The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller

by JC Gatlin

  Copyright © 2015 by JC Gatlin

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, locations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE CYPRESS TRAP

  Copyright © May 2015 by JC Gatlin

  Edited by Beth Mansbridge, Mansbridge Editing & Transcription

  All rights reserved. The book author retains sole copyright to his contributions to this book.

  ISBN-10:0692485155

  ISBN-13: 978-0692485156

  Cover images from Canstock Photography, image #csp3054653 and csp5672336

  CLICK HERE FOR YOUR FREE COPY OF THE DESIGNATED SURVIVOR

  CLICK HERE FOR YOUR FREE COPY OF THE DESIGNATED SURVIVOR

  For my extraordinary niece,

  Ryleigh Gatlin

  1

  Grover Lott hated swimming. What’s more, the very thought of jumping from the side of a cliff into a deep channel some thirty-odd feet below paralyzed him with fear. But what choice did he have?

  Standing on the edge of the rocky precipice, he looked down. Four teenage boys, like fuzzy action figures in the blue water, splashed and whooped and called to him. Their voices carried on the breeze, and Grover squeezed his eyes shut. He had tolerated them in gym class, believing he’d never have to lay eyes on those boys again after graduating from high school last May. Still, for some unknown reason, their association continued.

  Slipping a hand into a pocket of his cutoff jeans, he pulled out his lucky rabbit’s foot. It wasn’t any ordinary charm, but the foot of a large Arabian Cape hare. According to legend, it was a prize won at the 1930 Chicago World’s Fair and cursed by a shaman. Ordinarily Grover scoffed at the idea of a superstitious talisman, but this was different somehow. His fingers caressed the soft pink fur, felt the solid splint of bone inside. He squeezed it into his palm so tight his knuckles ached. It soothed him, though, and gave him the courage to open his eyes.

  He looked over at his buddy standing beside him.

  Owen Meeks, his best friend since third grade, challenged him to jump. Six feet tall but still a couple inches shy of Grover, Owen lowered his voice and placed a hand on Grover’s shoulder. “Come on! There’s nothing to it.”

  Grover looked past his friend, to the rocky plateau stretching into overgrown woodlands. At the edge of the tree line, a good twenty feet or so away, another boy hollered as he pulled a blue-and-white-striped collared shirt over his head. Grover ignored him and turned to Owen, who was waving his arms at that boy.

  “Groves’ not movin’,” Owen yelled, and nudged Grover a bit harder. “Think he’s chicken’n out on us or someth’n.”

  Grover relented and took a step back. He squeezed the rabbit’s foot tighter in his palm. Tall and skinny, barely weighing one sixty, he’d always loomed over his classmates. When he stood up straight, he was easily six foot three. But he never stood up straight; his head hung low, chin to chest, especially when he walked through the crowded campus or in the hallways between classes. His parents scolded him and told him to stop slouching. You’ll never play basketball. Or baseball. Or run track, they said. But he didn’t want to do any of those activities anyway. He only wanted to play the clarinet. That’s where he wished he were now—locked in his bedroom with his books, playing his clarinet.

  Not outside in the heat. Not here on the cliff edge with a group of juvenile delinquents he really didn’t know and didn’t care to know. Drinking. Swearing. Swimming.

  Owen pushed him again. “You’ve seen us do it a thousand times. Hell, you’ve seen us do it two thousand times before.”

  Grover looked down at his friend. For some reason, he realized long ago, Owen did care. Owen always wanted to run with this gang. He wanted to belong. And he wanted acceptance. It puzzled Grover. Even more perplexing was why Owen wanted Grover to be part of that group as well.

  Grover inched to the brink of the cliff and gazed down. It was a long drop to the crystal waters below. Now all four boys were grouped together in the channel, chanting, encouraging him to jump. Grover took a deep gulp of air and two steps back.

  “I can’t do it. You can’t make me,” he said to Owen, and then spotted their buddy.

