After a left turn, the thicket opened into a small clearing. He went another twenty yards then stopped, taking stock. There were three buildings, crudely made from plywood and topped with tin roofs. The largest of the three had small windows covered with shutters and a sagging porch. The other two buildings were small, probably a storage shed and an outhouse. There were no vehicles of any kind to be seen.
And no sign of a human being.
Except...the front door of the main building was wide open.
Louis turned off the Jeep. In the quiet that piled in he could hear the whisper of the pines that ringed the compound and then the cry of a swallow-tail kite.
Maybe the men were out hunting. He got out of the Jeep, scanning the ground for tracks but saw nothing in the dirt and long grass. In fact, except for the open door, the camp looked deserted.
He had a sudden flashback to walking into another camp. It was years ago and thousands of miles away. Northern Michigan, in the dead of winter, and he was hunting a cop killer. The trail had led him to a remote camp inhabited by off-the-grid Vietnam vets. A one-armed soldier named Cloverdale had held him at bay with an AK47, endured his questions, then sent him back down the snowy hill with a warning never to come back.
Louis reached into the Jeep and got his Glock. He slipped it into the large front pocket of his khaki vest and zipped the pocket closed. If anyone was here, he thought as he started for the open door, he didn’t want them to think he was a cop. He’d be run off – or worse - before he ever got his first question out.
At the open door, he paused. As far as he could see in the dim interior, there was no one inside. It was one big room, maybe twenty-four by fifteen feet. He could make out the outlines of a table and chairs, some bunk beds and what looked like a primitive kitchen.
He stepped inside.
The door slammed closed behind him. Something hard and heavy came down on the back of his head. Stunned and seeing white, he fell forward. His hands skid over rough wood, his palms ripped with splinters.
“Hit him again, man! Hit him again!”
Louis tried to turn over but a boot slammed into his back. Then again into his shoulder and a third time into the back of his head. His hands flew up to protect his head but suddenly someone was on him, punching him and groping at his pockets.
“Get his wallet! Get his fucking money!”
Louis started swinging, feeling his fists hit flesh but the man on top of him didn’t budge.
It was getting hard to breathe and there was something - blood - in his eyes. He felt the man’s hands roughly moving down his chest. They stopped when they got to the bulge of the Glock.
“He’s got a fucking gun!”
Louis grabbed at him, trying to keep him from getting to the Glock. The man punched him hard in the face. A flash of white light then he felt himself going out. Flicking light and voices cutting in and out, like a bad radio connection.
Stay awake...stay awake...
The man moved off him but Louis couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. There was a fire in his side and he knew his ribs were broken.
“Look at this, it’s a fucking Glock. It’s gotta be worth five hundred easy.”
“Where we gonna sell it? Tell me that, Memo! We can’t go back to Lauderdale. We can’t go nowhere now after what you did.”
“The fucker wouldn’t give me the money!”
“He didn’t have any fucking money! It was already in the safe!”
Quiet. The voices were quiet for a second.
“Get his wallet.”
Louis tried to get up. He had to fight. He had to -
“Don’t be stupid, man. I got your Glock pointed at your head.”
Crushing pressure of a boot on his back holding him down. More hands digging into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Got it. He’s got thirteen bucks and a VISA card.”
“Check the other vest pockets for the Jeep keys,” the other man said.
The boot came off his back and one of the men rolled him onto his back.
Two faces blurry above him - one pale and long, the other dark and round. Ball caps, dirty t-shirts, jeans caked with mud. The dark man was padding him down and Louis fought back his rise of panic. If they found the badge he was a dead man.
“Got the keys.” The man’s hands stopped. “Hey, he’s got another wallet.”
Louis felt the guy pull out the small leather wallet that Mobley had given him.
“He’s a cop!”
“What?”
“Look at this, Marv. He’s a fucking cop.”
The pale man’s eyes went from the badge down to Louis.
“How’d you find us, cop?”
Louis was silent.
“Where are the others?”
“No others,” Louis said. He felt blood in his mouth and spat it out. “I wasn’t looking for you.”
“We need to get the fuck out of here, Marv. Shoot the fucker and -”
“Shut up, Memo! I need to think.”
Louis pushed to a sitting position and tried to focus on the two men. If he got out of this cabin alive he wanted to remember enough to catch these bastards.
Marv was six-foot and slender, shaved head, horsey face and prominent bad teeth. The t-shirt, Louis could see now, had a Harley emblem on it. The other guy, the one called Memo, was dark, Hispanic maybe, and gone to fat. His faded orange Miami Dolphins t-shirt had the sleeves cut off. He had a scorpion tattoo on his neck.
The bald guy tossed the badge wallet to the floor then leaned over and pressed the barrel of the Glock to Louis’s temple.
“You kill me, you die in the chair,” Louis said.
The man’s breath was like sewer water. “I don’t like niggers and I don’t like cops.”
He eased the Glock away from Louis’s head. He threw the badge wallet into a corner. “But I ain’t no murderer.”
He moved away. Louis shut his eyes in relief. He could hear the creak of the floorboards as the man moved around the room.
“Find something to tie him up with.”
