by JC Gatlin
In the confusion, Rayanne grabbed the shotgun. Raising it, she pointed and fired two shots. One into Dru’s leg and the second into her stomach. The gunshots echoed loudly across the lake as Dru cried out and dropped to her knees, clutching her belly. Blood spilled out between her fingertips.
Rayanne wasted no time. She scrambled to the front of the boat and knocked hard into Dru, pushing her overboard. There was no scream of surprise, only a loud splash. Then quiet.
Rayanne dropped the gun and fell to Owen’s side. She touched his face as Grover yelled behind her. Rayanne glanced at the crippled man, then reached for the rope around Owen’s wrists. She tried desperately to unravel it, but the boat jolted and she lost her balance. Looking up, she saw the spider webbed tattoos of Scut’s arm splash up on the starboard gunwale as his wet head popped up over the side. He was climbing aboard.
The boat rocked violently as Scut lifted his body over the gunwale and into the boat.
Rayanne watched him stand, dripping, and he lunged for her. Scut knocked into Owen’s legs as he overpowered Rayanne and grabbed her arms. She fell onto her back. Scut was on top of her, pinning her down. He had one hand on the rope around her right wrist and bound her arms together. She struggled, but was powerless against him. When her wrists were bound again, she felt his meaty hands on her shoulders. He flipped her around onto her front. She looked over at her husband, who was fighting against the rope around his own hands. He yelled at them.
She could see his mouth moving, but couldn’t hear him. She only knew that Scut was on top of her. She could feel his weight on her back and she could barely breathe. He was tying her legs together. Then his weight lifted off her, and she gulped in air.
Her legs swung to the right, across the floorboard, and she looked down, across her body. Scut was pulling on the rope, pulling her along the rough carpet. He lifted the rope and threaded it through another cinder block. She screamed and kicked. He slammed a fist on her thigh, then yanked the rope again, so violently she thought her leg would break at the knee. She kicked again, and watched as Scut knotted the rope around the cinder block.
He looked back at her and smiled.
Rayanne fought to scoot her body away from him, to free her hands. He lunged forward, placing a hand on her mouth and over her nose.
“Shhhhhh,” he said, leaning into her face.
Rayanne’s eyes widened as he removed his hand from her face. She felt both his hands come under her as his arms wormed across her back. He lifted her from the floorboard. Rayanne felt the weight of the cinder block pull on the rope tied to her ankle as she struggled in his arms. Scut carried her to the side of the boat.
Rayanne screamed and twisted her head. She looked down at Owen.
Owen had freed his hands, and reached for Scut. He grabbed Scut’s leg. She could hear Owen’s voice as he yelled.
Scut lost his balance and fell backward. Rayanne dropped on top of him and they hit the floorboard, hard. She felt Owen’s hands on her, pushing her off Scut’s body. Scut was rising to his feet, reaching for Owen, as Rayanne’s face planted onto the floorboard, her cheek scraping the rough carpet.
She turned her head to see Scut and Owen engage. Their arms roped together, and Owen was forcing Scut’s body toward the side of the boat. The two men locked arms, struggled against each other, grunting. Scut managed to get to his feet, rising above Owen.
Owen grappled with the teen, struggling to bring him down. Scut got one hand on Owen’s face, fingers pressing into the sides of Owen’s head. Extending his arm, Scut held Owen back and stretched his other arm toward the cinder block in the center of the boat. He grasped it, lifted it, and yanked it hard. The rope knotted around Owen’s ankles tightened, and Owen fell onto his side. Scut lifted the two cinder blocks with both hands and cast them over the side of the boat. They splashed loudly as the length of rope grew taut.
Owen cried out in pain when his bound legs were yanked toward the side of the boat. He struggled against the weight pulling on his ankles.
Scut stepped behind him, placing his hands on Owen’s back, and pushed. Rayanne screamed, and struggled against the rope around her wrists and ankles. She tried to stand. She tried to reach for her husband. She could do nothing but watch as Scut forced Owen to the side of the boat, then over the edge.
