by Toby Tate
Her curiosity piqued, and knowing that the pants of her khaki ranger uniform would be soaked, she stepped farther out into the water to get a better view. She stopped where she had seen the movement and gazed down into the water. The depth was about two feet. Something seemed to glow beneath the murky surface, distorted by the rippling waves. She bent down to get a closer look, and then froze.
Eyes.
A pair of eyes, red and angry, stared up at her from the shallow lake bed. Before she could react, a skeletal hand shot up out of the water and grabbed her by the shirt, then pulled her down into the suffocating darkness.
* * *
Lisa let out a short yelp, forcing herself through the thick cloud of unconsciousness until she was able to move her body, then quickly sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp.
Her breathing was fast and shallow. She hyperventilated, but she didn‘t care. Her heart pounded in her chest and beads of sweat stood like dew on her forehead. She squinted at the digital clock. Four a.m. She threw back the blanket on her bed, and made her way into the bathroom where she filled a Styrofoam cup with water and drank it down as if she had just crawled through miles of burning dessert.
She put the cup down and stared at herself in the mirror. Her dark skin looked pale and clammy. Her black, kinky hair was matted with sweat and her eyes were bloodshot. She appeared to have a hangover, though she hadn’t been drinking.
She thought back to the nightmare, but it was mostly just snippets and shadows—except for those eyes, and the hand.
She didn’t know what it meant, but whatever it was, it couldn‘t be good.
Lisa was now wide awake, and she realized trying to go back to sleep would be futile. She let out a heavy sigh.
“This has long day written all over it,” she said to her reflection.
Three
Hunter Singleton sat in his cubicle at the Daily Tribune, which had lately become his dwelling place. He had spent so much time here, it seemed, that he hardly ever saw his real home anymore. The sounds of phone conversations, keyboards clacking, and people talking all formed one big cacophony, but to Hunter it was like a symphony. He loved the newsroom, the place where it all happened, where it came together and constituted the daily news. He was a part of the scene, a gear in the wheel of progress.
At least that‘s what he kept telling himself.
He worked at putting the finishing touches on a story he had been working on for the past few days, a piece centered around some bizarre deaths on Ocracoke Island. A diver from an archeological research vessel had resurfaced too quickly from a dive on the ocean floor and died from decompression sickness, or what divers call the bends. He had apparently been frightened by something he had seen on the dive, but no one, including his dive partner, could identify it.
And just a few hundred yards from the beach an old German shepherd belonging to a local fisherman had been found strangled by vines and cocooned twenty feet up the side of a huge pine tree.
Understandably, the population of the little island was shaken. Death from the bends was not exactly an uncommon occurrence in the ocean, but no one could explain how a dog got up in a pine tree, tangled in the creeper vines like a fly in a spider’s web. The sheriff had the usual bullshit line: The matter is still under investigation. Things like this were not good for tourist season, either, and one thing Ocracoke depended on was the tourist trade.
Hunter had been to the quaint island many times, mainly for R and R, taking in the moonlit nights, the peaceful ocean waves lapping the shoreline, the music of Jimmy Buffet emanating from the front porches of the local residents. Hunter usually stayed in a homey bed and breakfast, close to the nearby shops and restaurants where he could enjoy the best handmade crafts and finest seafood around. The people were friendly, the beer was delicious, and the girls were gorgeous. Of course, there was also the beach. But for Hunter, the beach was never more than a place to relax and read a book.
As he pondered over rewriting the lead for his article, the phone on his desk rang. He looked down at the number display and saw that it was his editor. He picked it up on the third ring.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Hunter, come to my office. I might have a story for you.”
Jeffrey Stanton, Editor-in-Chief of the River City Daily Tribune, was a no-nonsense guy, not much in the humor department, but efficient and ambitious. If his paper didn’t have it first, then it would have the most. He would dig deeper and find out more than anyone else, sometimes to the chagrin of the story’s subjects. With his white hair and perfect teeth, Stanton had always reminded Hunter of Ted Baxter, the brash TV anchor from the reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore show he often watched on TV Land.
“Be right there, chief,” Hunter said.
Stanton hated being called chief. Hunter figured the only reason Stanton let him get away with it was because he knew Singleton was half Native American. Hunter would probably never tell him the truth; that it was an affectionate name. Stanton was almost like a second father to him, taking Hunter under his wing as a cub reporter and occasionally even having a beer with him.
He walked through the noisy news room and into Stanton’s corner office.
“What’s up, Jeff? Got some new leads for me?” Hunter asked impatiently.
“This one is a little gruesome,” mused Stanton, stroking his chin and staring at a single paper on his desk. “Got a report from the sheriff’s office that some guy lost his head, literally, out in the swamp. Some boaters found the body, but no head. I’m afraid you’ll have to go down to the Dismal Swamp park ranger’s station and check it out, see if you can get a statement. I hate to make you do that, but we need to follow up on this piece before the Virginian Pilot or the AP get a hold of it.”
Hunter went slack-jawed. “Somebody was beheaded in the swamp? Did he get run over by a boat?”
