollered.

The look on his face changed when he was approached by four steaming men, eyes focused like lasers on his smiley fucking yuppie face.

Terry Yeakey took a right at the corner, also the next right, and finally a third right-hand turn, which placed him behind the boondoggle blockage still ongoing halfway down that street.

He kept going, turned, turned again, blended with the Wednesday morning traffic.

He merged onto I-40, then took the 147B exit toward Highway 3.

He turned up KOMA, famous with older folks around the midwest, because it blasted out the good songs, through the night with its signal, stronger than the others.

Often teens in New Mexico, Arizona, Wyoming, Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, and other western states would eagerly await sunset when the might 1520 would come booming through with all the newest hits of the day. They would sit in their cars on hilltops, turn it up at parties, or fall asleep with the radio next to their beds as they listened to Chuck Berry, the Supremes, Paul Revere and the Raiders, and the Beatles. Soldiers in Vietnam even reported tuning in KOMA to give them a little feeling of being back home.

"Getcher motor running ... head out on the highway ..."

Terry rolled down his window. He sang, low at first, then loud, out the window, then patted the passenger seat and reached behind him, under the seat, leaned over to open the glove box, then realizing he did not have his weapon, looked into the rearview. He should go back. No, they were back there. He kept going. How did he possibly not have his service handgun, the Glock that was practically always with him? He just had too much on his mind these days, or he was gettin' old. Jack had the young yuppie in checkered shorts and sunglasses atop his blond head cuffed and pinned tight with his hip to the right quarter panel of a nice red Subaru while he directed traffic with his free hand, getting Charles to move the Jeep, Juan to go ahead and see if he could find a trace of the red Mustang, have Tony pull up the Pathfinder for Jack to stuff the blond urban professional into the back seat, and in the remaining time pointed at three different groups of people watching, telling them all at once, and showing with the wave of his hand that this was directed at them all, to forget whatever they think they saw if they knew what was good for them.

Juan then skidded out, turned sharp into the alley where Charles had moved the white Jeep. Jack and Charlie threw open the back door, dragged out the suit who had been on his way to get donuts for his young family, threw him into the gravel and left him there, handcuffed behind his back, his face in the rocks, Jack and Charlie and Juan from the driver's seat, yelling at him in the general manner that he was the scum of the earth and should never been born and things of that nature. They skidded out in the alley throwing tiny rocks into the eyes of the blond middle manager on his bare stomach in the alley, one block and a half from where his young wife and two infant sons giggled in anticipation of daddy returning with breakfast because he didn't have to go to work that day. Wednesdays were special.

Juan skid, floored it, ran red lights and stop signs.

"Any sign subject?" Jack barked into the radio first chance he got.

"Negative," said Juan.

Seeing no one in his rearview, nobody ahead, Terry allowed himself to relax, a little. He reached to touch the briefcase in the passenger seat, looked again into the mirror, out the window, into the sky, rested his left arm in the window.

But the thoughts were always with him.

He felt pretty good about the recent developments with his marriage, but they had to get back together, not only for him and her and the girls, but because of the insurance. If he didn't make it, they would be okay. Looking out the windshield and glancing now and again to the side, in the mirrors, even though on-alert, he liked getting out in the country, the little farms now and again, businesses, windmills, grain elevators of towns far-off. He breathed deep and sucked down the smell of cow manure, and knew he was alive.

The signal hit a static snag with some powerline, but then faded back to focus. Terry smiled and sang along with Michael Jackson singing about the man in the mirror.

Juan told the others he'd lost him.

Jack said meet at Okarche and they all smiled deep within themselves.

They watched the road and the flat scenery for the next forty minutes, unaware that Sgt. Terry Yeakey of the Oklahoma City police department was only minutes ahead of them.

The Pathfinder pulled up in front. Juan turned around in the street and parked under a tree in the diagonal across the road.

The sign said, "Eischen's," but it could as well have said, "Chili Cheese Nachos or Fried Chicken."

"Ten yet?" said Juan as he walked across the road to meet them.

Jack and Charles both checked their watches and both said, "close enough."

Juan looked into the sun through his sunglasses, stretching out his arms. Tony took the chance for a quick smoke.

