Ida, her hands still on Travis’ face, looked over her grandson’s shoulder with an expression of neither malice nor worry, but total calm, as if the game’s outcome was all but sealed. “I was at the door the whole time, boy. I heard nothing of the sort.”
“What!?”
“Oh, I heard you offering forgiveness for this lying you keep going on about, but I never heard a confession from Travis’ mouth—only you offering forgiveness.”
“So why was he carrying on with tears and that!?” Ethan asked. “An innocent boy wouldn’t let guilt stir him up so!”
“Clever boys like you gettin’ into his head is what done it.” She took her gaze off the Daigle boys and looked into Travis’ eyes with her one and only expression of warmth. “Our Travis has always been more heart than know.” She ran a gentle finger over his cheek.
“Fine!” Ethan said. “Let’s ask him now then. Travis, tell her. Tell her it was a fair fight between you and Noah. Tell your meemaw this whole thing was your doing from the start. Tell her!”
Ida kept hold of her grandson’s face, kept the one look of warmth on him full blast. “Travis?” she said.
“All will be forgiven, Travis!” Ethan said. Travis chanced a glance over at Ethan. Ethan flicked his chin skyward. “ALL will be forgiven!”
“Travis?” Ida said. “It’s pretty simple, isn’t it? Get rid of these boys and keep your daddy. Or let them go and be a pitiful orphan who knows in his heart he as good as killed his own flesh and blood.”
Travis nodded and walked out of the room without looking back.
Ida turned and gave Ethan and Noah a wicked little grin, intentionally baring her rotted teeth. “Job done,” she said.
Chapter 17
The fan boat glided down another channel, far wider than many of the previous they’d ventured. “Going deep, deep into the swamp now, folks,” Sam said.
They passed a small cabin to the right of the river. An old man walked out his front door and onto the wooden deck supporting his rustic little one story home. He waved and smiled at the boat. Sam waved back, the rest of the group right after.
“He live there?” Dan asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Geez…” Vicky muttered, turned in her seat and still staring at the old man smiling from his front porch as they glided past. “Imagine that?”
Sam smiled. “Most folks who live this deep don’t know any other way of life. Don’t crave any other way either. They like the solitude.”
“And what do they do when an alligator walks into their living room?” Vicky asked.
“Turn them into boots?” Dan said.
“That old guy didn’t look like he was killing any alligators to me,” Liz said.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Sam said. “You don’t make it to being an old man out here without knowing how to deal with the wildlife. That old fella would give a nosy alligator one hell of a surprise if it tried to wander into his living room.”
Everyone but Sam joined Vicky in glancing back at the old man on his front porch, their previous looks of uncertainty now ones of quiet awe.
They continued down the channel, Sam periodically pointing out wildlife that some had missed, Vicky and Russ snapping photos, Dan scribbling in his notebook now and then, usually after asking Sam a question.
It was Vicky who first spotted the tree blocking their way.
Frowning into her viewfinder, she lowered her camera and turned. “Sam? I see something up ahead.”
Sam sat up and squinted down the river. “Tree down?” he muttered, more to himself than his passengers.
“That’s what it looked like to me,” Vicky said.
Sam continued the boat forward. Soon, everyone could see it—an enormous cypress tree on its side, smack dab in the middle of the river. No boat was getting by.
“This isn’t right,” Sam said, again more to himself than the others. He killed the engine and guided the boat towards the base of the tree, bumping it lightly with the bow as they floated to a stop.
“Was there a storm last night?” Russ asked.
Sam responded as he maneuvered towards the bow to inspect the cypress’ trunk. “No, no storm.” Then, with a paradoxical look of both discovery and mystery, he added: “Besides, no storm’s doing that—” He pointed to the very base of the cypress trunk.
Everyone looked, the boat rocking under the sudden shift of people.
“Looks cut,” Liz said.
“It was cut,” Sam replied.
“Does this happen often?” Vicky asked. “People cutting down trees and just leaving them in the river?”