“That‘s what I need you to find out. And I need you to make a trip to the coroner’s office over in Chesapeake, see what you can find out about cause of death, other than the obvious, I mean. I’ve already OK’d it with them.”
Hunter felt his stomach do a back flip. Not at seeing a lifeless body, but at seeing her. Lisa Singleton, soon to be ex-Lisa Singleton: park ranger, law enforcer, heartbreaker. It had been six long months since they’d spoken, and even then it was only to begin divorce proceedings. He knew he would have to swallow his personal feelings.
But he also thought he just might choke on them.
“Thanks a lot, Jeff.”
Stanton managed to look both amused and empathetic. “I know,” he said. “I’m a grade-A asshole, but I swear I‘ll make it up to you. Besides, this could be a really big story, maybe the biggest we’ve had in a while.”
Stanton had a pretty good instinct for what would make good copy and what wouldn’t, and Hunter had learned to trust that instinct as well as his own. But Hunter didn’t need Stanton to tell him there was something to this story.
Hunter left Stanton’s office thinking of Lisa, and dreading seeing her again.
Four
Lisa Singleton, like her soon-to-be ex, was of mixed race. Unlike Hunter, however, she was not adopted, but the product of a loving forty-year marriage between an African-American mother and a Chinese father. She was not only highly intelligent, but painfully beautiful, with full, sensuous lips beneath her small Asian nose, black Asian eyes, and brown skin as smooth as silk. Her one complaint, besides being constantly ogled by men and boys, was the kinky black hair inherited from her mother, which no one seemed to mind but her.
Her in-your-face attitude was another inherited trait from her mother. Lisa was also an expert in Wing Chun kung fu, which her father had taught her growing up. She still managed to practice daily, and when they were married, she had taught Hunter, who eventually earned his own black belt.
The Dismal Swamp was not somewhere the ranger wanted to be on a bright, sunny day like today, and she slogged through the murky water of Kim Saunders Ditch, searching
for something she actually hoped not to find.
The previous night’s dream slowly crept back into her mind like a deadly black widow spider, until two blazing eyes full of fury cut their way into her consciousness, and she thought she could almost see them staring up at her from the bottom of Lake Drummond.
Just then, a hand touched her shoulder, and she wheeled around in a defensive posture, ready to strike.
It was Hunter. He smiled, disarming her as always. But she was determined to remain distant.
“You know,” Lisa said, “you really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. You could get your ass kicked.”
“Yeah, well, you’d be the one to do it, that’s for sure,” Hunter retorted. “Still keeping in shape, I see.”
She noticed he was wearing hip-hugger boots.
“Where’s you get those?” she asked.
“Someone up on shore let me borrow them. I hear they’re all the rage.”
Lisa turned and resumed her search. She could hear Hunter splashing behind her as he walked.
“Exactly what is it you’re looking for, anyway?” he asked.
“Don’t you know?”
“Some head, right?”
Lisa never turned to face her shadow. “I wish you’d ask me whatever it was you came here to ask.”
“A statement about the murder would be a good start,” Hunter said.
“A statement? Okay, how about, ‘Some guy lost his head and now we’re searching for it.’ I really don’t have much else to say at this point.”
Hunter let out a breathy sigh. “Look, can we call a truce? I know it’s hard for both of us, but I have a job to do, and part of that job is reporting the facts about this murder.”
Lisa could hear the pleading tone of Hunter’s voice and for one moment felt a twinge of regret. A tear began to form in her eye, but somehow she managed to dry it before it fell. She stopped, and turned to face her husband.
“Okay, a truce. Ask your questions, and I’ll answer them. Then, I go back to my work, and you go back to yours. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” he said.
Just as he prepared to ask a question, an officer who had been searching along the ditch called out from the shore, near where a tent still sat, the fire from hours before now just a pile of ash.
“Hey, over here!” she shouted. “I think I‘ve found something!”
Doing the best they could to run in knee-deep water and muck, Hunter, Lisa, and the rest of the team waded over to the area where the officer stood staring in wide-eyed shock.
As they gathered together, everyone followed the officer’s gaze, and instantly wished they hadn‘t.
About ten yards from shore, in a patch of juniper trees, was something that looked like a large stone. But as they approached, Lisa realized it was a human head. It lay propped up on one side by a fallen branch, the eyes open but with no pupils, looking like two perfectly white marbles. The face had a sickly waterlogged grayish-purple sheen. The skin around the neck was ragged and torn, but there was no blood. Lisa imagined that if she touched the face, it would feel like wet leather stretched over a bowling ball.
As Hunter raised his camera to get a shot, Lisa saw a white maggot wriggle from out of one of the nostrils and fall to the ground.
Hunter whirled around, put his hands on his knees and threw up in the brown water of the ditch.
Five
Jason Summerfield read the Daily Tribune headline: River City Man Beheaded in Dismal Swamp along with its accompanying story, and slowly shook his head, laying the newspaper down on his desk.
He wondered if the police had discovered evidence of a motive, or if anyone even had a clue as to who, or what, they were up against.
