by Hunt, James
The old man knew the swamps well, and while Chuck may have had the advantage of a younger body, the old man tipped the scale with experience.
A mosquito buzzed by and landed on the back of Chuck’s neck. With a quick strike, he slapped the bug and wiped his hands off on a dangling piece of moss. The revolver was still gripped in his left hand, his thoughts circling the one remaining bullet.
Even as a boy, Chuck always knew when he was in trouble. It was like a sixth sense. And his elevated pulse combined with the hairs standing up on the back of his neck were all the symptoms he needed to experience to know the shit storm coming his way.
More than once, Chuck glanced behind him at the thought of Jake’s corpse rising from the dead and seeking vengeance. But each time he checked, there was nothing but swamp and trees and that hot sun burning a hole from the blue sky above.
Sweat trickled down every inch of Chuck’s sunburnt skin. He’d shed his dress shirt on impulse a few miles back and now with the sun beating down on him, he cursed himself for not keeping it to cover his head and shoulders which had turned a bright pink.
And with the dress shirt gone, Chuck exposed a thin strap of a necklace. It traveled beneath the front of his undershirt, a light bulge from the jewelry at the necklace’s end. Chuck had pawed at it nervously during his walk, unaware he was even touching it.
Water swooshed somewhere to his left, and Chuck spun in the same direction, leading with the pistol. His heartrate skyrocketed, and he trembled. “Come on out, Billy!” No answer. No movement. “Jake pulled the gun on me! It was all self-defense.”
Chuck circled in the water, mosquitoes buzzing around his eyes as if he were already dead. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m willing to let it go. We need each other right now, Billy. I know you respected my father. If you don’t want to do this for me, then do it for him.”
Chuck slowly scanned the swamp, waiting for the old man to show himself. He’d hoped that the comment about his father would lure him out. There was a layer of mushy sentimentalism beneath that calloused exterior. He turned right in a half-circle, then a quarter turn back to his left. A steady swell of panic rose in his stomach at the swamp’s silence. “Shit.”
Lost in the uncertainty of his own future, Chuck didn’t hear Billy’s ghost-like footsteps as he glided through the water, nor did he see the twisted, murderous expression plastered on the old man’s face as he thrust all of his weight into Chuck’s back, dunking both of them into the hot swamp water.
The black water rushed up Chuck’s nose as Billy kept him pinned beneath the surface. Chuck immediately brought his hands to his neck to try and peel Billy’s grip from his throat, and in the process, he dropped the revolver and it nestled in the mud.
Chuck violently twisted left, then right, trying to buck Billy off of him. His lungs tightened, desperate for air, and a primal surge of survival flooded his muscles. He leapt from the water, thrusting Billy off him, and gasped for breath.
Chuck coughed up a belly full of swamp water, but the reprieve was short-lived as Billy charged Chuck again. He led with his fist and connected with the right side of Chuck’s face. A bright flash of pain lit up at the point of contact, followed quickly by a lingering throbbing.
Billy landed another heavy punch to Chuck’s left side that forced him backward into a tree trunk and the pair locked horns. Water splashed and rippled violently as they pushed back and forth, their hands gripped on each other’s arms and shoulders.
The longer the two held on, the more Chuck gained an advantage. Beneath his grip, Chuck felt the old man start to waver. Billy’s beard dampened with water and sweat, the sunlight reflecting off the tiny droplets caught amongst the thick white hairs.
Chuck drove forward, pushing Billy back into a tree, and then quickly punched the old man’s gut that all but ended the vise grip around Chuck’s shoulders. Chuck followed up with a hard right to the old man’s cheek, and the contact elicited a crack that hurt him as much as it did Billy.
“Fuck!” Chuck retreated a few steps, shaking his right hand that throbbed like his head and ribs. The old man had propped himself against a tree, wheezing breaths. Chuck remembered the gun and immediately started patting the mud with his feet for the revolver.
“You know your daddy never liked you,” Billy said. “Said you were nothing more than a wasted jizz stain.”
