Two men wearing ballcaps and black flak jackets were seated just below the driver’s pedestal. The words DADE COUNTY SHERIFF glowed in yellow on the back of their vests, and each man held an assault rifle across his knees. Below them on the deck was a third man dressed in gray slacks and white shirt, his hands cuffed behind his back, a canvas bag tied over his head. Blood stained the front of his shirt, testimony to the beating he had been given earlier.
The driver flipped a toggle switch and two banks of lamps shot beams of white light into the swamp ahead of them, showing the way but making the approaching night suddenly close in on the speeding craft.
Tiny tree islands were becoming more numerous now, little more than clumps of moss and wet earth bristling with palms and mangroves. The driver held a steady speed as the boat wound among them, spraying the islands with water, The sky was now a dark scarlet and the wind was picking up, making palm leaves flutter like flags. The weather report predicted another May storm, with high winds and rain, and already swollen clumps of bruised clouds hugged the southern horizon.
Down on the deck the man in the hood struggled, trying to raise his head. One of the men sitting above him used his boot to roughly push the man’s head back down, then gave him a sharp kick in the stomach. The hooded man lay still, and the driver smiled.
“How much longer?” one of the deputies shouted.
“Ten minutes,” came the shouted reply from the driver. “Gotta slow down or we’re gonna ram an island.” He reduced power on the fan, slowing the boat by a third.
The deputy who had kicked the prisoner nudged his partner. “Almost game time.” The other man nodded and patted his rifle.
With the slower speed, the noise from the fan was reduced and the two deputies could hear their captive’s voice, muffled through the canvas. “Please,” he moaned, “please…oh, please…”
“Shut up,” said the deputy, and kicked the man again.
“Damn, Carl, you keep kicking him there won’t be anything left for later.”
Carl grinned at his partner. “Don’t you worry, amigo. He’ll be plenty lively when the time comes.”
The airboat slowed even more as the islands grew denser, and the driver guided the craft in and out of the dark clumps of trees. He spotted a particularly large island and aimed for it. “We’ll use that one there,” he said.
The airboat’s fan shut off, winding down with a rapid, metallic CLING-CLING-CLING, like a big lawnmower blade, and the craft settled into the water, sawgrass rustling under its fiberglass hull. It slid onto the marshy bank, bumping to a stop. Carl’s partner Jerry immediately produced a pair of large flashlights from a canvas sports bag, and jumped onto the island. Wet muck sucked at his boots.
“Get him out,” said the driver, and the two deputies manhandled the captive out of the boat. The driver, also dressed in a flak jacket, hopped from his perch and joined the men on the bank, taking one of the flashlights. Carl pulled a long-handled shovel from the floor of the airboat, and they set off onto the tree island, Jerry and the driver supporting the captive between them. Muffled pleas for mercy came from the hood. The handcuffed man was without shoes, and his dark socks plowed little furrows in the damp soil as the men half carried, half dragged him.
They walked for several minutes, saying nothing. All around them the palms rustled in the strengthening breeze, the first drops of rain pattering on the bills of their caps. The flashlights led the way, guiding them to the center of the island. The captive began to plead harder, struggling against his handcuffs.
Carl nodded to Jerry. “Told you he’d have plenty of fire left in him.”
The driver stopped them in a small clearing ringed with bending palms, and had to shout to be heard over the wind. “This is good right here.” Jerry forced the captive to the wet ground, and the man immediately rose to his knees, twisting his head about, trying without hope to see through the canvas hood.
Carl yanked the hood off, and the captive, a man in his thirties with a split upper lip and blackened, puffy eyes, gasped at the night air. A flashlight was pointed at his face and he squinted, turning his head away. Jerry grabbed him by the hair and forced him to face the light. He could see nothing beyond the white glare, the figures around him only shadows.
Standing behind the light, the driver cupped his hands against the wind and lit a cigarette. “So,” he breathed out the smoke, “here we are, Mr. Baker.”
Baker tried to look away from the light, but his head was held fast. “Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this?” His body shivered, and he was afraid he was going to be sick.