"He's out here," said Jack.

A hand in the window switched the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Tony tossed his butt.

On the other side of town, Terry Yeakey, after a pit stop at Phillips 66, two blocks from Eischen's, had just joined the curve at the edge of town to where he would take 81 up to Kingfisher.

Elton John's Crocodile Rock moved the red car on down the road while the agents took a booth.

"Just coffee," said Jack to the waitress and the others stared down at their menus.

"How did he lose that finger? Oh, yeah, that's right."

"Three owls Olson. One on his coffee cup, his sweater, what else? Yeah, at The Meeting. Socks! Yeah, socks, Lord almighty?"

They got a pitcher of water with the coffees.

Charles asked Jack about the Lai-ee Bowl he'd heard about.

"Hawaaiin, huh?"

"Not even close," said Jack.

"I'd like to go there once," said Charles.

"You might get your chance," said Jack.

The booth was snug so the outer ones stuck out their legs and showed their shoes. Juan wore white Nikes, Jack had cowboy boots. They talked a little about shoes then, Jordan's, couple others, about cushion and light versus support. Tony said he used to run half-marathons and nobody said nothing.

"Like I tol' ol' Horiuchi," said Juan to Jack in a private conversation they started after Charles and Tony took back to studying the menu and pointing out the chicken and the nachos.

"You know Horiuchi?" said Tony when he heard.

"We were in the same unit," said Juan.

"Legendary," said Tony.

"Aimed for the dimple on her chin," Juan touched his own chin. "And missed by a freckle."

Charles slid his water glass back and forth between his hands like a hockey puck and said, "You know those V's of geese you see in the sky?"

Nobody said nothing.

"You know why one side is longer than the others some times?" he said.

Nobody said nothing.

"There's more geese on that side."

Nobody said nothing. Charles continued pushing his empty water glass back and forth.

The waitress left the check with one green mint candy for each of them.

The red Mustang was parked on the dirt down one of the long alleys at My Storage on Will Rogers Avenue. The door slammed down and Yeakey fixed the padlock, got in and drove away.

The four agents stood outside the restaurant, looking around, wondering what the hell, I'm hungry and we were just in a restaurant.

"You guys head on back down toward Reno," said Jack.

"We're gonna mosey toward Kingfisher, see what we can see."

So, they split up, Juan and Charles in the green Pathfinder, pulled out slowly, casually incognito as the countryside, again taking a spot in line, among the few cars on Highway 3, now headed south, while Jack and Tony followed Yeakey up toward Kingfisher.

Tony and Charles talked back and forth on the radio about fried chicken and chili-cheese nachos. Jack said nothing to stop them, but it was making his stomach rumble.

"Maybe we ought to go ba..." Jack began.

"That's him," said Tony, pointing across the median.

Jack immediately found a cross-over spot as Tony relayed the information to the green Pathfinder.

The tan Tahoe quickly caught up to within a hundred yards and stayed right there, then moved up a little closer.

Jack saw Yeakey adjusting his rearview.

"He made us," he told Tony.

The red car surged forward with a burst of speed.

 "Harness in," said Jack

Charles let them know they were approaching the south edge of Okarche.

"If you can get to the intersection, Phillips 66," said Charles, "sit there, we're on the way, subject en route."

"Roger that," said Charles.

Juan, headed north on Highway 3 at 90 mph, slowed slightly for the Okarche city limits, with Charles holding tight to the door grip, and the dash, shot through the intersection, bounced, braked hard, brought it around and sat in the Phillips lot, waiting for what was headed their way fast.

Entering Okarche Yeakey just thought ... WHAT? They are there, one, and then the other. And this, this big thing in the world, is happening right now in Okarche and nobody realizes it. It's such a small town, with a few cars out toodling about, schools with all their activity that is the lifeblood of any small town. There's a man, an older man, tall, wearing a suit on a regular Wednesday. There's the Catholic Church steeple. What really do they stand for? Are they any help? Do they care.

All that flashed through Terry's mind in a split instant and he didn't really even notice.

Yeakey in the red Mustang shot past, through the yellow, braking and skidding hard, with movie scene sounds to make the sharp right, headed now west on County Line Road, out of Okarche.

