The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller

by JC Gatlin

  “Is this where you go on your hunting trips?” Weariness tinged her voice. When he didn’t answer, she turned her gaze to him and tried to think of something else to say. “I just love the ski boat.”

  Quickly, under his breath, he said, “It’s a bass boat.”

  Then nothing else. Rayanne stared out the window again.

  Finally the oncoming traffic cleared and Owen maneuvered into the left lane. Rayanne listened to the engine accelerate as they passed the station wagon.

  “Well, I’m excited.” She felt the weight of her body sink into the seat as Owen returned to the right lane and let the truck ease back to sixty. She wanted to tell him to slow down, but thought better of it. Instead she smiled at him. “I’ve been looking forward to us getting away for the weekend.”

  “Uh-huh,” he muttered.

  They passed a sign welcoming them to Willow, population 670, and the blacktop road turned into Main Street. It was lined with dusty brick buildings, a post office, and a corner diner. Beyond the town a thin road, bending like an arthritic finger, poked into the thick woods and disappeared into the fog.

  Owen pulled the Chevy into a Texaco station. Between the full-sized truck and the boat and trailer, he took up two pumps, but didn’t seem the least bit concerned. He hopped out of the truck. As he removed the gas cap and inserted the nozzle, Rayanne walked across the street to the corner diner.

  The door chimed when she entered. She smiled at a waitress behind the counter who was smacking on gum and cleaning glass cups with a white hand towel. Her lips were a deep orangey-red that competed sharply with the rouge on her cheeks. Her hair, a slightly different shade of red, was confined for the most part within a hairnet on the top of her head. The woman stared wide-eyed and unblinking, without saying a word.

  Rayanne hesitated at the door. For a split second she felt self-conscious about the way she was dressed. She hadn’t planned for anyone to see her wearing Owen’s old “Fish Naked” T-shirt and inappropriately short cutoffs. She looked like she should be serving beer in an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard. Just as quickly, though, she pushed the thought aside. She’d never see these people again, so what did it matter?

  Smiling at the waitress, she strode to the counter and ordered a large Mountain Dew for Owen and an iced tea with no ice for herself. The waitress nodded and picked up two glasses she had just wiped clean.

  “That order’s to go,” Rayanne added as she gazed out the large front windows. She froze, seeing the black van on the street outside.

  3

  Rayanne watched the black van roll slowly down Main Street. It hesitated in front of the Texaco, blocking her view of Owen at the gas pump across the street. She rushed from the counter, toward the large front windows. Peering out, she placed a hand on the pane and studied the van.

  Mud specked the sides and windshield. Paint had chipped away in jagged oval flecks that made the vehicle look diseased. The windows were tinted, and whoever was inside had slowed to barely a crawl. Someone was watching Owen, she thought. Her open palms hit the glass, pounding on the window. She needed to warn her husband.

  The waitress came up behind her. “Here’s your drinks.”

  Rayanne turned, startled. Her eyes widened, and the waitress cocked her head.

  “You okay, honey?” she asked, smacking her gum and holding up two Styrofoam cups. “You look paler than a corpse.”

  Rayanne shook her head and turned to face the windows. The van was gone.

  “What is it, honey?” The waitress set the drinks on a table beside Rayanne and reached out a comforting hand.

  “I don’t know.” Rayanne focused on the road. She looked as far down the street as she possibly could. “Do you know who owns that black van?”

  The waitress stepped beside her and peered out the window. “I don’t see no black van. Can’t think of nobody in town who owns one. Now, white trucks, that’s a different story. You ever noticed how many people own white trucks these days? I mean, when did white become a color?”

  “Thank you,” Rayanne said abruptly. She gave the waitress five dollars and left the diner with her two drinks.

  Crossing the street, Rayanne made her way back to the service station. Owen was talking to a heavyset man wearing greasy overalls and a backwards ball cap. She interrupted them.

  “Owen!” She almost yelled his name, and could hear the panic boiling in her throat.

