by JC Gatlin
“You’re imagining things.”
She heard it again, a faint sound coming from the west. Rayanne stood and peered at the horizon. After a moment, as the thumping grew louder, Owen lowered his pole.
It sounded like the pulsing bass from someone’s stereo. The sound steadily grew louder, followed by the hum of an outboard motor revved to full power. Down the lake, they saw a motorboat approaching. It raced closer to Owen’s boat, then turned and passed in front and sped alongside. Driven by a shirtless teenage boy with tattoos on both arms, his back, and across his shoulders, the boat slowed. Still, his body ink was largely a black-and-green blur. He screamed something at Owen as they passed. The other teenagers, two boys and a girl, laughed.
Rayanne couldn’t make out what they’d said over the blaring music. Coming around for another pass, the teens screamed again, then took off. Their wake rocked Owen’s boat, tangling two of his fishing lines. He erupted into a fit of commotion, knocking over his tackle box, further rocking the boat and almost knocking Rayanne overboard.
“Dropp’n F!” he yelled as he collected the two poles.
Rayanne got back up onto her feet. “It’s a big lake. Why don’t they party on the other side?”
“He’s lookin’ for a place to get some cooter puss.” Owen righted the tackle box with the edge of his boot. “We’re probably in the way.”
Rayanne watched him focus on the knotted fishing lines. Stepping over the ice chest, she shuffled to the bow and stood beside him. She could hear the rap music in the distance.
“So, let’s get off the lake,” she said. She placed a hand on his bare arm. “Let’s go fish one of those channels we saw earlier.”
“Water’s too shallow. Looks like the whole lake’s down.”
“Then ignore them.” She squeezed his arm tighter. “Don’t get worked up over this. It’s still going to be a great weekend.”
“Babe, would you stop saying that?” He jerked his arm away from her. “I’m not getting worked up and you’re going to jinx us and it’ll start raining again.”
Owen stopped detangling and looked at the lake. The thumping grew louder as the boat of teenagers raced toward them, music blaring. This time the girl was driving and the three boys were lined up along the side of their boat. As they passed, they pulled down their shorts, exposing their butt cracks.
Owen screamed at the kids. Stomping to the rear of the boat, he picked up the ice chest and threw it in their direction. Ice, bottled water, and beer cans spiraled out of it, splashing into the water as it arced across the waves. The chest missed the teenagers’ boat by the width of a buoy, though, and fell on top of the lake. It floated, bobbing, before finally submerging.
This brought another roar of laughter and hoots from the teens when they made another pass. Together, the boys raised their arms and flipped up their middle fingers. Whooping, they sped away and their laughter faded with them.
Rayanne watched them vanish on the horizon while Owen reeled in his other line and set the fishing pole in the boat. “Of all the days …”
Rayanne watched him unwrap his shirt from around his waist and slip his arms into it. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Packing up.”
“We’re leaving?” She looked back at the horizon. She couldn’t even see or hear the teenagers anymore. “Owen, they’re just having fun. Don’t react, and they’ll leave us alone.”
“It’s getting late.”
Rayanne wasn’t sure if he was angry or hurt or somewhere in between. Perhaps it didn’t even really matter, she decided. She watched him unhook his lures and place them into the tackle box, speedily and precisely, with such deliberate efficiency, like a pouting toddler picking up his shovel and pail in the sandbox. His face reddened, along with the back of his neck. He looked like a wounded child when he got angry, she always thought.
She wanted to hold him now, care for him, keep him close and hidden away. They could forget about his unemployment and her father’s offer at the dealership and the crazy teens on the lake. They could make love morning, noon, and night. It could be their second chance, and it made her dizzy thinking about it.
But before she could speak, to talk him down and soothe his hurt feelings, he told her, “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Rayanne sighed and watched him thrust the boat forward. She surveyed the expanse of the lake. The teenagers were nowhere in sight. But they were out there.