The driver chuckled. “C’mon, Mr. Baker, you’re not that stupid.”
After a moment, Baker spoke, desperation making the words come too quickly. “It’s about the investigation, isn’t it? This is only going to make things worse. Killing me won’t help!”
The driver winked at Carl through the gloom. “Why’s that, Mr. Baker?”
Baker licked his damaged lips, his throat dry. There had to be a way to talk himself out of this. “Because the evidence is still there, and it speaks for itself.”
“Oh, you mean the video tapes in your office? Those have been taken care of by some of our associates.” His voice hardened. “This thing is bigger than you could possibly imagine, counselor. You fucked up by messing with us.”
Baker shut his eyes against the light. This was a nightmare. He wished his client had never told him about all the corruption in the sheriff’s department. The man was right, he shouldn’t have fucked with them. “There’s more evidence. Copies of the tapes. Files. If anything happens to me they go straight to the D.A.’s office.”
“What movie did you get that line from?” The tip of the cigarette glowed. “But if you’re talking about the stuff you left with your wife, that’s been taken care of, too.”
Baker opened his eyes against the glare. “What…what did you…?”
The cigarette flared. “While you were at work this morning some of our friends paid your wife a little visit. They got the evidence, and she got her own boat ride into the Everglades.” He paused. “I wonder if she enjoyed what they did to her before she died?”
Baker’s body shook. “You motherfuckers!” He tore his head free of Jerry’s grip and charged. Carl stepped forward and hit him in the neck with the butt of his rifle, and Baker grunted, sagging to the ground, his world spinning madly. He was going to throw up. Jerry pulled him to his knees again, and Carl slapped him until he straightened up.
As Baker’s eyes fluttered open, the driver continued. “All this is only a formality, counselor. We’re pretty sure we got all the evidence, but we have to be one hundred percent. You understand. I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer them. If you don’t, one of my friends here is going to use some of the tricks he learned from our Colombian colleagues.”
Carl produced a big pair of electrician’s dikes and showed it to him.
“Believe me, you don’t want to go through that.”
Baker’s head was pounding, and he shut his eyes against the light, against the world, but all that awaited him were images of his wife. He saw her hooded like he had been, raped and beaten on another tree island in the center of the swamp. He could hear her cries for help, her cries for him. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“First, Mr. Baker, who’s you tell about me?”
“You? That was you in the video?”
The driver laughed. “Yeah, of course. Who’d you think was doing this to you? We fucked up and let you catch us on film, and we’re expected to make it right. Now answer the question. Who else knows?”
The lawyer shook his head. “No one.”
The driver squatted in front of him. “And I don’t mean your cameraman.”
Baker closed his eyes. He hadn’t planned to tell them about Dan Hingle, the private investigator he regularly used. It was Dan who had set up the camera in that warehouse by the Marina, and his knowledge could have been the leverage
Baker needed.
“Yeah, your shitbird P.I. had an accident. Someone cut his head off and burned down his trailer.” A drag on the cigarette. “No, what I want is to know if Danny-boy made any more copies of the tapes, and if so where he hid them. I’ll know if you’re lying, and we’re gonna test what you tell us.
Carl clicked the electrician’s dikes several times.
“Then we’ll get to where your information originally came from.”
Baker saw his wife, face down in the mud and weeds, sobbing for a husband who would never come, and whose actions had put her there.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The driver thumped his cigarette into the trees. “Okay, Mr. Baker. You’re going to tell us either way, but I promise you’ll regret not being more cooperative.” He nodded at Carl. The deputy set his rifle against a palm tree, and pulled a box cutter out of a pocket to go with the dikes. He moved in, and Baker fought to pull away, screaming for help.
“No one’s going to hear you, counselor,” said the driver. “That’s why we’re out here. But while you scream, you may as well save yourself some pain and scream out what we want to know.”
“Hold his head still,” growled Carl, and Jerry clamped his arm around Baker’s head and neck as the dikes and box cutter came in.
“You gonna skin him like da pig?” someone asked.
