by JC Gatlin
“Yes, but it’s true.” Owen hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure how much he should tell her. “My life changed when I found it. College. The job. You. Connor.”
Rayanne opened her mouth to protest, but Owen raised a hand, silencing her. “And when I lost it …” he said, looking away.
“Nothing in our life has had anything to do with that rabbit’s foot,” she said. “Good or bad.”
“It did, Rayanne. That rabbit’s foot has a hold over the owner,” he insisted. “That is, until the day you lose it. I saw it firsthand with Grover Lott.”
Rayanne absent-mindedly put a hand in her pocket, feeling the soft fur of the hidden rabbit’s foot. She thought about it a moment, then responded to Owen. “Grover Lott?”
“The man in the wheelchair,” Owen said. “We grew up together in Tarpon Springs.”
“And he wants this rabbit’s foot?”
“He found it when we were seniors in high school. He told me it changed his life. He got a music scholarship into this fancy college and his parents got back together.”
“That’s ridiculous. That had nothing to do with some stupid rabbit’s foot.”
“I didn’t believe it either.” Owen paused, leaning forward, clutching his stomach. He talked through clenched teeth. “Not until the day he lost it.” Owen groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Sit back and relax.” Rayanne put a hand on his forehead, wiping away the sweat. Then she moved his arm to look at his stomach. Her torn yellow shirt, now soaked in blood, was still wrapped around the wound. “Don’t talk,” she said.
“I need to tell you.” He sighed, winced in pain, and took another deep breath. “It was the summer after we graduated from high school. Me and Darryl and some of these other guys were swimming. Jumping off this cliff into the water and stuff, and Groves was with us.”
He stopped talking again, scrunching his face in pain. Perhaps it was the memory that inflicted it.
Rayanne leaned forward. “And …?”
“And he lost the rabbit’s foot. Couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“Why is he in a wheelchair, Owen? What happened to him?”
“He jumped off the cliff. Hit shallow water. It paralyzed him from the waist down.”
“Oh my God.” She looked away, then back at him. “But that could’ve happened to anyone. It had nothing to do with a rabbit’s foot.”
“It had everything to do with it. He lost it right before he jumped. I found it on the ground and kept it ever since. Now he wants it back.”
Rayanne stood. “Owen, this is ridiculous. This whole thing is crazy. People don’t kill other people over a superstitious rabbit’s foot.”
“It’s not a superstition.” Owen reached out, grasping her hand. His voice grew deep, serious. “Are you listening to me? Groves lost it just before he fell and broke his back. He lost the rabbit’s foot, like I did. I’m lucky I’m not paralyzed.” He paused. “Or worse.”
They both realized his voice was carrying. It had silenced the birds. She turned to look at the trees as his faint echo subsided. She prayed that—
Splintered wood and bark sprayed over them simultaneously with the sharp crack of gun fire.
Rayanne ducked as another shotgun blast tore into the tree bark. The shot reverberated through the trees, and Rayanne plunged forward into vegetation. Owen followed, blundering into shade and wild ferns.
Rayanne paused, turning to help him. He flung an arm over her shoulder as she gripped his waist. She felt warm, sticky blood on her hand, and it shocked her. But there wasn’t time to think about that. They moved through the thick ferns. Over her shoulder she saw the giant in the distance.
Rude Roddy, large as an angry bear, barreled toward them. He came to the oak trees where they’d just left, and he paused. His eyes connected with hers, and he sank to one knee. He aimed the shotgun.
Rayanne held Owen tighter, her hand pressing against his stomach and squishing with more warm blood. The knee-high foliage at their feet was slowing them down. Tripping them. She fell to her left and brought Owen down with her. He landed on top of her as a tree somewhere ahead splintered from another bullet shot.
Owen cried out in pain as Rayanne rolled his body off her. They were covered by the tall ferns and grass and though she attempted to look over her shoulder, she couldn’t see anything but long, green fronds. She knew Roddy was coming. She could hear him rustling through the wild ferns.