“No,” Sam said, still inspecting the trunk. “At least I’ve never come across it. People ’round here would show a bit more respect for the environment.”
“So then what do you think happened?” Liz asked.
Vicky answered: “Maybe someone did it on purpose?”
“Why?”
“To block our way?”
Liz turned to Sam. “What do you think, Sam?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, leaving the bow and heading back towards the stern. “Your mother’s guess sounds as good as any, I suppose.”
“Why would someone do that?” Dan asked.
“No idea,” Sam said over his shoulder as he bent to retrieve something at the base of his seat. He eventually stood upright, holding a grappling hook. The iron claw was four-pronged and enormous, the size of Sam’s head. It was fastened tight to a long coil of thick rope that Sam was now uncoiling from one hand to the other.
“What’s that?” Vicky asked, wide eyes stuck on the thick iron prongs of the hook.
Sam gave her a reassuring smile. “Call it a big fishing hook…particularly helpful in removing downed trees from the water.”
“Are you going to remove it then?” Liz asked.
“Gonna try.” Sam bent again and came back up with a large crossbow.
“And what’s that?” Vicky said.
Again, Sam gave a reassuring smile as he brandished the crossbow. “This here fires the big fishing hook.”
“Wait,” Dan said.
Sam glanced over at Dan. “What’s up?”
Dan didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “Well…don’t you wanna know why the tree was there?”
“I already know why,” Sam said. “To block our way, keep me from doing my job.”
Dan felt a twinge of frustration at Sam’s refusal for foresight. “But somebody put it there for a reason, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” Sam said, the tiniest bit of condescension creeping into his tone, “to block our way. I’ve been up and down this river a million times, Dan. Nothing up ahead I haven’t seen; nothing we need to worry about.” Sam started loading the grappling hook onto the crossbow. “Besides, I’ll be doing the Roys a favor. And that’s never a bad thing.”
“Who are the Roys?” Dan asked.
“Family who lives further down the river. Got a bit of a reputation for being…not nice.”
“Would they have done this?” Russ asked. “To keep people away maybe?”
“Nah. One of them—Harlon—farms gators for nearby parks and what. He’s got his own little farm right there on their property. Sometimes he’ll let me bring up a group to get a look during feeding. Can’t imagine he’d want to keep people away of such a thing. Be bad for business.”
“I thought you said they weren’t nice,” Dan said.
Sam sighed and shrugged. “Well, to put it simple; they’re not. But there’s business, and then there’s…everything else I guess. The Roys can smile with the best of them if it’ll bring them money. But behind those smiles…well, it’s kinda like the gators they own. In the right conditions, you can get close to them, pet them, get your picture taken, but you can’t ever forget who you’re dealing with. That make sense?”
“Like a waiter who smiles no matter how much you complain, then goes in back and spits in your food,” Liz said.
Sam chuckled. “Sounds about
right. Only replace ‘spits in your food’ with ‘plucks out your eye’ and then maybe you’re on to something.”
“Uh…” Dan began, “well, then at the risk of stating the obvious; why would we want to go near these kind of people?”
“The Roys might be a bit ornery, but they’re not stupid. If they ever did anything to me or my group—or any other driver and his group—they’d be in deep water. Forgive the pun.”
“We didn’t see them last year, did we, Sam?” Russ asked.
Sam shook his head. “No—you’d remember if you’d done so. Harlon’s gator farm—heck, Harlon—is something you wouldn’t soon forget.”
A moment of quiet unease came over the boat. Sam set the hook and crossbow down and addressed the group. “Aw, now listen, folks; we don’t have to do anything you don’t want. You don’t want to see the Roys’ gator farm, consider it crossed off the schedule. I just figured Dan would want the best tour possible for his book, is all.”
Dan felt ashamed at all the hesitancy he’d been voicing, the picture it might paint to Liz and her parents. That picture being one of a big ol’ pussy. Not the image he wanted to portray to a girl who might very well be his wife one day, and especially to the man and woman who might be handing Liz over to him if that special day should come. He envisioned Russ shaking his hand and leaning into his ear: Take care of her, son. Try not to be a pussy.