Chuck’s cheeks flushed red. “Yeah, well, he told me that you were nothing but a trained dog. Housebroken, but still too dangerous to be unchained in the front yard. He never saw you as a son, no matter how much you wanted that to be true.”
Billy lifted his head. “So we were both disappointments then.” Billy added a sorrowful chuckle. “A pair of bastards with our father’s names.”
“I had to kill Jake.” Chuck blurted the words out involuntarily. “He was out of his mind. He would have killed me if I hadn’t.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, slowly straightening himself out. “He probably would have.”
The pair stood there, sweating, aching, tired, hungry, and thirsty. It was a stalemate that neither wanted. Chuck filtered through the options that were left to him and what to do next. On his next step back, his heart skipped when his foot touched metal.
“So what now, Chuckie?” Billy asked, those cloudy grey eyes locked onto him. “I want to kill you, and you want to kill me, but neither of us are in a position to pull a trigger.”
Chuck prodded it further, outlining it with tip of his shoe, the object taking shape.
“The sheriff won’t find Jake’s body out here.” Billy gestured to the surrounding swamp. “Not unless one of us tells him. But it won’t do either of us any good to talk to the cops now, so you’re going to get me the best attorneys money can buy and keep me out of jail. In exchange, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“And what happens if my attorneys and my money can’t keep you out of jail?” Chuck burrowed the tip of his foot into the soft sediment below the .38.
Billy took an aggressive step, the snarl revealing that silver-capped tooth, which was the only piece of that old man that didn’t look worn and rusted. Though Chuck was sure some of the shine had disappeared over the years.
“So what’s it gonna be, Chuckie?” Billy asked.
Chuck’s foot was now entirely underneath the revolver. “Fuck you, Billy.”
Billy exploded forward, and Chuck lifted his foot with the gun, reaching down with his hand in the same instance. His fingers slipped around the muddied and slick weapon and he clumsily raised the barrel as Billy cut the distance between them in half. He aimed, pressed his finger against the curve of the trigger, and squeezed.
A harsh bang ejected from the barrel, and the recoil jerked Chuck’s arm back and the pistol wavered wildly in his hand. Billy’s body collided into Chuck with a meaty thud, but then fell limp into the water face first.
Chuck stumbled backward, the gun gripped awkwardly in his hand. Billy’s body bobbed up and down in the water, his arms and legs splayed out as he floated lazily.
The same eerie feeling when Chuck expected Jake’s dead body to come stumbling after him occurred again as he kept the revolver trained on Billy’s lifeless body. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, watching the back of Billy’s head wander aimlessly in the three feet of water, but his eyes had grown incredibly dry from staring, and they ached from the sun’s reflection on the water.
With a shaking hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose together and scrunched his face, feeling the tightness of his skin and the burn on his cheeks. He shook his head. “If you had just fucking listened in the first place. If you had just done your job, I wouldn’t have—” But he stopped himself, knowing that the corpse couldn’t respond.
The stagnant heat of the swamp hit Chuck from below and above. The knee-high water he waded through boiled his legs, and the sun above blistered and reddened the back of his neck. He turned around in a dazed glare. Jake’s body and the shack that Chuck had left him in was long behin
d him.
He shielded his eyes with the cover of his hand as he looked to the sky. It was getting later in the afternoon, though he couldn’t be sure exactly what time it was. He licked his lower lip and felt the chapped rawness of his skin, along with the salt of his own sweat.
“Bullshit,” Chuck said, whispering to himself. “Fucking bullshit.” He leaned against a tree trunk and closed his eyes. Like a child reaching for its comforting blanket, Chuck tugged at the necklace then fisted the piece of jewelry at its end. “You can’t get me, fucker. No, way. Not with this. Not with this.” He opened his fist and revealed a green stone wrapped in thin cords, the pattern a spider’s web.
But even with his safety net, Chuck still felt the thumping of his heart against his chest. It beat firmly, and the dehydration only added more strain.
