Chapter 1: Bad Moon Rising
Freedom is a pillow of dreams to those who rest in chains.
Thursday, July 25, 1985
It had seemed ridiculous at first - a wild goose chase up to the middle of nowhere based on an anonymous tip.
The District Attorney's office had insisted, however, and so a group of people who stuck out like a sore thumb against the rural landscape had gathered together off a dusty back-road in the sweltering heat of summer. Near a bluff known locally as Hickory Ridge on the edge of Stillson Canyon, four Georgia State Patrol cruisers and a jet black Plymouth Fury were lined along the road. The cars were empty, the officers having been dispatched to search the bush and crevices in the ravine below and the surrounding woods.
Special Agent Robert Wilburn was no stranger to rural Georgia, having grown up in Waynesville, but the heat seemed more oppressive here in the foothills of the Appalachians than it did near the coast. After working with the Bureau in Conyers for eighteen years, he still missed the salty breeze that rolled in from the Atlantic Ocean. He breathed deeply, appreciating the clean air which smelled strongly of vegetation baking in the sun and of the hard clay that rose in small puffs of dust beneath his feet, but feeling far from home.
"Sir!" An officer called, bringing him back to the present. "Sir, I think we've got something!"
Wilburn made his way to the left of the overhang, joined by the GBI's young coroner and his partner, Special Agent Tim Stewart. An officer moved out of the way revealing a small clearing where a scattering of bones lay white against the dirt.
He glanced over at his partner. "Best call your wife. We ain't gonna make it home for supper."
"If that's him, he's right where the girl said he'd be," answered Stewart. "Can't be much left after two years, though. I'm surprised the coyotes didn't drag him off. You want me to call it in?"
"No, I'll do it. I need to talk to the DA anyway. There's already a warrant out, but he'll want to know we found the corroborating evidence."
He left the crime scene and walked back to the Plymouth and got into the passenger seat, sighing as he picked up the phone in the center console and dialed the number of the Georgia District Attorney's office.
Ten miles to the northwest of Hazzard, an orange Dodge Charger tore down a lonesome back-road, the dust of the hard-pack churning up like a billowing cloud behind it. The driver and its two passengers were tired and nearly as dirty as the car, owing to the fact that the air conditioner in the General Lee hadn't worked properly since Luke had decided to tear into it the year before. In fact, they wouldn't have ventured out at all into the heat had it not been for a sale on peaches at the Parker Peach Orchard in the tiny town of Jackson up on the border of Hatchape County.
Daisy pulled her sweat-soaked hair back from her face, flipping it up behind her to cool her neck, and wished she'd had the good sense to put it up in a ponytail before they'd left. It was bad enough to be this hot, but being the smallest, she always drew the short straw of sitting in the middle, away from the breeze of the windows and between two smelly, sweaty guys.
She took a swig of cool water from the Mason jar she was holding before passing it over to Luke who accepted it gratefully. "We get home, we're gonna have to water them tomato plants again," she reminded them.
"I reckon it don't matter none," griped Bo, "We ain't doin' any good. The water just dries up as soon as it hits the ground. Why, them plants won't have a dozen tomatoes between the lot of them."
Bo was right, she knew it, but she'd not been ready to admit defeat just yet. "A dozen off the vine's a dozen we ain't gotta buy at the store, Bo Duke," she scolded. The guys might think groceries grew on trees, but she did the shopping.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to scowl at her. "Well, I don't like my tomatoes all dried and shriveled up."
"You get out and water them more, they wouldn't be dried up!"
Luke groaned. This kind of heat always put him in a sour mood. "You two stop your fussin'. It' too hot t-"
His words died on his lips as the General Lee rounded the corner at Hickory Ridge at the northern end of Stillson Canyon. To the side of the road were four Georgia State Patrol cars and a jet black Plymouth Fury with tinted windows and government plates.
"What the heck's goin' on?" wondered Bo, aloud.
Luke shook his head. "I don't know. Pull over, Bo, let's see if they need any help."
"I'm right on it, cuz."