And she knew they’d be back.
5
Near the shoreline, Owen cut off the outboard motor and glided the small bass boat to the sloping concrete ramp. Rayanne, already on land, watched as he splashed into the shallow water, marched onto the bank and over to the Chevy. When he’d backed the truck and trailer down the concrete slope, he jumped out and waded to the boat. He guided it onto the trailer, secured it, then sprang up the ramp and into the truck. The Chevy pulled the boat and trailer out of the water and he parked it along the dirt trail.
Rayanne could only watch, feeling completely useless. “Sorry. I know Darryl is probably more help than I am.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. He was pulling a rolled-up sleeping bag and a large green canvas tote from the truck bed.
Rayanne approached him. “What are we doing?” she asked. “I thought we’d go into town—”
“We’re camping,” he said in that same calm, careful voice.
His lava-fuming-below-the-surface voice, she called it.
“Is that a tent? I’m sure there’s a bed-and-breakf—”
“We’re not going back into town.” He tossed the tent bundle onto the ground. The metal poles inside clanked together. She stepped closer to him, and grabbed an end of the tote. She pulled out a long, curved pole.
“Why?” she asked.
“You said you wanted to go fishing with me. Welcome to a fishing trip.” He inserted one metal rod into another. “You don’t think Darryl and I stay at a bed-and-breakfast, do you?”
Rayanne paused. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Setting up the metal frame, they each took an end of the tent fabric and stretched it out.
Then Rayanne answered, her voice steady and unemotional, but not submissive. “Okay. You’re absolutely right. We’re on a fishing trip and we’re going to camp out. I can handle that.”
She stretched the fabric across the metal frame, but realized it didn’t fit. Owen came up beside her, taking it from her hands. He flipped it so the ends lined up with the metal poles. When they were locked together, he set the pieces on the ground and walked back to the large tote. A beep from the cell phone attached to his belt interrupted him. He put down the bag and grabbed the phone.
“You get a text message?” Rayanne asked him.
He ignored her, clearly engrossed in typing a message on his phone.
She stepped beside him. “Is it Darryl? How did he do in the bass tournament?”
“Why don’t you gather some firewood?” he said without looking at her. “We need a fire.”
Rayanne smiled. “That sounds … romantic.”
Owen stopped typing and looked at her. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she said quietly, thinking about it. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” he whispered, and smiled at her.
She watched him a moment, then returned the smile. It warmed her inside. “I’ll get us some firewood.”
She looked up at the cypress trees surrounding them. The woods writhed with shadows, unseen birds and squirrels moving in the branches. Male cicadas droned their rising and falling mating songs.
She stared into those shadows a moment, and then marched forward. She could feel Owen monitoring her every step.
* * * * *
Rayanne followed the shoreline, passing several half-buried boulders among the thin cypress trees. As she walked, she tried not to think about Owen or his foul mood. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t help herself.
They’d met some twelve years ago in Durham. He was attending Duke University on
a basketball scholarship, and it was love at first sight. Their life together was almost magical, she thought. There was no other word for it.
They married as soon as he graduated, then settled in Florida near his family. On their honeymoon, he bought a Lotto Scratch-off ticket. He could barely speak when he showed it to her in their hotel room. Unbelievably, it was worth over five hundred thousand dollars.
With the money they bought a house. She went to a veterinary school. He started a construction company, building new homes. They were living the dream.
Then the accident happened.
Rayanne forced herself to stop thinking about it. She stared at the evergreens in front of her, and grabbed a branch. Pulling it down, she felt its spindly, rough leaves and the small, rounded, woody cones at the end. Releasing the branch, she let it slap back up into the tree with a loud thwhaaaap that echoed through the upper canopy.
For some reason, it made her feel better and she turned her attention to the ground. She collected several sticks along the way; some were rotten and others dirty, with ants crawling in them. She placed the sticks in a pile to collect later. Rayanne saw another large log a few feet away.
