by R. J. Blacks
“Get away, or... ”
“Or what?”
He proceeds to drag the canoe back to the shoreline. I put on a face of determination and point the spear right at his neck.
“Back off, or I’ll do it.”
He stops, turns to face me.
“Do what? Are you going to kill me? Do you have what it takes to kill a man, slide the spear into his jugular, see the blood gush out, and watch him die? Could you do that? I don’t think so.”
With lightning speed, he grabs the shaft, grips it tightly. I tug on my end trying to snatch it back, but his strength far exceeds mine. He glares at me with those horrible eyes, evil eyes that delight in the pain of others. Eyes that feed on the terror of his victims as he squeezes the life from their body. A chill envelops me. My hands tremble. I feel my determination evaporate as my last bit of strength subsides. I come to terms with the inevitable; he is going to kill me!
I reach deep into my soul, into places I’ve never gone before. I’m not ready to die. I want a family, and kids, and a career. I want my life to be useful. I want to make the world a better place.
My thoughts fly back to my undergrad coursework in human psychology. “Never reveal your mental condition to your adversary; it gives him power,” the instructor used to say. “He will attempt to wear you down, make the situation appear hopeless. And once you acquiesce, he gains control and you will be putty in his hands.”
I know what I have to do. If I can’t beat him physically, I will have to outsmart him.
I pull on the spear with every ounce of strength I can muster. Back and forth we go, like it’s a game of tug-of-war, causing the canoe to rock side to side. I lose my balance for an instant and grab the gunwale for support. It’s the break he was waiting for. He snatches the spear from my hand leaving me defenseless.
He points the spear at my neck and then slowly, methodically, creeps along the outside of the canoe. The metallic spear-point glistens in the rays of the dying sun. I scramble backwards, crablike, on my hands and heels, to the extreme end of the canoe. The razor-sharp point gets closer and I’m terrified. A quick thrust, well positioned, would be all it takes to slice open my veins. It’s the thrill he feeds on, the reason he is here, to see me beg for my life and then watch me writhe in agony as I slowly bleed to death.
But as long as I breathe, I won’t let it happen. I abruptly shift my weight over the side of the canoe attempting to roll it over. The gunwale should deflect the spear and create a barrier between us giving me precious moments to swim away. My training with the swimming team taught me a few things, and I’m pretty sure I would have the speed advantage over an amateur. But he thwarts my efforts. He grabs the gunwale and grips it tightly using his superior strength to keep the canoe steady. And then he just glares at me.
So here we are, at a frozen impasse, staring at each other, me like a trapped mouse and he like a cat waiting to pounce.
Suddenly he bursts out laughing. To say I’m confused would be an understatement, but then he confuses me even more. He takes the spear and snaps it in half across his knee.
“See, no hard feelings,” he says with a smile, and then tosses the broken spear into the water.
I wrap my left hand around the bow on the bottom of the canoe and grab an arrow with my right. I load the arrow into the bow, but keep it hidden inside the boat. I decide it’s time to put my fears aside and use my intellect.
“We can be friends if you want. Let’s meet tomorrow, any place you want,” I say, hoping he takes the bait.
“No, not tomorrow. I want you right now.”
He starts toward me. I stand up inside the canoe, pull back the arrow, and point it at his chest.
“It’s tomorrow or never,” I say with authority.
He throws up his hands in defeat.
“Okay, you win, tomorrow it is.”
Unexpectedly, he turns to leave. I keep the arrow trained on him, but then, he slams down on the edge of the canoe with all his weight tipping the boat and launching me overboard. The bow goes flying into the water. Before I can react, he grabs my neck with both hands and pushes me under water. I claw at his arms, reach for his face, attempt to fight him off, but he keeps me face down, at arm’s length, beyond my ability to hurt him. A half-minute goes by, then a minute, and then another half-minute, and when I’m just about to run out of air, he pulls me up. I gasp for a mouthful of air, coughing violently between breaths.
“Are we ready to play yet?” he says.
I’m still gasping for air and can’t talk so I shake my head from side to side.
“Then have some more.”
He shoves me under water again. My lungs are burning for oxygen and I want to breathe so badly, but I resist the overwhelming temptation to inhale.
And just when I feel I can stand it no more, I notice a glint of light on the bottom, to my left. I recognize it immediately; it’s the shiny metal end of the fish spear, the one he broke in half and threw in the water. I nudge the spear towards me with my left hand until it is hidden under my body, so he can’t see what I’m up to. And then, I wrap both hands around the wooden shaft near the middle. I squeeze the shaft tightly, tighten my muscles, but before I can do anything, he starts to pull me up.
This is for Will, I think, and with every ounce of strength I have left, I ram the razor-sharp point into his abdomen. I feel the tip enter his flesh going up, up, up, and into his chest, but I keep pushing. I keep pushing until it will go no more.
I feel his hands convulse, and then, soften their grip. I pop my head above water gasping for oxygen. His eyes are locked in a stare, wide open, and his face is contorted, as if he was experiencing excruciating pain. He looks like he wants to scream, his mouth wide open, and his face frozen in the most grotesque shape. But nothing comes out. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything. Blood trickles down the corner of his mouth... I think he’s dead.
