by Shelley Katz
By this time, Rye wasn't sure whether he had just passed through his long illness to recovery or to the other eventuality. He was afraid to test it, but finally, like a man about to enter the winter ocean, he tentatively stuck in his toe. "How'd I get here?"
"You can thank the kid. I ain't never seen no one spend so much time tryin' to save another person's life. If it'd been up to me, I would've given up on you a long time ago. There you was, sweatin' bullets one moment, the next shakin' like you was sittin' on top of an iceberg. Wasn't certain if you was gonna freeze to death or boil away. But he kept workin' over you. He must like you a good bit to have gone to that kinda trouble. Let the old bird die, I kept tellin' him. He don't hardly look like he's worth the trouble. But he just kept workin' on ya. What was it like?" Trancas peered at Rye inquisitively over his book.
"What was what like?" asked Rye. The further he got with this man, the more confused he became.
"Almost dyin', of course," said Trancas. "Was there angels?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know?"
"Angels is the ones with wings."
"I know what angels are," barked Rye. "Jesus. It was like nothin'."
Trancas leaned closer to Rye. He knew he was lying, though he didn't know why. "It must have been like somethin'," he said. "Devils? Did ya see devils, maybe?"
"Of course I didn't!" Rye shouted angrily. Suddenly he stopped, shaken by the truth. "Did I really almost die?"
"Closest I ever seen," said Lee. He had entered the shack quietly, and stood in the shadows by the door. For a moment Rye thought he saw a smile of relief on Lee's face, but it was gone so quickly that he wondered if he had really seen it after all.
"Why did you do it?" Rye asked gruffly, trying to hide the feelings of gratitude which he had almost made the mistake of showing.
Lee shrugged evasively and walked over to the kettle of home brew. Rye watched his strong back, annoyed by the feelings its owner was evoking in him. "You took a big chance in savin' me," he said. "If it'd been the other way around, I don't know that I'd of done the same."
Lee looked back at Rye in a way that clearly said he'd put money on Rye's leaving him there for the crows. Rye caught the look and became infuriated. "What's the angle?" he said. Lee laughed in response, which made him even angrier. "Wait a minute," Rye said, "of course! I'll bet you're figurin' if I am your pa, you could stand to inherit a good sum. I got close to one hundred and thirty million and still countin'. Well, let me tell ya somethin', Boone, you're wastin' your time. I ain't givin' no crazy hick my empire."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Whitman."
Rye knew it was the truth. It wasn't his money Lee was after, but he had saved him for some reason. People always did things for a reason, whether they knew it or not. "Why, Boone?" he demanded.
"I got my own reasons," said Lee.
"Don't tell me you done it because of your horseshit principles, because I won't buy it."
"Buy it or not. That's part of the reason."
Rye grunted to show he was unconvinced, though he did, in fact, believe Lee. "And the other part?" he asked pointedly.
"Well, maybe it's just some of them things you said about me were true."
Lee was as surprised by this admission as Rye was. The two men looked at each other, and, for just a brief moment, they both could see through the layers of deception they'd built around themselves and down to the truth. It startled and embarrassed them, and they quickly looked away from each other and instantly, began to reconstruct the intricate edifices that protected them.
Trancas watched Lee and Rye with a great deal of curiosity and very little understanding. "You two having an argument or something?" he asked.
Lee snickered. He put his arm on Trancas's shoulder and guided him toward the door. "We better let him get some more sleep," he said.
Rye watched Trancas and Lee leave. As weak as he felt, anger burned in the pit of his stomach, and he searched around the room for an object on which to vent it. He fastened on the battered remains of a night table, and banged his big hairy fist down on it in frustration. "Goddamn you, Lee Ferris," he growled. "Goddamn you. You're forcin' me to respect you. And I hate you for it."
Rye smashed down on the table again and again, until a sliver the size of a toothpick lodged in his hand. He pulled it out, wincing with pain, then laughed at himself. "Why, you old fart," he muttered, "you stupid old fart."