Stepping hesitantly from the bank, she moved through the thick brush, toward the log. She heard birds flutter in the trees, as if something had spooked them. Perhaps it was her. But what if it was something else?
She looked back at the lake. The tree-lined east bank gave way to a murky swamp curving into the distance. Owen would’ve called it “Florida conservation,” she thought. It seemed almost impenetrable, and Rayanne paused. She heard a rustle in the brush.
About fifteen feet away, a doe fed on grass growing in the sunlight near the water. A fawn stepped beside her and reached its head around in front of its mother. Pushing against the side of her face to move her head out of the way, the fawn stiffened its legs.
Rayanne smiled. She’d hoped to find deer. Moving as quietly as she could, she removed her cell phone from her front pocket. She held it in front of her face and snapped a photo. The soft click startled the deer. The doe turned her head, spotted Rayanne, and froze, twitching her ears. A second later, both the doe and the fawn leapt into the brush.
Rayanne hated scaring them away, but turned her phone around to bring up the photo. She stared at it, smiling at her flair for taking a good photograph. It was postcard worthy.
Hesitating at the water’s edge, she turned her head toward the trees to see if she could still see the deer, when a mouth came out of the water. It snapped and Rayanne jumped backward, dropping her phone. She scrambled onto the bank. Falling into the grass, she looked back. The bony head of a large gator submerged under the water.
A few feet from the bank, the water boiled.
Bubbles rose.
In a moment the water’s surface became calm again.
Getting to her feet, Rayanne snatched up her phone and sprinted into the woods. She ran as fast as she could, crashing through thick palmettos. She didn’t know how far she ran or for how long. Out of breath, she slowed. That’s when she saw the dirt trail.
Two ruts in the ground similar to the path they took from the main road that cut toward the lake. Rayanne headed for the path, hoping it would lead her back to the boat ramp.
When she reached it, she walked for quite a while, not sure what direction she headed. She hoped she was getting closer. She noticed the pine and oak trees growing thicker around her, spindly arms that reached for her and scratched as she pushed her way through. Hesitating, she knew she had to be going in the wrong direction, moving farther away from the lake.
About to turn around, she heard a high-pitched howl. It almost sounded like a woman crying. It rang out again. Rayanne paused, listening. From her experience at the animal shelter, she knew it wasn’t human. It had to be an animal.
A trapped animal.
A hurt animal.
The wailing echoed in the trees around her and she pushed forward, stumbling in the direction she thought it was coming from. The wailing grew louder, and Rayanne stopped. She moved a pine branch away from her face and peered into the clearing stretched out in front of her.
Some fifteen, twenty yards ahead, an old cabin rested in the deep shadows of the forest. Behind its darkened corners, beyond Rayanne’s sight, the hidden wails rang out again. They grew louder, and she knew some animal was in trouble.
Stepping from the cover of the brush, Rayanne made her way toward the cabin.
6
Wild vines grew up the exterior walls of the cabin, mostly covering its gray planks. A rusty tin roof sloped over a porch that ran the full length of the front. The porch sagged, crowded with the skeletons of several chairs left outside in the weather.
Rayanne heard the cry again. It was coming from the rear.
She came out of the brush, leaving the cover of the trees, and approached the cabin. She stepped to the western side and pressed her back against the wall and into the vines. She didn’t hear any noise inside. It seemed empty. Perhaps abandoned.
The crying continued, louder. This time it was a long, tortured wail that chilled her. She pressed forward, along the wall, and rounded the corner to the backside of the cabin.
In the open backyard she saw a fire pit in front of a stone shed. To the side, a rack stood with a drying boar carcass. It shocked her for a second. Then she noticed a wire cage rattling at the foot of the shed.
A raccoon paced inside it. Struggling to get out, it shrieked again. She walked across the yard, approaching it. The coon hissed and bared its teeth.
