by Tim Downs
She struggled to her feet and started forward, picking up speed as she went, as though the nutria might be right behind her. When she safely reached land, Nick crawled out onto the dock and followed.
Thirty yards from the dock was a rectangular cabin made of peeled cypress logs chinked with mortar in between. The roof was made of corrugated tin, just like the shack upriver, only this one was covered with cancerous splotches of brownish-orange. The design was basic, and the structure was undoubtedly handmade, with a simple slab door in the center surrounded by a window on either side. The entire cabin sat three feet above the ground on short, stubby stilts made of hand-hewn cypress posts. The cabin windows were dark; there were no signs of activity inside.
The uncle headed directly for the cabin, hauling two nutria by their ropelike tails. The door had a simple lift-latch and bore no lock. The nephew went around behind the cabin; a few seconds later came the low, rattling sound of a generator starting, and the two cabin windows slowly glowed with a warm yellow light.
Nick and Beth stood together in a bare dirt area in front of the cabin, watching this scene and wondering what they were supposed to do next. The nephew appeared again from behind the cabin and started for the door. He turned to them and said, “Supper in a few minutes.” He stepped inside and closed the door.
Beth looked at Nick. “They’re just going to leave us here?”
“They might as well,” Nick said. “There’s sure no place to go.”
“Nick—we’ve been kidnapped.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re fixing us supper—we’re guests.”
“You don’t invite dinner guests at gunpoint.”
“You haven’t tasted my cooking.”
“Nick, I’m serious—they could kill us both, and no one would ever know. We’re in the middle of nowhere—we could be a hundred miles from the nearest town.”
“Look,” he said, pointing to a pickup truck parked just a few yards beyond the cabin. “There’s obviously road access out here. We’re not that far away from things, we just don’t know where we are. They’re not killers, Beth, they’re poachers—that’s why they asked if we were ‘gang wardens.’ Remember? It was just before your psychotic episode.”
She glared at him. “It was not a ‘psychotic episode.’ I happen to have a common phobia, that’s all.”
“You should see a psychiatrist—that’s what I do with all my problems.”
She looked at the narrow dirt road behind the pickup. “They’re not looking—maybe we should run.”
“Now you are being psychotic. Where would we go? Besides, we haven’t had supper yet.”
“Supper? Are you actually hungry?”
“Man does not live by MREs alone. Some of these Cajuns can really cook.”
“I am not setting foot in that cabin. The old man was carrying two of those . . . things.” The word came out with a shudder.
“They were dead.”
“I don’t care. I’m staying right here.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but they shot one of those things just a few minutes from here. Are they carnivorous? Do they hunt in packs? They have to eat supper, too, you know.”
“Nick, shut up.”
“Sorry. I hate to take advantage of your irrational fears.”
“You love to take advantage of my irrational fears.”
“Actually, I do, but I’m not just jerking your chain here—I need you inside.”
“Why?”
“Because a woman can have a civilizing influence in a situation like this. These guys probably haven’t seen a woman in weeks—maybe months.”
“I’d rather not remind them of that.”
“Would you rather we talked with you, or about you? You know what I say to your face; there’s no telling what I might say behind your back.”
He took her by the arm and coaxed her toward the door.
“Sometimes I could strangle you with my bare hands,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I know. That’s my irrational fear.”
The aroma that met them in the doorway was mouthwatering—at least Nick thought so. The old man stood with a black iron skillet in front of a simple propane cookstove, with a sizzling column of steam rising into the open rafters above. Boo cleared off a rough wooden table made from an old cable spool; it still had the words EXXON MOBIL stenciled in black across the top.
Neither man bothered to look up when Nick and Beth entered. Beth went directly to a chair in the corner of the cabin; she checked under it before sitting down, then crossed her arms and pressed her back against the wall.
Nick walked over to the nephew. “We appreciate the hospitality,” he said.
“No problem.”
“I didn’t get to introduce myself. My name is Nick Polchak; my friend there is Beth Woodbridge.” He extended his hand, and the young man took it. He had a grip like a hydraulic press. “How did you guys fare in the hurricane?”
“Not bad. Lot o’ rain.”
“Your cabin looks dry. Didn’t it flood here?”
“Water came up, but not dis high.”
“Why not?”
“Da bayou—soaks up da storm surge like a sponge. Da city’s what floods—it’s da levees. Supposed to keep water out; now dey keep water in.”
“Your uncle—does he speak English?”
“Sure. He don’ want to.”
“Why not?”
“He’s Cajun. Old Cajuns, dey like da old ways. Dey still speak French mostly—Cajun French, anyways.”
“And you?”
“I speak it when I want to—mostly to him. But I’m a college boy, remember?” He made a fist and held up his ring again. “I’m capable of speaking perfect English whenever I wish,” he said, articulating each word crisply and clearly.
Nick smiled. “I wouldn’t expect to find a ‘college boy’ out here.”
“I’m Cajun too; Cajuns are born and bred on the bayou—it’s hard to get it out of our system. It’s in da blood,” he said, assuming his accent again.
“Do many Cajuns make it to college?”
