by Andrew Allan
I threw a rock at him. He swatted it away with the axe and charged forth.
I leaped over a small brook, which cut through the trail I had been following. The grass had been pressed down due to regular traffic. Unless the French brothers just enjoyed nature hikes, that meant I was going somewhere specific. And, only he knew what was ahead. Maybe he knew there was no way out. What would I do then?
I kept moving. I put enough distance between the two of us, maybe about thirty feet, where I could slow down to look for more rocks or some sort of weapon.
I reached down for a rock and--
The tree right next to me cracked and split, shooting splinters against my face and body. The axe had flow mere inches from my head.
I looked back. He ran towards me.
If he could through that massive blade with that much precision, I was in more trouble than I thought. I ran full speed further into the woods.
The ground turned swampy. My shoes stuck microseconds longer and longer the further I ran into the muck. I hoped my shoe wouldn’t come off and slow me down.
My shoe got stuck in the mud and pulled right off. A glance over my shoulder - he was approaching fast. Despite his massive size, he was able to leap over logs and duck under branches with agile ease. The big battle-axe swung in his hands.
I left the shoe and boogied further into the woods. Next thing I knew, I was up to my knees slogging through swamp water. I used the hard, upright knobs of nearby cypress trees to keep my balance and propel myself forward. The swamp seemed to sprawl forever in every direction. Options were running out.
With the water slowing me down he started to catch up. He charged into the deeper water without hesitation. I pressed on. I threw my last rock. He dodged it. He held the axe up out of the water. It was cocked back on his shoulder and ready to swing at the perfect moment.
Up to my waist now. I debated giving up running and switching to swimming. But, just as I was about to dive I saw the gory remnants of a human corpse floating in the water.
Headless, missing an entire shoulder and top of a rib cage, and recently plucked by vultures.
So, this is what they do with the bodies.
It was nauseating.
It also stopped my forward progress.
But, not Luther’s. He closed in, ready to strike.
I stepped forward and sunk down to my neck. Either I’d stepped off an underwater ledge or the silty muck could no longer hold my weight. I was going down.
I spun myself in the water and looked back. Luther was twenty feet away and charging. The water wasn’t slowing him down. And, he wasn’t sinking.
Fifteen feet away.
I looked around for options. Nothing.
Ten feet.
Luther lifted the battle-axe with both hands over his head. He charged forward.
Five feet.
I ducked down into the dark water.
Three feet.
Luther shot forward, axe first. The deadly blade flew right at my head.
I submerged down to my chin...my mouth...my nose...
Something massive shot out of the water between Luther and me.
An alligator. Big, green, and with a jaw full of razor sharp teeth. It’s jagged, leathery back was covered in algae slop and dripping with mud.
I froze.
The alligator’s teeth sunk into Luther’s massive torso. Geysers of blood squirted in several directions. Some even splashed near me. I knew it more than I saw it. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dueling beasts.
Luther smashed his axe blade into the gator’s back forcing a deep croak from its throat. The blade was sharp enough to cut through the tough exterior, but didn’t go deep. The gator flopped and rolled Luther under the water. The tip of its tail splashed mere inches from my half submerged face.
They were rolling my way!
I dove under the water and swam out of the way. When I came up they had moved several feet in the opposite direction. Luther pulled the gator out of the water and hacked off one of its hind legs. Blood poured out of the wound and turned the tail crimson. When the tail flicked, it shot blood in every direction.
Luther swung the blade in between the top and bottom of the gator’s jaw. The hard, heavy metal sent gator teeth flying.
The gator roared as it attempted to clamp down on Luther. They both fell back under the water.
Silence.
Long enough for me to look around and see...
More gators. Their beady eyes just above the water’s surface. They smelled blood and were heading my way.
Being neck deep in a body of water with a gator nearby is its own special kind of terror. One that makes you get the hell out of there, everything else be damned.
Run!
I splashed and ran and grabbed my way through the swamp, away from the gators, away from Luther and the gator thrashing a short distance away. My heart felt ready to burst. I’d never been this scared in my life.
A loud gator croak echoed across the water. I didn’t look back. Just run, crawl, fight, GO!
I reached higher ground and fell flat in the mud. I crawled and kicked my way to drier soil, pushed myself up on a log, flailed over it, desperate to put something – anything! - between me and the gators and...
Luther screamed.
I got up fast and looked back. Luther ripped the battle-axe through the gator he’d been wrestling. It flopped dead in the water. But, by that point the gators that had been after me were nearly on him. He started smashing the battle-axe into the water.
A gator sunk its teeth into his thigh and dragged him down.
One more executioner about dead and done for.
I’ll take it.
Now, get me the hell away from these beasts.
I ran through the woods, the way I’d come earlier. The sun was close to setting, leaving a dark blue sky with clouds tinged pink. When I arrived at the clearing, Remy was still dead on the ground. Good. I ran towards the house.
