The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller

by JC Gatlin

  “No, that end of the lake belongs to the Corps of Engineers,” the sheriff said. “I can’t think of anyone named Scut ’round these parts.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rayanne said, scooting out of the booth. “We’re leaving.”

  The sheriff tipped his hat again. “Well, I’m sorry you ran into trouble. I hope you and your husband visit Willow again real soon.”

  Rayanne watched Sheriff Petty return to his booth as the waitress pushed against the kitchen door.

  Owen took Rayanne’s hand. “Babe, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I know,” she said. “Let’s go. I want to forget this whole weekend even happened.”

  “Wait,” Owen said to her. He lowered his head, still holding her hand. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  Rayanne shook her head. “Owen, it can wait. Let’s talk in the truck.”

  “I-it can’t wait. I did something,” he said. “Or, r-rather, I lost s-someth—”

  “Owen, please. I want to leave.”

  “Already?” came a familiar voice behind them.

  Owen turned around as Rayanne looked up and was surprised to see his buddy.

  “Darryl!” Owen said, getting up from the table. “You made it.”

  10

  Rayanne watched Darryl push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and drop onto the bench across from her. She knew he’d been her husband’s best friend since childhood, and he never really seemed to change. Slender and rumpled-looking, Darryl was somewhere in his mid-thirties. Today he wore a blue-and-white, horizontal-striped, collared shirt that looked as if it’d been washed one too many times. His blue Gators ball cap was equally faded; he seemed to always be wearing it. Darryl removed the cap, scratched his scalp, and returned the cap to his head.

  Owen plopped down beside him and motioned for the waitress to bring another menu.

  Turning to Owen, Darryl said, “I tried calling you back, but you never picked up.”

  Owen shrugged. “Cell phone’s not working.”

  The waitress returned to the table and left Darryl a menu.

  He glanced at it and set it down. “So, what happened to your phone?”

  “It just …” Owen looked down at his soda-splattered paper placemat. Then he glanced at Rayanne. “It broke, that’s all.”

  “Broke?” Suddenly irritated, Rayanne put down her tea. “He threw it at a tree.”

  Darryl laughed. “Sounds like something he’d do.” Again he opened the menu, glanced at it, and shut it. “I was expecting you to be at the lake, though, not antiquing around Hooterville.”

  “We ran into some trouble,” Rayanne said coolly.

  Darryl smiled at her. “Good to see you, Rayanne.”

  “Darryl.” Her voice was more disappointed than anything else.

  He nodded and turned to Owen. “You’re not really leaving yet, are you? I just got here.”

  “I thought you were fishing in some bass tournament,” Rayanne said, not trying to conceal her annoyance.

  Darryl removed his glasses, held them up a couple of inches in front of his face, and squinted. “I got stuck with a crazy partner. He was wearing a hard hat and using a spin cast,” he said, cleaning the lenses with the edge of his shirt-sleeve. “I gave up, and when I got Owen’s text, I jumped at the chance.”

  As he spoke, Rayanne’s expression turned from interest to derision. “Yeeaaah,” she said sarcastically.

  “Don’t matter, anyway. The fishing tournament was a bust. So how’s the boat running?”

  “Like a charm.” Owen flagged down the waitress and ordered two eggs, sunny side up, and another Mountain Dew.

  Darryl nudged him. “Are we taking it out?”

  “Of course. We got all day.”

  Rayanne interrupted them. “I thought we were leaving,” she said as she picked up the check from the table and started to rise from the booth.

  Owen put a hand on her arm. “Babe, Darryl’s here.”

  “I can see that.” She slumped into the booth. “But what about last night?” she asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

  “Darryl and I are going fishing,” he said. “You can come with us or you can stay here and go antiquing through Hooterville.” He and Darryl both laughed at the joke, then Owen called to the waitress to bring Darryl a cup of coffee.

  Rayanne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Owen, you’re not seriously thinking about going back there, are you? What about those teenagers?”

  Owen glanced over at Darryl, then at Rayanne. “I’m not getting bullied by some punk kids,” he said. “Besides, the sheriff said they were lying. They don’t own that land.”

  “But you know they’ll be back—”

  “Really, babe? They’re probably long gone by now,” Owen said, interrupting her.

  The waitress returned with a cup of coffee. Darryl took it from her and thanked him. He then nodded at Rayanne. “Besides, Rayanne,” he said, blowing on his coffee, “you say these are teenagers? We can handle a bunch of seventh graders.”

  Rayanne fumed. “They aren’t seventh graders,” she said. “They’re very large and mean-looking.”

  “They’re mean-agers,” Owen said, laughing. “And you handled them better than anyone else I ever seen.” He turned to Darryl. “You should’ve seen her last night with the shotgun …”

  Rayanne looked at him, then out the window. Her eyes seemed to glaze over. She watched Owen and Darryl eat and talk for half an hour before the two men finally rose and strolled out of the diner. She stared out the window, watching them head through the parking lot. Darryl’s shiny new Toyota pickup was parked next to Owen’s old black Chevy, and Darryl pulled a tackle box and pole from the bed. Rayanne noticed that equipment looked new as well, but didn’t dwell on it. Instead, she wondered what Owen wanted to tell her. It didn’t matter, really. She didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t talk about the accident.