“No money, no interest—you don’t need a degree to run a shrimp boat. I was lucky; I weighed twelve pounds at birth. I got a football scholarship.”
Nick’s stomach growled a reminder; he glanced over at the uncle. “What’s Tonton cooking? It smells terrific.”
“Mudbugs.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what we call crawfish. He’s making crawfish étouffée: You start with a good roux, then add peppers, onion, garlic, and a little cayenne. Restaurants always use butter, but it won’t keep out here—we use the crawfish fat. You’ll find étouffée everywhere in New Orleans, but only Cajuns know how to make it right. Da woman, I figger she don’ go for nutria.”
“Good figuring,” Nick said. “The nutria—do you trap them for the fur?”
“We used to. Nutria make good coats—it’s a midgrade fur, not as nice as mink or even muskrat, but it’s a lot cheaper.” From a wooden wall peg he lifted a quilt-sized fur, hand-stitched together from individual pelts. He folded it back on itself and ruffled the fur. “See that? Three sets of hairs—very soft.”
Boo turned and offered the fur to Beth. “Still cold? This’ll help.”
She eyed the fur warily.
Nick leaned out from behind the nephew and mouthed the words, Take it.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the fur as if it were radioactive.
“They sell most of ’em overseas—South America, Europe—used to sell plenty in the old Soviet Union. Nutria, that was Russian mink; every middle-class babushka could afford a nutria coat. ’Course, that was forty years ago. My uncle, he was around back then—says he used to get twenty bucks a pelt.”
“And now?”
“A buck—can you believe it? A man can’t make a living that way. When the Soviet Union collapsed, the whole fur market crashed. Can’t afford to trap nutria for the fur anymore; these days we only trap �
�em to save the bayou.”
“The bayou?”
“The government pays us to kill ’em off—four bucks apiece.”
“Why would the government care?”
“’Cause nutria destroy the wetlands. They eat everything in sight, right down to the roots, then they dig up the roots and eat those too. When the plants go, the wetlands go—there’s nothing left to hold the soil in place. And nutria breed like crazy—they’re fertile at six months, and they can have two litters a year. They’re a real nuisance down here—some folks are claiming the nutria made the hurricane worse than it was.”
“How’s that?”
“The wetlands soak up the storm surge—they hold the water, they keep it from moving on. That’s why Fish and Wildlife is paying a premium now: four bucks each—after the hurricane, it might go up to five. All we’ve got to do is collect the tails and turn them in.”
Nick paused. “No offense, but you didn’t seem eager to bump into Fish and Wildlife back there.”
Boo shrugged. “A man can’t feed himself on a buck a tail; it’s hard to get by even on four. You’ve got to bend the rules a little to make a living out here—especially after the hurricane. There’s a season for trapping nutria—end of November through March. But the hurricane killed off a lot of ’em , and we lost a lot of traps. We have to start a little early this year, and we have to ignore a few regulations to make up for lost time. The folks in Baton Rouge, they don’t like that. No love lost; we don’t care much for them either.”
“I take it you’re not too fond of the law.”
“We’re Cajun—the bayou belongs to us. You leave us alone, we leave you alone—that’s the way we live.”
“You fired on federal agents tonight—doesn’t that worry you?”
“He was bluffing—there was only one.”
Nick stopped. “Are you sure about that?”
“Got a real good look.”
“Okay, so you fired on one federal agent—doesn’t that worry you?”
“He fired on you; it seems to me you’re the one who ought to be worried.”
“Good point,” Nick said.
“My uncle took the shot—he doesn’t miss. We weren’t trying to hit him, just run him off. I got the feeling he was trying to hit you.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “I got that feeling too.”
“Mangeons,” the uncle called. Nick turned to find the old man already seated at the table, with four steaming plates of étouffée around him.
Nick motioned to Beth.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
He bent closer. “It’s suppertime. They’re offering—we’re accepting.”
“I can’t eat a rat.”
“We’re not having rat. It’s a shrimp dish they made just for you—apparently it’s served in all the finer restaurants.”
“What’s it called?”
“I’ll tell you later. C’mon, they’re waiting.”
The two men sat side by side in the only chairs in the cabin; the uncle rested his rifle against the table between them. Nick and Beth pulled up an old footlocker from the end of a bed and used it as a bench. Beth tried to smile and make eye contact with each of the men, but her eyes kept going to the gun barrel poking up above the table like a requiem candle.
“Tonton,” the nephew whispered. “Le fusiller.”
The old man sighed and laid the gun across his lap.
“Nice rifle,” Nick said to the old man. “It’s an AK-47, isn’t it?”
“Oui.” The uncle crossed himself and dug into his meal.
“They’re hard to come by these days. Mind if I ask where you got it?”
The old man glanced at his nephew, who said, “Russia—the good ol’ days.”
“Direct from the factory,” Nick said. “I hear you can buy a tank these days if you know where to shop.”
The old man let out a snort. He scooped up another mouthful of étouffée and glanced at Beth. “Très jolie,” he said.
“Thank you,” Beth replied.
“You two speak French?” Boo asked.
“Not me,” Nick said, “but she knows ‘pretty’ in eight languages.”