Another cry echoed from deep in the swamp. I didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t care. All I wanted was more distance between me and those gators and this hellhole. Even though I’d won the battle, I felt like I was sinking into a rotten quicksand of sleaze and death. I was desperate to wash off me. But, I knew I wouldn’t be able to cleanse my mind of these horrors for a long, long time.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I RAN INTO the house and down the hallways through which they’d dragged me. As anxious as I was to flee, curiosity stopped me. I studied the photos on the walls: The executioners, smiling. Happier times? I suppose they’d had them. One picture in particular caught my eye. I pulled it off the wall and examined it. It was the four executioners – Clovis, Remy, Luther, and the man I had killed on the street near Ilsa’s, “Barry Wilson”. They were standing with another man. He looked familiar. His face had similar features to the other four men. They were related. Luther and Remy was the older pair. Clovis, Barry Wilson, and this other man were younger. I ripped off the back panel of the frame and pulled the picture out. There, on the back, written in finely detailed cursive – Pere Luther, Uncle Remy, et fils Clovis & Adolphe et Archibald.
Wait a minute.
I looked at the photo.
I’d seen that face before.
But, this picture had to be at least fifteen years old. I couldn’t place it. I moved on.
I ran into the weapon room. Teddy’s body was dead on the worktable and appeared to have completely drained of blood, which was everywhere. I had to steel myself from vomiting. It was horrible. I ran towards the door on the other side of the room as fast as I could.
But, I stopped. There was something I had to do.
I turned around to the worktable. The worst of Teddy was at the far end. I needed to check his pockets. To see. Just, to see. If there was a clue. A note. Something.
I walked over to the table. The willies sent chills down my back. I didn’t want to touch a dead body. Let alone one I felt I’d been r
esponsible for. But, I had to do it.
Teddy’s blood had spilled under and around the table. That meant I’d have to walk through it. More willies. Bad ones. Some things you can’t un-see. I would never forget this nightmare.
I couldn’t do it. Besides being beyond gross, somehow it felt disrespectful to walk my muddy shoes onto this man’s blood. The very thing that had kept him alive.
So, I climbed up onto the table, which was not bloody, and crawled across it My arms and legs were shaky – from fear, from shock, from a mental hex I put on myself that made me think I would slip and fall any moment now.
But, that didn’t happen. Instead, I reached Teddy and crawled up to his pockets. I placed my knees between his legs and did my best not to touch any part of him.
I dug my fingers in his pockets. Back left pocket, nothing. Back right pocket, nothing. I had to check the front pockets. Eww.
I took a big breath then wiggled my hand under his body. His dead weight made him difficult to lift. But, my fingers crawled inside his pocket. Nothing. Damn.
I shifted weight to my other leg and reached under his left side, wiggled my hand under his torso, and guided my crawling fingers into his pocket. Slow. Easy. Don’t think about the fact that you’re basically fondling a headless corpse, Walt.
My fingertips hit something. Paper. Folded.
I pushed the body with my free hand, tipping it to make more room to reach. My hand sunk inside the pocket. I paused.
Ugh...it was wet.
I snatched the paper out fast, as if something inside the pocket was going to bite me.
The paper was damp soft and red. No time to sit around. I scrambled off the table, making a point not to step or splash in any of the blood.
Once clear, I unfolded the paper. At first all I saw was the bloody Rorschach print formed by Teddy’s blood. Then, I saw his notes. A checklist with names and ideas. Some scratched off, some not. One name jumped out – Arch Gagnon. The politician. Circled and starred. Urgency in the writing. This was important. Did he meet with Arch? Did he learn something? Did Arch know something?
Arch Gagnon meant something to Teddy. And, then Luther found him. That wouldn’t happen doing research at the library. They wouldn’t have recognized Teddy or been on the lookout for him.
So, how did Luther find Teddy and know Teddy would lead them to me?
Arch.
Dot connect.
The picture on the wall.
The politician with the executioners. Fils?
Fourth grade French class comes through again. Fils means...Jesus...
Arch Gagnon is Archibald, Luther the executioner’s son.
“March with Arch!”
Arch Gagnon is a Union County politician. A politician with clout and reach up to Tallahassee. A politician who could run in elite circles. A politician who would know Rep Wingart. A politician who intimately knew the State of Florida’s death row executioners. A politician perfectly poised to bring the two parties together for profit.
“March with” Arch Gagnon is the middleman.
And, he was the last of these bastards alive. He didn’t know his brothers were dead. He couldn’t. He’d be thinking they’d gotten Teddy and were waiting for me or had me. They could have called him from the truck. They could have done it from the house while Teddy and I were gassed.
Safe assumption – Arch knew Luther and Remy had me and were ready to kill me.
And, what did Remy say? About another job to do? Who? When? Right after they killed my ass dead.
But, that didn’t happen. Last Arch heard, I was going to die and Luther and Remy were going to leave for their next job.
Perfect. Arch couldn’t know I was alive. And, he was who I needed to see next.
A nearby phone rang.
I froze in place. Two, three, four rings. An old-fashioned sounding landline. That you Arch? Calling to see if your brothers got the job done? Wanting to know if you’re in the clear? So, you can put all the blame on me? So, you can get back to business?
Bad news, Arch. Business was about to get brutal.
