by Andrew Allan
“My thoughts, too,” I said.
“Glad I’m not the only one.” She brightened with the hope I had given her.
“The circumstances were very odd,” I said.
“He totally could have gotten away. Those things are fast. But, not that fast.”
“Have you mentioned this to anyone? Besides me.”
“Yes. I told a few people. No one’s buying it.” She looked off frustrated. “Look, I don’t mean to hold you up. I’m just really upset about Ken. He was the best. He got things done. He made a difference for all of us. I just wish I could find a way to make a difference for him,” she said.
“Well, I think if you carry on his work, that would make him happy,” I said.
An awkward hug ended the conversation and I wandered back to my car. I didn’t start the engine. My suspicions had just been validated, even if Nadine was her own kind of handful. Social proof. If other people say it so, then it must be so. I used that technique all the time in my writing. Why wouldn’t it apply here? I started the car and headed home.
Back at the house, I ate, digested for a few then called the Sheriff.
“Please hold. I’ll patch you through,” said the receptionist. It turned into a ten-minute wait. The sheriff answered, “This is Sheriff Baker.”
“Hi, Walt Asher. We met the other day.”
“Alligators.”
“Yes.”
“Awful shame. Heard a lot of nice things about that man while we were following up on the case. How’d the wife take it?”
“As expected.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes. So, I won’t keep you long. I wanted to follow up on that vial I gave you. The glass one with the letter codes on the side.”
“That liquid was pesticide. And, the lawn man had just been there the day before.”
I was hit with a mix of emotions – relieved it wasn’t looking like murder, bummed because it was dumb that Ken would die from gators.
“Did the lawn guy say he used that type of pesticide?”
“He did indeed.”
That answered that.
“Okay, thanks for looking into it,” I said.
“Sure thing. Take care,” he said.
I hung up. Case closed.
CHAPTER SIX
I FELT EVEN more relieved the next morning. Mourning plus suspicion had been occupying too much of my mind. The difference was tangible when I sat down to work an hour later. The words flowed. Ideas came quick and I fell into a groove. I was Walt the writer again. Within two hours I had most of my pitch mapped out, short of a splash of showmanship to make it memorable. Leaning back in my chair, I knew what I wanted to say, but not quite how to--
A movement in the reflection of my computer screen.
Deep pain stung my neck. I grabbed at it in a panic. Arms yanked me back as a thin, sharp, metal wire – a garrote! – twisted tighter and tighter around my throat, choking the air out of it.
I twisted on my desk chair to create slack. Nothing doing. Two black-gloved fists cranked the wire tighter. No mercy. I sliced my fingertips trying to loosen the wire. I swung at the attacker. He dodged left and right, keeping tight control. The garrote cut into my neck. I felt my face turn heavy and hot with blood. Unable to yell, losing breath. My vision started to darken. I set a foot against a support brace under my desk and kicked. The thrust pushed my chair over and back, landing on the attacker. It knocked the wind out of him and the garrote loosened. I spilled over and away, grabbed my throat, and scrambled to my feet as he charged for me. I dodged him and shoved his back as he leapt past me. His head dented my metal filing cabinet. Papers flew through the air and wrapped around my leg as I kicked his ribs.
"What do you want?” I said, more scared than tough. I stepped back to create room between the attacker and me and took in his appearance - his face was covered in a cloth hood. Black, with just two eyeholes. Not like the Klan. Like a...medieval executioner. His arms were lean and ropey, yet all muscle and scars. He pulled a sinister, ornate hand scythe from his back pocket. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed two knives out of the block. Adrenaline crackled through my body. Footsteps – behind me. I turned and slashed.
“Get the fuck out of here!”
The attacker, shook off the blow and lowered into an attack stance. His crazy eyes narrowed behind the holes in his hood. He gripped the scythe handle and swung it through the air. He knew it was intimidating. He laughed.