"Tracking subject," said Charles.

"Your unit is advised to continue with pursuit, by returning in direction of El Reno and attempting to get around in front. We will appraise you of our location."

"10-4," said Charles as Juan gunned it out of the Phillips lot onto Highway 3, again headed south.

Charles switched the station from 96.1 KXXY to 100.5 The KATT. And cranked it.

Terry Yeakey floored it, then eased off, trying to think, to imagine, picture the surrounding countryside. Where could he go? Who did he know? Who could help him. Who could he tell?

He kept going.

We need to take him now, Jack said firmly.

Why? said Tony.

Because, he's right here.

He's got the documents, said Jack.

For all we know, he just got rid of whatever he had, said Tony. I'll get confirmation, he said. Let me just check.

It's our call, said Jack, looking over at Tony.

He looked again straight out the windshield at the nothingness and everythingness out there.

Yeah, go ahead.

He passed Reformatory Road going 105. There's a farmhouse, with people. They could help him. He was going too fast, too much trouble to bring into their regular life. Such a fine day, quiet day, flat land. This was too much, too much. He closed quickly, too quickly, on a farmer and a tractor pulling a disc. He had no choice but to pass on the rise, blindly. God-damn! No one there, clear. He lives. He couldn't hear the radio anymore or think about it. If they caught him, what was the worst? He'd already gotten rid of the papers. He was an officer of the law, what would they do? Talk it out. It didn't seem like they wanted to talk. He saw one car. Where was Mr. Green?

Airport Road, and he kept going. He checked his gas. He'd make it, where though? He needed a plan. A plan on the fly, on the fly you're goddamned right. These boys meant business. Now he thought about his growing up and he teared up, just a little, Tulsa, Booker T., his parents, sisters, his wife, kids, being in the military, now the police force, which is right where he wanted to be. How could this be his country? The Murrah Building. He'd never forget that day. It wasn't what they thought it was, said it was. But how could this be, in this country, his country? It made no sense. No sense to be driving one hundred miles per hour on a lonely country road in God's Country Oklahoma, being chased by agents of the United States government. Maybe he was bad. Maybe he was as bad as they thought, as they said. Maybe they had every right to chase him, harass him. He kept going.

Life was passing by quickly in the evergreen Pathfinder and the tan Tahoe.

Charles checked his KA-BAR in his calf sheath. They even had their unit letters on the handle. Jack's idea.

Juan removed his sunglasses and placed them down in the console.

They listened in on Tony's conversation with the SIOC.

"It's our call," said Jack afterward, to confirm what he'd already said.

Field after field after flat field, with just the few people here and there, in pickup trucks, standing out getting the mail, stopping to look up at who's driving past like that, headed into the house, crouched low, after getting the mail, stopping every once in a while to get their bearings, to see they are headed on a straight path to the door.

Mile after mile they traversed, almost routine, field upon field of flat, rural countryside, with mundane things taking place, kids home sick from school now somehow able to get up and play with the dog outside, being intersected by two wide-eyed, hair-on-fire entities at 120 mph.

Terry swerved hard to avoid a black lab, and fishtailed a bit, speeded up again, checked his gas, clicked his radio off, checked the rearview, the side mirrors. He reached as far as he could for the water bottle on the floor then gave up.

Juan told Charles to ask for further instruction.

We don't know, we'll let you know.

There he goes!

There he goes!

Down Ft. Reno Road.

It looks like Reno Road.

Get some intel and find out where you need to be to intercept.

We've got it. Action approved.

Jack, it's my call.  ... We're okay. Proceed.

"Okay, okay, affirmative."

Right, right about here, go, go. Charles said to Juan

Looks like we're taking a dirt road, gravel road, country road, Tony said to Juan and Charles.

... Okay, Jack says ... get back down to Reno and get over and in front of him ... find a spot ... wait and ... we'll drive him to you.

"Got that?" Charles looked over at Juan.

Juan nodded and thought to himself, yeah, but.

"Yeah, but, where exactly? Ask them that."

Charles opened the glove box, grabbed the Phillips 66 map and unfolded it in his lap.

