Chapter 3

Taillights

30 Minutes After

Birdie Dixon had been dead for 15 years and that was the only part of the story most folks in Colter could agree on. The day's account was one of those things that been spun and turned a hundred times over and varied drastically depending on who was tellin' it.

For years there was a gruesome rumor started by the school yard mothers that Merle Dixon Sr. had doused his wife in gasoline and lit her up himself. People had always whispered about his pretty young bride (and that's how everyone always described her, too pretty and too young for a Dixon) walking around with cover up caked over her black eyes. One day he'd finally gone too far they would tsk tsk. That girl should've gotten her baby and got out when she could they would say.

Rick was only 13, his whole universe rotating around a sun compromised equal parts the Atlanta Braves and the suddenly interesting lengths of girl's legs. Birdie's sons were older and younger than him by more than a handful of years each way and while the story stirred up a certain amount of tragic excitement for the small town, it hadn't been more than a blip on his radar. His mamma had cried at the obituary in the newspaper the church had collected to take out. She insisted Birdie was a kind woman and shook her head in distain for weeks about the rumors festering in Colter.

"A man who lacks judgement derides his neighbor, but a man of understanding holds his tongue," she quoted Proverbs to him pointedly once when he asked if it was true that Merle Dixon Jr. had killed his mother.

That was the other running theory, that Birdie's delinquent son had purposely set the house ablaze searching for some kind of insurance pay out. Merle was in his late teens then and already notorious in Colter for his growing criminal record. The account varied on whether he had known his mother was asleep inside or not. In the minds of small town gossips, it was easy for a young man to escalate from auto theft and minor drug trafficking to full blown murder and arson.

In between the two extremes were dozens of disparities on both. Maybe Birdie had finally had enough, started the fire herself trying to put an end to her husband's abuse. Perhaps Merle and his daddy had gotten into it again, knocked something off the stove in the scuff and both fled the house; not caring enough to go in after their mama and wife.

Maybe it was the little one, unattended like he was most of the time. Maybe he'd gotten into the matches while his parents both drank themselves numb.

Rick knew the truth now of course, he'd read the official reports on the case. He'd been trained by the men who were on scene that day.

There was a long-documented history of domestic violence in the Dixon family spanning back generations, but the truth was that Merle Sr. wasn't even in town the day his wife died. The then functioning alcoholic was on a long haul in the 18-wheeler he drove sporadically for income. And his name-sake wasn't within a 100 miles of Colter, had been locked up in Jefferson county the night before and was still waiting to see a judge on petty theft charges. And the little one, well anyone with half a brain knew that theory had never been one to genuinely speculate on.

The sad truth was Birdie Dixon never even got out of bed that day, drank a bottle of wine for breakfast and fell asleep with a lit cigarette dangling between her fingers. Not nearly as exciting as Colter town lure tried to make it, but a damn shame none the less.

One of the Sergeants who had trained Rick, now retired but unable to keep himself from meandering into the station at least once a week, always told the tale with a haunted glaze over his eyes. It was just one of those cases that a cop drug like an ankle weight for the rest of their life.

"That little one, he was tore up something awful. He'd come skittering up the road after a buncha other kids on bikes and started whaling… this noise I never heard in my whole life. He was clawing and bitin' at us tryin' to get inside after his mamma. Whole damn house had been engulfed before the engine even got there. We had to put him in the cruiser and lock the doors, can't ever forget them little fists pounding on the glass."

The fist that had connected with Rick's jaw twenty minutes prior certainly hadn't belonged to a crying little boy and he ran an experimental tongue over his teeth once more, just to check that they were still intact. Daryl Dixon matched Rick in height but he had a broad stance, solid arms only manual labor could build and even in the dark his right hook had landed expertly.

He was strong and even worse he was scared, an agitated mixture that left him a ball of energy operating on pure adrenaline. It had taken three officers to subdue him off his fruitless sprint down the road in the dark, chasing taillights Rick was certain were miles ahead of them by now.

