That voice came from his left. It belonged to the bartender, seated next to him.
“I told you this is how it’s going down,” Abellard answered from the front seat. “So you can just stop fretting like a bitch and get with it.”
Rusty silently assessed his position. He was in the back of the SUV, strapped in with a seatbelt. Hands bound at the wrists behind him. Testing the mobility of his legs, he found both ankles similarly lashed.
The bristles on his wrists felt like hemp or flax. That was good. Metal cuffs or plastic zipties would present a greater challenge. If this was the type of rope he suspected it to be, he stood a decent chance of freeing himself—assuming he was granted a few minutes to work on the knots, and whoever tied them wasn’t an expert.
Bones spoke again, addressing the back of Abellard’s head.
“I’m not saying it can’t be done. I’m just wondering about some of the particulars.”
“Shit ain’t complicated. When nobody claims that sweet ride from the public lot, it’s gonna attract attention. Probably take a day or two, maybe more. Rangers may do a search, but they won’t be looking in the right place. And homeboy’s gonna be about two hundred feet below, regardless.”
The Escalade slowed and turned left. Rusty caught a glimpse of a roadside sign that read: Barataria Natural Preserve—23,000 Acres of Beauty.
“Now listen up,” Abellard continued to Bones. “On the slight chance someone gets real interested in finding out who rented that Mustang, and they start dragging the bay, we got to accept the possibility they might find him. What’s left of him. But that possibility’s fuckin’ slim. Too slim to get all uptight about. We’re taking him out where there ain’t no kind of traffic.”
“Good enough,” the bartender replied. “Assuming he stays down below.”
“I know what you’re worried about, Bones. Some little fishies gonna chew through them ropes and he’ll float up on his own. Let’s say it happens. Someone finds the carcass in the shallows, calls the rangers and they do an autopsy. What are they gonna find? A bellyful of hooch, and that’ll tell the tale. Just another dumb cracker out for some trout, all tanked up and got himself drowned. Real sad, but it happens now and again. Does that satisfy you, motherfucker?”
“Still seems rash,” Bones muttered under his breath.
“Man, wake his ass up. I’m tired of debating this.”
Rusty felt a hard elbow dig into his ribs, and he knew the time for laying low had passed.
“Rise and shine!” Bones yelled into his ear.
Rusty turned to face him. Bones spun the cap off a fifth of Southern Comfort and held the rim to his mouth.
“Drink up, baby. Clock’s ticking.”
Rusty pushed the bottle away with his chin.
“I ain’t asking,” Bones said. “Down the hatch.”
“Eat shit.”
“Wrong attitude, son.”
The Escalade came to an abrupt halt. Up front, Abellard reached over the console to swat Antoine’s bulbous head.
“Who the fuck taught you to drive, fat boy?”
“Sorry, boss,” the security guard mumbled, his frame spilling out beyond the perimeter of the driver’s seat.
Abellard turned around to look at Rusty, his expression more curious than hostile.
“Just tell me you’re in on it,” he said softly. “I know you are, and it’s too late to save your ass. So you might as well spill.”
Rusty didn’t reply, looking at the man with a new level of hatred. He should have taken the words of Prosper and Monday more seriously. Should have walked into the casino prepared to threaten him with death—and follow up on the threat—unless Abellard told what he knew about Marceline.
“It stretches my belief,” Abellard continued, “that you ain’t working with Professor Bitch on this deal. Look me in the eye and tell me otherwise.”
“Professor Bitch? That’s who you were on the phone with…Guillory?”
Abellard appeared mildly jolted that Rusty had overheard the conversation in his office, but he brushed it off.
“We’re heading into twenty thousand acres of shit here. No one’s gonna find you, understand? And if they do, it’ll be about a month too late to do you any good. So come clean with me now, and I’ll make this go a whole lot easier.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Rusty said. “I never heard of this Guillory till today. I told you, I’m a friend trying to help. That’s all.”