Rayanne lost her voice as the full horror took her.
She launched her body forward, toward the edge, and saw Owen’s fingers. He was clinging to the side of the boat. He raised his head, his face straining with the weight pulling him down into the water. She stretched her arms toward him.
“Hold on,” she cried. Her bound hands grasped her husband’s hand. Her fingers gripped his, held tight. “Hang on, babe,” she said.
His hands were wet. Her fingers slid across his, and she felt his wedding band slipping. “Hold on, babe,” she said again, clenching her teeth.
Now Scut was at her side, pushing her back. He seized her shoulders. Rayanne lost her husband’s grip as both her hands flailed upward. Time seemed to stop … she watched Owen’s fingers lose their hold on the side of the boat. Her eyes widened and connected with his before he dropped out of view.
“No!” she screamed, and freed herself from Scut’s grasp. She struggled to the front corner of the boat. She looked over the edge, past the trolling motor into the water. There were bubbles and turbulence, and Owen was gone.
Scut was beside her again. He wrapped his arms around her, and she fought against him. He pushed her toward the edge of the boat.
Her torso hung over the edge as she clung to the side railing. She forced her body back as Scut thrust her forward. She screamed when Owen’s head popped up out of the water. One of his hands gripped the trolling motor pole as the other reached up out of the water. His hand grabbed Scut’s leg and pulled.
Off balance, Scut released Rayanne and reached down to force Owen to let go. Owen clamped tighter onto the boy’s leg and pulled him toward the edge. Scut was fighting against him, kicking his leg. Owen’s grip tightened and he let go of the pole to grab Scut with both hands. Pulling suddenly, Owen brought Scut’s body spiraling over the side and splashing into the water.
Rayanne called out and leaned over the side of the boat. She could see the faint image of Scut’s arms thrashing underwater as he struggled to free himself from Owen’s hold. A second later, they disappeared, both sinking into blackness.
Rayanne screamed for Owen. She struggled with the ties around her wrists and worked them loose.
“Owen,” she screamed again.
She turned her head. Grover remained in the corner of the bench seat. She stared into his icy eyes filled with years of hatred and anger, and she felt her strength melt. Slowly she bowed her head, looking into the water, and realizing what he’d done.
She freed her hands and brought them to the rope around her ankles.
When she looked up again, Grover had not moved. His eyes were still fixed on her. She removed the rope around her legs and kicked the cement block away with her foot. A deep rage filled her now, reviving her strength. And the rage she felt toward Grover was a just rage. Their eyes met once more as Rayanne pushed herself to her feet.
She walked across the boat, rocking it, and struck out. She pushed the old man backward out of the bench seat and onto the deck by the motor. He toppled, his legs flopping onto the deck.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” he said, looking up at her. He lifted his arms defensively. “If you’d just given it back—”
“It was a toy,” she said. “You did all this over some stupid little toy.”
“It’s not a toy.” Raised up on his elbows, he inched closer to the motor. “It’s the foot of a Lepus capensis. An Arabian Cape hare.”
“I don’t care.” She hovered over him, holding the rope.
“All the good things that happened to you and your husband, those were because of the rabbit’s foot,” he said quickly. He reached toward the motor. “The lottery. The successful business
. Your big house. Your son, Connor.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“The foot is a talisman from the 1930 Chicago World’s Fair,” he said. “It was cursed by a shaman, and it belongs to me.”
“I don’t care.” Rayanne lunged toward him. She slipped the rope from her left ankle and wrapped it around Grover’s neck, jerking it tight. His hand went to his throat as she squeezed the life from him.
It was murder, as cold-blooded as Rayanne could make it.
He didn’t fight her. He raised his hands to his neck and grasped at the rope as his upper body shook and convulsed. His eyes bulged. He gasped. His face turned red, then blue. But his legs never moved.
When the old man was dead, his lifeless body merely a rag doll lying on the deck next to the motor, Rayanne finally moved again. She ran to the side of the boat where Owen had tumbled over. Scanning the water, she watched bubbles coming up … then a body surfaced.