  The men stopped talking and stared at her, clearly waiting for her to say something.

  “Yes?” Owen took the nozzle from the Chevy and returned it to the pump.

  Rayanne looked at the mechanic and then at her husband. She wanted to say that she saw the black van again. She was positive it was following them. Positive there was something wrong here, very wrong. But she thought about what Owen would say to that, how he’d respond.

  So she handed him a Styrofoam cup. “I got you a Mountain Dew.”

  “Great. Thanks.” He took it from her hand.

  “I got an iced tea,” she said.

  Owen turned to the mechanic. “So how do we get to the lake?”

  The man in the overalls scratched his chin as if thinking about it. Raising an eyebrow, he shrugged. “You’re on the south end of the lake here, and all the ramps I can think of are on private property.”

  Rayanne waved and turned to the truck. “That settles it. We’ll find another lake,” she said.

  Owen raised a hand, signaling her to wait a second. “There’s got to be public access.”

  “Ain’t no parks on this lake.” The mechanic looked away, and his face brightened as if he suddenly had an idea. He looked back at Owen and Rayanne. “But I think you can get on it from the north end. There’s a boat ramp on some government land.”

  Rayanne barely let him finish. “Oh, we wouldn’t want to trespass.”

  “Ah, ma’am,” the mechanic said, “it’s a wildlife sanctuary. No one goes out there but a few bird-watchers, maybe.”

  Owen grinned at Rayanne. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  The mechanic pointed toward the street ahead. “You take Main Street outta town, to the county road and stay on it six, seven miles north. When you see a windmill, head left and take that road to an old boat ramp—if it ain’t washed out.”

  “Washed out?” Rayanne didn’t like it. “Owen, let’s find another lake.”

  Her plea fell on deaf ears. Owen thanked the mechanic, shook his hand, and then hopped into the truck. Rayanne stood beside the pump, staring down the street, wondering where the black van had gone. When Owen honked, she jumped.

  “I’m coming,” she said, and moseyed around the front chrome grille. She noticed the dirty bug shield and hood splattered with the remains of dead lovebugs, and she hoped their acidic, gooey insides wouldn’t eat through the paint.

  Owen honked again, longer this time, and Rayanne moved faster. She climbed into the passenger seat and fidgeted with her seat belt. She could feel the weight of his stare, and when he asked her what was wrong, she shook her head. “I think we should find another lake.”

  Owen raised his hands, then brought them back down on the steering wheel. “What are you talking about? We’re already here.”

  “He said the ramp might be washed out.”

  “So what do you want to do?” He clutched the steering wheel, and Rayanne noticed his knuckles turning white. He looked over at her. “Go home?”

  “No,” Rayanne said quietly. “It’s just that …”

  “It’s just what?”

  “I saw that black van again.”

  “So?” He hesitated a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “It’s probably somebody who lives ’round here.”

  “The waitress in the diner didn’t think so. She’d never seen it before.”

  “Babe, I’m tryin’ to wrap my head around this.” His grip tightened on the steering wheel to the point where Rayanne could imagine him snapping it in two. She watched him shut his eyes, take a deep br
eath, then open them again.

  He turned to her and spoke slowly, clearly trying to curb his anger. “I cancelled the tournament. Cancelled my plans with Darryl to take you fishing with me. You said you wanted to go. So what’s the problem?”

  “I think—”

  “You wanted to spend alone time together, right?”

  “Yes, but …” Rayanne’s voice trailed off. She folded her arms and turned to look at the diner. She could see the waitress in the front window, watching them. Owen started the engine and put the Chevy in gear. It made a low rumble in the floorboard that Rayanne could feel along the soles of her feet.

  “Then what is it?” he asked as he pulled out of the Texaco station and onto Main Street.

  Rayanne wished he would turn the truck around. “I don’t know,” she said, noticing the splotches of dead lovebugs on the windshield. The glass was covered with them. She hadn’t noticed it before. “I don’t want to trespass, you know?”