Abellard studied him a moment longer. When he spoke again, it was to Bones.
“Get that up in him. Do it quick, and bring the bottle. We’ll leave it in his ride.”
With that, he got out of the Escalade. Antoine followed, both of them slamming the doors. Rusty could hear them walking around to the back of the SUV and unlatching what sounded like a metal hitch. A moment later, he heard something heavy being pulled off the trailer and landing with a thud on the muddy ground.
A rumble of tires caught his ears. Craning his head to look out the window, he saw his rented Mustang pull to a stop next to the Escalade. The man in the work boots stepped out and helped Antoine drag a flat-bottom skiff across the dusty lot toward a patch of sawgrass as Abellard barked orders.
Rusty turned back to Bones, remembering the note of caution he’d heard in the man’s voice a few minutes earlier.
“You don’t want to do this,” he said quietly.
“Look at the bright side, babe. You’ll be down way too low for them gators to get at you.”
Chuckling at his own wit, Bones proffered the liquor bottle.
“Bottoms up.”
“Why?” Rusty asked. He knew the reason but wanted to buy a few more seconds. “What’s the point of getting me loaded?”
“Just drink it.”
“Fuck you.”
Rusty nudged the bottle away. Bones shoved it back, hard enough to crack him on the teeth with the rim.
“I said drink. I’m losing patience with you.”
“Not thirsty, asshole. What are you gonna do about it?”
A stabbing pain bit into his midsection, just below the ribcage.
“Feel that?” Bones asked. “You feel it, don’t you?”
Rusty glanced down and saw Bones’ other hand clutching the handle of what appeared to be a box cutter. He could all too easily feel the tip of the blade poking through the fabric of his shirt.
“Christ. You think this’ll look like an accident with a knife wound in my gut?”
The bartender chuckled again.
“Oh, them bottom-feeders got real sharp teeth. Just like little razors, some of ’em. What’s one more gash, by the time they get done feeding on you?”
Rusty saw no good options, but gagging down some liquor was preferable to an abdominal stab wound. He nodded tersely. Bones raised the bottle to his lips.
“Atta boy. I’m in your shoes, I’d want to be getting good and sauced.”
Rusty opened up the back of his throat and took down a healthy swallow. Coughing slightly at the burn, he glared at Bones and steeled himself for another gulp.
“Not so bad, huh? I brung you some top shelf shit. You could be drinking rail gin right now.”
A third long draught triggered a gag reflex but Rusty managed to keep it down.
“Don’t be pukin’ in here,” Bones uttered with a disdainful glance.
After one more taste, Rusty could feel the booze going to work.
“That’s fucking enough,” he sputtered.
“I’ll tell you when it’s enough,” Bones said, jamming the bottle in his face.
• • •
The skiff moved almost silently through brackish waters on a southwesterly course through Barataria Bay. Only the rhythmic splash of two wooden oars gave any indication of its progress. If another craft happened to pass within close range, its occupants would see two male figures huddled in the skiff. Just a couple of fishermen or clammers out on a Sunday jaunt in a rather unlikely part of the
bay.
Rusty lay on his back in the flat hull, wrists and ankles still bound, with Abellard’s feet pressed heavily on his sternum. He’d been in this uncomfortable position far too long, the overhead sun frying his skin and forcing his eyes shut.
They’d spotted no other vessels since entering the water. The closest land mass of any significance, Isle Grande Terre, lay more than three miles to the south. This region was heavily populated by birds, fish, insects and reptiles, but offered little to attract human intrusion.
Risking a brief upward glance into the sun’s glare, Rusty saw nothing but blue sky dotted with high clouds. A pair of gulls had circled the skiff curiously for several minutes as it left the shallows and moved into deeper water, but lost interest and flew away some time ago.
Save your strength, Rusty told himself. Don’t do anything but breathe, until there’s a chance to do something else.
He’d choked down more than a third of the SoCo bottle before flatly refusing to take any more. Figuring he’d ingested enough, Bones dragged him out of the Escalade with Antoine’s help.
