“Good grief,” Lonnie uttered to himself. “This’ll take all day.”

He flipped the pages, thumbing through all eight sheets of the subpoena itself before seeing the first page with any data worth looking at.

Neoprint for profile 149230525 taken on 2012-10-09 for dates (2012-07-01 thru 2012-10-08)

He read the details aloud as his eyes scrolled down the page. “Let’s see...Name, Jesse Simmons. Recent Login IP address, email addresses, member since January 2008, born November 11, 1989, screenname is mountainman, relationship status is...none.”

As Lonnie flipped the page he saw deputy Freeman Bishop walk through his door.

“Mornin’, Freeman,” Lonnie said, and returned to the document.

“Mornin’, Sheriff. Just heard that the National Hurricane Center said the hurricane has strengthened and may actually make landfall near Savannah,” Freeman said.

Lonnie dropped the picture of Jesse and looked up.

“Savannah? They haven’t taken a major hurricane since --.”

“1890s is what they said on the TV,” Freeman said. “At least not a major one.”

“What are they saying about this one?” Lonnie asked.

“Saying it’s looking like it’s gonna make landfall as at least a Category 4,” Freeman said.

“At least?” Lonnie asked as he rose, thinking he must be missing something.

“Yep, maybe even a five,” Freeman said. “They’re already asking folks to evacuate the islands down there. That’s a long way from here, Sheriff, but I figure a lot of folks will want to volunteer to help out if needed.”

“Did you happen to see what path they’re projecting the storm to travel?” Lonnie asked.

“Well, their map shows it hittin’ the Georgia coast tomorrow late afternoon or early evening, then heading up toward north Georgia or western North Carolina early Friday morning. Course they say there’s still a lot of leeway.”

Lonnie stood stoically visualizing the storm’s impact, both on the coast and on the mountains if the storm was really as strong as Freeman was saying.

“Them weather guys are always saying that, ain’t they?” Freeman asked.

“Saying what?”

“That there’s a lot of leeway. Lots of variables. That way they can be right no matter what way the wind blows.”

“I reckon so,” Lonnie said.

Freeman stood opposite Lonnie and looked down at his desk, seeing the picture of Jesse.

“Holy sh—” Freeman started and stopped, remembering that Sheriff Lonnie was also Pastor Lonnie. “What is that?” Freeman pointed to the picture.

“That, Mr. Bishop, is one of the missing boys we’re looking for, Jesse Simmons.”

“Yeah, but where is that? I mean, look at the size of that boar!” Freeman said. He invited himself around the desk to get a better look.

“Son of a–” Freeman began before biting down on his lip. “You don’t wanna go messin’ with them, Sheriff. I was huntin’ ’em one time, them wild boars, and if you get yourself cornered they’ll flat out kill ya.”

Lonnie looked at Freeman’s face. He was lost in the photograph the way a World War II veteran relives the horrors of Normandy when presented with an old black and white photograph.

“I been on some of them hunts,” Freeman said. “Was on one when one of the boars, just like that ’un, killed a fella.”

“What? Where was that?” Lonnie asked. He waited for Freeman to answer, but he remained lost in the photo.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Lonnie said. Freeman looked up and and narrowed his eyes with an intensity Lonnie hadn’t seen from him before.

“You better believe it!” Freeman said. “Arkansas. Five of us was on a huntin’ trip ’bout twenty years ago. 1993 I think. We’s all chasing after some pigs that had been ripping up cornfields. The fella that got killed was older...‘bout 65 I reckon, and he owned that cornfield we were huntin’. Don’t remember his first name but they called him Hopkins, which I sorta figure was his last name.”

Freeman paused and reflected on the story. Lonnie stood and listened as he reached for his coffee. “We seen this big ’ol boar in his cornfield. I reckon he was 400 pounds if he was an ounce,” Freeman continued. “I shot him with my 30.06 from about a hundred yards, hit him in the shoulder. Knocked him about a foot to the right then he took off a runnin’.”

Freeman grabbed the sheriff’s right arm and looked him in the eye. “I’m tellin’ ya that was a dag blam 150 grain bullet and it just flat out bounced off his shield!”

“Shield?” Lonnie asked.

Freeman loosened his grip and remembered where he was. “Them boars grow these thick shields, Sheriff, ’bout a two inch plate of cartilage over and around their shoulders. That way the tusks from the other boars don’t bother them none. Them shields can flat out stop an arrow, Sheriff, and if that boar’s big and mean enough, it can stop a 30.06!”

Lonnie sat down and brought the coffee before his lips, but didn’t drink it. He looked at Freeman’s intensity and waited for him to finish his story.

“Anyway, I hit this thing and it took off into the cornfield. We had a fella with a huntin’ dog and he sent it off after the boar. Then he and another fella chased after the dog while this fella Hopkins, me, and one other stayed back. After a couple of minutes we hear this scream from the cornfield and see that dog come running back. Then his owner’s coming behind with that other fella helping, limping and bleeding badly. That boar tore up that fella’s shin.”

Lonnie didn’t feel he really had the time for the long, drawn-out story, but it was too good to miss. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Freeman.

“It was starting to get a little dark so we all tried to doctor up that fella’s leg. All of us, that is, ’cept Hopkins. That old coot took off in the cornfield after that boar, all by hisself. Heck, we didn’t even know he’s gone ’til we heard this god-awful scream for help. Me and one other fella ran out to find him and he’s just laying there, blood gushing out from just above his knee.”

“We called the ambulance and it didn’t take ’em more than ten minutes to get there. But that boar had hit a major artery and that old fella bled to death right there in his own cornfield.”

Lonnie’s mouth hung open as he heard the story. “Well I’ll be,” was all that Lonnie could muster.

“It took us two more days but we found that boar,” Freeman said. “Killed him myself. And let me tell you, Sheriff, I stood twenty yards away and watched him die. He was good and dead for half an hour before I had the courage to walk over and check. This thing had two six-inch rippers...bottom tusks if you wanna call ’em that, coming out of his lower jaw plate, and two more six-inch tusks coming out the upper side of his mouth. They use them upper tusks to sharpen the lower ones and let me tell you, I ran my finger against it and them things is razor sharp! I felt that beast’s thick, bristly hair and looked in them swirling dark eyes.”

Freeman stood, shaking his head. “That thing, dead or not, nearly scared the life out of me. And he looked a lot like that thing right there!” Freeman put his finger emphatically down on the Facebook picture of Jesse standing behind Eduardo just after he had killed him.

“Where was that picture taken, Sheriff?”

“Don’t know, Freeman. This here’s a picture from the missing boy’s Facebook account. They—you know what Facebook is?”

Freeman looked at Lonnie and exhaled as if he had just been asked if he knew where the ground was. “I ain’t exactly no retard, Sheriff. I do got some kids, I’ll thank you to remember.”

Lonnie chuckled to himself, but was guarded to not let Freeman see. “Right,” Lonnie continued. “Anyway, Facebook sent us this printout of his personal account and this picture here caught my attention. Where does it look like to you Freeman?”

Freeman leaned over and examined the black and white photocopy closely. “Heck, Sheriff, that could be most anywhere. Some thick woods it looks like but that could be from Alabama to Maine.”