Acts of Nature mf-5

by Jonathon King

  "Yeah, sure."

  I changed positions with him and we worked together. The kid was either naturally closed-mouthed or savvy enough not to let loose any more information about himself and his buddies than he was forced to. His could be an attitude from too many times in the backseat of a police cruiser or in the local juvenile lockup, or a simple backwoods avoidance of people unlike himself. A perceptive kid would have noticed the difference in our clothing, my speech, even in the way I moved. I'd already done the same with this trio. I was leaning toward the supposition that they were Gladesmen, or closely descended from. Easy in the water. None of them carried a sweat in the humidity, meaning their bodies were used to the climate. Their boots were old leather, the kind that was oiled and waterproofed the old-fashioned way. They were all lean, the leader with a cabled musculature that meant tough manual labor and a diet that was more local and natural than the empty calorie, fat-filled urban or suburban fare. But my eye had been a lazy one too. I'd searched the kid over, looking for clues, and missed the biggest one. Wayne took a few steps back after he loosened all the nuts and stood while I finished the job. I looked up a couple of times, continuing to ask questions that might give me more information to size his crew up, give me some clue why they were rattling my internal cop alarms. A couple of times I caught him looking down at Sherry, who had gone quiet. It was hard to read her pain now or tell how much her head was in the moment or moving deep into survival mode, concentrating only on the internal, on keeping her core together. From where I was I couldn't even see if her eyes were open.

  Not for a moment did I think of the kid's eyes roving over her body, the fabric of her sweats cut away almost up to her crotch when I'd cleaned and bandaged the leg wound. Her blouse, soaking wet and transparent, stretched across her breasts. Then she said something-"water"-in a rough whisper.

  The kid jumped, and then started looking around.

  "Over there. The bottle by the end of her cot," I said, directing him.

  He stepped over and picked up the bottle and moved to Sherry's side. She turned her hand slightly, opened her palm and he had to bend over to get the bottle to her. But instead of taking it, she motioned to her mouth with her fingers and the kid bent lower, nervous about pouring the water into this woman's open lips. I stayed on one knee, watching, but still working the other bed's legs. All I could see were the tops of both of their heads from behind and then the sudden, violent movement of Sherry's hand, clawing at the boy's throat.

  "You thieving little bastard," she suddenly shrieked in a voice I had never heard before.

  The kid's head started to snap back, but inexplicably stopped for a fraction of a moment, and then, suddenly loosed, reeled up away from her.

  "You fucking little thief," Sherry screamed again, the rough dryness of her throat making the words come out like a shovel blade stabbing gravel. "You picked the wrong cop to fuck with this time, you little shit."

  The kid's eyes were wide as saucers, eyebrows dented by fear, like he'd seen a witch come alive in his face, and I jumped up wondering if he actually had.

  "Jesus, Sherry!" I shouted, and stepped over the bed frame I was working on. "What the hell?"

  She was up on her elbows now, her face turned a crimson color that was such a stark contrast to the paleness it replaced that it looked devilish. She was staring at the kid, her eyes focused and hateful. Without saying a word she opened the hand that I'd seen her go at the kid's throat with. Two stones, one a diamond and the other an opal, tumbled from her palm on the end of a broken gold chain.

  It didn't take a second for me to recognize the necklace Sherry's husband had given her, the one that she had finally removed before the last time we'd made love on a soft Everglades night that seemed impossibly far in the past now.

  I stepped toward the kid, not even realizing that I'd stood up from our dismantling job with one of the wooden bed frame legs in my fist.

  "Where the hell did you get that!" I started. But the words had barely left my lips when the cabin door burst open and Morris stepped in with a big.45 in his right hand, its big black nosehole pointed at me.

  "Whoa now, folks," the man said. "How about we just settle down some, OK?"

  "They're cops, Buck," Wayne started shouting. "Goddamnit- all, they are cops."

  Morris, whose name had now turned into Buck, moved his eyes from me, to the boy, to the bed frame on the floor and finally to Sherry, who was still on one elbow, but otherwise prone on the cot.