Getting to her knees, she tugged Owen’s arm. He groaned again, holding his side. She tugged harder, forcing him to come with her. On hands and knees, they crawled through the waving ferns. The tree line was a few yards in front of them. Owen stumbled, landing on his side.
“Go,” he said to her. “Get out of here.”
She turned her head. Sat up. Pulled his arm.
Owen pushed her. “Run,” he said.
Rayanne refused. Her brain struggled to grasp what was happening. She looked back to see Roddy coming, trampling through the undergrowth. He was getting closer. She pulled Owen’s arm again.
“Run!” he yelled at her, and broke her grasp.
She let go of him and he fell to the ground. When she glanced back, Roddy saw her. He moved faster, closer. Everything seemed frozen for a second as blood pounded in her temples. All she could hear was the loud pulsing of her veins, then Owen’s voice again: “Run!”
She stumbled slightly on her hands and knees, turned, and got to her feet. She headed for the tree line, running. Her legs ripped through the ferns. She craned her neck. Stumbled. Looked over her shoulder.
She saw Roddy again. He had her in his sight. He stopped. Raised the shotgun. She held her breath, watching him aim. She struggled forward. Turned toward the trees, then looked back one final time.
She saw Owen rise from the sea of green fronds, yelling, maybe screaming, and Roddy jumped, raising his arms. Owen plunged an arrow into Roddy’s chest.
Rayanne screamed as the large teen dropped the shotgun and tumbled backward. He disappeared into the foliage. Owen came down after him. She could see nothing but waving green fronds, hear nothing but her own pulse pound in her head. Then she saw Owen’s arm come up, his hand gripping the bloody arrow. It dropped back down into the ferns.
Rayanne stopped, gasped for air. She thought she heard a shriek. Maybe it was Owen. It was probably Roddy. Then silence.
“Owen?” she called out.
He didn’t answer. Wind rippled the pointed tops of the ferns.
Scrambling out of the thick vegetation, Rayanne made it to the oak trees. She nearly tripped and grabbed a low tree limb for support. She leaned over it, feeling like she was about to puke. She struggled to hold the bile in her throat, and shut her eyes. The breeze hit her skin, sending cold waves across her arms and down her back. She was sweating.
Her arms pushed against the tree limb and her back straightened. Blood rushed from her head and the entire forest spun. She thought she was about to lose consciousness, when she felt Owen grab hold of her right arm. He turned her around, held her, and Rayanne buried her face in his chest.
She listened to his beating heart, and sobbed until her body stopped heaving.
Reining in her fear, she raised her head, looked into his rough face. Their eyes met. It was a silent question. He nodded, confirming what she already knew, but said nothing. There was nothing more to say.
Releasing her, Owen turned toward the field of ferns. He stepped away from her. She grabbed his hand.
“Where are you going?” She gripped his fingers.
“We need that shotgun.” His hand slipped from her grasp.
“Wait!” Rayanne heard another voice echo in the woods beyond the ferns. It was Scut. He was calling for Roddy. She couldn’t tell how far. She heard his voice again. “Owen, we need to get out of here.”
Owen headed into the ferns. Scut’s voice grew louder, closer.
“Owen!”
Barely a foot into the ferns, Owen stumbled and fell to his knees. Rayanne
ran to him. Placing a hand on his back, she helped him to his feet.
Scut’s disembodied voice echoed in the distance again, and she paused, listening to it. She looked at her husband. “We need to get out of here.”
“We need that gun.” He could barely speak.
“There isn’t time,” she said.
Scut’s voice rang out again, and she tugged Owen tighter. At last, he relented.
Holding him, she guided him away from the wild ferns and into the woods. She wrapped her arm around his back, allowing him to lean on her as they moved. Gradually, Scut’s echoes faded until they no longer heard him at all.