Terry tossed up smoke and gravel, hitting each intersection blind and hard.

Jack kept close, then backed off, anticipating the red Mustang's imminent hard landing.

"Where they at?" he asked Tony without looking.

"What's your location?"

"Still on 3," said Charles, running his finger down the colored line of highway 3], one of William Least Heat Moon's blue highways.

"Right here, right here," Charles lifted his knee to push the map up to where Juan could see where he was pointing.

"Just tell me," said Juan with an annoyed scowl.

"Sixty-six," said Charles. "It's coming ... slow-down, slow-down, man."

"Where?" said Tony.

"We got it, we got it," said Charles.

"Root six-six," said Jack, squinting to see through the dust fog.

Terry would make it to town and lose them in traffic in the city. He started to construct the mental map and plan. He just had a ways to go. He fought to imagine the road ahead even as fence posts flew by like birds at 20,000 feet. He'd been here before, on this road, but he didn't remember when.

"Preceeding on six-six," said Charles, and Juan stared at him because he always mispronounced words or used the wrong words and it made Juan think maybe he was stupid.

"This is 40, said Juan, not six-six, it says Highway 40, four-zero."

"It's both," said Charles, "trust me."

"Just fucking get there!" said Tony, hearing them plainly.

Jack stared hard at Tony.

"This is playing full-blast in the SIOC, isn't it?" said the look on Tony's face.

Jack nodded every so subtly.

"Roger that, Pathfinder," said Tony into his mic. "Advise you intercept on Fort Reno Road, headed north."

"There! There! ... Fort ... Reno ... Road!" screamed Charles. They flew past the sign. Juan slammed the brakes, threw the wheel, scrunched his lip as he did in a tight spot and turned them around in seconds, taking Fort Reno Road, heading north.

They came to a T intersection.

"Says Jones," said Juan, "I thought you fucking ..."

"Go, go, just go ... go!"

Juan slowed a little and turned left, then followed the gentle bend right to again joint Fort Reno Road.

Like a cattle drive headed their way came the roiling two-vehicle storm, one in pursuit of the other.

Juan pulled the dusty forest green Pathfinder across to block the road, just before the small concrete bridge covering the little creek.

The two agents exited the vehicle, pulling their handguns and assuming a low ready position, staring straight down the dirt road, not talking, hearts pounding, squinting into the sun.

Jack nodded when Tony relayed the information that Juan and Charles were in position.

He backed off the gas a bit.

Terry Yeakey thought about how fast he was going and yet not nearly fast enough as he again checked his mirrors. The back window was fast becoming dust-filled, but he didn't need a crystal-clear view to know what was happening. Once more with his right hand he patted all around for any type of weapon. He reached for the briefcase and stretched and grunted to shove it under the passenger seat.

Back to sitting straight his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped a little, his heart pounded even harder. Two men stood in the road in front of a large vehicle, blocking his escape. His eyes and mind raced, covering the scene, seeking exit.

... He swerved and the man on the left blocked him like a basketball player on defense, Terry swerved back, hit the brakes, slid across the loose dirt and gravel on the bridge, as the men with pistols raised and the green vehicle all came into focus in a huge hurry. His body slammed the steering wheel as he hit the ditch at an angle.

As Terry struggled to recover from the jolt to the Mustang and his body and his brain inside his skull his dust caught up with him and enveloped the scene. Juan was at Terry's window, screaming and pointing his weapon directly into Terry's face. Terry heard as if underwater.

Charles leaped and slid over the hood of the red car. In the ditch, he forced open the passenger door against the weeds. He charged into the vehicle and began pointing his weapon and screaming.

Jack docked the tan Tahoe right in close behind the slammed Mustang. He and Tony rushed out with guns raised.

"Secure his weapon!" Jack shouted while Tony headed to the other side to the ditch behind Charles who had his knife drawn. Charles held his Glock in one hand his KA-BAR in his other hand. He thundered whatever came into his head, in close on Terry, whose large hands clutched the steering wheel.

"Where is it! Where is it, shithead!" screamed Charles.

Terry stared straight ahead, into the dusty windshield, trying to understand all that was happening on both sides of him.

At once the noise stopped.