“Owen?” Rayanne reached for it, stretching an arm over the edge as far as she could. Her fingers pulled the body closer. It lay face down in the water, and she grabbed the hem of a soaked black shirt. Scut’s limp arm flipped up and Rayanne saw the spiral of spider web tattoos along his biceps. She let go.
The lake was still.
Rayanne jumped over the side and splashed feet first into the lake. Water filled her ears and she opened her eyes. Angling herself downward, she kicked, struggling in order to reach the bottom. She forced herself deeper, pushed herself as far as she could go. She never saw the bottom, though, only a deep, wavy blackness.
Owen was gone.
She tried again to swim deeper. A tightness grew in her chest, and her temples pounded. She ignored the pain and fought the current to work her way down.
When the burning sensation in her lungs grew too intense, she allowed her body to float up. Breaching the surface, she inhaled with a sudden gasp, sucking in air. Her body responded. Her legs cramped. Her arms weakened. Her head fell below the waves, then back up again. She sucked in air, struggled to lift her head and keep her nose above the waves, and drank in warm lake water.
Her eyes searched desperately for the boat. She couldn’t find it. Her head fell below the surface again. Water stung her eyes. She kicked. Her face breached the surface. She looked for the boat.
A good fifteen, twenty yards away, a silhouette bobbed up and down on top of the lake.
She tried to swim toward it. She splashed in the water, but her arms wouldn’t cooperate. A sharp pain ripped through her abdomen as water overtook her again. She went under, deeper this time. The lake swallowed her, and she looked up. She could see the wavy surface above her.
She was drowning, she thought. Drowning.
She kicked her legs, forcing herself back up. Her face broke the surface, and she spit out lake water, coughing. Water assaulted her mouth and nose again, and she felt herself going under. She fought to keep her head up.
She would never make it to the boat. She couldn’t stay afloat. She was drowning and she knew it.
Her head bobbed up. She tried to scream for help, sucking in more water, when something solid hit her arm. She struggled to turn her head, her eyes rolled to the right, and she saw a black mass of fur. A snout bumped her chin, and Rayanne wrapped her arms around the dog as he paddled in front of her.
It was Luger. He’d come after her. She gripped the rolls of skin around his neck as he turned in the water, paddling toward shore and taking her with him. His legs kicked, splashing, thrusting them forward. Rayanne held on with all her strength.
When they reached shallow water, she let go of the dog and stumbled ashore. Rayanne fell into the wet sand and inhaled. She sucked in air, dirt, and gritty particles of weeds that brought a violent cough up from deep within her throat, and she expelled more water. Her lungs burned. Her temples pounded. Her eyes stung. She didn’t care, though. She turned onto her back, lay on the bank, and breathed.
She was vaguely aware of Luger standing over her. He shook his body, showering her with lake water. The droplets hit her body with a tingling sensation that shot up her spine and revived her. She wanted to sit up. Pet him. Hug him. She didn’t have the strength.
So she lay there and breathed, her chest rising and falling as her beating heart gradually calmed and the aches and pains subsided. She looked at the lake and thought of Owen.
“You ruined the ending,” she said under her breath.
After several minutes she shivered, rolled over to her right side, and curled up in the fetal position.
She wept.
And Luger never left her side.
28
The following winter, Rayanne sat in the backseat of a black stretch limousine. Luger lay beside her, his front paws dropping over the edge of the seat. She stroked his head between his ears as the limo pulled into the gates of a lonely cemetery. Rayanne asked the driver to wait as she stepped out.
Luger, his black coat shiny and healthy over a stout, muscled torso, lumbered out of the limo behind her. He walked beside her as Rayanne stepped off the gravel pathway onto a manicured lawn. Sparse yellow grass filled the spaces between rows of headstones and the wind picked up, forcing her to walk faster. It took several minutes before she came to Connor’s grave.
Owen had been laid to rest beside their son.
