Lost in the Bayou

by Cornell DeVille

  I jump when I hear the chattering of wooden legs on the concrete floor and see my uncle dragging another chair toward me. He pulls it into the light and brings it to a stop a few feet away from the one I’m sitting in. I’m still shivering and wondering what’s going to happen next. And I’m dreading to learn what may be inside that lunchbox. I don’t want to know.

  His breath rushes out with a heavy sigh as he collapses in the chair across from me and swipes the water from his forehead with the back of his hand. He leans forward and picks up the box by the black plastic handle, and he places it on his lap. When he moves it, the sound is unmistakable. There’s something metal inside.

  Pliers? Nippers?

  A smile crosses his face when he looks down at the lunchbox. His fingertips caress the raised image, and he gazes at it for some time without speaking. The cellar is silent except for the occasional rumble of thunder and the sound of my jerky breathing. He’s still wearing a smile when he finally looks up from the box and into my eyes.

  “His name was John Reid, you know.”

  “What?” I ask, with no idea what he’s talking about. I’m surprised that his voice seems so calm. It’s as if he’s forgotten. As if his memory of me pushing him down the steps has vanished completely.

  The water is still running out of his hair and down his face as he nods. He points to the image on the lunchbox. “John Reid. That was his real name before he became the Lone Ranger.” He reaches forward and picks up the whiskey bottle. His metal claw snaps around the lid and unscrews it. When he tosses the lid over his shoulder and into the darkness, it lands on the concrete floor with a distant and hollow ping. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink of the amber liquid.

  “John Reid. That was his name.” He wipes his sleeve across his lips. “Did you know that?”

  This is so crazy I can’t believe it’s happening. He’s sitting across from me, holding a child’s lunchbox and talking about the Lone Ranger. I shake my head, still uncertain where he’s heading with this.

  “No,” I reply with a voice that’s thin and shaky. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, that was his real name, all right. He was a Texas Ranger. That was before he got ambushed at Bryant’s Gap.” He takes another swig from the bottle. “Butch Cavendish was behind that. I can tell you the whole…the whole story. I used to listen to it all the time on my radio.” He changes his voice to a lower range. “You’re listening to station WXYZ in Detroit, Michigan.” He throws his head back and laughs hysterically.

  My legs are still shaking, and an occasional shiver runs through my whole body. I’m hoping he doesn’t scream in my face again. I just wish he would let me go and this horrid ordeal would end. Star might be bleeding to death while he’s telling me this story that I care nothing about.

  “Do you remember how it started?” he asks as he raises his brow. “Do you?”

  “How what started?”

  “The program. Do you remember the beginning?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Well, I do. It started out like this. ‘A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-yo Silver. The Lone Ranger!’” He leans forward. I can see a childlike excitement in his eyes as they dart back and forth. “And then I say—I mean, and then the Lone Ranger says, ‘Hi-yo Silver. Awaaaay.’ Just like that.” He leans back, giving another laugh, but it’s more of a snort this time. His eyes stare at the ceiling, moving slowly from side to side. “I remember it all.”

  A ray of awareness and hope begins to shine through the darkness. As long as he’s talking, he’s not hurting me. The longer I can keep him telling me about the Lone Ranger, the better the chances that Warner can get here and save me. I have to keep him talking.

  “So who was Butch Cavanaugh?”

  “Not Butch Cavanaugh!” he says, giving me a scowl. “That sounds stupid. It was Cavendish, you dummy. Butch Cavendish.”

  “Oh,” I say with a sheepish grin. “You’re right. Dummy me.” I shrug one shoulder. “Sorry. Who was Butch Cavendish?”

  “Everybody knows who Butch Cavendish was. He was the leader of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang.” He shakes his head. “Bad bunch of desper—of desperados if ever there was one.” He takes another drink from the bottle.

  I nod, encouraging him to go on, and hoping Warner gets here before too much longer. “What happened?”