  "Now just calm it down there, boy," he said and the kid seemed to snap his mouth shut like it was a command he was familiar with.

  "Uh, Mr. Freeman, sir. Would you kindly lay that there chunk of lumber down, please, and move over that way?" Buck said to me, using the muzzle of the gun to indicate the direction. He stepped farther into the room and the other boy, whose eyes were now only slightly smaller than his friend's, followed him, dropping a canvas sack holding something that clunked heavily onto the floorboards.

  The fact that I now had two names, Wayne and Buck, wasn't much of a trade-off for having a handgun pointed at my chest and a band of thieves as Sherry's only chance of survival out of this hellhole. I laid the bedpost down.

  "Now if you don't mind, sir," Buck said, "could you tell me just what the hell is goin' on?"

  I gathered myself. I now knew I was looking at a crew of looters. I have seen it before as a cop in Philadelphia and everyone with a television has seen it on the tube following major rioting or disaster in American cities coast to coast. In some instances it's an "I'm gonna get mine" attitude. The storefront window is blown out, cops are busy helping others, I'll go in and take what I can take. In the aftermath of Katrina it was sometimes people just taking something that floated, something to eat, something to live. In places like Miami and L.A., it was just brazen, crowd-incited criminality and greed. I knew the only way Wayne had gotten Sherry's necklace was by rummaging through the ruins of the Snows' cabin where she must have lost it. This group had been there and this place was their next target.

  I wasn't going to guess the motivation. Right now I was going to be the greedy one and try to make the best of the situation for Sherry and myself.

  "I don't know," I lied. "I think my friend just woke up and freaked or something. Your buddy here was giving her something to drink and she just woke up and started clawing at him. He got scared and jumped back when she started screaming and it surprised the hell out of me too."

  Buck looked down at Sherry, who now collapsed off her elbow and was lying flat again with her eyes closed. I stepped over to her and went down on one knee and he let me. Wayne started to whine: "She said she was a cop, Buck. She ripped that necklace off me and said I stole it and she was a fucking cop.

  I tipped the water bottle to Sherry's mouth and had to pour it through her parted lips just to get any of it in.

  "That true, Mr. Freeman?" Buck said behind me. "She's a law enforcement officer?"

  "She used to be," I said. "Long time ago up north somewhere. Some little town in Michigan but she retired down here years ago.

  "Look, Morris," I said. "She's delirious. She's dehydrated, lost blood, is in some deep pain and isn't making a whole lot of sense. I just need to get her some help, get her in to land, the state park boat ramp where we can get her to an ambulance.

  "And," I added, "could you not point that gun at me? That's really uncalled for and it makes me nervous."

  The guy looked out at the end of his arm, like he'd forgotten he even had the.45 in his hand even though I knew from experience that particular weapon is heavy as hell. He lowered the gun and crooked his finger in a "come here" command to Wayne, and then bobbed his head to the other one.

  "We're gonna step outside if you don't mind, Mr. Freeman," he said like he was asking permission. "So I can sort this out."

  I nodded and all three of them stepped outside, but they left the door halfway open, the boys on the other side, and Buck with his gun hand still on my side, his head tipping back
to check my movements every few seconds. I heard him say, "Goddamnit, boy," but the rest of the conversation was low and unintelligible with the heavy door in between. I checked Sherry again and she half opened her eyes, cutting them to the right like she was trying to locate the others. She wasn't as out of it as she'd appeared, but the color had run back out of her face and I had never seen her look so weak.

  "He stole my necklace, Max," she whispered. "My necklace. Jimmy's necklace."

  "Hush, hush, hush, baby. I know," I said quietly. "I know. But we have to get you out of here, Sherry. We need these guys now. We can worry about everything else later. Right now, we need them."

  I was trying to keep my voice soft, understanding, appeasing because I was not sure how much she understood. I needed to calm her and I knew I was working against her nature. She was not the kind of woman who stands by when she feels violated, when someone has pissed her off. Even her subconscious was going to fall back on natural reaction if you push her.