  Bare from the waist up, Darryl had gripped his collared shirt in a way that made it look like a blue-and-white-striped flag. He dropped it, slipped a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, and marched over to them. Darryl and Owen grabbed hold of Grover’s arms and walked him back toward the ledge.

  “Come on, Groves,” Owen said again. “There’s nothing to it.”

  “Well, if you’re not goin’, I’m goin’.” Darryl released his grip, moved a couple of feet to the side and stepped out of his jeans. He looked back at Grover. “Ya know what the guys down there are think’n right now?”

  Grover studied him and considered his options. He glanced over the edge of the cliff once more. If he didn’t jump, he could run into the woods behind them. Or he could step off the ledge and take the plunge. But it was too high. He knew it. The drop too far.

  Grover shook his head in protest. “I don’t care what they think.” He took several steps away from the edge.

  Owen and Darryl approached him again, and he felt their hands on his back. He locked his legs, scraping his heels across the rock. “No. No. No.”

  Darryl sighed, letting him go.

  “Watch me, okay?” In his underwear now, Darryl removed his glasses and handed them to Owen. Darryl jogged several feet away from the ledge, turned, and sprinted forward. Leaping, Darryl sailed off the cliff … free-falling for what seemed to Grover like minutes before dropping into the water with a splash. It sent ripples fanning out in wide circles toward the center of the channel and back against the banks. The boys swimming below cheered.

  Grover heard them and heard Darryl call to him. His voice carried all the way up to the ridge. Grover listened, but it didn’t ease his fears. He felt Owen’s hand on his shoulder again.

  “You see, there’s nothing to it,” Owen said.

  “I don’t want to jump.” Grover shrank back, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t even want to look down.

  “You’ve got to, Groves. Else you’ll never live it down.” Owen nudged Grover toward the ledge.

  Grover opened his eyes. He turned to Owen and said, “Those guys. … They’re not my friends. I don’t care what they think.”

  “Then care what I think.” Owen wrapped a hand behind Grover’s neck. He tilted Grover’s head down, closer to his. “I’m your best friend, right?”

  Grover pulled away. “If you were my best friend, you wouldn’t make me do this.”

  “I’m making you do this because I am your friend.” Owen nudged Grover’s shoulder again. “I don’t like it when people dis you.”

  Eyes tearing up, Grover stared at him. “I don’t care what they think.”

  “Do you care what I think?” Owen walked toward Darryl’s shirt and jeans crumpled in a pile on a rock. He set the glasses on top of the pile and returned to Grover. “I’m losing respect for you too.”

  The words stung and Grover averted his eyes. Perched on the edge, looking down at the water, he felt his heart beat faster. He was sweating and his legs weakened. Without thinking, he reached in his jeans pocket for the rabbit’s foot. It wasn’t there. His hand immediately went to the other pocket. He checked his back pockets.

  Panicked, he moved away from Owen. Grover’s voice went up an octave. “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “My rabbit’s foot. It’s gone.” Grover dropped to his knees and began to search the rocky plateau. “Where is it?”

  Owen took
hold of his left arm and yanked him to his feet. He pushed Grover back to the ledge.

  Grover pulled his hand away. “No, you don’t understand. I need to find it.”

  “Get over it,” Owen said. “It’s just a stupid toy.”

  “It’s not a toy.” Panic rose in Grover’s voice. “It’s the foot of a Lepus capensis, an Arabian Cape hare.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.” Owen smiled and nodded. His voice fell low, little more than a whisper. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Grover hesitated, took a breath, and made sure he’d heard correctly. Owen nodded. Grover forgot about the rabbit’s foot with a rush of relief. He wasn’t going to have to jump. This calmed him and he stood straighter.

  “It’ll all be okay,” Owen said. There was a glint of excitement in his eyes.

  Grover noticed it just as Owen lunged forward. He grabbed Grover’s outstretched arm and yanked him hard toward the edge of the cliff.