Louis watched the dark man as he rummaged through the kitchen. When he came back, Louis saw a loop of old rope in his hands. The bald man pointed the Glock toward the bunk beds.
“Move your ass over there.”
Louis crawled to the bunks. They were heavy wooden things, built into the wall. He leaned back against a post, his ribs on fire.
The dark man forced Louis’s hands behind his back. Louis grimaced as the man wrapped the rope tight around his wrists, tying it off high on the top bunk. The dark guy was smiling when he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“Let’s get out of here,” the bald guy said.
The other man grabbed a backpack off the counter, paused, then reached over Louis to snag a pack of cigarettes from the bunk.
As they left, the dark guy started to pull the door closed. The bald man slapped a hand against it.
“Leave it open. Maybe a gator will crawl in and eat him.”
Louis could hear them laughing until it was drowned out by the sound of the Jeep coming to life. It built to a roar as they revved the engine then slowly it faded to a low growl as they pulled out of the camp.
Louis strained against the rope. No give. His hands were going numb.
He looked to the open door, trying to estimate what time it was. He had signed out the Jeep at ten-thirty this morning but in all the twisting and turning trying to find this place he had lost track of time.
Sergeant Sweet...he was the only one who knew where he had gone. But there was no reason for him to sound the alarm if Louis didn’t come back. The Jeep was signed out for indefinite use.
Louis tugged at rope then laid his head back against the post.
It was quiet. A terrible, empty quiet.
CHAPTER TEN
The darkness had crept over him – the rectangle of light that defined the open door turned from green to gray then disappeared – and he thought it was because he was losing
consciousness. But then, out of the blackness, came sounds.
The soft whir of a motor.
The creak of a rusty hinge.
Coughing.
Had the men come back? He strained to see something, anything, in the pitch black.
No, no...
Just crickets, frogs, and something else, a gator maybe.
Louis leaned back against the bunk. How long had he been here? He couldn’t tell anymore. It was the thick of night now and any hope he had of someone finding him was fading fast. It hurt to take a breath and he had to piss. He twisted his hands but the rope held tight on his wrists.
There was nothing to do but wait for the light. Maybe he could chew through the rope. Maybe if he yelled someone would be close enough to hear. Maybe...
He would die here.
He closed his eyes.
The rectangle of the door materialized out of the gloom. Dawn. His ribs and his lip throbbed. His parched throat felt like sandpaper and his whole body ached. Had he slept? He didn’t know because his mind felt as numb as his hands. The gnawing in his stomach wasn’t hunger anymore. It was fear.
He lay his head against the rough wood of the bunk, watching the details of the brush outside in the compound emerge in the frame of the doorway. He closed his eyes.
A sound. Close.
His eyes shot open. He jerked upright as far as the rope would allow.
An animal.
No! It was louder. And it was engine of some kind, he could tell now. It was getting louder. It was outside in the compound. Then, suddenly, it died and it was quiet.
Louis waited, his eyes riveted on the open door. A huge silhouette filled the doorframe.
“What the fuck?”
The voice was different from those of the two men who had left him here. Very deep, no accent. It took Louis a second to realize the man was holding a rifle. And it was aimed at Louis.
“Hey! Don’t shoot!” Louis yelled.
The rifle kept its bead on Louis’s chest.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’ve been here all night. Come on, untie me, man.”
“This is my camp, asshole. You broke into my camp.”
“I didn’t break in. Two guys jumped me.” No choice, he had to chance it. “I’m a cop, man. My ID is over there on the floor by the table.”
Slowly the rifle came down. The man scooped up the wallet, glanced at the ID inside and looked back to Louis. “What are you doing in my camp?”
“Untie me. I’ll explain.”
The man set the rifle by the door and pulled a large knife from his belt. He knelt by Louis.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said as he began to saw at the rope.
“All I want to do is take a piss.”
The rope snapped free. The man stepped back and picked up his rifle. Louis rubbed his wrists and holding his ribs, got to his feet. He walked unsteadily out the open door and unzipped his fly. When he was done, he looked back at the man who had come out to stand on the porch. He was a burly six footer with dark hair, dressed in old jeans and a denim shirt bleached almost to white. He had his rifle tucked under his arm and was looking at the police wallet. When his eyes came up to Louis they were hard.
“Louis Kincaid,” he said, pronouncing his name Lou-ee. “Okay, what’s your story Lou-ee Kincaid.”
Louis pulled in a painful breath and launched into a quick summary of the panther case. When he was finished, the man shook his head and smiled.
“So you figured that some hunters killed your cat and you came out here to bust us, huh?”
“I don’t know what I figured,” he said. “You got some water?”
The man didn’t move. “You know, it was stupid of you to come out here alone,” he said. “I could have shot you.”
“I know,” Louis said, patting his swollen lip. “I should have told Katy I was coming here.”
“Katy? Katy Letka?”
Louis looked up. “Yeah. Do you know her?”
“Yeah, I know Katy.”
Louis stared at the man –- he was smiling at the mention of Katy’s name –- as his fogged brain trying to make sense of this.
“You’re a friend of Katy’s?” the man asked.