The deputies jumped at the sudden voice. The driver swung the light around the clearing, and Carl jumped for his rifle. The wind blew Jerry’s cap off his head and into the trees, and the rain fell in earnest, pelting them all.
“Who the fuck was that?” hissed Carl.
The driver shook his head and switched off the flashlight. Jerry released Baker’s head and shoved him face down into the spongy turf, planting a knee in his back to hold him down, and switched off his own flashlight as he unslung his rifle.
“What dat man do, make you gonna kill him like dat?”
The deputies couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from, and the wind made it sound like it came from everywhere. The driver pulled a black automatic from a hip holster and chambered a round. Jerry wiped rain out of his eyes and turned slowly, searching for the source.
“Damn hard to see out here in da swamp, yeah?” This time the voice came from behind Jerry, and the deputy spun and let off a burst of automatic fire, the bullets slamming into palms or whistling out into the dark.
“Knock it off!” yelled the driver. Then he shouted against the wind. “Whoever’s out there, show yourself before you get hurt!” There was no reply. “Dade County Sheriff’s Department!” The wind just hissed through the palm leaves.
Carl stepped over to the driver and spoke directly into his ear so he could be heard. “He can identify us. We have to find him.”
The driver nodded and motioned Carl into the trees to the left. He turned to see Jerry crouched on the captive, little more than a blob of blackness against the greater dark. “Stay put.” Then he moved into the trees in a crouch, pistol held before him.
Baker slowly lifted his head and looked at his guard. In the darkness it was impossible to tell whether the man was looking away or right at him. More images of his beautiful, murdered wife choked him, and he felt the rage rising. He waited, watching the deputy watch the trees, turning slowly. When Jerry’s knee came off his back so he could rotate, Baker pulled his own knees to his chest, then kicked out as hard as he could. His heels caught Jerry on the chin and the adam’s apple, knocking him over with a surprised gurgle. In an instant Baker was standing, and he started stomping his sock feet on the man’s head, baring his teeth, overcome with the violence, the need to hurt this man, to kill him. The deputy tried weakly to fight off the blows, but it was useless, and he was quickly kicked unconscious. Baker kept stomping until he heard a wet crack and the man’s skull caved in under his heel. Then he stood there panting for a moment before he sat down next to the corpse. His hands, restricted behind his back, groped the man’s belt blindly until his fingers grazed some metal that jangled, and he strained to catch hold of it.
At that moment there were two heavy steps next to him, and a large hand roughly pushed him away. He fell to his face, unable to brace himself as moss and wet peat choked his nostrils. There was a deep snarl and the unmistakable crunch of bone, followed by a wet, ripping sound. He tried to rise, but his knees couldn’t find traction on the slippery ground.
A pair of powerful hands jerked him to his feet and propelled him into the trees. He staggered but kept his feet, running, being pushed along by this other person. Rain got in his eyes, and his feet splashed through water and mud as he was pushed for several minutes, then shoved to the ground. He looked up and saw a small shack rising on wooden stilts among bending palms. Dim yellow light shone through a narrow doorway.
A hand gripped the back of his neck, pulled him to his feet and pushed him forward. “Inside,” said a raspy voice.
Baker struggled up sagging wooden steps, and heard his rescuer running back into the trees. He turned in time to catch the briefest glimpse of him before the darkness swallowed him; soiled khaki trousers, bare feet, plaid shirt. Baker climbed the remaining steps and went into the shack.
A single kerosene lantern sat on a scarred table, casting a reddish glow in the single room. In a corner was a rotting mattress with muddy blankets, against a wall was a sagging wooden counter covered in filthy pans and fish entrails, and in the center of the room was a brown easy chair with stuffing poking through holes in the seat and arms. On the table next to the lantern was an old radio with a coat hanger for an antenna, more fish entrails and a wicked-looking fish knife. Nets and poles hung on the walls, and the air smelled of rotten fish and decaying vegetation.
Baker tugged at the handcuffs again with no success. Why hadn’t the man allowed him to free himself? He walked to a corner of the room, planks creaking under his step, then stood still and watched the doorway, the only entrance to the shack.