  * * * * *

  With little downtown traffic, Owen drove quickly along Main Street. It was drizzling again, and he flipped on the windshield wipers. They swished bug remnants from one side of the glass to the other. His Chevy, even hauling the boat, handled the wet road easily enough.

  After a minute of listening to the monotonous squeak of the windshield wipers, Rayanne cleared her throat. “I’m fine, I guess. It’ll be good for us to get away from it all.” She’d decided to make the best of it. It’s what she really wanted. She looked over at Owen and smiled at him. “And it’ll be good for you to take a break from the job search.”

  In a flat drawl he said, “I’ll find a job. You don’t need to ride me.”

  “I wasn’t riding you.” She kept the smile on her face, though now it was forced. It was a testament to her determination, and she tried again. “You don’t think Darryl is too upset about me commandeering your fishing trip, do you?”

  “It wasn’t a fishing trip, it was a bass tournament.” His voice was sharp, direct, and Rayanne clearly took its meaning: the conversation was over.

  When they drove out of town and the speed limit bumped up from 35 to 45 miles per hour, the Chevy had the road to itself. Owen pressed down on the pedal, hurrying. He didn’t look at her, but added, “And yes, I’m sure he understands.”

  Rayanne didn’t respond, twirling the wedding ring on her finger.

  They drove for nearly twenty minutes in silence before she pointed ahead. “There it is,” she said. “There’s the windmill.”

  Roughly 125 feet tall, it was a ghostly landmark, conspicuous and battered. A fragmented wheel—missing several blades—creaked slowly atop a narrow wood frame. The structure towered above an overgrown field of palmettos, with pine woods behind it.

  Owen turned off the road, passed the windmill, and followed a rutted dirt path, barely two worn strips of tire tracks grooved in the ground. It led across the field to the woods. There, the trees grew thick right up to the edge of the track, making it difficult to see where they were going.

  “Are you sure this is even a road?” Rayanne asked.

  “The guy at the gas station said turn at the windmill. I turned at the windmill.”

  Branches hit the windshield and scratched against the side windows. The boat behind them rocked and jiggled with every bump on the path that took them deeper into the woods.

  When a rock hit the windshield, Rayanne jumped in her seat. It sounded like a gunshot, making a loud crack that left a circular crater with outstretched feeder lines in the glass. Owen screamed, causing her to jump again.

  “I just got the windshield replaced,” he yelled, slamming on the brakes. Rayanne lunged forward. She watched Owen swing open the door and jump outside.

  Taking a deep breath, she followed him out of the truck. “It’s not the end of the world,” she said, slamming the passenger door shut. “The insurance will cover it.”

  She took careful steps to the front of the truck and paused, as if sizing up the forest. The wall of trees and brush opened to a clearing, and Rayanne could see sunlight shimmering on top of the water through a break in the foliage. There was a lake back there, guarded by spindly cypress trees with greenish-gray moss dripping from their branches.

  She looked at Owen. He removed his sunglasses and leaned over the hood, examining the crack in the windshield.

  For some reason, she thought of the waitress in the diner and then the black van. Its peeling paint. Tinted windows. And she noticed that the cracked glass with squished bug innards scraped across the windshield reminded her of something from a crime scene.

  “At least we found the lake,” she said softly, twirling the wedding band around her ring finger. “We’re fishing, right?”

  4

  The rain drizzle had stopped, making for a sunny, hot afternoon on the lake. Owen, standing starboard at the bow with his fishing pole in hand, had his shirt tied around his waist by the sleeves. Rayanne still wore his hand-me-down T-shirt.

  Faded and tattered and with the slogan “Show off your pole – Fish naked” scrawled across the chest, the shirt was kind of vulgar. He’d bought it before they got married. And she’d stuffed it down deep in a dresser drawer, hoping it would go forgotten. It was, until the day her father invited her new husband to go fishing in hopes of forming a relationship. Owen wore that shirt on the trip.