  “Well,” he says, wiping his wet sleeve across his lips. “Butch and his gang ambushed the Rangers. After the ambush, you think all the Rangers are killed. But they’re not. There’s one Ranger left. One lone Ranger. That’s where he got his name. But nobody knows that yet. They don’t call him the Lone Ranger yet, you know.”

  I try to appear interested, my eyes wide as I nod at him.

  “Anyway, when Cavendish and his gang leave, Tonto comes along and finds John Reid still alive. He recognizes the silver ring he gave John years ago when he resc—when he rescued Tonto from some renegade Indians.”

  His fingers are still rubbing the lunchbox. They stop suddenly, and a different look is floating into his eyes now. He reaches forward. “Show me your fingers,” he says.

  I shake my head and cross my arms in front of me.

  “Show me!” he repeats, but he’s not yelling yet.

  Oh, God! He remembers me pushing him down the steps. He’s going to pull my fingernails out now. Oh, God! I hesitate.

  “Come on,” he says as his eyes narrow and he nods his head, still holding his hand toward me. “Come on.”

  I don’t want to upset him again. It’s much better when he’s talking reasonably, even if it is about an imaginary hero. If I don’t show him my fingers, it may push him over the edge and back into that other mood. I only offer one hand, and it’s shaking uncontrollably as I reach forward, ready to jerk it back if I see a pair of pliers or nippers come out of the box on his lap.

  He stares down at my fingers and shakes his head as he smiles. “Nope. Too small.”

  Too small? Is that good or bad? Too small for what?

  A moment later, he flips the clasp on the lunchbox and raises the lid. I pull my arm back and stuff my hands into the pockets of my mother’s old robe, trying to hide my too-small fingers from whatever comes out of that box. I can hear metal clattering around as his hand fumbles inside it for a few more seconds. I jerk backwards and close my eyes when his fist comes flying toward my face.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Key

  I WAIT FOR THE IMPACT of his large knuckles, but nothing happens. When I open my eyes, his fist is only a few inches away. On his little finger, he’s wearing a small, silver ring.

  “See?” He wiggles his hand in front of my face. “It’s the same kind of ring John Reid had on when Tonto found him. They were kemo—kemosabes. That means friend.”

  The ring is old and worn. Age has dulled the shine of the silver finish, and tarnish has darkened the depressions. “It’s very pretty.” I reach forward, pretending to be interested in getting a better look at it.

  He pulls his hand quickly away. “It’s too big for you.”

  He leans back and opens his fist, spreading his fingers and smiling down at the ring as he moves it back and forth. He seems pleased as the light of the bulb hanging above our heads reflects from it. After admiring it in silence for a few more seconds, he turns his attention to the lunchbox again. I bite my lip as I watch his every move, wondering what’s coming next.

  When his hand comes out of the box, it’s holding a black object. I can’t tell what it is until he unfolds it. His metal claw snaps closed over the elastic band and pulls it behind his head.

  Oh, God! This is too bizarre!

  It’s a mask. A black mask like the Lone Ranger wears. A black mask that covers his eyes now, except for the two holes he’s peering through. But there’s something wrong. The mask is too small for him, and I can see that someone has cut the holes larger so they line up with his eyes.

  After taking another gulp from the
bottle, he places it on the floor in front of him and leans back in his chair. “After John Reid’s brother, Captain Dan Reid, gets killed by Butch Cavanaugh—I mean—by Butch Cavendish, John makes a mask from his dead brother’s vest.” He makes a slight adjustment on the mask he’s wearing. “It looked just like this one. Just exactly like mine.”

  His hand is back in the lunchbox again. My pulse pounds a quick, nervous rhythm while I wait for the next surprise, and it feels like it skips a beat when I see what he’s pulling out of the box. He removes it slowly and carefully before closing the lid and setting the paper sack on top.

  “I’m just glad your Mrs…your Mrs. Deffendumb, or whatever her name was, didn’t use all of my fresh blueberries on those killer muffins she made.” He reaches inside the sack and removes a handful of my Devil’s Cherries.

  My body goes tense as my mind makes a wish. Don’t look at them!