Chapter 11
At first light, Lee began loading up the skiff. All around him the dark swamps were taking on shape, form, and eventually dimension in the growing daylight. Lee wasn't at all sure why he had agreed to continue the hunt, and he didn't want to analyze his motive. He was sick and tired of thinking; he'd done altogether too much of it since meeting Rye a week ago. The only thing he hadn't thought about was Cindy. The minute his mind called up her image, he blocked it out. Before he left he'd decided that the best of them was in the past and it would be better to break it immediately than to watch it die. He hadn't been able to bring himself to do that before he left, and he felt the inability even more now. He knew it was weakness to hold on to someone he was sure to disappoint.
The sun was gathering strength, and he could feel it warm on his body. The damp, alive smell of the swamp air was pleasing. He wondered if there was anything more for him than just this.
Rye came out of the cabin, pausing at the door to steady himself. He was still slightly wobbly on his feet, and anxious not to show it.
Lee didn't notice. He tossed the map to Rye and said, "We'll head toward Cashman's Swamp."
"Why there?" asked Rye.
"Any better ideas?"
"None at present, but I'll be sure and let you know when I do." Rye walked toward the skiff unsteadily. His muscles were as unresponsive and weak as cornmeal mush. Every movement he made produced ten to twelve aftershocks.
Lee could see the amount of control Rye was exerting. "You certain you're well enough to get started?"
"Worry about yourself," said Rye.
"You almost died, you know."
"Bullshit. It's gonna take a whole lot more than that to kill me off."
Lee wondered if Rye believed that, then decided that he didn't. Rye had almost died, and he knew it. Lee had been scared of many things, but never of dying; on the whole, he found living a more frightening proposition. Yet he could see why it would frighten Rye—not because of the pain, not because of the fear of the unknown, but because of the loss of control.
"Where's Trancas?" asked Rye.
"I was wonderin' that myself," answered Lee. "I told him we'd be leavin' first thing."
Just then Trancas rose out of the bushes like a cobra from a hat, and aimed his rifle at them and yelled, "One move and I'll kill ya!" He shot into the air several times, then stepped out of the bushes and walked toward the men, moving his rifle back and forth between Rye and Lee as if trying to decide which of them to pick off first. "All right," he screamed, "hands up and mouths shut!"
"He's crazy," whispered Rye.
"You just figured that out?"
"I said, hands up!" snarled Trancas. He waved the rifle around wildly, then settled on Rye. "Well, well, well, ain't this a pretty picture. You almost had me fooled there for a while, but no one pulls the wool over Trancas's eyes for long. So you was the law all the time, and now you figure to go back for help. Well, I ain't gonna let you, ya hear me! I'll kill ya first!"
Before Trancas had a chance to react, Lee picked up the boat pole, swung around, and knocked the rifle from his hands.
Rye pulled a gun and trained it on Trancas. "Good work," he said to Lee as they backed toward the skiff. Lee smiled. "Yeah, I saw it in the movies!"
"So did he, I'll bet," Rye said as they jumped into the boat. Lee poled them away from shore while Rye kept his rifle aimed at Trancas.
Trancas waited until they were a good distance away before he ran to the water's edge and yelled, "I knew it all along! It was just like I thought! You are the sheriff
's men."
"That's right!" Lee yelled back. "I guess we couldn't fool ya after all!" Rye gave Lee a look that inquired into his sanity. "We'll be back for you," Lee called to Trancas. "You'd better keep up your guard."
"I'll be here," growled Trancas, but there was a smile on his face.
Rye saw the smile and suddenly understood. "That's right!" he screamed. "You're a marked man!"
Trancas watched until the boat was just a tiny dot that disappeared into the green growth. Finally, when he could no longer see it, he went for his rifle, and trained it on the water for several minutes, just to make sure Rye and Lee weren't trying to pull any stunts. When he was satisfied, he backed around the hummock, checking the beer cans and bear traps that comprised his early-warning system. Keeping his rifle cocked, he went over every inch of the hummock to make sure there was no breach in his defenses, secure in the knowledge that he was in danger.
By ten o'clock the sun had burned through the mist and hung like a bright, brassy ball in the sky. Lee took off his shirt and allowed the heat to burn into his muscles.