  Having set the tip on the table, Rayanne took a sip of tea, put down the glass, and leaned back. The waitress returned with the change and Rayanne took it, dropping the money into her damp purse. She grabbed the straps of her bags and looped them over her shoulder, when she realized the waitress was staring at her.

  “Sweetie, husbands are like pancakes.” The waitress stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “There’s no shame in throwing the first one out.”

  * * * * *

  With their fishing gear secure in the truck bed, Owen and Darryl climbed into the Chevy, Darryl taking the front seat.

  “Your wife seems mad,” he said as he fastened the seat belt.

  “She’s always mad about something.” Owen started the engine. “She’s been on me about getting a job.”

  “You know, you should come work for me.” Darryl leaned back in the passenger seat and grinned. He removed his blue baseball cap and scratched his head. “My cheese sculpting company is booming. Really, really booming. I got more calls coming in than I can handle. I could really use the help.”

  Owen shot him a dirty look as Rayanne opened the front passenger door. Seeing Darryl, she closed it and climbed into the backseat. She slipped her bags from her shoulder and let them fall onto the floorboard. She pushed the guitar aside to make room on the seat. Owen was watching her with a surprised look on his face, as if he didn’t realize she was coming along.

  “Babe, you can stay here and shop if you want.” He smiled, but looked more guilty than genuine. “I mean, if you’re worried about a couple of kids harassing us and all.”

  “Just drive,” she said, sounding lost.

  * * * * *

  Rayanne sulked in the backseat as Owen turned onto Main and headed out of town. She stared out the window, watching aging buildings pass, when she noticed a boat shop on the corner. It was a small building, with a chain-link fence outlining the property. A hand-printed sign stating “RENT ME” hung lopsided on the fence and, behind it, parked among weeds and an assortment of worn tires
, were several old boats.

  “Hey. Wait.” Rayanne turned her head as they passed the building. “That looks like the boat we saw yesterday.”

  She turned her head to look past the gun rack, out the rear window. Then she swung around and placed her hands on the headrest behind Owen. She grabbed his shoulder.

  “I think I saw that boat those teenagers were in,” she said again.

  Owen made a U-turn at the next intersection and headed toward the old building. Crossing traffic, he pulled into the parking lot. Owen parked and hopped out of the truck. Darryl and Rayanne followed.

  White gravel crunched under their feet as they approached five boats lined along a chain-link fence. To the side, red and yellow kayaks sat in two rows, capped by one dark green canoe. Rayanne noticed it as she came up beside Owen, who was hunched down investigating a maroon ski boat that looked eerily similar to the one the teenagers had been driving.

  “That’s the boat,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

  The door of a small sales trailer in the center of the property opened, and a heavyset man came lumbering out, wearing a dark jacket and blindingly blue, sharply ironed Wranglers tucked into polished cowboy boots. As soon as he let the door slam shut behind him, he made his way down a series of metal steps that vibrated with a low warble and actually shook the whole trailer. This not only caught Rayanne’s attention, but apparently the attention of eight or nine cats—she wasn’t sure how many as they leapt and meowed at the man’s feet. The cats twisted and crossed in front of him, to the point that he almost stumbled.

  Catching his footing, he moved faster and motioned to Rayanne. “Can I help you with anything today?”

  Owen turned to him as he approached. “You rent boats?”

  “I sure do,” the man said, smiling. He turned toward the Chevy and sized up Owen’s bass boat behind it. After a moment, he turned to Owen with a puzzled smirk. “You look’n to rent another boat this afternoon?”

  The cats had followed him, their tails raised high in the air. They were meowing loudly and rubbing their bodies against his boots.

  Owen shook his head, probably in response to the question but also as likely at the horde of crying cats. He motioned toward the maroon ski boat. “You rent this one to some teenagers yesterday?”

  The man eyed Owen, gently pushing a cat away with his boot, only to have it replaced with two more. He glanced at Rayanne and looked back at Owen. “No, sir. We don’t generally rent to teenagers without their parents’ consent.”

  “These were older teenagers, maybe in their early twenties,” Owen said. “Three boys and a girl.”

  The salesman shook his head. “No one like that came onto the lot yesterday.”

  Owen frowned. “Did you rent this boat to the parents of some teenagers, then?”

  “No, sir. If you must know, it was a war veteran and his son.”

  The salesman sighed and mopped his brow. It was already hot in the midmorning sun, and between the heat and the cats congregating at his feet, he seemed to be getting flustered.

  “The veteran was in a wheelchair and his son was taking him fishing for the first time in ten years. Is there a problem?”

  “No.” Owen looked away from him and seemed to focus on the boat again. “Thank you for your time.”

  He headed to the Chevy as Darryl followed, asking him what that was all about.