  Grover stumbled, waving his arms. His body turned as he fought to regain balance. His breath rushed out of his mouth with one terrified cry for help and he reached for his friend. Owen pulled away. Rock crumbled beneath Grover’s feet as he tumbled backward.

  He dropped.

  His brain processed that he was falling and he could feel the wind rush against his face, screaming in his ears. His arms thrashed wildly, side to side. His hands grasped for something, anything … then a shoulder slammed against the cliffside. It knocked the wind out of him, spinning him around in a midair somersault. He plummeted facedown and saw the water rush up to claim him.

  Like a solid thing.

  Like concrete.

  And he smacked it hard.

  He submerged, deep, fast. The hollow, warbling sound of water overtook him, filled his ears, his mouth, his lungs. His body cut through the blue expanse until he smashed into the sandy bedrock.

  After several moments of unnatural silence, Grover’s broken body rose to the surface.

  Fifteen years later…

  2

  With her bare feet propped on the dashboard, Rayanne stared at her husband sitting behind the steering wheel. She smiled at him, but his eyes, hidden behind mirrored sunglasses and beneath a camouflage ball cap, remained focused on the road.

  Owen Meeks had barely said two words since they had left Tampa three hours ago. Now they were several miles past the Georgia state line, where the interstate veered north and local traffic had to exit onto a two-lane county road.

  Absorbed in her story, Rayanne paid no attention to the route. “So we confirm that there’s a family of raccoons living in these homeowners’ attic, and guess who he picks to climb up there and go get them? Guess.” She raised her voice to compete with the rattle of the boat trailer in tow behind them. She’d been struggling to talk over its clank and clatter for the better part of the trip.

  When Owen didn’t respond, she glanced ahead to see a swarm of brake lights. A solid line of cars, RVs, and semitrucks came to an abrupt stop. Rayanne leaned forward in her seat to get a better view out the windshield.

  “You think there’s an accident?” She turned her head toward him, but he still didn’t acknowledge her.

  Seemingly focused on the road, Owen inched the Chevy forward, creeping closer to the supervision of four local deputies standing along the shoulder. He pulled up alongside a sheriff directing traffic, and honked. Rolling down his window, Owen stretched his head out as far as he could and waved his hand. “Hey, Officer, there an accident?”

  Rayanne leaned against her husband’s right shoulder for a better view of the sheriff. The man said nothing and waved his right arm to keep the cars moving. Probably in his fifties and carrying a full, round belly, he still appeared commanding—more so than the thin, young deputies around him. She flashed him a prying grin.

  The sheriff stared back with tired, disinterested eyes. He looked bored and slightly hostile, though most of the features of his face were lost in the shadow of his stiff, wide-brimmed hat.

  “Keep it movin’,” was all he said.

  Owen nodded and rolled up the window. His foot tapped the accelerator. The truck jolted forward, then abruptly stopped. Owen muttered something Rayanne couldn’t fully hear as his fist landed on the horn again. It blared, loud and long. Rayanne cringed and started to say something when he maneuvered the truck to the right. He cut off a station wagon and bullied into the far outside lane.

  Rayanne craned her head backward to see if the sheriff behind them had noticed. The gun rack holding a refinished Winchester blocked most of her view. Beyond that, what little she could see out the back window was taken up by the trailered maroon-and-white bass boat.

  Giving up, she flipped forward. “Just calm down, okay?” she said. “We’ll get there.”

  If he heard her, Owen didn’t show it as he mashed the brakes again and they both lunged forward. He let loose another rage of expletives. The Chevy came to a stop and Owen bore down on the horn. When it was finally quiet, Rayanne propped her bare feet back up on the dashboard and continued the story she’d started some thirty minutes and forty miles ago.

  “So, did I tell you who had to climb into the attic to go get this family of raccoons?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I did. And I find a mama coon with three little babies all nestled up in the insulation. You’d think it woulda itched or something.”

  Rayanne paused and glanced out the window. She gazed up at the massive wall of pine trees skirting either side of the interstate. She wondered how deep the woods went and how far away from civilization they had traveled. The thought made her forget what she was saying, but only for a moment.