Juan, now holding his own knife, stood outside the window.

Jack moved up into Terry's view, as Juan backed up a little.

"You need to exit the vehicle, Yeakey," said Jack, in a low bass growl, leaning in low.

Terry clutched the black padded steering wheel tight at eleven and one.

Charles sliced Terry Yeakey's right arm, sending blood over them all, even Tony behind Charles. They squinted against the blood and backed up a little, keeping their focus on Yeakey and how he would react. Yeakey's arm bled, the inside, below the elbow, the mark of this particular team. Charles, with a practiced skill that allowed him to get to Terry's arm at that angle, sliced him again ... and then again, sending blood spraying everywhere, like an arm hose.

"Secure the scene," Jack stood straight to look over the hood at Tony. Tony moved quickly, to attempt to block the road on both directions. There was no one.

Yeakey coiled and threw a pointed elbow into Charles' nose, sending yet more blood flying around the vehicle and filling Charles' face with blood, onto the ceiling, the dash, the windshield, the backseat.

Jack slammed his handgun into his shoulder holster and seized Terry's big forearm in his two large hands. He pulled. He tugged. He yanked, and with the third try the arm came free of the steering wheel.

Jack bent it back, over the edge of the open window as Terry howled in pain.

He splayed the arm out.

Holding his razor-sharp knife poised Juan made eye contact with Terry's wide eyes as Terry gripped the wheel with his right hand, a man in the care and custody of mad, crazed doctors with knives and fury filling their eyes.

Juan's eyes asked Terry if he had anything to tell him?

Then he carved the sweating inside forearm, just below the elbow, once, twice ... three times, to match the open gashes on his other arm as Terry raised his chin opened his mouth wide and yowled.

Terry now bore the mark of Delta Tiger unit, which any investigation team would later be able to understand and act accordingly.

With the inspiration of pain, Terry busted his arm from Jack's grip.

In one swift motion he swiveled his 6-3, 250 body in the tight space and with both feet kicked Charles out of the vehicle and into the high ditch grass. Terry dived out of the car, rolling over Charles, using Charles for traction to sprint toward the fence and the large, open field. The wounded Terry Yeakey jumped over the fence, stumbled forward, fought to keep his balance.

Tony left his post to join the others in pursuit.

Yeakey, leaning forward, his brain trying to catch up with what was happening while relaying to Terry all the events of his life, to understand that this was life or death and to keep going, as fast as possible and faster than that if possible. He crumpled and wiped-out hard on his face and chest, filling his critical wounds with grass and dirt. Belly-crawling as hard as he could he wondered where they were now just as they pounced on him like hyenas, enveloping him like ants, like gravel smoke over a dream cherry red Mustang.

Jack pounded one knee into Terry's back, pushing his face yet farther into the rocks and brush and brambles. Like a calf roper he yanked the right arm all the way around, not hearing Terry's screams. In one skilled motion, he pulled the handcuffs from his waist and slammed one onto Terry's wrist, securing it tightly enough to slice the skin, then pulling the left arm back and slammed the other cuff onto the other wrist. Jack then pushed off Terry's back to stand and stood there, sweating, victorious in the middle of the arena of the human-wrestling contest.

They stared at Terry for a moment while catching their breath, then all put hands on him to drag him to his goddamned feet.

Juan slid his rope over Terry's neck, which caused Terry to wonder about being hanged. Like a rebel circus elephant, they pushed and pulled him toward the grove of trees in the distance.

On and on they tramped over the open pasture, a group, a team, a bunch of friends out walking a long way, not talking, on their way to hurt one of the friends, following the creek, needing to get away from any viewers from the road. Tony looked back over his shoulder at the Tahoe, Pathfinder, Mustang, tan, green and red diorama. Still no sign of anyone else inhabiting this rural planet.

Terry struggled to keep going, the rough, scratchy rope burning his neck and the hard edges of the steel cutting into his wrists, his arms stretched to tearing behind his back.

As he could with the sweat in his eyes and under the scornful watch of his captors he searched the area for help, some way out of all this weird shit that was happening, he standing here like this, in broad daylight, a nice day they would say a hundred times that day in the cafe, frogs making frog noises, cows moo making, crickets cricketing, and this. He searched the earth for some one in the real, normal, nice world. A farmer, a tractor, a woman placing a pie in the window to cool.