Rye lay back against the stern, happy to be back out on the water, happy to be alive. He squinted out at the passing scene, then began to talk. Partially speaking to Lee but mostly to himself.
"Lookin' back on my life," he said, "I can see I made the best of what I had. Yes, sir, twenty-five years ago, when I come to Miami, I wasn't nothin' but a bigmouthed kid with twenty-three dollars in my pocket and a shoe box full of swamp muck. Within five years I was worth twenty mill. I once made five mill in just one day. All strictly legal, of course."
"Of course," repeated Lee with a sneer.
"Well, legal, anyway," said Rye. "Maybe not strictly. What a deal that was! I did it all like Zeckendorf's pineapple. That ain't a crop, it's a..." Rye searched around for the proper word.
"Scam?" Lee suggested.
Rye ignored him and went on. "First I bought myself this here building for ninety-nine million. 'Course, I got investors to raise the money. Okay, so then I turned around the next day and sold it for one hundred."
"So you made a million dollars in a day?"
"Chickenfeed," said Rye. "Because then I leased it back from the new owner for seven million a year on a hundred-year lease, which I immediately sublet to other tenants, meanwhile borrowing from a bank against my leasehold, which I turn around, and, get this, Boone, I sell it!" Rye beamed at Lee as if he had just finished describing the Second Coming. "Understand how it works?" he asked, mistaking the look of disgust on Lee's face for confusion."
"No, and I ain't interested, neither."
"Well, maybe you ought to be," snapped Rye. "Unless you plan on spendin' the rest of your life without a pot to piss in."
"I can piss on the ground."
"Very funny, Boone. Most men'd give their left nut for my advice. Let me tell you a little story. Ever hear of a guy called Half-Pint Smith?"
Lee shook his head blandly, trying to communicate a lack of interest. He was beginning to regret that he hadn't finished Rye off while he had the chance.
Rye continued undaunted. "Half-Pint Smith come from Coral Gables. Poor guy didn't have no legs. They was severed at the hip, and he'd have to go around on this oak plank that had four casters attached. They say he could really make that thing move, though. Now, Half-Pint was a counterfeiter. And he wasn't all that good at it, neither. He must have been hauled into court twenty times; half the time they caught him so red-handed, the bills were still wet from the ink. But Half-Pint wasn't never convicted. Fuckin' guy'd come before the jury on his lawyer's shoulders—now you tell me how a jury's gonna convict him. Hell, the whole damned courtroom would stand up cheerin', while Half-Pint would mount that wood plank of his, go speedin' up the aisle and out the door. There was a guy who didn't sit around, pissin' and moanin'; he made the best of the hand life dealt him. He had a pretty good time of it, too. Even had a woman, name of Darby."
Lee sneered. "And that's what you figure it's all about, havin' a good time of it?"
"I see you ain't got my point," said Rye. "I see you ain't got my point at all. Look around. When I was a boy, just about all of Florida looked like this. Muddy water, watery mud, mosquitoes so thick they hunted in packs. You've been to Miami, haven't you? Well, it's really something, all right. Since I've been there, I've seen most of the hotels go up. Hell, I built half of 'em myself. It ain't easy buildin' in Miami; it's all sand at the base. Now, you take New York. Under all those buildings is rocks, makes it much cheaper and easier to build. But Miami is sand. Nonetheless, all of us, we come down there and built on it."
Lee interrupted. "You happen to notice any of them piles of concrete out here?"
"Yeah, I was wondering what the hell they was."
"Well, there's one over there," said Lee. "When we pass, take a good look at it." He poled the skiff closer to shore.
Knifing through the sawgrass, coming from nowhere and leading to nowhere, was a concrete sidewalk almost completely hidden by the dense growth. Several strangler figs had wound themselves around the stones and buckled them.
As they drew closer, Lee said, "At one time, they planned to build whole towns down here, with shops and factories. Look, you can even see the fire hydrants. Dream towns, they called them. Look at 'em now. It's like building on sand."