Abellard instructed Bones to drive the rented Mustang to a free public lot in the nearby town of Moreno, and for Antoine to follow. Told them to leave the Mustang there with the half-drained bottle inside. Then come back to this same spot in the Escalade and wait until the skiff returned, minus one passenger.
Rusty had tried screaming for help when they yanked him out of the SUV. Abellard shut him up with several crisp backhands, and Rusty abandoned the effort. He knew they’d driven to a place so remote that no amount of prolonged cries would reach a helpful ear. He was better off conserving his energy until they made their next move. With that admonition, he’d lowered himself into the hull and lay still as they pushed off from the shore.
Robert was working the oars skillfully, guiding them into some of the most isolated reaches of these vast primordial wetlands. A waterbound galaxy of bayous, swamps, forests, and marshes scattered farther than the eye could see.
They traveled into waters seldom used by fishermen or tour guides. Rusty figured the skiff had been moving for close to an hour. Despite a blood alcohol level way past the legal limit for operating a vehicle, he didn’t feel clouded. There was too much adrenaline coursing through his system for the liquor to take full effect. Other than a throbbing headache and a mild case of nausea, he felt little worse for wear. If anything, the booze had numbed the pain in his lower back.
“Gotta be getting close, huh?” Robert muttered.
Rusty heard a hesitant complaint in his voice, most likely the result of sore shoulders from all the rowing. Robert declined to say more, head bowed as if realizing how foolish it was to voice discontent within the boss man’s earshot.
“See that little bunch of mangroves to the right?” Abellard replied after a prolonged interval of silence. “Take us about a hundred yards past ’em. That’ll do.”
“Aye aye, skip.”
“Almost there, chump,” Abellard said to Rusty, then gathered up a length of rope in his large hands. Attached to one end was a cast iron “mushroom” anchor, designed to sink deeply into soft sediment. The rope was hooked securely through the anchor’s eyelet. Abellard took the other end and started looping it through the binds around Rusty’s ankles.
With his head flat against the hull, Rusty couldn’t determine what type of knot he was tying. It felt like a basic Double Fisherman’s hitch, which was marginally good news. He was familiar with that kind of bind and could likely free himself, if given the chance. But Rusty didn’t think he was going to get much of a chance.
Deeming the hitch sufficiently snug, Abellard let the rope fall from his fingers. He looked down at his captive.
“I’m guessing any last little feeling of hope you might’ve been clinging to just flew away. That’s a twenty-pound weight you’re tethered to, dig?”
“Joseph,” Rusty said quietly, “I’m not sure you’ve thought this through. How’s it gonna look like an accident with a goddamn anchor tied to my legs?”
Abellard didn’t answer, sitting back in the prow as Robert continued rowing. After another twenty strokes, he told him to stop.
The sun was burning down from directly overhead, stinging Rusty’s eyes. Sweat poured from his forehead, further obscuring his vision. The glare disappeared as Abellard stood, casting him in shadow.
Rusty felt strong hands grab his ankles, while another pair of hands slipped under his arms and clenched tightly. Then the anchor dropped onto his stomach with enough force to rob him of his breath.
“We doin’ this on three or what?” Robert asked.
“Fuck that. When I say heave, take him over portway.”
Rusty stifled the urge to speak or cry out. The brief pain in his stomach from the anchor’s impact had mercifully receded.
Stop resisting, he heard himself say. You’re going in. Maximize the breath and relax the muscles.
Heeding that inner caution, his body went slack. His eyes closed. All the tension in his frame dissipated through sheer force of will.
Robert frowned at the sudden lack of resistance.
“Feels like he gave up already.”
One more second of silence passed, then Rusty heard Abellard shout:
“Heave!”
Both men swung their arms across the skiff’s port side, stretching as far as they could without pulling themselves overboard. Their hands unlocked at the same time.
For the briefest of moments, Rusty felt the misleading liberation of being airborne. The anchor broke the water first, accelerating gravity’s pull on his body.