“I say we do it,” Dan all but blurted.
“You sure?” Liz asked.
“Hell yeah, I’m sure. Sam’s right—we want the best tour there is, right?”
Liz turned to her parents. “You cool with that, Mom and Dad?”
Vicky said, “Fine with me.”
Russ agreed.
“Alright then,” Sam said with a smile, bringing his big hands together with his trademark clap that sounded like a gunshot. He then bent and picked up the crossbow.
Now loaded with the iron claw, Dan thought the device looked like a potent bit of weaponry straight out of the middle ages. Still, he played the role of eager helper, the far more familiar portrayal of hesitant skeptic buried under a mountain of ego. “So what do we do first, Sam?”
Sam brandished the crossbow again. “Firing it is the fun part. Dragging the tree to shore once it’s hooked? Not as fun.”
“Let me guess,” Dan said, “you’re firing; I’m dragging.”
Sam laughed. “I see why you’re a writer—got the plot figured out already.” He squeezed Dan’s shoulder. “Believe me, brother; if they’d let me, I’d let you fire this baby until your fingers bled. And don’t you worry, we’ll both be pulling.” He glanced back at Russ and Vicky with a playful grin. “Maybe all of us.”
Vicky donned an overly pretentious face and blew on her fingernails in true diva fashion. “I just had my nails done, I’m afraid.”
“Me too,” Russ said.
Chapter 18
The sound of a chainsaw was audible to all as the boat drifted to a stop at the base of the Roys’ bridge.
“Hello!?” Sam yelled.
The consistent roar of the chainsaw was unyielding.
Sam did a quick job tying off the boat to the small wooden ladder leading up to the bridge; he had little worry of drifting in the river’s shallows, but felt it might give his group peace of mind to see the act. He now turned to them. “They won’t be able to hear us over that racket. I’m gonna head on up and let them know we’re here. No swimming while I’m gone,” he said with a wink. He headed up the small ladder, and then started across the bridge towards the Roy home.
***
Sam crossed the bridge and then followed the sound of the chainsaw. The roar of the saw was strongest around back. He followed it, expecting to see Harlon or Tucker Roy hard at work on an addition to their deck, hoping they would spot him first, hoping he wouldn’t have to tap the shoulder of a man with a chainsaw—a Roy with a chainsaw.
Sam saw only Harlon. Harlon did not see him. And Sam had never been so grateful in his life. Because Harlon was sawing off the leg of a dead man.
Sam instantly turned and started back towards the boat.
The sound of the chainsaw stopped behind him. Silence was never so loud.
Sam kept on, praying the saw stopping was Harlon finishing whatever in God’s name he was doing, and not spotting him as he turned and fled.
“That you, Sam?” A voice behind him. Harlon’s.
Bluff. You didn’t see anything. Not a damn thing. Bluff until you can get to the boat. Bluff.
Sam turned. Harlon was there, wearing a yellow blacksmith’s apron, not caring that it was spattered with blood.
“Hey there, Harlon,” he said with a smile that felt frighteningly transparent. As for his tone? He was surprised his greeting didn’t come squeaking out. Sam was a big man. A tough man. But what he’d just seen? Nothing in his lifetime could have prepared him for that.
Harlon took a step forward.
Don’t back up. If you back up, he’ll know.
“What, you got a group with ya?” Harlon asked.
Sam nodded. “That’s right. Thought I’d bring them by to see your farm—” Sell it, sell it, please God help me sell it. “But I couldn’t find you. Was about to give up and call it a day.”
Harlon nodded slowly, but said nothing. He then looked down at his apron, at the slick spatters of blood everywhere. “Was sawing up some lunch for my babies.” He wiped off some of the blood. “Make a mess, don’t they?”
Sam smiled. It felt a little better this time. Now another bluff. A huge bluff. But could he sell it? “Sure looks like it. What was it? Deer?”