There were still two deputies out there. And what about Jerry? That Baker had stomped him to death was clear, but what had his rescuer done? Ensured he was dead? It had been too dark to tell. And who was he? Baker had a good idea. Could only be a Seminole Indian, one of those solitary swamp dwellers who chose to live here in the wilds rather than move to the reservations in Oklahoma. Baker had heard stories about Seminole fishermen and hunters. They were a strange bunch, loners who lived in poverty on land no one cared about.
Some of the stories went a step further.
Tavern talk, really, nothing to take seriously, but a good tale when you were sitting with the boys after court and working into your fourth gin and tonic. According to Florida legend, some of the Seminoles turned away from their old Indian spirits in favor of darker deities brought to South Florida long ago by the island slaves of Spanish settlers. There were stories about blood sacrifices, cannibalism, the walking dead, shape-shifting. Entertaining as hell, but the reality of the Seminole was closer to devastating poverty, alcoholism, absence of medical care and education, and probably a fair amount of mental illness and inbreeding. And what was some backwards fisherman going to do against a pair of ruthless cops?
A gust of wind slammed a palm into the shack, making it rattle, and Baker pressed himself into a corner. The island wasn’t that big. How long could it take for the deputies to find the shack? He thought of the box cutter and the electrician’s dikes, pictured Carl working on his ears and lips and tongue and eyes, and he clenched his teeth tightly, biting back a moan that was on the verge of panic.
Something brushed against his foot and he jumped, letting out a short yell. He looked down and saw a tiny alligator – or was it a Cayman - waddling out from under the table, dragging its leathery tail behind it. The baby gator looked up at him with pale green eyes and slowly opened its mouth, revealing rows of sharp teeth. It croaked and bobbed up and down on its toes. Baker froze, hoping it wouldn’t get too interested in his muddy feet, which it could do some real damage to despite its youth and small size.
It croaked again, then shuffled across the floor and out the doorway, its tail slapping on wood as it went down the steps.
Baker moved behind the table, crouched, and tried to make himself as small as possible. Dear God, what kind of man could live with those things walking in and out as they pleased?
A long burst of automatic weapons fire came from somewhere outside, followed by an animal roar and a short scream. Baker shuddered. He knew that noise. Everyone in Florida knew the sound of an angry alligator, whether from personal experience or from news stories. Maybe the Seminole raised them and sold them to those places along the highway that advertised GATOR WRESTLING! Or FEED THE LIVE ALLIGATORS! Maybe one of the deputies had gotten into a pen. He hoped so.
Boots pounded up the stairs and the airboat driver burst into the shack, his flak jacket slick with mud, his pants wet to the waist, his cap gone. He looked about wildly, still clutching the black automatic, and saw Baker. “What the fuck is going on?” he yelled, flattening himself against a wall and pointing the pistol at the door. “What was that?”
Baker was stunned. He expected the deputy to kill him on sight, but not this. “What are you talking about?”
“That thing!” His gun was shaking.
Baker was scared. Something had his would-be killer terrified, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” The rage at what this man had done overrode his fear, and he started out of the corner, handcuffed or not. “You killed my wife you son of a bitch!”
The driver jerked the automatic towards him. “Stay the fuck back!”
Baker stared at the muzzle, then at the driver’s fearful eyes. He looked like he might start crying. The attorney decided to kill him, to rip his throat out with his teeth, and if he got shot it didn’t matter anyway. He snarled and lunged.
And then the shack’s wall imploded, fragments of rotting boards spinning into the room. A pair of scaled arms shot inside, curved claws sinking into the deputy’s chest and throat. He jerked off a shot that went into the floor, and a second later the long snout of a bull alligator came through the broken wall, muzzle snapping. The animal had climbed the outside of the shack? What not come in through the door? It crunched down on the deputy’s shoulder and shook him, spraying the room with blood, and Baker scrambled backwards, falling over the table and crashing to the floor along with the radio. It came to scratchy life and Springsteen wailed Born to Run.
Red Circus: A Dark Collection Page 8