  He doesn’t. A second later, he’s stuffing them into his mouth. He picks up the whiskey bottle from the floor and washes them down.

  My heart is beating so fast I can almost see it bouncing the front of Mom’s robe. I hope he doesn’t notice a different flavor. I’m guessing he’s had so much liquor that his taste buds are dulled out. He verifies my guess when he pulls another handful from the bag and starts popping them into his mouth.

  “Now, where was I?” he asks.

  I lean forward in my chair, pretending interest before replying. As long as I can keep him talking, maybe he won’t remove anything else from the lunchbox and he’ll postpone whatever he has planned to do to me long enough for Warner to get here.

  “You were telling me about the Lone Ranger’s brother and the mask. What happened next?”

  He nods. “That’s right. Well, after Ton—after Tonto helps John Reid recover from his injuries, they have to dig some graves to bury Captain Dan and the rest of the Rangers that Cavendish and his gang killed. But John Reid is a lot like me. He’s exactly like me, in fact. He’s not stupid, you know.” He stops speaking long enough to smile. When he does, I notice the berry juice has turned his teeth to a dark purple.

  I’m still nodding and smiling, encouraging him to continue.

  He pops a few more berries into his mouth. “He’s not stupid at all. Instead of six graves—” He pauses and shakes his head. “No, that’s wrong. I mean—instead of five graves, they dig six. Do you know why?” More berries disappear into his mouth.

  I shake my head. “Why?” I’m waiting for something to happen, but the Devil’s Cherries don’t seem to be having any effect, except that my uncle’s voice is becoming a bit raspy. I’m guessing it’s because he’s been talking too much, or yelling too much.

  He stares at me as a new expression comes over his face. Even with the mask on, I can tell this is a look I haven’t seen before. His brow furrows, and his hand moves to his throat, rubbing it. My nervous excitement is growing as I wonder if the berries might be working at last. Then another idea flashes into my mind.

  Oh, God! He knows I switched them.

  My muscles tense even tighter as I wait for what’s coming next. But he’s just staring at me with that strange look on his face. Maybe he doesn’t know they aren’t blueberries after all. My voice trembles when I speak.

  “Why did they dig six graves, Uncle Conrad?”

  “Because,” he says, in an even more crackly voice. “Because he want—” He stops talking and clears his throat. “Because he—” His hand rushes back to his throat as his eyes open wider, and he’s still staring at me with that strange look.

  The movement of his lips tells me he’s trying to talk, but his voice is breaking up and the words aren’t coming out any louder than a whisper. A new wave of hope flows over me. I seize the opportunity and jump out of the chair, positioning myself behind it as he continues rubbing his throat. His eyes are becoming unfocused. He’s blinking at me, but his eyes are staying closed a lot longer than a normal blink. His breathing is getting louder and more labored with each breath. He stares at the paper sack for a moment before his hand disappears inside and removes a few more of the berries. He cocks his head as he looks down at them in his palm.

  A moment later, anger fills his eyes. His mouth opens and it looks like he’s yelling at me, but no sound is coming out. His arm cocks, and he slings the paper bag at me. There are still enough Devil’s Cherries in it to provide some weight, and I dodge as it hits the wall a few feet behind me.

  He stands up, still holding the lunchbox. A loud squeal comes out of me when his boot hits the whiskey bottle and sends it spinning across the room with a clatter. He staggers. After regaining his balance, he takes a step forward. His head hits the bulb hanging from the ceiling and sends it swinging, and shadows waltz around the room.

  The anger in his eyes has changed to fear now. He’s trying to speak again, but still no sound escapes his mouth. I back away from the chair and toward the wall behind me until I feel it touch my back. He shoves the chair out of the way and walks toward me, but he’s stumbling.

  Suddenly his eyes roll back in his head, and he staggers sideways and falls. Everything goes into a strange slow motion as fine droplets of spit spray from his mouth when his face lands on the arm of the chair. The mask slides out of position and ends up crooked, covering one eye. Dust from the old chair flies into the air. I can almost see every particle of it. After his head does a slow bounce, his face hits the chair a second time before his body moves slowly downward and crashes on the concrete floor.

