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Over the Edge

By Michael Garrett

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Talladega County, Alabama

Drifting in a fiberglass fishing boat a short distance from the shore, Clyde Hopkins felt a rush of exhilaration at his first sight of her stretched out in a lounge chair on the deck of a lakeside home. Yep, that’s her alright, he confirmed, the fugitive he was authorized to apprehend. No doubt about it. He lowered the binoculars and grinned.

The sparsely wooded waterfront property lay about fifty yards inland from the boat along the Logan Martin Lake shoreline. Even though the field glasses image jittered up and down from the boat’s jarring movement, he had seen her clearly enough but wondered what all the fuss was about. Her brown hair was now shaggy, almost shoulder-length, and appeared as if it hadn’t been styled or cut for quite some time. Couldn’t see much of her figure, but he supposed she must be pretty; the media had made her out to be a stunner.

Didn’t matter to him, though. A jumper was a jumper, whether male or female, good looking or not.

After all this time, almost a year actually, he had finally tracked down the infamous Larissa Baxter. Gentle waves lapped against the side of the boat, the steady buzz of nearby aquatic vehicles the only audible sounds.

Hopkins raised the binoculars again, flicked cigarette ashes into the water, then adjusted his tan, heavily worn cowboy hat to shield his eyes from the glaring afternoon sun. The subtle swaying of the rental boat would normally have made him drowsy, but not today; far too much was at stake.

Hopkins shifted his position to get more comfortable and inadvertently rocked the boat, rolling empty beer cans across its fiberglass bottom. Fortunately, the sound hadn’t drawn her attention, but then an accidental nudge against the loose fishing reel slid the rod farther away.

No big deal, he thought. He knew absolutely nothing about fishing and didn’t care for it at all. The line disappearing into the water held no bait; only a simple plastic lure. He couldn’t care less about landing “the big one”; his catch of the day now lay within sight, and in all of his 52 years he couldn’t remember ever feeling so exhilarated by the impending arrest of a bail skipper.

Larissa Baxter had become one of the most celebrated bail jumpers of all time. There had been enormous media exposure--a beautiful socialite arrested for murder who had been on the lam for almost a year now. What a story! She’d remained hidden in seclusion to this day. Made no difference to Hopkins, though. Her $750,000 bond had been forfeited when she fled while under court orders.

In addition to Hopkins’ typical fee from the bailing company, there was also a hefty reward promised by her in-laws, the Baxter family. Also, he, with visions of more cash than he could ever have imagined, would bring in big bucks selling the story to the media of how he found her when the FBI couldn’t. It was all good, his patience and persistence finally paying off. This takedown, possibly the most prominent bail apprehension in the occupation’s modern history, would be his ticket to early retirement. It was like striking gold. Eureka!

Catching another brief glance at her, Hopkins noticed that she showed no suggestion of fear. She simply lay there soaking in the Alabama summer sun. Was she even aware that she was still subject to court arrest regardless that all charges had been dropped? That didn’t make her innocent. Why else would she remain hidden to this day? And how could she possibly be happy living in such a modest home after her life of luxury in Arizona?

Hopkins couldn’t help but spy on her again, relishing his success. She smiled a couple of times as she tapped on an electronic device of some kind on her lap. Tucked away in his van, her arrest warrant waited to be served. Whether she knew it or not, Larissa Baxter’s nightmare was far from over.

Clyde Hopkins, Texas bounty hunter extraordinaire for over twenty-five years—or fugitive recovery agent, as he preferred to be called--was a husky man with a stubbled face and receding salt-and-pepper hairline. He wore dark sunglasses and fisherman’s garb he’d picked up at a Bass Pro Shop on his way here to Talladega County. His teeth, yellowed from years of smoking, barely showed when he smiled, which was seldom. His lips, slightly parted, formed a crooked curve. A crude tattoo of the State of Texas inked his upper right arm.

When he’d first seen the Baxter woman on a newscast after she was initially arrested, he’d had no idea how dramatically her life would eventually impact his own. Hopkins would become an instant celebrity upon cracking the highly publicized case. He envisioned appearances on all of the network talk shows and being the subject of interviews with major publications. Everyone would want to know the details of how he had found her. His story, which seemed ripe for a book deal—maybe even a movie--was his personal ticket to instant fame, and now it lay finally within reach only a short distance away.

A trio of buzzards circled high in the sky above nearby pine trees. Could it be an omen of some kind? Naw. He shook his head and lit another smoke. Probably just a dead rabbit or raccoon. No, everything was going great, as far as he was concerned. It was his turn to be in the spotlight for once in his life.

Raising the binoculars one final time, he eyed her up and down again. She wore yellow shorts to just above her knees and a t-shirt much too large for her that proclaimed something about “Space Camp,” wherever or whatever that was. With little to no makeup and a figure that most women could only dream of, she bore only a modest resemblance to the beauty who graced the covers of magazines. Regardless, she was only an application of this and a touch-up of that away from making her face pretty again.

Hopkins couldn’t wait to see her expression when he slapped cuffs around her wrists. He’d always held disdain for the rich and famous. Why had God made some people so wealthy while Hopkins had had to scratch his way through life with so little going for him? Why were some women beautiful and others not? God wasn’t fair, so Hopkins felt no apprehension about turning the tables on this so-called celebrity regardless of her innocence. It was time for him to be the rich one for a change. All he had to do now was create a diversion for her peaceful capture and return to Arizona.

Suddenly his target glanced in his direction. Hopkins lowered the binoculars and quickly grabbed the fishing rod for the appearance of actually fishing, his heart thudding excitedly. Any suspicion dissipated as she returned her attention to her device.

Hopkins felt an unexpected tug at the line. What? Had a fish actually struck at a hook with no bait? Was that even possible? Reeling one in was the last thing on his mind. He thrashed the rod back and forth rapidly and finally shook the line free again.

Rippling waves sloshed against the rocky seawall bordering the shoreline. When his target glanced back in his direction he knew it was time to move on. The longer he hung around, the more likely he’d be noticed, and he had to avoid suspicion on Baxter’s part at all costs. He’d put far too much time and effort into tracking her down to blow it all now.

The wake of a passing ski boat whipped against the small fishing boat again as Hopkins yanked the cord of the outboard motor and steered back in the direction of the marina where he’d rented it. Shaking his head, he grinned his crooked grin, confident that the days ahead would change his life forever.

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