  "Don't let him take Jimmy's necklace, Max," she whispered, and the words stung me as much as they bolstered my resolve not to let her die.

  TWENTY-TWO

  "Goddamnit, boy," Buck said, his gray eyes turned to ice, as hard and cold as either of them had ever seen. He was staring at Wayne but Marcus could feel the anger roll out over him as well. "What the fuck was goin' on in there?"

  Buck took a second to look back around the door at the man and the lady on the cot. It was a second Wayne needed to gather his voice, lower his fear, and swallow some of his embarrassment so he would not bring more of it onto himself.

  "She said she was a cop, man. She said it right to my face, Buck, and she wasn't talkin' about no back in the day either," he said, his voice quiet but direct. Direct enough for Buck to listen.

  "Why?" he said.

  The boy looked at him.

  "What made her decide to tell you she was a cop?"

  He hesitated.

  "She wanted her necklace back," he said, just as quiet, just as direct.

  Marcus let a rush of disgust escape through his teeth and Wayne cut his eyes at him. It was Buck's turn to hesitate.

  "You gonna fill me in on that one?" he said, aiming the question at either one of them.

  "I found a diamond necklace at the last place. It was in one of them fanny pack-like things in that trashed-out room where we found the blood and I took it, you know, found booty like we said."

  "And he was fucking wearing it around his neck like some kinda punk or something," Marcus said, and the two exchanged a glance that was almost as cold as the one Buck held for the both of them.

  "She went for the necklace?" Buck said.

  "Like a goddamn piranha," Wayne said. "I seen it in her eyes at the last second, man. She saw it and was pissed. I thought she was gonna take one of my eyeballs next."

  Buck again peered around the door, and Marcus might have smiled at that one about the eye but for the deep shit they were already in.

  "And that's when she said she was a cop?" Buck said, getting back to it. "After she ripped her own necklace off your neck?"

  "Yeah," Wayne said. "Then she said, 'you messed with the wrong cop this time,' and she fucking meant it, Buck."

  All three of them were quiet then, Buck thinking, the others waiting. Anxiety finally won out and Marcus said: "Let's just fucking go, man. Let's just get in the airboat and go. That lady ain't gonna last long out here the way she's hurt and that guy doesn't even know who the hell we are, Buck. We take off, chances are they both fucking the out here and that's that."

  Wayne started nodding. Run. It had always worked before. Just run.

  Buck looked down and shook his head, back and forth, twice, slowly.

  "And if they don't, Marcus?" Buck said without looking up. "If either one of them gets rescued by some camp owner in a couple days, you think they won't look for a couple of shit-kicker Glades boys and a two-time ex-con with only one strike to go that been lootin' houses and left someone to the out here? Especially if that someone really is a cop."

  Both boys were dumb with silence.

  "And if the lady dies and that big guy gets so pissed he swims the hell out of here, they'll bring felony murder charges against all three of us. The court will say she died during the commission of a felony. That'll be your felony, Wayne, robbery of a fucking necklace," he said, pointing at the face of that dumbness. "And our theft."

  From their openmouthed look, the boys were losing their stupefaction and focusing on the term "felony murder."

  Buck again checked the other side of the door. He already didn't like guns and the effort of holding the big.45 in his hand seemed to have drained his energy. I got six rounds here, he thought. Maybe I should kill all four of them and wash my own self of it all. Goddamn it. Your daddy didn't teach you nothin', did he, boy.

  When they stepped back in I could see the change. The raised.45 was held a little tighter. Buck's knuckles were white as he squeezed the grip. No more bluffing.

  "I am truly sorry, Mr. Freeman," he said, and I almost jumped then at the words; only the thought of what they might do to Sherry caused the muscles in my legs and back to hold. They were curtain-closing words coming from a man with eyes that now seemed to see nothing but survival, and the look was one I recognized. I now had no doubt he was an ex-con, learned from the inside.

  "I'm gonna have to ask you to move over there by the door, sir, and sit," he said waving the handgun.