“Did you get trapped?” she asked it, studying the cage. She could see that one end folded inward, allowing a small animal to enter but not escape. She assumed there had been scraps of food placed in it earlier.
She touched the cage door. The raccoon hissed again and swatted at her hand. Rayanne jumped back, then laughed at herself.
“Calm down,” she said. “I’ll get you out.” She glanced back at the cabin. It stood there like some empty shell. She didn’t believe anyone could possibly live there, being so small and run-down. Turning her head, she regarded the cage.
The raccoon watched her and backed into the farthest corner. She smiled at it again, and lifted the latch that released the cage door. The trap opened.
She watched the coon, but it wouldn’t move from the rear corner. The hair on its back rose, and it was clearly ready to defend itself. She looked down at it and felt sorry for its little feet standing on the wire mesh. How on earth would she get it out of the cage?
Remembering the granola bar, she fished it out of her pocket and held it up for the coon to see.
“I bet you’ll like this.” She unwrapped the green foil and pulled it off the brownish-yellow bar. Pulling off a piece, she set it at the opening of the cage, and then backed away.
The raccoon stared at her a moment, then looked at the chunk of granola. It cautiously approached the opening and sniffed the air. Hesitating, it looked back at her, then snatched the granola. It ate the food quickly and completely, before poking its nose around the cage opening. It seemed to notice it had a way out and looked as if it was trying to determine if it was another trap. Never taking its eyes off Rayanne, the coon dropped out of the cage and scrambled onto the dirt. It hesitated there, waiting for her to make a move.
She set the remainder of the granola bar on the ground and took a step backward. The coon bared its teeth, and Rayanne took another step. She watched it hesitantly approach the granola bar and pick it up. The animal looked up at her, then turned. Carrying the morsel in one of its small black hands, the coon scrambled across the yard, toward the cabin. Rayanne followed it as it rounded the corner and crawled through broken latticework along the foundation, disappearing into the dark crawl space.
No wonder someone had trapped it if it was living under there, Rayanne thought, walking along the side wall. She passed the broken wooden slats along the crawl space and noticed that the wild vines didn’t grow as thick on the eastern side
of the cabin. Rounding the front corner, she hesitated.
Parked in front, with four muddy wheels resting in the dirt, a black van cast a long shadow across the ramshackle porch.
Rayanne slipped back beyond the corner, her body pressed straight against the stiff vines growing on the wall. She held her breath.
No one saw her. The van appeared empty.
Turning her head, she stared at the quiet cabin. There was a window to her left, and she inched toward it. Leaning forward, she peeked inside. She couldn’t see much. The interior was dark.
Again, she rounded the corner and looked at the van. Cautiously, she approached it, watching the windshield, waiting for a face to appear. She touched the hood. Her fingers grazed the dusty black paint and found it cool. It hadn’t been driven in hours. Walking around to the back of the van, she saw a large metal grate mounted to the hitch along the bumper.
She turned and stared at the front porch. A thick sheet of plywood sloped from the top stair to the ground. Maneuvering around it, she stepped onto the porch. The wood creaked under her feet. She looked in the front windows. There was no furniture—unless you counted a card table and a couple of folding chairs. A large, muddy ice chest had been crammed in a corner.
She craned her neck to peer deeper into the room, and was startled to see her husband’s face glaring at her in the reflection of the windowpane. Rayanne jumped and swung around. Owen was standing there on the edge of the porch.
“Dropp’n F, babe! What are you doin’?” His voice was sharp.
Rayanne’s pulse caught in her throat. She couldn’t respond. After a moment of silence, when the initial shock faded, she reached for him. Wrapping her arms tightly around the core of his body, she pressed her face to his chest. He put his arms around her.
“You’re trembling. What is it?” he asked.
“It’s the van.” She released him, taking a deep breath. She focused on the vehicle parked a few feet from them. “The creepy black van that was tailing us on the interstate. The one I saw in town.”