The ground turned rocky and uneven, and she felt Owen’s arm tighten, pulling her closer to his side. Her head fit snugly under his arm, as it always did, and she knew he was using her for support. It made her feel calmer. Safer.
They made their way down another slope, sliding quickly where the fallen leaves underfoot were damp. Rayanne held out a hand to balance herself, but her fingers scraped through mud as she slid.
At the bottom of the slope, Owen splashed into a shallow stream, with Rayanne tumbling into him. He let out a painful grunt. They struggled to their feet, standing in ankle-deep water.
“This is one of those channels,” Owen said, his face squinting as he held his side. “It will lead back to the lake.”
Rayanne ran a hand through her hair. She could feel a streak of gritty mud on her forehead. “The lake?” she said. “We don’t want to go to the lake. We’ve got to find the highway.”
“We can flag down a boat.” He stepped forward in the shallow water. Turning to her, he waved his arm. “Someone’s got to be out fishing.”
She watched him, then looked in the direction they’d come. She could feel the rabbit’s foot rubbing against her upper leg. It felt like it was weighing her down. Swiping a hand over the small bulge in her pocket, she shifted the delicate foot to the right. With no other option that she could think of, she shrugged.
Splashing toward Owen, she took his hand. Together they plunged through the stream, going in the direction of the running water.
26
Rayanne and Owen tramped along the stream for an hour. Ahead of them the terrain turned swampy, and they were certain it meant the lake was closer. They drudged through tall grass, where the water came up to their ankles. But the mud slowed them down more, an almost bottomless sucking sludge that clung to their feet.
Rayanne pulled a foot forward and lost her last sandal. She cringed, turning back, and reached in the mud for it. After a moment, she gave up. She said, “I think we lost those guys.”
“Good, ’cause I can’t keep this pace.” Owen walked a few feet behind her. “I need to rest.”
Yet they kept moving. The only way out was to track the channel to the lake and hope they could attract someone’s attention or find the lake houses on the south end.
A few steps ahead, she stopped and turned to check on him. She returned to his side and put a hand on his back, eyeing his bloody stomach. “You’re still bleeding.”
“It’s not as bad as it was.”
Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Owen leaned against her. She pushed forward, trying desperately to move faster through the mud and grass. The water rose to their knees, and then their waists.
“We’re getting closer to the lake,” she said.
“Slow down.” Owen’s deep voice startled her and she paused, holding him. “I heard something.”
“You’re imagining things.” She looked at the spindly cypress trees rising from strips of grassy hills like tiny islands around them. She froze. Something splashed ahead.
Owen slipped backward and stood on his own, the muddy water leveling below his crotch.
Rayanne squinted, trying to see what lay ahead.
She heard the splash again. A little louder, followed by another.
Rayanne turned her head. It wasn’t in front of them. It was in the tall grass off to their right.
Owen moved away from the grass, toward Rayanne. She edged behind him, now hearing a low rumble. The hiss came short and deep.
“Get up in the grass,” Owen said, pushing on Rayanne’s shoulder. “Hurry.”
Rayanne sloshed to the side, pulling her feet as quickly as she could out of the mud that sucked at her bare feet. Owen was quicker reaching the grass, faltering a moment as he tried to move his feet up the mushy bank, and then pulling himself into the thick growth.
Across the channel, two quick splashes disturbed the shallow water as a gator stuck its broad snout into the open. It parted the grass, and took another quick, jerky step. It hissed again.
Owen pushed Rayanne farther up the grassy strip, toward a cluster of cypress trees. She couldn’t reach them, and felt the mud hold tight to her bare foot, then release her with a quick pop. She shot forward a couple of steps, splashing rapidly until her feet sank again. Her body pitched forward. Swinging her arms in front of her, she grasped desperately for a clump of grass, but pushed it down with her as she splashed face first into the water.
Owen glanced over his shoulder as the gator’s head disappeared. Slowing his pace, Owen caught the back of Rayanne’s grimy brown T-shirt and pulled her up. “It’s not coming after us.”
