Death Trap Read Online Free
and head toward Hard Labor Creek State Park, stopping off somewhere along the way to set fire to a vehicle. From a bird’s-eye view you can see how one might be drawn to this area; that is, of course, if burning a car or dumping a body is in your immediate plans. The area is remote and yet effortlessly reachable, both in and out. The terrain is dense and thickly wooded and settled. If you wanted to cause mischief and not be seen, this would be an ideal place to get it done and get the hell out without anyone seeing you.
“There’s very few houses on it,” Williams said later, referring to Hawkins Academy Road. “It’s fairly isolated.”
As Williams drove, dispatch confirmed the call.
A 10-code. 1070. Vehicle fire.
From the main road, Williams turned onto Hawkins Academy, a gravel road, heading toward a vast farming area. It was about 3:50 A.M .
When he arrived, Williams was pleased to see that the Rutledge Fire Department (RFD) was already on scene. Not only that, but to the deputy’s great relief, they had extinguished most of the fire. It was under control. The ground smoking and hot. Trees blackened and bare. The car hissing, casting off an unhealthy smell of burned plastic and chemicals.
Chief Jerry Couch greeted the deputy as he pulled up and got out of his vehicle.
“Anybody in that vehicle?” Williams asked.
It was hard to tell by looking at it all burned up like that, but the car was a 2001 red Pontiac Grand Am. It had turned white, this after every last bit of paint had bubbled like blisters and melted from the vehicle due to the excessive heat and flames. Parked nose-first toward what looked to be a gate to let cows or horses into the acreage, a solid thirty years of the forested carpet in a circle around the charred vehicle was burned apocalyptic-like to the ground. Everything in that same area around the vehicle had turned to nothing but ash and black soil. Those skeletonized trees were just standing there, naked and charred like kindle wood.
As Williams walked toward the scene, he could see it was now nothing more than a smoldering mess of melted plastic and metal. Most of the rubber and plastic from the vehicle was gone. Liquefied. Cars didn’t just catch fire like this and burn themselves unrecognizable. Williams was no rookie cop. He knew better. An accelerant had to be involved. Hell, you could smell some sort of fuel. A car fire will generally burn itself out without much help. But this: the entire inside and outside of the vehicle was completely destroyed, blackened and charred. Smoldering. There were no seats left. Inside and out, the vehicle was nothing more than a carcass, same as a frame at the beginning of an automaker’s line in Detroit.
Having the fire under control, and more or less settled, was one less problem Williams had to contend with on what had turned into a frosty, excessively windy February night in the South.
Williams asked again: “Anybody inside?” There was the outside chance someone had torched the vehicle and a person along with it. Everyone had seen at least one episode of The Sopranos or a Martin Scorsese film. Burning bodies was a common way to get rid of evidence.
“No,” the chief said. “Ain’t nobody in there, but it . . .”
“Good . . . ,” Williams started to say. Again, one less problem to contend with in the middle of the night.
“. . . but it looks like somebody just slaughtered some beef or had some deer meat or something in the trunk,” the fire chief finished spitting out.
“Well,” Williams said, “let’s have a look.”
Poachers? Out here? What the hell? Someone trying to steal a darn cow in the trunk of a Pontiac Grand Am? The sheriff had seen people try to get away with more stupid things throughout his career. But this would be a first.
Williams could smell burning flesh himself as he approached the back area of the Grand Am. Waves of it wafted with the wind. Overtook his senses.
Indeed. Cooked meat had a very
“There’s very few houses on it,” Williams said later, referring to Hawkins Academy Road. “It’s fairly isolated.”
As Williams drove, dispatch confirmed the call.
A 10-code. 1070. Vehicle fire.
From the main road, Williams turned onto Hawkins Academy, a gravel road, heading toward a vast farming area. It was about 3:50 A.M .
When he arrived, Williams was pleased to see that the Rutledge Fire Department (RFD) was already on scene. Not only that, but to the deputy’s great relief, they had extinguished most of the fire. It was under control. The ground smoking and hot. Trees blackened and bare. The car hissing, casting off an unhealthy smell of burned plastic and chemicals.
Chief Jerry Couch greeted the deputy as he pulled up and got out of his vehicle.
“Anybody in that vehicle?” Williams asked.
It was hard to tell by looking at it all burned up like that, but the car was a 2001 red Pontiac Grand Am. It had turned white, this after every last bit of paint had bubbled like blisters and melted from the vehicle due to the excessive heat and flames. Parked nose-first toward what looked to be a gate to let cows or horses into the acreage, a solid thirty years of the forested carpet in a circle around the charred vehicle was burned apocalyptic-like to the ground. Everything in that same area around the vehicle had turned to nothing but ash and black soil. Those skeletonized trees were just standing there, naked and charred like kindle wood.
As Williams walked toward the scene, he could see it was now nothing more than a smoldering mess of melted plastic and metal. Most of the rubber and plastic from the vehicle was gone. Liquefied. Cars didn’t just catch fire like this and burn themselves unrecognizable. Williams was no rookie cop. He knew better. An accelerant had to be involved. Hell, you could smell some sort of fuel. A car fire will generally burn itself out without much help. But this: the entire inside and outside of the vehicle was completely destroyed, blackened and charred. Smoldering. There were no seats left. Inside and out, the vehicle was nothing more than a carcass, same as a frame at the beginning of an automaker’s line in Detroit.
Having the fire under control, and more or less settled, was one less problem Williams had to contend with on what had turned into a frosty, excessively windy February night in the South.
Williams asked again: “Anybody inside?” There was the outside chance someone had torched the vehicle and a person along with it. Everyone had seen at least one episode of The Sopranos or a Martin Scorsese film. Burning bodies was a common way to get rid of evidence.
“No,” the chief said. “Ain’t nobody in there, but it . . .”
“Good . . . ,” Williams started to say. Again, one less problem to contend with in the middle of the night.
“. . . but it looks like somebody just slaughtered some beef or had some deer meat or something in the trunk,” the fire chief finished spitting out.
“Well,” Williams said, “let’s have a look.”
Poachers? Out here? What the hell? Someone trying to steal a darn cow in the trunk of a Pontiac Grand Am? The sheriff had seen people try to get away with more stupid things throughout his career. But this would be a first.
Williams could smell burning flesh himself as he approached the back area of the Grand Am. Waves of it wafted with the wind. Overtook his senses.
Indeed. Cooked meat had a very
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