They arrived at the trees, now over a mile and more from the road.

"Hurry up," advised Tony, again looking toward the road.

"Where is it," said Jack to Terry, almost perfunctorily, from the script, a line he must recite.

Terry said nothing. Breathing hard, sweating, bleeding from both arms, he scanned their faces, wanting to remember: the older man and the younger ones, one not as young as the other three, how they stood there in semi-formal clothes, tired, nervous countenance, so tired, carrying some few implements as well as their whole life's history, which they did not realize, just wanted to get this done, but this was the day for them as well, everything would be measured before and after. Why would they do this. Terry thought it and he had no choice in the matter. And he had no answers only questions. He had hate and fear and looked for gaps between them, places he could dart through the line and get away. Terry cursorily scouted the area again, the ridges, toward where the highway might be, the trees, the creek. A bluebird warbled and a red-winged blackbird scolded them all.

With his boot, in sort of a karate, judo move, Jack kicked at the back of Terry's right knee, sending Terry down, to one knee and then the other leg came along as well, then unable to keep his balance with his hands behind his back, the Olympic difficulty level just too high, Terry face-planted again. The three jumped in to pull him back to his knees, Juan lent a hand with a random tug on the neck rope.

"Where is it?" said Jack once again in a stage whisper.

Terry, kneeling, arms behind his back, stared straight ahead, letting his mind go where it would, as if he had a choice anyway.

Jack nodded and Charles, like a hockey player, left-handed, playing on the left wing, was quick to slice Terry's neck and Juan followed suit from his side. Blood sparked and flowed, maroon and full, covering Terry's shoulders, running down his side, over the dirt and buffalo grass.

Jack fit the silencer onto his Sig Sauer and made sure Terry saw it.

This time he did not ask any questions.

Standing above Terry he aimed it. Terry, trying to time it, jerked his head.

This time Jack grabbed a fistful of hair and pressed the metal against Terry's skull.

He fired.

Terry Yeakey's shoulders constricted. His body convulsed, as if he'd been hit with lightening, an electric shock. He knelt there, head down. Jack placed a boot on Terry's shoulder and pushed him over, then was sorry he did, because they had to move the body to dig with the knives to retrieve the spent cartridge.

Charles removed the rope. Jack took the handcuffs. Tony checked the road, so far away now.

They walked back, silent, in single file, doing the math.

Some bird tweeted.

At the diorama it sucked because they still had work to do. They searched under the floorboards, the sidewalls, the tire rims, the trunk, the roof.

Charles stashed his bloody knife in the glove box as he usually did because it was not explainable, always a nice touch. Juan wiped his knife cursorily on his jeans and immediately wished he had not done that, stuck the knife in the sheath, tossed it on the console, put on his sunglasses once again.

At Eishen's they sat this time at a window booth.

They ate family style: chicken, cheese fries, two Falstaff pitchers.

Juan dunked a napkin in his water and dabbed at his jeans.

Jack finished off the cheese fries, while Charles and Tony snuck outside for a cigarette.

After Jack paid, he asked how much and then bought four Tiparillos. On the way out the door he passed them out.

"Thanks, Jack," said Charles.

A Canadian County deputy found Terry Yeakey's red Mustang at about 6 p.m. Searchers located his body a few hours later.

The FBI arrived on the scene toward the end of the search and found the gun Terry Yeakey had used to shoot himself in the right temple.

A Policeman Who Rescued 4 in Bombing Kills Himself, AP, New York Times

A police sergeant who rescued at least four people at the site of the Oklahoma City bombing committed suicide this week but left no note, prompting friends and co-workers to speculate that he was driven by guilt at not being able to have saved more lives and by despondency over a troubled family life, the police said.

The sergeant, Terrance Yeakey, 30, was found on Wednesday in a field near his hometown, El Reno, about 30 miles west of Oklahoma City. Sergeant Yeakey had apparently tried to slit his wrists, then shot himself to death, three days before he was to receive the department’s medal of valor, the police said.