Rayanne wiped mud from her hands. At Owen’s next step his leg sank deep into the muck. He went to his side, his arms down in the water, trying to get his balance. Rayanne caught him until he could regain his feet.
Then Rayanne seemed to be stuck again. Her eyes widened in the moment it took her to move her feet.
Separating the tall grasses before them with their forearms, they struggled around the side of the channel. They climbed onto a solid clump and, at long last, saw the lake. The sun hung low along its western shore, and the surface shimmered in the late afternoon light. Rayanne ran to the water’s edge, her bare feet splashing in the surf. She looked out on the lake.
“There’s no boats,” Rayanne said, her hand at her brows to shade her eyes. The bright lake was empty. “No one’s out there.”
“Someone will come along.” Owen groaned and his knees buckled.
Rayanne caught him. She helped him to his feet, and noticed his pale face. He was no longer sweating. She gently lifted his shirt and looked at the tatters of his bandage. Blood spewed from the wound in his stomach.
Guiding him across the lakeshore, she took Owen to the cypress trees and helped him sit below them in the shade. With his long legs stretched out in the sand, he propped his shoulders against a tree trunk. Rayanne made him as comfortable as possible by removing her T-shirt and stuffing it behind his back. She then lifted his shirt again and gently removed the bloody remains of the bandage. His face was tight with pain, but he hadn’t said anything since she helped him to the ground.
The wound looked worse. Rayanne worried that it was infected. But there was nothing she could do. Sighing, she sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. She gazed at the sky and wondered what to do next. When Owen gently shifted, she moved her head from his shoulder.
“Listen, if I don’t make it out of here …” he said quietly.
“Sssshhhhh …” She wouldn’t let him finish, putting a finger to his lips and shushing him. Tears filled her eyes. He turned his head and she moved her finger.
“No, I need to know something,” he whispered. “It’s important.”
Rayanne moved back. “What?”
“I need you to tell me,” he said slowly. “How did that movie end?”
Rayanne looked perplexed. “What?”
“The dance troupe,” he said. “Did they make it to the competition?”
Rayanne smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, they made it.”
“You see.” He tried to laugh. “We make a good team. I fall asleep on the couch and you ruin the ending of the movie for me.”
She hushed him again. “Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
“I don’t want you to leave me,” he said. “I don’t want a divorce
.”
“We can talk about this later.”
“No, we can’t.” He moved too quickly and groaned in pain. “Babe, I’m serious. I love you and I want to be with you.”
She stared into his eyes, but didn’t answer.
He moved again, slower this time, and touched her arm. “You still love me, right, babe? You still love me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Of course I do.”
“I’m grieving too. You know that, right?” He shifted again and reached up, grabbed a low-hanging branch, and broke it. He handed it to her.
She took the branch. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a cypress branch,” he said. “It’s a symbol of mourning.”
Rayanne looked down at it. “Owen, I don’t understand.”
“You won’t talk about it, or at least not to me,” he said. “I want you to know I’ve been mourning with you. I may not have been the greatest husband, but you haven’t been going through this alone.”
“I never thought I was alone,” she said, bringing the branch to her lips. “It’s just … I can’t talk about it.”
“Why?” Despite the visible pain, Owen was clearly growing angry. “Why can’t you talk to me? I’m your husband.”
“Because—”
“Because why? I love you and we should be—”
“I can’t face the truth,” she yelled, silencing him. “I can’t even begin to process what I’ve done.”
“Babe, what happened?”
Rayanne shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Yes, you can.” He nodded. “What happened?”
She turned away from him. “Please, let’s find a way to—”
“Rayanne, you were an extraordinary mother. You loved him.”
“No!” She was on the verge of tears.
“Babe, whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my fault.” She swung around. Her eyes were red and swollen. “It’s my fault that our son is dead. My fault.”
Silence hung in the air, and Owen let out a nervous grunt. “Of course it’s not your fault.”