I ran the opposite direction, through the kitchen and around the corner towards the front door. He chased after me. Hoping for this, I ducked around a nearby wall in the dark living room. As my attacker ran past, I jammed the cooking knife into the side of his gut. I turned queasy feeling the blade slice into his abdomen muscle and let go out of shock, stunned by my impulsive actions. No time to dwell on it.
He screamed and ripped the blade out. Blood drizzle flowed out of the wound. He raised his scythe and swung with rage. I ducked and ran as he sliced the air with the blade, swinging harder and faster. The last swing smashed the blade into the wall and sprayed drywall dust around the room like a powder firework. He grabbed at his eye with his free hand, turned, and ran after me.
I dashed out of the house. No car keys. A Ford Mustang I didn’t recognize was parked just down the road, lights out, a silhouette behind the wheel. He must have seen me right as I saw him because the headlights flicked on and lit me up bright. Now, he could see me and I couldn’t see him.
I raced across my neighbor Al’s yard and down the dirt road, not sure of where I was headed. I looked back. The Mustang had pulled up to my house. The attacker jumped in. The hi-beams went on, illuminating the dust I had kicked up from the road...and me. The Mustang raced my way.
I hauled ass and cut through Tom and Tammy Pepper’s yard. Their long, low ranch house was dark. They were part timers on the river. I cut around the corner of their home, ran down towards the river, and stopped. The Mustang grew louder. I stopped behind the blind side of a tall, thick pine tree and held still.
The Mustang pulled onto the lawn and stopped. The hi-beams were pointed straight at the tree I was leaning against. I looked for an escape route.
They revved the engine. I tensed. A pain grew in my chest as I tried to hold my breath. I didn’t want to make a sound. What the hell is going on?
A thought: There were two of them. The attacker and a driver. If they got out of the car and walked this way I was in trouble. I couldn’t fight both of them.
The car engine idled in the darkness. My eyes scanned the area ahead of me. The hi-beams had illuminated the entire backyard. The only direction I could run where they might not see me was straight ahead. But, they’d hear me splash into the water. I stayed put and listened for their next move.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Mosquitos buzzed. Both made it difficult to hear what was happening behind me, on the other side of the tree. A car door opened. I heard a few footsteps press down on the thick Bermuda grass. Someone cocked a gun. Then...nothing.
The lights continued to shine past me, the tree keeping me in the shadows. If it were winter they’d have seen the steam of my breath waft out. I stayed motionless, worried my broad shoulders were peeking out either side of the tree.
A voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. A different language?
“We are your death, Asher.”
Definitely accented.
And, damn. This was no random attack. They knew my name. The assured delivery of his words was terrifying. Like my death was inevitable.
I peeked out the corner of my eyes, both directions, hoping my peripheral vision would catch a glimpse of them coming around the tree. I worried they would swing a rope around the tree, tying me down before I could make a move.
I still had no plan. My heart thundered. It was so tense any kind of action, good or bad, would have been a relief.
More footsteps. Hold my breath. The car engine revved like a growing menace. Dammit, come on!
> I decided my best chance was to run straight down the sloping yard, then cut behind another cluster of pine trees, run onto the dock and dive off the end of it. That would get me the farthest from them the quickest. The dock and water meant they couldn’t follow me with their car. The river was black at night and would provide some cover if they tried shooting at me. And, if I were lucky enough to reach the far riverbank, I could hide amongst cypress knees and eventually make my way out the other side.
There was just one problem. Alligators. They stayed away during the day when crowds of people floated down river. But at night, the river was their domain. And I, didn’t want to meet the same grisly fate as Ken.
More footsteps. Closer. The alligators were becoming better odds. I caught my breath and tensed up, ready to run. My palms were behind me, pressed against the bark of the tree for an extra push off. No other way. I gotta run for it. Three...two...
Words. Foreign. French? Impatient? Urgent. I couldn’t make it out.