Two of his loose ends were dead, and like Billy had said, the likelihood of the sheriff finding them out here before they were gator food was zero. All that was left to deal with now was the Cooley family.
9
Owen was still shivering by the time he reached Queen’s, his clothes wet and clinging to his body. For once he was glad for the hot Louisiana sun as he hobbled toward the front door.
A little bell jingled upon his entrance and he saw Chloe sitting at the front counter, standing on a chair and hunched over a paper with a cluster of crayons, pens, and pencils. She didn’t bother looking up to see who had come inside, too involved with her work.
“Chloe, where’s your mother?” The store looked empty and the tinted windows up front kept the inside of the shop in a perpetual state of darkness.
“With Grandpa,” Chloe answered, her concentration still on the drawing spread out over the desk.
“Hey.”
Owen turned and saw Claire stepping from the darkness of the room on his left. Her eyes were bloodshot and the tip of her nose was red, both of which only happened when she’d been crying. “You all right?”
Claire’s eyes watered, and she pulled in her lower lip as she shook her head. “I heard him, Owen. I heard Matt.”
He pulled her close and she cried into his chest, the fact that he was soaked to the bone not even registering in her current state of mind. A small thump hit the back of his legs, and Owen turned his head around to see Chloe hugging his knees. He smiled and bent to pick Chloe off the floor and she nestled in the crook of his arm.
“Daddy, you’re all wet,” Chloe said, poking at his shoulder.
“Oh my god, you are,” Claire replied. She looked at him, confused. “And cold. God, your skin is like ice.” And then her eyes widened with fear and she clutched his arm tighter. “You saw it?”
“I did,” Owen answered. “But I couldn’t find the amulet.”
Footsteps and the third echoing thump of Madame Crepaux’s staff smacked against the floor as she emerged from the same dark room as Claire, an expression of fear carved along the wrinkles of her face. “It has to be there.”
Owen stepped away from his girls and walked to the woman. “It was, but it’s not anymore.”
Madame Crepaux’s face slowly twisted from fear to anger, and she pushed past Owen, limping toward the room on the other side of the shop, a string of curses streaming from her lips as she disappeared.
Owen followed and found her pulling book after book from the shelves and stacking them half-hazard on a table in the middle of the room. The covers were old and worn, the spines warped and dusty. Owen picked at the corner of one of the books and lifted it an inch before the old woman slammed another book down on top of it, then returned to her shelves.
“It’s Chuck,” Owen said. “He’s the one who has to have it.”
“That’s wrong, it’s all wrong.” Madame Crepaux started flipping pages, quickly scanning the old pieces of parchment, shaking her head.
Owen caught a glimpse of some of it, words and phrases that weren’t written in English along with shapes and drawings that looked abstract. He grabbed her wrist and forced her to stop. “What is it? What are you doing?”
Madame Crepaux yanked her hand back with a surprising strength. “It was part of the bokor’s magic that the amulet must remain on the property!” She stewed in anger. “That mongrel peasant lied to me.”
“What difference does it make that the amulet isn’t on the property?” Owen asked. “All that matters is that we find it, right?”
Madame Crepaux circled around the table between them on her path to him. “If that amulet is not there to hold the creature back, then its power will grow!” She pointed a long finger into his chest. “And that power could mean your son’s soul is slipping away even faster than expected.”
“Then find Chuck,” Owen said. “I know he has the amulet. There’s no one else that could.”
Madame Crepaux looked to her books, then to the shelves with the remaining potions and herbs. A brief moment of hope filled her eyes, but her shoulders slumped and the light dimmed. She shook her head. “The amulet protects him from me as well as the monster. Until it’s destroyed, he will elude me.”
Owen’s pocket buzzed, and he jolted, forgetting he even had the cellphone on him. The number wasn’t recognized on his phone, but the area code was local. “Hello?”
Silence lingered on the other end of the phone, and then Chuck finally spoke. “I know what you think, Owen. But you need to know that there’s more to it than—”
“You brought me here so my son could die,” Owen said.