It sounded good. Natural. Only a fool would have attempted such a bluff. And Sam felt therein lied the beauty of it: Harlon knew him; knew Sam was no fool.
Harlon nodded. “That’s right—deer. Big one too.”
The relief Sam felt just then was orgasmic. “Well, then I guess I’ll let you get back to it. Good seeing you again, Harlon.”
Sam turned towards the bridge.
“Where’re you going?” Harlon asked.
Sam turned back. “I got a group waiting. Remember?”
“Thought they wanted to see my farm.”
Sam held up a hand. “Ah, it’s okay, Harlon—you’re busy. Some other time.”
“They comin’ back?”
Sam frowned, confused. “Coming back?”
Harlon took another step forward. Again, Sam fought every urge to back up.
“You said some other time,” Harlon said.
“Yeah, sure—I’ll bring another group some other time.”
Harlon took another step forward. They were within handshake distance now.
“What about this group?” Harlon said. “This group won’t get to see.”
Sam wanted to run for it. It was possible. Everyone knew Harlon Roy had a prosthetic leg. But the time it would take to untie the boat and cast off? Time enough for Harlon to grab a gun. Time enough for him to get a bead on all of them.
“Oh well—” Sam gave a lame little chuckle. “That’s the way it goes, I guess.”
Harlon looked disappointed. “I guess.”
“Well, I better get a move on. Got another group to take out after this. Maybe I can swing them on by?” The bluff to end all bluffs. And damn clever too, if he did say so himself. Mentioning a group waiting for him after this one; he would be reported missing sooner than later if something were to happen. Risky prospects, even for a crazy like Harlon Roy.
Harlon seemed to consider it, looking away for a moment, scratching his stubbly chin. When his eyes settled, he turned his gaze back on Sam and smiled. “I look forward to it, Sam.”
He extended a bloodied hand.
That’s human blood.
And then a second internal voice, more adept at self-preservation: Just shake it. Shake it and go for Christ’s sake.
Sam shook it. And Harlon used his left hand to jam a knife deep into Sam’s eye, hitting the brain and killing him instantly.
&n
bsp; Sam dropped at Harlon’s feet. Harlon wiped the blade and then tucked it away in the same apron pocket from where he’d snatched it. Without pause, he then bent and grabbed Sam by the ankles and began dragging him back towards the rear of the house. “Sorry, Sam,” he said as he dragged. “I always liked you. Wrong place at the wrong time, as they say.”
Harlon left Sam next to the remains of Ron and Adelyn Daigle, removed his apron, and went inside. After a brief word with only Ida (Tucker gone fishing with Travis), Harlon grabbed his pistol, tucked it down the back of his pants, and headed towards the bridge to introduce himself to Sam’s group.
Chapter 19
Tucker Roy cast his line, sat back in the boat, and cracked a beer. The talk with his son about their current predicament was necessary, but he wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Travis—” he began, but got no further.
“Daddy, I don’t wanna be an orphan.”
Chapter 20
“Here comes someone,” Liz said.
“That’s not Sam,” Vicky said.
The approaching man crossed the bridge towards the boat. He was tall and wiry and walked with a limp. He was smiling the whole way.
Stopping at the end of the bridge, he looked down into the boat and, still smiling, said: “You must be Sam’s group.”
“That’s right,” Russ said. He pointed to his own chest. “Russ Burk.” Then gestures all around: “This is my wife Vicky; my daughter Elizabeth; and her boyfriend Dan. And you are?”
“Harlon Roy. Sam told me to come on down and collect you.”
“Where is he?” Vicky asked.
“Sam?” Harlon Roy pointed up towards the house. “Told me he wanted to give you folks a treat, so I let him get things started.” He smiled again.
Liz spotted a spatter of blood on Harlon’s gray tee. Harlon’s eyes followed Liz’s gaze until his chin was on his chest, studying the spatter. He gave the stain a casual wipe as if shooing away a bug. “Occupational hazard, ma’am,” he said. “Not too many vegetarian gators.”
Liz gave an uneasy smile.
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