I pry away the fingers around my neck and push his hands aside. His knees buckle and then he slips into the water. No fanfare, no acclamation, he just drifts to the sandy bottom, a stream of blood emanating from the wound.
Small baitfish take an immediate interest in the newfound food, nipping away at the exposed flesh. The swamp is unkind to the defenseless; tomorrow this corpse will be nothing but bones, held together by the bits of tendon and cartilage unappealing to scavengers.
I slog out of the water totally exhausted but manage to pull together enough strength to guide the canoe toward the shoreline. I drag it up the beach as far as I can, a precautionary measure, to prevent it from floating away during a downpour.
I search Fargo’s leather pouch and retrieve a small container, the one Fargo never uses, the one with red stains around the lid. I open the container, dip two fingers into the red paste, and then make two red streaks across my cheek, just under my right eye. I repeat the gesture on my left cheek and then return the container to the pouch.
I stand up straight, raise my arms to the sky, and scream. I scream louder than I’ve ever screamed before, drawing energy from every fiber of my body, from every pore. It is not a scream of fear, or one of triumph, but a declaration, to heaven and to the stars, that the natural order of things has been restored; justice has been served! That blot of evil, that stain on the earth, that piece of garbage that fouled the aspirations of countless innocent victims, has been terminated, and I, Indigo Wells, of Philadelphia, was its judge, jury, and executioner.
I maintain the scream for as long as I can, until the tiniest sac in the most remote corner of my lungs has been emptied of its contents. And then, I drop to my knees, taking deep breaths to replace the depleted oxygen.
An eerie silence pervades the swamp provoking me to reflect on what I have done. By my own volition, with my own bare hands, I have extinguished the life of a man.
But strangely, I have no remorse. Instead, I find myself with an unbelievable sense of satisfaction and perhaps even joy. I would have never believed I could experienc
e these kinds of feelings, joyful feelings, for such a horrid act. And that scares me. But I pray it is short-lived. I never want to feel like this again!
CHAPTER 37
I trudge back to the cove, attempting to reach the safety of the airboats entangled in the dense underbrush. The sun has dropped out of sight and darkness is making the trail difficult to see. I’ve been warned that snakes often seek the warmth of the sandy trail at night and the thought of stepping on a Rattlesnake or Cottonmouth terrifies me. Why can’t this just be a bad dream? Why can’t I just wake up and find myself in a warm bed, safe and protected, and realize there’s nothing to be afraid of?
But it’s not to be. I’m hungry, and wet, and completely exhausted, and I need to leave this place. I must drive myself relentlessly with my last remnant of strength and ignore the pains that envelop me. I walk slowly, carefully searching the trail for anything that might harm me, utilizing the subdued light from the full moon which is just now coming up over the horizon. I look back repeatedly, peering down the darkened trail, fearing Damon might not really be dead and is stalking me, waiting for that opportunity to strike again. I expect him at any moment to run up the trail like a madman, attack me from out of the blackness with that lethal stiletto.
Every little noise shakes me, the rustle of leaves, the crack of a branch, the hoot of an owl. Every little noise causes me to stop and look around in terror. The urge to run wells up inside me, but the fear of stepping barefoot on one of those lethal critters restrains me. I pull myself together and press on, steadily, methodically, taking no chances, but wasting no time either. Oh, how I wish Fargo was here. How I wish anyone was here, anyone but Damon that is. But how could they be? No one knows where I am. No one would have any reason to come here at night. I must endure. I must do this all alone.
Up ahead I see the end of the trail and the shadowy outline of a wall of bushes against the night sky. I’ve finally arrived, but the safety of the airboat eludes me. I must still cross thirty feet of water which at this hour could be laden with alligators. It was dangerous enough to swim across it during the day, but now, at night, when alligators are most active, it could be suicide.
From my previous encounters with alligators, I have learned they will seek out any movement in the water, lest it be an animal in trouble. These reptiles are basically lazy so they don’t do any more work than they have to in order to fill their bellies. They’ll wait for hours for a meal to come to them rather than waste energy foraging after an animal that may never appear. And their two favorite places to wait are on the bottom of a pool of water or on the surface with only their eyeballs above the water line.
I scan the surface of the water for any interruption to the mirror smooth surface. The light from the moon causes a sheen on the water making it easy to see ripples or protrusions, but I see none. But what about the bottom? Any misstep on or near a waiting alligator would be certain death. He would instinctively pull me underwater and engage in a death roll which for over a hundred million years has served to confuse and drown the victim. I wouldn’t have a chance.
I contemplate my options. I could walk around the edge of the cove in the shallow water to get closer to the airboat and then make a mad dash for the boat. But that’s where gators like to hide so I could be walking into a trap. Climbing through the bushes would not work either because they’re too dense and wouldn’t carry my weight anyway. The only option that makes any sense is to swim right down the middle, just below the surface so I’d be out-of-view of any gator scanning the lake for food. And the ones lying on the bottom tend to be inactive unless you kick or step on one.