Another pause. “Let me make things right. Let me—”
“I want the amulet. Bring it to me and I’ll consider not going to the police.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. It’s just… I need some time.”
“No time,” Owen said, baring his teeth. “Now.”
“Then you’ll have to come to me,” Chuck said. “But just you. No cops.”
While Owen didn’t buy Chuck’s act for a second, he understood. The man was out to protect himself. But Chuck held all the cards. Even if Owen went to the police, they wouldn’t be able to do anything in the time needed to get Matt back before midnight. He had to play by Chuck’s rules. “Fine.”
“Get a pen and paper,” Chuck said.
Owen complied, scribbling an address on a notepad next to the register. The moment after Chuck was done telling him the location, the call ended. Owen didn’t realize he was shaking until he felt Claire’s hand on his shoulder, and with her touch came a soothing focus of what needed to be done. He cupped her face, staring into the eyes he loved so much, the eyes that had saved him so many times from himself.
“Listen, if I don’t come back, then you go to the Sheriff,” Owen said. “You tell him everything.”
“Do what you have to,” Claire said, her eyes watering but her voice strong and clear. “And know that whatever you do, and however you do it, it’s not wrong.” She placed her hands over his. “It’s not wrong.”
Owen kissed her and saw that Chloe was watching. He walked over and kissed her cheek as well, and before he left, he noticed the picture that she’d been working on. It was of their family, and they were at their house in Baltimore.
“I miss home,” Chloe said, looking at her father.
Owen kissed her again and asked if he could keep the picture, and she nodded that he could. He folded it gently and carefully into his pocket and then left with Claire’s words echoing in his mind.
Owen had been mad before. He’d thought about punching people, and he’d whispered wishes of evil onto people that hurt him. But never had he felt such calmness when he experienced those emotions like he did right now. The reality of murder felt too real. He remembered what Billy had said after they’d broken into their house the night Matt was taken.
“You don’t have the look of a killer, boy.”
At the time, Billy was right. But not anymore.
* * *
Sheriff Bellingham reached for the coffee mug to his left without looking, his fingers grasping at nothing but air until it grazed the white handle
and he lifted the rim to his pursed lips. The coffee was bitter and cold.
Bellingham wiped the dryness from his eyes and flipped through the old reports that Veronica had brought him from the factory. He’d managed to pull the HR records on Billy Rouche and discovered that the old man had a grievance filed against him twenty-five years ago. The name at the top of the grievance was redacted to protect the other employee’s identity. He put in a request to the HR department to find him the name of the individual who filed it, but he already had a pretty good idea the employee was Donald Kieffer. Still, he needed to be sure.
He’d tasked Veronica with staying on top of the clerk over at the factory, and while he was waiting on that information, he’d spent the past hour searching for Donald Kieffer’s current whereabouts, which had proven difficult.
With no information in regards to Mr. Kieffer’s social security numbers or driver’s license, Bellingham had done a search for Donald Kieffer in his database and discovered over five hundred around the country. He managed to whittle that number down to twenty-three after cross-referencing middle initials.
So far twenty-two of those twenty-three Donald Kieffers had never lived in Ocoee, Louisiana. And while Bellingham waited for the confirmation of number twenty-three, he remained hopeful that the last Donald Kieffer was the same man who worked at the Toussaint factory twenty-five years ago.
He reached for the statements made by Mr. and Mrs. Cooley, along with what the deputy had written down from what he’d seen of Mrs. Cooley’s father at the hospital. The nonsense he was spewing seemed to match the descriptions of what Mr. Cooley had seen. And unless the pair coordinated their stories together before the police arrived, a very unlikely theory seeing as how Mrs. Cooley’s father was strapped down to a hospital bed all night without any access to a phone, that created another connection, which started to string up a loose theory.
The world was random, chaotic, and for the most part a big mess in the sheriff’s eyes. But every so often there was a moment of clarity, a ray of light that shone through the dark and revealed a path. Bellingham was getting glimpses of that path now, and his muscles tensed.