  It wasn’t funny at the time, but over the years had become an inside joke. She wore it the first time Owen took her fishing, just to get a laugh. He’d said it looked hot and the fishing trip turned into something else. Now it hardly made an impression on him.

  Nevertheless, Rayanne kept trying. She didn’t mind the heat as much as the swarming gnats. She hoped they weren’t flying into her mouth as she told him all about the movie he missed the other night.

  “Even though the audience really enjoyed Becca’s remix and The Bellas came in third at the semifinals,” she said, “Aubrey gets real mad, you see, and yells at Becca.” Sitting portside on an ice chest in the stern of the boat, Rayanne tossed her line and lure into the water again and watched it plop and disappear under the waves. She paused for dramatic effect. “This makes Becca just up and quit.”

  Owen didn’t respond. They’d been on the boat for a couple of hours without catching a fish and she was getting bored. Now she was talking to relieve the monotonous chirp of cicadas in the trees around them.

  Toward the muddy banks, a heron flapped up into the bright sunlight. The bird flew for a distance and turned to cross the vast expanse of marshlands extending from the far side of the lake, toward the cypress trees lining the lakeshore. Rayanne’s gaze followed the bird’s flight for a few moments, before she continued her story.

  “So then The Bellas regroup after spring break, with the notable exception of Becca, of course. And guess what happens.” She turned her whole body to the other side of the ice chest to look at him, knowing full well he wouldn’t acknowledge her. “Chloe stands up for Becca and forces Aubrey to let her back in the group.”

  “You ruined the ending,” Owen said without so much as a glance at her.

  It was the first thing he’d said in a good hour or so.

  “Well, you fell asleep on the couch and missed it.”

  Rayanne considered finishing the plot synopsis, but instead fished a granola bar from the front pocket of her shorts, rocking the boat as she moved. She noisily tore open the wrapper and peeled it to expose the yellow, grainy bar. She took a bite and it crunched in her mouth. This seemed to get Owen’s attention; he looked over at her. She could see the irritation in his face.

  “You want some?” She extended an arm, offering him the granola bar. His brow furrowed and she shrank back.

  “You ruined the ending,” he said again.

  “I did you a favor. It’s not like you’ll ever stay awake long enough to finish it anyway.” Like a scolded child, she tightened the wrapper around the remaining bar and returned it to her pocket. She really wanted to lighten his mood, but didn’t know how.
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  After several moments of quietly listening to water slosh against the side of the boat, she thought of something else to say. “I can’t believe anyone lives out here on this lake. Maybe we should head to the south end, you know, by the town.”

  “I like it here. Nobody’s around.” Owen reeled in his line, then cast it again. It made a high-pitched whizzing sound as the lure flung across the water and smoothly glided under. Twenty feet in front of him, a faint swirl twisted the surface and a ripple moved in a line toward the bank.

  Something was nibbling, but Rayanne didn’t care.

  “We haven’t seen another boat in hours.” She stood up and stretched her legs. The boat waddled side to side as she moved. He didn’t respond and simply reeled in his line. She listened to its soft click as she watched her own line bob up and down on the waves. It was almost hypnotic, and she stifled a yawn. She needed him to say something or she would fall asleep. Turning her head, she held her hand above her eyes to block the sun.

  “Did you talk to my dad about being a salesman for his dealership? He says you’d make good money and there’s benefits.”

  She watched her husband cringe, and realized it was probably the worst subject she could’ve brought up. However, it forced a reaction.

  “I don’t want to sell cars,” he said. “I’m not going to ask your father for a job.”

  “He wants to hire you. You’d be good in sales.”

  Owen recast his line, but wouldn’t turn to look at her. “I’m not selling cars for your father.”

  “He’s only offering to help, and we could really use the—”

  “This is a fishing trip,” he said, “not a talking trip.”

  She waved a hand at him, motioning him to be quiet. “I hear something.” She leaned forward. “You hear thumping?”