Rye watched in amazement as they passed the sidewalks, once built for men, now under the ownership of ants and gator bugs. Finally, he said, "Maybe you're right. But that ain't what's important. What's important is they were built at all."
"And it don't matter what happens to them later?"
"It matters," said Rye. "But you still got to try."
"Even though you know you're gonna lose?" Lee asked.
"That's right," answered Rye. "Even though you know you're gonna lose."
Lee could feel his anger evaporating. Rye was a son of a bitch, but Lee had to admit he wasn't without a kind of charm. "You're a strange man," he said.
Rye chuckled. "I ain't never said I wasn't."
Lee wiped the sweat from his face and gave an involuntary sigh. The combination of hot sun and hard poling was taking its toll, and he was tired. Then he felt something pull against the boat pole. Without a word of acknowledgment, Rye took the pole from Lee's hands, shoved his way into the stern, and began pushing them through the muddy swamp water, as though he had been taking turns with Lee all along.
It only took them an hour to reach Cashman's Swamp, and another hour to go over it inch by inch. Still there was no alligator. Finally Lee suggested they continue on from there in the same direction they had been headed. Since Rye had no better suggestions, Lee took back the pole and began pushing them through the series of large open-water areas connected by small natural canals.
At two o'clock, Lee pulled out of the open water and turned down a long, narrow slough. It was like crossing to the windward side of a mountain. The green thick vegetation disappeared abruptly, leaving only an occasional strangler fig or scrub willow to break the incredible desolation. Otherwise, all they could see was a blanket of the sawgrass, brown, razor-sharp, growing thicker and denser than ever before.
As the slough snaked around, it grew increasingly narrow, until the banks were practically touching one another. The thick sawgrass choked off what little water there was, making it difficult to tell where the land ended and the water began.
The channel was becoming narrower and shallower with every stroke. In places it was so shallow that the thick, ragged sawgrass dragged along the bottom of the boat.
Lee had to squint against the sun as he looked ahead at the thin, murky, algae-clogged byway that sliced through the sawgrass. He felt that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on just what it was. Perhaps it was just that he was tired, he thought. Shoving the pole deep into the muck, he continued to inch them forward, trying to dismiss the feeling from his mind.
Rye watched him poling, then looked back out at the grassy water. He had been growing increasingly upse
t. They had lost the trail. He didn't know what they should be doing, but he felt they should be doing something.
He turned on Lee angrily and snapped, "We passed Cashman's Swamp two hours ago," he said. "You ask me, we ain't never going to find him."
"We don't have to," answered Lee. "He's found us." Lee pointed to a fork in the tributary. Cutting across the grass was a thick swath of destruction; it looked like a bulldozer had rolled through. "That's him," said Lee. "That couldn't have been made by anything else. See that patch over there? That's where he stopped; he was deciding which way to go. Then see how it goes in that direction? He chose the narrowest channel, which is strange."
Rye tried to read the trail as Lee had, but it just looked like matted grass to him. "How can you be sure which way he's goin'? Maybe he's heading where we came from."
"Look at the way the grass is bent."
Rye suddenly became animated. He sat up straight in the skiff, feeling a surge of energy. "Well, sir, now that's good news. So it wasn't so hard to find him after all." He looked over at Lee, and was surprised by the look of concern on his face.
"No," said Lee, "it wasn't hard at all. As a matter of fact, it was simple, maybe too simple. He ain't hidin' his trail. It's almost like he wants us to know where he is."
Rye shot a sardonic grin at Lee. "Don't tell me you figure that animal's layin' false tracks, because you ain't gonna get me to believe that."
"I wish that was it," said Lee. "No, I think he's suckin' us in. Making us go deeper and deeper into the swamps, till the wind and the rain has chewed us down to size. Look, common sense said the alligator didn't have a chance against that huntin' party we went out with. Odds were someone would be able to kill him. It left the alligator with two choices. He could head off and hide out till we all gave up, or he could make the swamp his ally."
"You know, Boone, you get spookier by the day."
"You don't believe me?" asked Lee, though Rye's face told him that he did.
"Let's say I do." Rye prepared himself for Lee's inevitable argument for heading back. "What do we do now?"