  His arm holding the lunchbox flies to one side, and the metal box hits the floor with a hollow, rattling clang. It bounces once, twice, before coming to rest and remaining motionless as the sound fades away. His hand is still gripping the plastic handle of the box. The metal claw on his other arm is twitching open and closed at a fast rate. A moment later it stops.

  Silence settles around me like a heavy cloak as everything returns to the right speed. The bulb is still swaying, and the light is flowing over him in waves. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. I don’t move for a long time while I watch him. I can tell by the rising and falling of his back that he’s still breathing, but he appears unconscious. Finally, I approach, cautiously, knowing I have to get past him in order to reach the steps and leave this nightmare behind.

  Then it hits me. The key to the cellar door is in his pocket.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Gunslinger

  UNLESS I CAN GET the key, I’m going to be stuck down here with him. And with the door locked, Warner couldn’t save me now, even if he did come home. I don’t know how many of the berries it takes to kill a person, but he may only have eaten enough to knock himself out. If that’s the case, he could come to at any moment. If he wakes up before I can retrieve the key from his pocket and get out of here, he won’t be telling me any more Lone Ranger stories. I’m certain, from the look he had in his eyes, that he knows I ambushed him with the Devil’s Cherries.

  A shiver runs through me when I look at the lunchbox and imagine what else it might be holding. There could be anything lurking under that lid. I’m curious, but I don’t want to find out. I just want to get out of here as quickly as I can.

  The concrete floor is cold on my bare feet as I walk slowly toward him with tentative steps, ready to jump back if there’s any movement. When I’m standing beside him, I kneel down. My stomach churns and a salty liquid fills my mouth. I come very close to throwing up. But I avoid it with a couple of deep breaths and quick swallows. I’m so scared that I almost stand up and back away from him. But that’s not going to get me out of here. My only hope is to get the key.

  I find his pocket and slide my hand inside, slowly and carefully, trying my best not to disturb his sleep, or whatever state he has fallen into. A moment later, I feel the key in my fingers. I pull my hand from the pocket, and I’m turning to run toward the stairs.

  Before I can take a step, his metal claw snaps closed around my swollen ankle, and he pulls my leg out from under me. The pain flies up my leg
and into my brain. I lose my balance and fall, hitting my head on the concrete. The key flies out of my hand and skitters across the floor.

  I’m screaming now, kicking at him with my other leg, trying to get my ankle free. But his grip is like a bear trap. The cold steel slices my skin as he pulls me slowly toward him, and I wonder where the warmth is coming from until I realize that I’m peeing all over myself as sheer terror fills my soul.

  He’s rolling over now, still dragging me toward him. When he gets me close enough, he grabs my ponytail with his other hand and gives it a sharp jerk, almost yanking my hair out. Suddenly, I’m on my back and he’s pulling my head toward his face. My fists are flying and my legs are kicking, but in my present position, they’re hitting nothing but empty air. His claw takes a grip on my ponytail and his other hand moves away. I hear a scraping sound on the concrete as he drags the lunchbox across the floor.

  My senses are so alert they catch every sound. The snap of the lunchbox clasp when he opens it. The squeaky creak of the rusty hinges as he lifts the lid. I turn my head as far as possible to try to see what he’s doing, and from the corner of my eye, I catch a brief glimpse of his hand before it disappears inside the lunchbox. A moment later, something drops into the pocket of the robe I’m wearing. For a fleeting instant, I wonder what it might be, but my curiosity evaporates when his hand goes inside the lunchbox again. It’s coming out now. What is that thing?

  Oh, no! It’s a gun! He’s going to shoot me!

  The chromed surface of the revolver reflects the light of the bulb, almost stopped now but still barely swaying above us. When the cold steel of the muzzle touches my temple, I stop moving. My body freezes in fear, waiting for what’s going to happen. The next sound is the click of the hammer when he pulls it back and it locks in position, ready to strike the firing pin when he squeezes the trigger.