  “Oh, and this one baby raccoon walks right across the rafters and climbs into my arms,” she said. “Like, you know, I was some long-lost friend it hadn’t seen in fifteen years or something …”

  Owen whipped his head around, facing her. Rayanne could see nothing but her own reflection in his mirrored glasses, but she sensed a subtle change in his face. As if something from his past had reached across the years and gently nudged him.

  He turned the steering wheel, taking the exit, and merged onto the two-lane road.

  Rayanne noticed the course correction as she wiggled her toes on the dashboard. “Why are we getting off the interstate?”

  “No sense in sitting in traffic.” It was the first thing he’d said to her in over an hour. “I think there’s a lake out here somewhere.”

  Though Owen seemed uninterested in the story, Rayanne didn’t care. She continued, picking up where she had left off. “So we cage up the mama and get the other two coon babies, but this one little baby holds onto my shirt with those little hands, like I’m its mama or something.” She spoke rapidly, as if she had a lot to tell him. “I held onto the little guy in the truck all the way back to the shelter. Can you believe it?”

  Owen turned his head toward her again, then back at the road. “Raccoons carry rabies, you know.”

  “I’m thinking about adopting it when we get back, just so you know.”

  Owen let out a disinterested “Uh-huh,” but kept his head forward.

  She wished he’d take off the sunglasses so she could see his eyes. Rayanne often wondered what was ticking behind that square, blunt face of his. It looked as if it had been chiseled of granite and held deep, dark secrets locked away like some Egyptian Sphinx. His brown hair was cut short, with heavy sideburns that were now graying, and merged with the thick stubble on his face. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and it made him look a solid ten years older than thirty-three.

  “I know, right?” she said. “I’ve always wanted a raccoon, ever since I was ten and reading Ranger Rick magazine.”

  Rayanne sighed and swept her hand across the crown of her head, as if to put her dark hair in place. She was a thin woman, with high cheekbones and the pale skin of a vegetarian. Sorrow lines crossed her face. Over the last two years it had become a part of her, and they matched the scars on her wrists.

  Wearing one of Owen’s
large brown T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan “Show off your pole – Fish naked,” and her favorite Daisy Duke cutoff-jeans shorts, she’d wanted to make sure he knew how excited she was about this getaway. She looked sexy and flirty, but so far he hadn’t noticed.

  She glanced out the window and into the side mirror. Within the sticker stating “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear,” she noticed a black van tailing close behind them. Muddy. Rusty top. Tinted windows. Flipping her feet off the dashboard, she abruptly swung around to look out the rear window.

  “Is that van following us?” She tried her best to see beyond the gun rack.

  Owen’s eyes darted up, glancing into the rearview mirror. “What’re you talking ’bout?”

  “The creepy black van that’s directly behind us again,” Rayanne said to him, then twisted back into her seat. “It was tailgating us a couple of times back on the interstate. If it gets any closer it’s going to rear-end the boat.”

  “Probably just gettin’ off the interstate like we did.”

  Rayanne glared at him for dismissing her like he always did. She turned her head to stare out the passenger window. It had been raining off and on all day and a light fog hovered over the blacktop and threaded through the pines that grew thick on both sides of the road. The Chevy raced along, with the boat bouncing and rocking behind it.

  Eventually, the van tailing them slowed and turned right onto a narrow side road. Rayanne noticed this in the side mirror.

  Owen must’ve noticed it too, as he said, “They turned. Are you happy now?”

  She didn’t answer, instead keeping her gaze locked firmly on the passing trees.

  “I’m so glad to be out of the city,” she said after awhile. “Do you think we’ll see some deer?”

  “Probably.”

  Owen was grumbling at the traffic again. A station wagon in front of them drove some ten miles below the speed limit, and he couldn’t pass it. She watched the veins bulge in his neck and thought about massaging his shoulder. She reached for him. He recoiled. She pulled away. Looking out the window, she sighed.