His lungs sealed up like an airlock, trapping as much oxygen as he could hold. Then the warm, muddy water consumed him with a rippling splash, and he vanished from the world.
17.
For several frantic seconds, Rusty saw nothing but a stream of bubbles rising before his eyes. It quickly faded as he sank beyond the sunlight’s reach. Inky blackness took over, stretching to infinity in all directions. Less than twenty feet from the surface, he was in the abyss.
His body reacted on sheer survival impulse. Legs kicking and straining against the downward pull of the anchor. Back arching to keep his chin up and head raised as high as possible. It was futile, an ill-advised waste of energy to fight the gravitational descent.
Rusty forced himself to stop. His only chance was to wait until he reached bottom, then see what could be done about getting out of the ropes that bound him. To attempt liberating himself while rapidly submerging was impossible. He’d need the ballast of solid ground if he had any hope of loosening the knots.
He kept sinking, farther and farther away from even a memory of sunlight. The possibility of giving in to full-blown panic was very real. Rusty did the only thing he could think of to stave it off.
He started counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
Keep it up. You’ve got plenty of time.
Which might actually be true, depending on how long it took for him to touch bottom. Rusty had far more experience with holding his breath for extended periods than the average person. In the not so distant past, he’d trained himself to go as long as six minutes before requiring oxygen. It was an essential component of performing two shows daily in the Etruscan Room at Caesars.
One of the show’s most popular tricks was his patented “sunken coffin escape.” An elaborate variation on Houdini’s legendary Chinese Water Torture Cell, Rusty had spent months developing it despite Prosper’s warning that it was too dangerous to perform even under controlled conditions.
The setup was basic: Rusty laid himself into a steel coffin punctured with a series of bullet-sized holes that allowed in both oxygen and water. His ankles and wrists were bound with handcuffs far more restrictive than the ropes now securing them. Two shapely assistants worked a chain-operated pulley to lower the coffin into a massive glass tank on the stage in full view of the audience, containing five hundred gallons of chlorinated wat
er.
The most difficult aspect of the trick was holding his breath long enough to get out of the cuffs so he could force the casket’s heavy lid open against the pressure of the water bearing down on it. On a good night, he could free both ankles and wrists in less than three minutes, but it sometimes took as long as four and a half. To prepare for the eventuality of a more difficult unbinding, Rusty had developed his lung capacity to the point where he could go six minutes without taking a breath, even when engaged in strenuous physical activity.
The key to pulling it off was to remain calm. To sustain maximum stillness of both body and mind, conserving the oxygen in his lungs and the strength in his limbs.
Six minutes. Three hundred and sixty seconds. He always used to count each one of them, as he was doing now.
Thirty-eight.
Thirty-nine.
Having not practiced this kind of maneuver in many months, he held no delusion of still being able to hold his breath for as long as he could when in peak physical condition. He estimated five minutes, tops. Three hundred seconds. Maybe.
Sixty-three.
Sixty-four.
Of course, in Vegas he had a reliable escape route handy. At the first sign of trouble, he only had to rap his knuckles against the inside of the coffin’s lid in a prearranged sequence. Three quick taps, a pause, two slows taps and then three more quick ones. Hearing that eight-note tattoo, an off-stage technician would flip a switch, sending an electric current into the hinge of the coffin’s lid and forcing it open. Rusty could then swim to the top of the tank and emerge for applause from an audience that had been duped into thinking he’d escaped of his own wiles.
It was a source of great professional pride that he’d never needed to employ that cheat of an escape route. Not once over the course of hundreds of performances.
Yeah, some achievement. Which does precisely fuck-all for me right now. Keep counting.
Seventy-nine.
Eighty.
He kept sinking, with the mad hope that he’d make contact with land before reaching a hundred and twenty. That would give him, at best, about three minutes to shake out of the weighted ropes and swim all the way back to the surface.
Blind Shuffle Page 11