Now there was a lost glaze over his eyes, directed somewhere non-descript as they gazed out of the cruisers window, his forehead resting against the glass. Reds and blues danced over his features and Rick was reminded of the story of the little boy watching flames swallow his mamma up whole.

The old Foley Funeral home had been vacant since it went out of business almost ten years prior but was currently swimming with activity. All six squads working the county were on scene and the dispatcher had put a call in for backup from State as well as road check points being put in place going off the minimal amount of information they'd been able to get out of Daryl.

Black car, white cross, Beth Greene.

Something about a dog, something about being set up.

A desperate attempt to keep marathoning down that pitch-black road.

Daryl's breath wreaked of moonshine and Rick hadn't brought it up yet. No need to prod the beast. He didn't know much about Daryl, other than the stories about the fire and the weight of his family's reputation.

After their mother died Merle had made good on people's expectations of him and escalated into a steady life of adult incarceration. When he wasn't behind bars he was known to run with a small biker outfit who were responsible for most of the narcotics push in the county. Merle was rude and brash, blacklisted from most of the bars and businesses in town and notorious for wanting to fight the police.

Their uncle Will had been one of the first recorded OD's in the 'King County Opiate Epidemic' and Merle Dixon Sr. was a story all his own.

From what Rick knew the younger Dixon was different, hadn't done much to live up to the family name. He'd been working at Dale's Auto Shop in town since he was old enough to be put on the books and seemed to hang with a quiet group his own age. Rick was certain he'd seen his face in a crowd they'd dispersed for underage drinking once or twice a few years back but never anything more serious than that. Daryl kept to himself and that was just fine with Rick. For what it was worth, he seemed like a decent guy.

This whole business of Beth Greene though, of Daryl being alone out here with her at the abandoned funeral home, that was the part Rick wasn't quite catching.

Everyone in town knew the Greene's. It had always been that way, long before the last year seemed to engulf them in a dark cloud. Hershel was a farmer and a veterinarian who cared for not only his animals but those on most of the surrounding farms and had for years. Before the cancer his wife Annette had been a preschool teacher at the church nursery for as long as Rick could remember.

They were a sweet couple with 3 great kids and it had been a real gut punch to the whole town when their matriarch fell sick. But what came after, that was a sad like Colter had never known.

A quiet night like the one he found himself in now; a report of gunshots fired at the Greene farm.

He'd never be able to hear Beth's name and not remember her how they'd found her that night; crumpled in the grass by the barn clutching blood drenched hands on her knees and releasing a whining, gasping cry as if she couldn't catch one single breath.

He and Shane pulling her fingers apart, checking her abdomen for wounds, confused to find none until they heard the undeniable wail of a man in pain coming from inside the barn. Hershel was bent over his son's body, vainly trying to apply pressure where the bullet had entered his skull from the place where his chin met his throat.

Just a month after his mother's death Sean Greene had taken his own life out back in the barn while his daddy and sister slept. Beth had found him first, faster than her daddy and barreling through the night when the sound startled her from her bed.

Rick had tried to keep an eye out for them since then. From what he gathered Hershel didn't leave the farm much these days, but the girls seemed to bounce back after a while. Beth began volunteering at church functions again and he'd been thankful to see it. Maggie hadn't been there the night of the incident, away in Atlanta visiting colleges but Rick saw her around town now, usually with her boyfriend and she seemed ok.

They seemed ok. All things considered it seemed like what was left of the Greene family was trying at getting back to normal.

Rick cursed under his breath. Until now anyway.

A quick whistle grabbed his attention and he turned to meet Shane at the end of the long drive that led up to the vacant white house. His partner was disconnecting a call and sliding his phone back into his pocket.

"Alright they're waking up Morgan, he'll be on his way out here."

Rick grimaced. Morgan Jones was a good sheriff and a good guy, but he tended to disagree with some of his methods. Police work and pacificism just couldn't always go hand in hand.

"How about the road blocks?"

Shane bounced on his heels and nodded.

"Got trooper units on every major road way leading out of the county with the description and we're working on getting them a photo of Beth."