He looked out the window as a small moth boat floated by on the Pasquotank River, not really seeing it. He imagined himself in the shoes of the killer, making his way through the swamp, moving toward some ultimate, unfathomable goal. He could hear the sounds of tree frogs and owls all around him, felt the mud squish beneath his feet and the briars and yellow flies on his skin. Saw the green snakes and otters swimming through the waterways, smelled the decay of animal and vegetable matter that permeated the air.
When he moved through the swamp, all became silent, as if its eyes were upon him, watching, terrified.
Jason had been to the swamp many times, walking the various man-made boardwalks that wound their way through the forest. Every once in a while he would leave the boardwalk and take a trip off the beaten path, just to make things more interesting, watching and listening for signs of bear or deer. Coming upon a bear cub was a bad move in the swamp, because mama bear was usually nearby and they didn’t take kindly to strangers getting too close to their babies.
Jason brought his mind back to matters at hand—the business of the Pasquotank County Museum.
He was its head curator, and there was a new exhibit soon to come to its halls, artifacts from the wreck of the Queen Anne’s Revenge, last known flagship of the dreaded pirate Blackbeard.
Jason had obsessively followed the daily online log of the archeological team working the site, which had brought up from the depths everything from cannonballs to wine bottles, gold, even cannons. It was amazing to think that beneath the waves off the coast of Ocracoke Island laid the last vestiges of a man who, in two short years, had created a legend that would last over three centuries. Only a powerful and enigmatic man could do such a thing. Jason had often wondered if the remains of the pirate himself could still be buried somewhere in the shifting sands, headless and encrusted with barnacles.
He let out a deep sigh, and then looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly four o’clock, almost quitting time.
Jason logged on to his computer, fired up his search engine, and found the bookmark for the Queen Anne’s Revenge site to see what new relic had been discovered today.
Six
After spending a few hours following his estranged wife through the Dismal Swamp, searching for the gruesome remains of a beheading victim, Hunter was ready to call it a day, especially after the embarrassment of throwing up in front of her and all those cops.
At least they hadn‘t laughed at him to his face.
And now, the Chesapeake, Virginia coroner’s office and a look at a dead body was his next order of business. Hunter wondered what his life was coming to, going from one dead body to the next.
As he drove his Accord down Highway 17, he thought about Lisa. She had cited irreconcilable differences, claiming they could not agree on the simplest things, which had become true in the last few months, especially after the loss of the baby.
Lisa had been seven months pregnant when she began hemorrhaging and ended up calling nine-one-one because, as usual, Hunter had been out working on an assignment that night, and she could not get in touch with him. He had hated cell phones at the time, and refused to carry one. He felt they were dehumanizing and annoying, not to mention expensive.
When he got home, a message on his answering machine from the hospital told him to come to the emergency room. He was frantic.
When he arrived, the baby had already been removed by cesarean. Lisa was alive and sedated, but the baby was dead. He had never even gotten to see it, or to say goodbye.
They already knew it was a girl and had picked out a name—Sophia. They had created a baby room out of the spare bedroom, with a crib, changing table, and a small dresser. They painted the walls pink, Lisa stenciling it with red butterflies and hearts and the word “love” over and over again. It was a work of art, in Hunter’s opinion.
Then, their little girl was dead and the world came crashing down, one little piece at a time.
Instead of talking about it, however, they boxed it up, afraid to touch the subject as if it were a bomb that might detonate and kill them both.
Lisa blamed Hunter for the tragedy, saying had he been around, maybe it wouldn’t have happened, had he been near a phone, had he not been working, had he been more supportive, if
only, if only, if only…
Hunter could not defend himself, so he didn’t even try. He just took the blame and tried not to let his emotions run rampant. He wanted desperately to be the rock, the steady voice of calm and reason that held them together.
He did anything but.
Lisa held her rage in for months, until one day she exploded and almost destroyed their house, throwing dishes, pots, pans, and anything that happened to be lying around. Hunter actually caught a few of the projectiles, some with his hands, others with his head.
After that, things went downhill: sleeping in separate rooms, not talking, becoming angry over the slightest things.
Then one day, out of the blue, the separation papers came in the mail. Hunter knew it was inevitable, but somehow it still caught him by surprise. When he confronted Lisa, she looked at him, shaking her head condescendingly.
“Wise up, Hunter. It’s time to end the charade,” she had said.
That was six months ago. After Lisa had moved out and found an apartment, he began to miss her, and he knew she probably missed him. In fact, he knew she did, but Lisa was too proud to admit it. If anything was to be done, Hunter would have to do it; he would have to make the first move. But his pride was even bigger than hers.
As he drove, thoughts of Lisa burned like candles in his mind, but outside it began to get dark. Hunter still had not driven out of the swamp and had to piss something awful. He pulled over at the next available rest area—nothing more than a picnic table and a trash can—and got out of the car. Luckily, the yellow biting flies had not begun to repopulate in the area quite yet, so he was safe for now. He closed the door, looked both ways to make sure no headlights were visible in the distance, walked behind the car, and unzipped his fly.