  Rayanne paused and bent down to pet a cat. It rubbed against her leg, and she immediately recognized it, with its chunky body, plush gray coat and broad face, to be a British shorthair. She playfully shooed it away with her foot and it rolled onto its back and swatted at her. The man bent down and picked it up in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he ran a hand along the cat’s back. It looked up at him and swatted his chin. The man dropped the cat and it landed on its feet. He rubbed his chin. “I started out feeding one, and then before I knew it—”

  “What did the veteran’s son look like?” Rayanne was no longer interested in the cats.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The son. Did he have tattoos on his arm?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” He seemed to think about it as he still rubbed his chin. “In fact, it was spider webs running down his arm.”

  Rayanne froze. “Spider webs?”

  “Red and black ink.”

  That proves it, Rayanne thought. That was Scut. She squinted at the salesman. “And you said the older man was in a wheelchair?” Rayanne looked at the boat. She stared at it for several seconds, until Owen honked. Then she thanked the salesman and ran to the truck.

  11

  Within the hour, Owen and Darryl were on the lake. Neither spoke. They just fished. Owen watched his cork jerk under the water. He yanked up on his pole. An empty lure tangled in lake grass sailed into the air and plopped back into the water. He said something under his breath, and Darryl looked over his shoulder.

  “Give them time to take it,” Darryl said, grinning. “Why you so jumpy?”

  Owen lifted his pole and caught the hook swinging toward him.

  A few seconds later, he cast again and the lure disappeared into the water. The cork ran out, away from the side of the boat, tugged twice, then slowly came back in line with the others.

  “This is what happens when you take your wife fish’n.” Darryl scratched the dark stubble on his protruding chin and pushed his ball cap back on his head. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. “Now she’s all mad at you and—”

  “She stays mad at me.”

  “Still, I don’t feel good about leav’n her in the truck,” Darryl said.

  “She didn’t want to come out on the boat and she didn’t want to stay in town,” Owen said. “What could she do?”

  “I don’t know.” Darryl seemed to be thinking about it. “Is she really mad about some kids harassing you, or is this more about all those trades look’n to get paid?”

  Owen thought about the question a moment. “That and other things.”

  Darryl turned his head and pushed his glasses up farther along the bridge of his nose. Sweat dripped down his forehead. “Let me give me you some money. A loan, until you find another line of work.”

  “Don’t need it. Don’t want it.”

  “Is she making you sell the boat?” Darryl wiped his brow again. “Let me buy it from you. That way it stays in the family.”

  “I’m not sellin’ my boat.”

  “Okay,” Darryl said. “Then I want to do something. Things have been going great for me. Business has been—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Okay.” Darryl tucked the rod and reel under his arm and bent down to open his tackle box. He pulled out a half-eaten Snickers bar. Taking a step as he unwrapped the bar, he slipped and fell to his knee, nearly dumping all his lures and hooks across the bow of the boat.

  Owen ignored it. After giving Darryl a chance to cast his line, he said, “Who starts a business sculpting statues out of cheddar cheese, anyway?”

  “I don’t know.” Darryl shrugged. “There’s a market for cheese sculpting. Grocery stores. Sporting events. Festivals.”

  “But cheese?”

  “I’m lucky, I guess.” Darryl brought his hand to his shirt pocket and patted it as if there was something hidden within it. He looked over at Owen. “Hey, bro, there’s something I been mean’n to tell ya—”

  Owen didn’t let him finish. “You still seeing that Puerto Rican chick?”

  “Yeah,” he said, chewing on the candy bar. “And all her friends are models.”

  “Shut up.”

  A breeze caught the candy wrapper and swept it over the side of the boat. It floated on top of the water and Darryl stretched his left arm as far as he could to reach it. He grasped it, then recoiled back into the boat. “It’s not as exciting as you think.”

  “You’ve got a hot Spanish woman in your bed every night.” Owen cleared his throat, then said under his breath, “Doin’ better than me.”
<
br />   “Maybe not.”

  “Why you say that?” Owen reeled in his line. “I already told you Rayanne hasn’t let me so much as put a finger on her since, well, you know.”

  “I know.” Darryl’s voice was sympathetic, and then he chuckled. “My girlfriend doesn’t know this, but every time we have sex, I put a dollar in an envelope. I’m using that money to buy her a birthday gift.”

  “And?”

  “And so far she’s gettin’ a McChicken.”

  Owen looked at his buddy and watched him hook another lure and cast it over the side of the boat.

  After a couple minutes of silence, Owen cleared his throat. “I’m thinking about moving away.”

  Darryl shot him a sideways glance. “Where ya goin’?”

  “I was thinking … Australia.”

  “Why Australia?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, you know, it’s far away.” Owen reeled in his line. “I figured it would be good to get away from everything for awhile.”

  “If you want to go really far away, why don’t you go to Japan?”

  Owen turned aside and shook his head. “I don’t want to go to Japan.”

  Darryl wasn’t listening. He added, “They’ve got these cool robots now that you’d swear on your mother’s grave was a real live person.”

  “I don’t care. I knew this guy who went there and he said it sucked.” Owen cast his line again. “So why would I want to go there?”

  Darryl pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose again and stared at him. “So you think that going to Australia, you’ll be getting away from all your problems.”

  “I didn’t say that. You know, I figured a change of scenery would be good. Forget it.”

  “Look, Owen.” Darryl put a hand to his shirt pocket. “There’s something I been mean’n to tell you.”

  “What about it?”