She kicked him under the table.
Nick rubbed his shin and looked at Boo. “That shack where you found us tonight—can you tell me anything about it?”
“Like what?”
“Like: Who owns it? What’s it there for?”
“Don’t know who owns it.”
“Ever see anybody there?”
“Once or twice. Two men.”
“When was the last time you saw them?”
“Couple weeks ago maybe—not since before the storm.”
“Ever talk to them?”
“Why would I?”
“They’re you’re closest neighbors, aren’t they?”
“Neighbors keep their distance out here. They don’t bother us, we don’t bother them.”
“Any idea what they do—for a living, I mean?”
“None of my business. Trappers, I figure, just like us.”
“Why?”
“Not much else to do out here.”
Les renards,” the old man said without looking up from his plate. “
“My uncle thinks they trap fox.”
“Fox? What makes him think that?”
“Ever smell a fox?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Nothing stinks like a fox—it’s their urine. We can smell it when we pass by sometimes.”
Nick nodded. “It looked like there had been a fire—the place was burned out.”
“Could be. We saw smoke.”
“When was that?”
“Couple weeks back.”
“Didn’t you check it out?”
Boo looked at him.
“Got it,” Nick said. “You don’t bother them, they don’t bother you.”
The meal ended as abruptly as it had begun. The old man swept his plate from the table and stepped to a plastic utility sink mounted on the wall. In one continuous motion he dipped it into a wash basin, wiped it with the palm of his hand, set it upright on a vinyl dish rack, and wiped the fronts and backs of his hands on his flannel shirt.
Beth looked down at her plate; she had barely begun her meal.
“I can drive you into town if you want,” Boo said.
Beth’s eyes widened. “You mean—we can go?”
Boo looked confused.
“Sorry,” Nick said. “Somehow she got the crazy idea that you were kidnapping us.”
Boo looked at her and frowned.
“But—you had a gun,” Beth said.
“Ma’am, we didn’t fire at you—we never even pointed it at you.”
“You told us to ‘get in the boat.’”
“What were you going to do, stay out there all night? That little dinghy of yours didn’t look like it could hold two people.”
Beth just sat there, blinking.
“Thanks again for the hospitality,” Nick said. “Speaking of which: Can I ask one more favor? We left our little boat back there; it might not look like much, but it was a rental. The next time you’re by there, could you tow it back with you? I’ll find a time to come by and take it off your hands.”
“No problem.”
The uncle walked past the table with a dead nutria in each hand. “Boo,” he called back, “venez avec moi.”
“He wants us to come with him,” Boo said.
They followed the old man to the rickety dock. As they walked along the bare dirt path, Nick looked over at the nephew. “You didn’t ask me why that federal agent was trying to kill us.”
“I figured you’d tell me if you wanted to.”
“Thanks for trusting us.”
“I don’t trust you; it’s just none of my business.”
At the dock, the old man stood waiting with one of the nutria in his extended left hand. He positioned a knife at the base of its haunches, and with one quick slit removed the tail and dro
pped the carcass to the ground. He bent down and took it by the fur, then turned and slung it into the water by the dock. The instant it struck the surface, the water erupted in a tangle of twisting limbs and flashing teeth.
Beth gasped and stumbled back into Nick.
“Alligators,” Nick said. “Now aren’t you glad you didn’t swim for shore?”
“We feed them to draw them in,” the nephew said. “Sort of a home security system.”
“I’m sure it’s effective,” Nick said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“They won’t bother you as long as you don’t bother us—that’s all you need to remember. I think my uncle is trying to send you a little message.”
Nick watched the gators as they sank back into the water until only the armored black domes of their skulls protruded; in the dim light of the cabin, their eyes shone bloodred.
“What do you know,” Nick said. “I speak French after all.”
26
Beth settled back in the plush leather passenger seat, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to drift off into sleep. She had reclined the seat almost halfway, and that only made it worse; she longed to lay her exhausted body flat and surrender to oblivion, but she felt an obligation to stay awake and help Nick drive.
It was after 5:00 a.m., and they were almost back to St. Gabriel now. The nephew had driven them back to the car and refused to accept payment for the service. The Cajuns’ cabin was apparently not as remote as she had thought, but it was definitely isolated: The road back was nothing but dirt and shell and gravel, and at times was nothing but a single lane.
It felt so good to slip back into her Lexus again, to fire up the seat warmers and set the air-conditioning to a soothing 72 and let it blot the clinging humidity from the air. Now they were on Interstate 10 and it felt even better; the road was wide and the ride was smooth, and the bayou with its alligators and swamp rats seemed a universe away. Even the dashboard seemed to comfort her, with its little glowing lights that welcomed her like a town at Christmastime.
She rolled her head to the left and looked at Nick. He sat erect and still, staring straight ahead out the windshield. He didn’t slump or lean, and his head didn’t droop or bob. She couldn’t tell if he was even blinking; he was like an extension of the car, a part of the machine. He showed no sign of fatigue at all, and Beth knew why: His mind was engaged—he had a problem to solve—and his body would not rest until his mind could do the same.