  "Wayne, you go on and get that roll of tape out of the bag there and strap Mr. Freeman up by the ankles and the wrists. Behind his back, boy."

  Buck had obviously grown tired of the younger one's miscues. The identifying necklace should have never seen the light of day until some buyer somewhere was ready to remove the stones so it would be unrecognizable.

  "Now whoa, whoa, hold on a minute," I said, trying to slow things down. "What the hell, fellas. You guys got something going on out here where you're just salvaging after the storm, we don't give a damn. Hell, we're not even owners of any property. We just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever you guys are doing, it's none of our business and it can stay that way."

  The kid crossed my ankles and started strapping with a roll of waterproof packaging tape, the kind with a nylon filament running through it. Tough to tear, tougher to break. He seemed pissed now, taking out the anger that he wanted to direct at someone else onto the job at hand. I'd be lucky to still feel my toes in an hour.

  "Hands behind your back," he said, like he'd heard it on an old movie. But when I hesitated Buck cocked the big hammer on the pistol and I pressed my lips into a line and followed the order. The kid did the same angry trick on my hands, though I was ready and turned my knuckles in, forcing the tendons on the inside of my wrists to bulge as much as my strength could pop them. It would give me some room when I relaxed. I hoped it would be a voluntary relaxation and not because my brain matter was all over the wall behind me.

  As much as the binding hurt it was nothing compared with having to watch the other little shithead do the same thing to Sherry.

  Wayne finished with me and then started to toss the roll to his friend who was too busy staring down at Sherry's crotch to notice.

  "Yo, Marcus," the kid said, fucking up again, using his buddy's name, not that it mattered anymore.

  Marcus caught the tape roll and started wrapping Sherry's ankles to the posts of the cot. She whined once when he pulled her broken leg over to strap it and I felt angry tears come into my eyes. Retribution had not been part of me as a street cop. The only person I'd ever wished death on was my own alcoholic father who almost nightly dumped his badge and revolver on the kitchen table before he started smacking my mother around with an open hand. But as I watched this kid pull Sherry's arms up and bind them and then run his fingertips down her now unprotected chest and over her breasts, he became number two.

  "Get the fuck over here," Buck snapped at the kid. He picked up the canvas bag by the bottom corner
and let several metal tools spill out onto the floor: a stout iron crowbar, two different-sized screwdrivers, and a pair of vise grips, a claw hammer, and small axe.

  "I seen by the markings on that door, you already tried to get into the other room there, Mr. Freeman," he said without looking at me. "But maybe you just didn't have the right tools with you, huh?"

  He stepped over for a closer look at the door and the electronic locking device.

  "But scootch on over out of the way there, sir. I have had some practical learning on how to get in and out of places folks don't want you to get in or out of."

  I slid myself down the wall and didn't say a word about the hatchway under the room that I'd left wide open in my haste to meet these assholes. I was trying to decide if we were better off biding our time, hoping against hope that the two immature hicks would continue to fuck up somehow and give me an opening, or should I just tell Buck about the entry, let them loot whatever they wanted from the room and maybe he'd be satisfied and leave. The other possibility I was not yet ready to confront: that he'd simply kill us both and leave it to whomever stumbled onto our rotting bodies in a few days or weeks to piece it together. Hell, maybe he'd just kill us and haul our corpses onto his airboat deeper into the swamp to dump and let nature break us down. There are no small number of bodies dumped in the Everglades where all manner of forensic evidence is consumed by everything from alligators and wild boar right down to the billions of heat- and waterborne microbes. Sherry and I had both investigated some of those homicides. A chunk of dead biology doesn't last long in this soup. We'd be on a missing persons report. Lost in the storm. A couple years after Katrina there are still folks missing from New Orleans, and we weren't anywhere close to a city.

  I was working on the scenarios, rolling them around in my head, when Buck took the crowbar to the doorjamb, gouging with a sharp edge at the outside of the frame, maybe figuring like a cheap thief he could bust a hole and then reach through and simply turn the lock button from the other side. The other two stood and watched, waiting like dutiful, anxious apprentices for the foreman to sic them to task.