Quick footsteps...the other way. The car door slammed shut. The engine revved loud and wild. I stayed frozen. I heard the clutch shift and saw the headlights recede across the lawn.
As soon as the lights were off the tree, I ran – WAIT! STOP! Think first!
What if...what if they slammed the door shut and backed the car out just to make me think they left. But, what if...one stayed behind ready to attack when I pop up? I listened. I waited. No sound. The longer I stayed, the more time they had to sneak up on me.
Fuck it.
I ran and slid under scrub brush closer to the river. Better cover. I let out a big breath and allowed myself to relax a little. I continued to stare in the direction the car had been. I could still see the wash from its headlights illuminating trees down the road. Was anyone hiding in the shadows? There was no movement.
So now what? They knew my name and where I lived and they wanted to kill me. They knew I was in the area and couldn't get far without my car. Likely odds, they were staking out my house, if not the whole street. And, there may have been more of them. Best way out? The river.
CHAPTER SEVEN
COUNT TO TEN...Catch breath...Go!
I crawled out of the bushes. My eyes were adjusted to the moonlight, so I could better scan the property. It looked clear. I rose and ran, careful to stay in the tree shadows, weaving towards a storage shed near the back of the house.
The shed was open and, as I had hoped, there were paddleboards inside. I felt along the ground inside the shed to make sure nothing was in the way, then pulled out a board and laid it on the grass. I peeked over my shoulder. No attackers. I shut the shed door without making a sound then grabbed the board and ran to the edge of the river.
I didn’t use the dock. Too high, and I’d be too visible for anyone who might be watching the area. Water rippled as I slid the board across the surface, steadied it, then belly crawled onto it. I grabbed a pylon and pushed out to the end of the dock.
The board was stealth, no sound to its movement. At the end of the dock, I grabbed the last worn, wooden support and stopped. As if pulling out into traffic, I inched forward and looked both ways. No sign of life in either direction. But, it was there...at least the amphibious kind.
I pushed off and drifted forward until the current took me. The good news: I wouldn’t have to paddle so much. I was too close to shore and the sound would carry. As clear as I could hear the barred owls hooting and the gators croaking, I knew those hunters would be able to hear any sound I made. The bad news: the current was taking me back towards my house where my attackers could be waiting for me. If I made it past there undetected, I knew a safe place three-quarters of a mile down river, where it splits.
Hunters? Attackers...assassins?! What the hell is going on? I thought. But, then I knew. There was just one possibility. It had to do with Ken.
Despite this mortal terror creeping into my mind, I couldn’t help but notice what a stunning night Florida provided – clear skies, a balmy breeze, and mild temperatures, which in Florida means anything lower than 90-degrees. I dunked my hands in the river and wiped cool water onto my face. That helped me to relax and adjust my patience to the river’s pace. I felt happy I’d lived to float down it again.
The pleasure was short-lived. As I passed my house I saw two separate orange glowing embers floating in the darkness. Cigarette tips. Each in a different mouth and on opposite sides of the property.
They were waiting for me. I leaned to one side of the board and watched them as I floated past the house, ready to roll into the water if they spotted me. They didn’t.
Once the current had taken me around two big bends I felt secure enough to paddle without revealing my location. So, I did, picking up the pace and steering my board into the long tree shadows and out of the bright, white moonlight. Intermittent splashes let me know when a fish broke the surface or an alligator slid off the muddy bank into the water. I knew the river was crawling with them. But, I couldn’t think about that now. Just keep paddling.
It took twenty minutes to get to the fork in the river. By then, I was on my knees, hunched over, and paddling harder. The extra effort was necessary to cut across the current and over to the left fork in the river. A few moments of turbulence, then calm. It wouldn’t take long to reach the safest place around.