I strip off my dress to create the least possible drag in the water and then scan the area for any sign of a gator. It appears to be clear, so I slide gently into the water making as little noise as possible. I take a deep breath and then slip quietly beneath the surface into a modified breast stroke using only my arms to propel me while keeping my legs perfectly still. The gentle movement of my arms causes little turbulence to the water, but provides enough forward motion I am able to traverse the thirty feet in just seconds. My hands contact the bottom of the airboat, and I pull myself up inside. How relieved I feel. I theorize that the shiny hull of the airboat must be scaring the gators and keeping them away due to their limited contact with humans.
And then I see it, a full grown gator about six feet away lying under the bushes. Apparently this one was not so easily spooked because he just lies there and stares at me. I pick up an oar, and then bang it against the hull making a loud metallic sound. It does the trick; the gator drops below the surface and slithers away. Perhaps the loud noise disturbed him from his comfort zone, and he concluded I wasn’t worth the risk. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator, even for alligators.
I attempt to free my airboat from the dense underbrush, but the impact from Damon’s airboat has driven it securely into the bushes. There are thick branches all around the motor and wedged between the seats. It appears to be futile to attempt to free it.
I jump into the other airboat and manage to push it backwards into open water. I set the controls and attempt to start the engine. Wah, wah, wah, it goes and then backfires kicking out a cloud of black smoke. I try again. Wah, wah, wah, and then it attempts to start, but sputters severely. I back off the choke and the engine begins to run better. It’s obvious what happened, Damon failed to turn off the choke and flooded the engine. It’s amazing it ran at all.
Thick black smoke emanates from the exhaust pipes and the engine runs very rough. I remember Fargo telling me that means it is getting too much raw gasoline so I back off the choke completely. The engine immediately runs smoother and the black smoke clears up. I set the throttle to one-third, and maneuver the airboat out into the lake. The darkness makes it impossible to see any landmarks, but fortunately, the full moon, low on the horizon, acts like a beacon, helping me navigate to my destination.
I make the wide sweep around the island and notice blue flashing lights off in the distance. They’re in the direction of Fargo’s cabin and shine with such intensity they dominate the horizon even though they must be at least ten miles away. It can only mean one thing; Fargo found Will and called the police.
I ram the throttle to three-quarters and speed up to fifty miles per hour, which I calculate should get me back in about twelve minutes. As I get closer, I can clearly make out five police cars. And then, I see Fargo on the dock, waiting for me to arrive. I cut the motor and let the airboat drift towards him. As soon as I’m close enough, I toss him the rope. He pulls the boat alongside the dock and ties up the front rope and then a second rope near the back. I step out of the airboat and join him on the dock.
Fargo gazes at me, and then gently runs his fingertips over the red stripes on my cheeks.
“You killed him?”
I nod in agreement.
“Where’s Will?” I say.
“The rescue wagon took him.”
Fargo wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, shielding me from the gawk of onlookers. We walk unassumingly up the path towards the cabin. Detective Bolt cuts us off, holding up a handbag.
“Is this yours?” he asks.
“Yes, thanks,” I say, and reach out to take it.
“Then this makes you a suspect.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was found next to the victim. That places you at the crime scene at the time of the murder.”
“He was dead when I got there.”
I notice Fargo getting antsy.
“John, why would she do this?” he asks.
“I’ve got to follow procedure, or the D.A. will have me for lunch. Now, at what time did you first encounter the victim?”
“About six. Or maybe it was six-thirty.”
“Well, which is it, six or six-thirty?”
“I’m not sure. I think it was six-thirty.”
Fargo cuts in: “Come on, she’s traumatized?”
“This will only take a
few minutes. Tell me what you saw when you arrived.”
“He was sitting in his chair as usual...” and then I relate to Detective Bolt the whole incident of how I found Will, and how Damon had chased after me with the airboat.
“So you’re saying there’s another body?” he asks.
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”
“You’re admitting to a second murder?”
“No, not murder! He was trying to drown me!”
“John, can’t you see it was self-defense,” Fargo says.
“I’m only after facts,” he says, and then glares at me.
“What are those red marks on your face? Are you in a cult?”
“You have to be Indian to understand,” Fargo says.
“Okay then. Show me the body.”
“It’s far away, at the canoe.”
“I’ll take you. Let her stay here,” Fargo says.
“If she doesn’t come, I’ll have to say she’s not cooperating,” Detective Bolt says. “Not my rules.”
“Okay, I’ll go,” I say.
Fargo hops onto the airboat and I follow close behind. Detective Bolt sprints over to a group of crime-scene investigators. He chats with the investigators and then returns with four of them, two men and two women.
“They’re coming with us,” he says, and proceeds to hop onto the airboat. The investigators follow his lead dragging some large canvas bags on board. One of the investigators, a black woman, about forty, dressed in jeans and a blue tee-shirt with ‘POLICE’ across the front, and a light jacket draped across her shoulders, sees me staring at the bags.
“Body bags,” she says, and then sits in the seat in front of me. She turns to face me.
“Why are you in your underwear?”
I relate to her the whole story about how Damon chased me across the lake in the airboat, how he had tried to kill me, and how I needed to remove my dress in order to swim undetected back to the airboat. She removes the jacket draped across her shoulders and hands it to me.
