by Jim Markson
Mike calls the front desk and checks out of the room. He has the two lie facedown on the ground and handcuffs their inside arms together. They pick up their bags with their outside hands as they walk outside, Mike behind them. “Look like you’re in love, boys, anyone gets suspicious and the tent falls in on all of us.”
They walk toward the Navigator. “Nope, we’re gonna be taking my ride,” directing them to the jeep. “but that reminds me, which one of you has the keys to the Lincoln?” He reaches inside Skipper’s front right pocket and pulls out the keys.
XXIX
The ride to the marina is quick and uneventful. Gilligan bitches about having to lean over while Skipper drives, Mike sitting behind them saying nothing.
The marina is deserted, and Mike directs them over toward the docks.
“Whoa, papi, this not wat you said, we gonna talk to the girl, remember?” Mike says nothing as he pushes the big man in the direction of the old skiff he and Rusty had taken out so long ago.
Their steps are slow, bargaining for every inch between them and the boat. Gilligan starts jabbering and looking around real quick, like a Blast addict looking for a fix. But they all know who has the guns, and the group steps into the boat.
“Up in the bow.”
“Papi, theenk about wat you doing, man. Why? Our boy ain’t gonna deal with you, he don’t know you—you need us. Mira, you want all the money, is okay, but we still got to introduce you to our boy, won’t work any other way. You can have all the money, I swear, but this is no good papi, please.”
Fucking Gilligan never shuts up, jabbering, desperate, both of them. Men are dangerous when they think they are about to die. Mike has his gun in the open now, not taking his eyes off the two, he feels under the console, finds the key and fires up the boat.
Mike draws the weapon up and sights in on Gilligan. “Untie the bowline.”
“Fuck you, bro! Just go ahead and shoot me then, if that’s what you up to; you think I give a shit? You’ll be hunted down for the piece of crap you are. I got—”
The sound of the shot echoes briefly off the water but is quickly eaten up by the mangroves. Mike nods toward the bowline, and the two get up as Gilligan unties it. Mike does the same at the stern and turns the spotlight so that it shines in the eyes of the two cops but also lights up where he is headed.
The chart plotter is working, but getting out of the swamp channel is all visual. The two cops are looking at each other and whispering. Mike pulls hard back on the throttle and the boat surges and settles; the two knocked on their asses. All parties looking at each other but nothing said.
Throttle back up and almost clear the channel, kill the spotlight and the running lights. Moon is out and its fifteen feet between them and me. Throttle now full speed as I glance back and forth between the chart plotter and the bad men. My gun back in my pocket. They will try me and they have weight on their side. Coordination is their weakness, being chained together. At this speed all I have to do is tilt the wheel and they’re both out of the boat. Talking again and they’re getting set, jerk the wheel hard left and right and they know they can’t traverse the distance if I see them coming.
Time has lost its measure as they approach the Thousand Islands. Spotlight back on as I look at the chart plotter for the deepest channel in. Slower now, and more stable, they can charge but they are blinded by the spotlight and don’t exactly where I am. Slower, shallower, twisting, turning, slower, shallower, and then the bump into the sand.
“Here’s the keys boys, unlock yourselves and get out,” spotlight still on them.
“We ain’t getting out here, motherfucker, this is the fuckin’ everglades. Fuck you! You wanna kill us bro, just do it and get it over, but we ain’t getting eaten up alive by some fuckin’ alligator.”
He continues to babble on but eventually they unlock the handcuffs and get out on the starboard bow, spotlight following them. They got light so they can see where they’re going, water knee deep. Looking for dry land, a safe port in a storm, something to hang on to.
Skipper turns slowly after the gunshot and looks down at Gilligan, half covered by water, his life blood turning the marsh water around him crimson. Looking up at me he waits a moment and I put him down. I walk forward and pick up the handcuffs and keys. I throw them and the guns into the water near the bodies and a predator splashes nearby. The feeding has already begun.
XXX
She is there when I come in, standing outside her house, a silhouette in lamplight. Her hands reach up and cover her face, she is crying. I tie up the boat and put the key exactly back where I had found it. I look around, slowly now, there is no rush, and there is nothing left of the trip or the occupants.
I walk up the dock and along the side of the store. She is barefoot and wearing a long nightshirt, her hands still covering her beautiful face, crying inconsolably. I look at the shed containing my brother’s boat and my own eyes become clouded and my throat hard. I look back at Erin and I want to say you won’t have to worry about those particular bad men anymore … but I know I am one of them and say nothing. I get in my jeep and drive north.
“Hey.”
“Hey, it’s Mike.” Silence.
“Was wondering if you still had friends in the car disposal business?” Silence.
“Yeah.” More silence. “But I go to jail if I get caught. And at my age, that’s where I’ll die.” More silence.
“It’s a Navigator in the Holiday Isle parking lot. Black. Keys are in Erin’s boat. Need the car to be out of state in two days. Complete chop, no re-sale.”
“I’ll handle it. You have my word, the car won’t exist in forty-eight hours. What scrap is left won’t be closer than Alabama.”
“Rusty, I wouldn’t ask if I thought it would go south on you.”
“I know … it’s just that I told you to leave, that no good would come of hanging around here.”
“Yeah … I know…” my tired throat fights back tears that my eyes won’t produce “… they shouldn’t have killed the dog.” Silence.
“Rusty?” No answer. “I guess I’m going to hell?”
“Boy, you’re already there. Hang in there. I love you.”
About the Author
Jim Markson retired from the CIA in 2014 after 29 years of service as an Investigator, Polygraph Examiner, and Case Officer. This is his first published book. The name Markson was originally assigned by the CIA as an alias during litigation over a prior manuscript, and the author continues to use it as a pen-name for reasons of personal privacy and security. For more information, please visit his website at www.jimmarksonauthor.com
Table of Contents
Disclaimer:
Acknowledgments
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
About the Author