The safe house was three-quarters of a mile down river and belonged to Donwald Jefferson Gary - abbreviated to Donnie Gary or Dongar or DG. And, that’s the only thing abbreviated about this loud, proud, and obnoxious redneck biker. He was big and brawny with a sun-scorched, bulldog face—the automatic center of attention in any room he entered. He gave people who didn't know him the willies and the people who did know him a great time, every time–as long as you weren't looking for discretion, social grace, or manners. Since I wasn't looking for social niceties, I was glad to know him.
I entered Donnie Gary’s good time, no bullshit orbit a few years back. He and his biker friends, best described as a wolf pack, had built some kind of floating human catapult contraption for kicks and were towing it down the river with a pontoon boat. As the boat floated, the catapult launched people into the air. They’d kick and flail, and most often look surprised at how high and far they’d been flung, all before splashing down into the water. Donnie Gary sat in the catapult as the pontoon chugged past my house.
“Do it! Launch this big ole hunk of love,” he yelled to the boat driver.
However, Donnie Gary’s girth shanked the launch and he shot at a side angle right into my small dock house, leveling it. His friends looked on from the boat, shocked yet drunken and amused.
“Holy goddamn shit!” one of the boat revelers said.
To everyone’s surprise, DG had broken no bones and avoided impalement as his body tore through the wood and spilled onto my lawn. I was on my back porch writing at the time and witnessed the entire spectacle. As I walked down the lawn, scowling mad at the condition of my dock house, Donnie Gary climbed out of the rubble laughing. It took him a moment to get his balance and bearings. But, this was a high moment of hilarity he wouldn’t soon forget. His friends went from cautious snickering to high voltage laughter once they saw he was okay.
“Nice flying. Hope you brought your wallet,” I tacked on a smile to keep it civil.
Donnie Gary bent over and held his knees with more hysterical laughter, almost gasping for air through his beet-red face. He looked at me and pointed, still howling.
“Look at your stupid face!...haha...you’re so mad...Oh, my god, that’s the best!” Perfect. Now, I had the insult to go with the injury. Or at least my dock house’s injury.
“Thought I was gonna hit the riverbank...but, my fat ass just kept flying,” he said as he looked up to the sky, held his belly, and continued howling.
His laughter was contagious and it was easy to see the humor in it. Once he caught his breath, he walked over to me, threw his arm around my shoulders, and apologized. He brought me in tight, like we’d been friends all our lives, and poi
nted down the river.
“To get to my place, you take the fork left and look for the dock with the barbed wire,” DG said. “Trust me. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Swing by later today and I’ll have your money – in cash – and the best damn barbecue hog you’ll ever eat.”
“Will do,” I said.
He was right. I stopped by DG’s later that afternoon and had the time of my life. We’ve been buddies every since.
As my board finished its approach, I paddled over and took hold of Donnie Gary’s dock. Unsure of what creatures might be lurking underneath it at this time of night, I did my best to leap onto the dock without touching the water. Once aboard, I pulled the paddle board out of the water and set it on the wood surface. I looked down river from where I came. There was no sign of human life behind me. A breeze made my dripping wet body shiver as I walked up the long dock towards Donnie Gary’s cracker shanty house.
I had to watch my step. The moon only lit up so much and the towering trees blocked half the light. The mosquitos had quite the gauntlet set up for me, stinging my neck, arms, and legs along the way.
I heard a splash and a snap. I stopped, lost balance, and almost fell off the dock. Good thing I didn’t. Waiting below was DG’s alligator pen. Twelve of the nasty bastards looked up at me, ready to feast, as they sloshed around in the dark muck.
Knowing Donnie Gary, there was an assortment of possibilities as to why he had a pen full of alligators. Could be food, for skinning, maybe even rehabilitation. They creeped me out. Even more since Ken’s accident. But, it could no longer be called that. Not after tonight. I stepped off the dock and scooted up the dirt trail.
As usual, something loud and feisty was happening at DG’s. I heard it before I saw it. Laughter, music, and grill smoke wafted through the night air and made my stomach grumble. Just as I veered off the walking path, I saw strung-up fiesta lights dangling from the trees.