Rick scrubbed a palm over his face.

"Anyone at the house yet?"

He thought about Hershel and Maggie and this might not have been a single shot fired in the night, but it was going to hit them like one.

Shane's head bobbed, peering over Rick's shoulder towards their cruiser where Daryl had been contained.

"Sent Leroy and Thomlison down to the farm," he shrugged an optimistic shoulder, "maybe the kids just drunk and Beth's going to come answer the door for them and we can all go home and get some sleep."

Rick grimaced.

"You saw what I saw up there."

Shane sighed, they both knew this night was not about to be wrapped in neat little bow.

Signs of a struggle were undeniable inside the funeral home; broken glass and the rear door splintered where it looked like someone had held it from one side as someone tried to force their way in.

There were signs of something else too; fading lit candles and two open jars of moonshine on the table.

"We gotta get the full story out of him," Rick shrugged an elbow towards the car, "I'd personally like to get what we can out of him before they send someone down from State to stomp all over everything."

"Think Dixon's full of shit?" Shane prompted, leaning in a little closer as if to share a secret, "cause I'm trying to figure out If we're lookin' for a livin' girl or a body." His partners eyebrows met at an angry peak. "I mean what were they doing out here anyway, nice girl like Beth and a Dixon?"

"I don't think we should assume he's lying," Rick interjected, and he meant it. Daryl seemed drained and maybe coming out of a deep drunk into reality but also utterly torn apart at every seam. Rick didn't get the vibe he was lying.

He didn't need Shane getting any ideas in his head and jumping the gun. Shane tended to be that way, always ten steps ahead of himself without watching where he was going.

"We need to take what he's saying at face value and get him to fill in the blanks," Rick made sure Shane met his gaze and offered him a reluctant nod of agreement, "but we need to do it quick."

If this job was what it was looking like it was, a true abduction, that detectives from the State Police would be sending investigators down to shew him away like a child before the dawn broke. That didn't mean he was going to back off and he needed to know everything Daryl knew before it happened.

The first 24 hours were the most crucial in any kind of abduction and they didn't have time to sit around waiting for the big guns to have their morning coffee. Beth could still be alive and still be in the immediate area.

God knew the girl had already had a rough enough go of things.

Rick reached for his radio.

"Charlie 22."

"Charlie 22 go ahead'."

"I need you to call Macon PD and see if they can start some K-9's down here for us, I want a full sweep of these surrounding woods. And turn us around to headquarters with our witness. Units on location will be holding the scene for CSU."

"Charlie 22 copy, calling them now sir."

"And I need to know as soon as we make contact with anyone at the Greene farm."

When he released the radio Shane was regarding him with a tucked chin and raised eyebrow.

"We doing this without waiting for Morgan?"

Rick huffed.

"We haven't got the time to wait for him to do his wake-up yoga, we're already 30 minutes into this."

Shane bit back a grin.

"Works for me brother."

He let Shane drive, the two of them piling into the front seat of the cruiser. When Shane placed the key in the ignition Daryl's face appeared between them against the cage.

"Let me out."

There was an edge there that made Rick turn in his seat, a gravel that made him sound like his brother. For the first time he noticed the bruise that was beginning to splotch to life around his right eye.

"We got to get to the station and get your whole story Daryl, letting you lose in the dark right now isn't gonna get us Beth back any sooner."

A hand slammed against the metal and Shane spun around quickly, teeth nearly snarled.

"Knock it the fuck off and get yourself together, do you wanna go catching charges tonight Dixon?"

He expected a rebuttal from Daryl, another growl thru the cage but he surprised them both and fell back against the seat. The sound that slipped between his lips was equally animalistic, but the bite was gone.

No, this sound was wounded, physically jarring when it settled in their ears. Like something caught in a trap.

Shane started the cruiser off the road and Rick thought again of the story, of the last time Daryl Dixon had been stuffed in a police cruiser to save himself from his own grief.

He wondered why history kept repeating itself, why Colter seemed to be out to get the same families over and over again.