She stood over the cold dirt, then knelt next to his headstone. Beside her, Luger stood staring at the gray monument, almost as if he were reading the engraving: “It’s not the length of life, but the depth of life. Owen Meeks jumped into life and never touched bottom.” The dog let out a long whimper. Rayanne placed a hand on his back, just below his shoulder blades. It quieted him.
Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for both Connor’s and Owen’s souls. She hoped they were together, and she thanked him for the life insurance policy. One hand gripped the edges of her coat, bringing them together to keep her warm. She shivered, and slipped her right hand into a pocket.
She pulled out the rabbit’s foot. The Arabian Cape hare.
Clenching it in her palm, she felt its soft fur and the hard bone beneath the skin. It was such a simple, inconspicuous little thing. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve made it into a keychain. And she still might, she thought. She never believed in the shaman’s curse, anyway.
She placed the furry foot on Owen’s headstone. It balanced there, on the curved top edge. Rayanne stared at it, lost in memories as she twirled the wedding ring on her left hand. She slipped it from her finger, considered setting it next to the rabbit’s foot on the monument’s edge, then just as quickly slipped it back on. She laughed at herself, as Luger let out another impatient whine. She looked over at him.
“Come on, boy.” Rising, she turned from the grave. She took a couple of steps, hesitated, and observed the green grounds. Luger remained at the grave, watching her. His brown eyes widened. Rayanne cocked her head.
She returned to Owen’s grave and stood beside her dog. After several seconds of indecision, she grabbed the rabbit’s foot from the headstone and put it into her coat pocket. It snuggled tightly next to the one-way plane ticket to Sydney, Australia.
Taking a step back, she looked down on her husband’s grave and smiled. The lines in her face deepened, making her appear not older but wiser.
Like any grieving widow, she whispered goodbye. Then she turned and called for Luger.
Quietly, they left the cemetery together. The limo was waiting.
Also by JC Gatlin
CLICK HERE FOR YOUR FREE COPY OF THE DESIGNATED SURVIVOR
CLICK HERE FOR YOUR FREE COPY OF THE DESIGNATED SURVIVOR
An Unreasonable Hitchhiker.
An Unstable Widower.
An Unpredictable Journey.
Having just escaped from inmate work detail, Tess is on the run and has one goal: get her daughter back. So, hitching a ride to Sarasota, where her daughter is staying, seemed like a good idea at first. That is until she realized her Good Samaritan is clearly suffering from the
recent loss of his wife.
As the miles go by and they get closer to Sarasota, she comes to suspect that this crazy widower may in fact be a murderer and they're transporting a body in the trunk of his car. With the police hot on their trail, Tess isn't about to let a little murder stand between her and her daughter -- no matter how many bodies start piling up.
CLICK HERE FOR YOUR FREE COPY OF THE DESIGNATED SURVIVOR
PREY OF DESIRE
First off, be under no illusions: this is an edge-of-your-seat women’s adventure, not a cozy mystery or detective story. It’s about a college student who receives odd poems and notes from a stalker who she at first assumes are from her missing ex-fiancée. There is peril, violence, psychotic blind dates and a self-absorbed best friend you’ll love to hate. However, it’s never so over the top that readers with a squeamish stomach should be turned away, but it doesn't let you forget the fact that this is a thriller for a single minute.
Ultimately, readers who enjoy a page-turner with a mystery that twists and turns all the way to the end will enjoy Prey of Desire.
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And visit
www.jcgatlin.com
About the Author
Coming from a large family with five brothers, JC Gatlin grew up in Grapevine, Texas, a small town outside of Dallas. In 1999 he moved to Tampa, Florida, where he now resides. JC’s fishing trips help him breathe authenticity into his stories, which feature the rich landscapes of Texas and Florida as backdrops.
He has written a monthly column in New Tampa Style magazine and penned several mystery-suspense stories. His first, The Designated Survivor, was published in 2013. JC invites you to visit his mystery writing blog at jcgatlin.com.