I snatched a savage looking buck knife off the wall and got out of there.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
I TOOK THE only vehicle around – the truck they’d brought me in. It was a growler; it shook, rumbled, and roared down the road. The soft cloth bench seat bounced me with every bump in the road. My body ached so much, part of me just wanted to pull over and lay down. There’d be time for rest later.
I wasn’t a cop or a reporter or a spy...or anyone you’d think could stop three executioners. But, I’d done it. This mild-mannered infomercial writer fought them and beat them. They’d tried to kill me but couldn’t. The executioners were dead. I won. That put wind in my sails for the tasks that lay ahead.
First, I had to find Arch Gagnon. He was just as guilty as Luther, Remy, Barry, Clovis...and Wingart. He had to pay, but, how? I’d get him alive. Alive to fill in facts for the cops and prove my innocence. Alive to turn off the phony media witch-hunt that portrayed me as a mass murderer on the loose. I needed him to clear my name. I also wanted to know what he knew – when did the executioners start? How many were there? Who were the victims? Who were the clients? I wanted to know all of it.
I wanted to know how much money he made per execution—a disgusting statistic to be sure. But, I had to know. I had to know what amount of money he thought justified wiping a person off the planet. And, I wanted to know why he felt he had the authority to make that happen.
I wanted a clean slate. That meant throwing light on all the dirty details. Not just the execution ring, but the other stuff. The perks and privileges Wingart hinted about. The stuff Arch Gagnon held over Wingart. Let’s get it all out. Show the world and let the motherfuckers burn in the sunlight. I’ll be happy to hold the magnifying glass.
Exposure. That was my job now.
As soon as I could make that happen I could go back to my life, to Ilsa, to my kids. And with a little luck, that would happen tonight.
Arch Gagnon dead wouldn’t do me much good. I wouldn’t get the details I needed. I needed to pin him down and get a confession. On paper and signed. I felt the buck knife at my side. That would provoke the direct response I was looking for. My guess: Gagnon the politician didn’t have the stones to stand up to a deadly blade like that. Not like his brothers had.
Speaking of which, I’d need to let the cops know where Clovis’ body – and his bodies – were. The gory garden. And, I’d have to tip them off to Luther and Remy’s place. A quick look around there and they’d know exactly what those boys had been up to. They’d find weapons, bodies, and maybe even victim details to lock down the case against them.
A regret: Luther, Remy, and Clovis wouldn’t get to stew on their very own death row. They wouldn’t get to sit in the electric chair they’d once controlled. Wouldn’t get to feel the lethal injection push poison into their veins. That’s the poetic justice the world deserved.
Rage drove my thinking. I’d need to get that under control. Let the shell shock have its way with me later. That was inevitable. Too much had happened; too much trauma, too much fear, too much death. My mental fabric had been ripped. My previous identity shredded. Like anything, it could be mended back together. But, it would never be the same.
My time in the hospital a few years back had proven this true. In good health otherwise, I had gone in for a routine appendectomy. It was anything but. I aspirated. My lungs collapsed. And, I went into a sedative induced coma. The first doctor gave up on me. A second opinion doc made all the difference and got me on the road to recovery.
However, the sedatives made me freak. I was a raging madman every time they tried to bring me out of the coma. So, they put me back under. It went on for eight long days. And, I knew nothing about it. When I finally woke up a week and a day later I had double vision. My muscles had atrophied so much I couldn’t walk, sit up, or even hold a fork.
I improved day by day, but it was terr
ifying. I dreaded knowing I’d been in good health and still came so close to dying. Just like that...I was almost gone. My parents wouldn’t have a son. My kids wouldn’t have a father. Ilsa wouldn’t have her partner. Despite a quick recovery, it was heavy stuff.
That first week at home alone was scary. I had to keep my mind occupied in order to keep the black thoughts out. I experienced that dire dose of mortality that makes the bravest men cower. Death was inevitable. You just didn’t think it was coming for you, right then and there. After a close brush with it, the specter of death became a shadowy template you lay over all the different aspects of your life. It made you wonder how many years you had left with your parents...what you could do for your kids to prepare for when you were gone. Have you lived a full life? Have you made a difference? Questions like these leave you flattened on the couch with tears streaked down your face.
Once the shock of the past several days wore off, and my wounds started to heal, I would again be left alone to contemplate all that had happened – all that was lost and all that was saved. I’d find myself flattened again on the couch wondering what if. My hospital shell shock would pale compared to what I psychic trauma I could expect after this.
Arch Gagnon had a big bill to pay. And, I was coming to collect.
The motel where Teddy and I had almost stayed was on the way back into town. I swung into the parking lot and tried the motel room door. Locked. I didn’t have the key. So, I ran over to the front desk and was greeted with a very suspicious look from the Indian desk manager. I told him I’d lost the key, could I have another. He relented. I ran back to the room and did a quick search. No notes, no nothing.
I hopped back in the truck and headed for Arch’s office. A quick stop at a nearby gas station to get directions was required. As I climbed back into the truck I realized I was no longer worried about being identified as a criminal. The situation had changed enough in my favor.