“Yeah.” Louis hesitated. “Are you?”
“Shit, yeah.”
The man’s eyes swept over Louis then he turned and went to his swamp buggy parked under the trees. He returned with a canteen and held it out to Louis.
Louis took it and drank greedily.
“So tell me about these guys who jumped you,” the man said.
“Not much to tell,” Louis said. “Like I said, they were hiding out in the cabin and jumped me when I came in.”
“Someone’s been using our camp,” the man said. “I’ve been coming out here to check every couple days.”
“I don’t think these two are your guys,” Louis said. “They were on the run from something they did over in Fort Lauderdale. They didn’t seem too bright.”
The man nodded. “Whoever’s using my camp has been coming and going for months. We noticed it when we realized some canned food was missing.”
Louis took another drink of water, trying not to gulp. His head was slowly clearing.
“One of my buddies got a glimpse of him once, but couldn’t track him,” the man said.
“What did he look like?”
“Stocky, dark-skinned, long black hair. He just disappeared into the swamp. He seems to know what he’s doing out here. We call him the phantom. The only thing he leaves is cigarette butts.”
“Cigarettes? You know what kind?” Louis asked.
“No, but the butts are probably out in the trash.”
“Can you show me?”
Louis followed the man out to one of the small outbuildings and waited until the man unearthed a heavy black trash bag. Louis opened it, grimaced at the smell, but dug through it until he found a butt.
He squinted, unable to see a brand name on it without his reading glasses. “You see a name?” he asked, holding it out the man.
The guy came took it. “Viceroy.”
Louis let out a painful breath.
“That mean something?” the man asked.
“Maybe. The guy who abducted the panther smokes Viceroys.”
The man tossed the butt back in the trash and secured the lid. “Your ribs broken?” he asked Louis.
“I hope not.”
“Well, we better get you someplace where we can find out.”
Louis nodded and they started toward the swamp buggy. The seat was a good four feet off the ground and when Louis hesitated, holding his side, the man set his rifle in the back and helped Louis up into the seat.
“Thanks.” Louis paused. “What’s your name?”
“Gary. Gary Trujillo.”
“Thanks, Gary.”
The man jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The swamp buggy roared to life. Louis spotted a CB radio mounted on the dash.
“I need to get an APB out on the guys from Lauderdale,” he said. “Can I use your radio?”
Gary pulled sunglasses out of his pocket and slipped them on. “You get a good look at the scumbags?”
“Yeah,” Louis said. He gave Gary a quick description.
Gary keyed the CB, calling someone named Otter. Louis listened as Gary described the two men who had violated their hunting camp and ordered a swamp buggy posse to hunt them down.
“We got it, Tru,” Otter answered and signed off.
Gary put the swamp buggy in gear but before he pulled out he looked at Louis.
“We’ll find the guys who did this to you,” Gary said. “I only want one thing in return.”
“What’s that?”
“No publicity. We just want to be left alone, okay?”
Gary pulled out of the compound. Neither man said anything as Gary expertly maneuvered the buggy over the rutted roads. Louis sat silent, holding his ribs against the bouncing, think
ing about what was going to happen if one of Gary’s friends found the two men who had jumped him.
He didn’t care. Marv and his little friend Memo had done something over in Lauderdale that was bad enough to drive them into the stinking bowels of the Everglades. And he knew that when the two dirt bags were caught –- and as Louis looked over at Gary’s profile he had no doubt they would be -– Louis would get the credit for the collar of two fugitives.
“Gary,” Louis shouted over the engine’s din.
“What?”
“I can try to keep you and Otter out of things, but what if the scumbags talk about you?”
Gary gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. They won’t.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Four days, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “Four days and already you’ve managed to get your name in the paper.”
Louis looked beyond Mobley to the window, to the cloudless blue sky with its searing white sun. There was no way he could explain what had really happened out at the hunting camp. It was like something out of a James Dickey novel.
Marv had done exactly what Gary predicted: found the westward road that was paved enough to lull Marv into thinking he was on his way to Immokalee where he’d be able to fill his belly with beer and his head with hopes of making a clean getaway.
But Old Bucket Road was one of those roads Louis had gotten turned around on coming in. He had almost ended up in a ditch of black water and needed to slowly reverse his way out. Sure enough, that was where Otter had found the Jeep, only Marv had been too stupid to try to back up and had driven the Jeep door-high into a gator hole. When Otter and the other men surrounded the Jeep with rifles drawn, Marv and Memo -– covered with mosquito welts and fear-sweat -- had surrendered without a fight. By the time Gary and Louis arrived, the dirt bags were tied to a tree and Otter had pulled the Jeep from the bog. Louis’s Glock was laying on the driver’s seat.
“Remember our deal,” Gary said. And he and the others were gone in a cloud of noise and gas fumes.
As soon as Louis was able to get radio contact driving back to Fort Myers, he informed the sheriff’s dispatcher that he was en route with two fugitives from Fort Lauderdale. He made sure he used the frequency the local reporters monitored because even though he didn’t really want the publicity he needed it. Needed everyone, not just Mobley, to see this notch his belt.
Claw Back (Louis Kincaid) Page 6
