My heart squeezes for Gutter as his eyes glass over with unshed tears. He takes another swig of his beer and shakes his head as if to shake off a lifetime of regret. “Now,” he says, slapping his thigh with his hand. “Let’s talk about you. Tell me everything.”
I pause with my beer halfway to my lips. “Everything?”
He nudges my shoulder with his. “Yep, everything that’s happened to bring you to Pike and to be sitting your pretty ass on my snake boat in the middle of the goddamned swamp.”
At first, I think he’s joking, but there’s no laughter on his face as he stares at me with a serious kind of intensity. “Go on, girl. I ain’t done nothing good enough in my life to be worth the honor of judging anyone else, so don’t you be worried about that.” He looks back over his shoulder at Pike. “Besides, the rate that boy’s fucking up my motor, we might be here all night.”
With nothing but time on our hands and the call of the frogs and crickets surrounding us, I tell him everything.
Well, almost everything.
I leave out the information Pike so desperately wants, amongst other things that could hinder my plans.
After all, I have an IQ of one sixty.
I’m not fucking stupid.
Chapter Fifteen
Pike
After I fix Gutter’s motor, we take the boat a few minutes deeper into the Everglades to where Gutter’s houseboat is anchored. It’s a tiny one-room shack on a raft with tin sides and a thrown away set of closet doors that lead inside. Two bundles of thick sticks are tied to each side of the entry forming a redneck archway. Above the porch hangs the skull of a gator with the skeleton of a large bird in its mouth.
“It ain’t much, kid, but it’s home,” Gutter says, extending his hand to Mickey.
She looks over the small shack and smiles. “It’s very…you.”
He tips his hat to her. “Imma take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one,” she responds.
Gutter smiles his missing tooth smile. “Why don’t you go inside. There’s running water and more beers in the cooler by the table. Imma have me a little chit chat out here with your man.”
We exchange looks, but neither of us correct him. I jerk my chin to her, and she disappears inside.
Gutter wastes no time, turning to me with his thumbs under the suspenders of his overalls. He rocks on his heels. “What in the name of Merle Haggard have you gotten yourself into with this girl?”
I sigh, straddling a broken chair on the deck.
Gutter pulls up a folding chair with a large tear on the back and takes a seat next to me. For a moment, we both stare over the black water. The glowing greenish yellow eyes of a gator appear a few feet away before it disappears into the reeds. An animal turned supper for another animal higher up the food chain echoing over the long grass.
“She tell you everything?” I ask.
Gutter nods. “She told me some things but can’t be sure it’s everything because I ain’t her. He takes a swig of his beer. “I’m assuming you brought her out here, so I can tell you if the chit is lying or not, but I gotta hear it from you now.”
“Hear what?” I ask.
He jabs his finger in my chest. “Your version of the story.”
I rub the back of my neck where the tension has been building over the past few weeks, then proceed to tell him how I originally met Mickey and everything else leading up to this very moment. Even as I retell it, I find myself running through various stages of anger. By the time I’m done, my knuckles are tight on the back of the chair and wait for Gutter to weigh in on what I’ve just said.
Gutter isn’t one for speaking without thinking. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about him. When I’m done, he doesn’t launch into anything. He simply sits in silence, allowing my words to sink into his brain.
The song of a million crickets grows louder in the quiet until it’s humming so loud I can feel it vibrating against my skin.
Finally, Gutter speaks. “My question for you is what are you hoping to learn from bringing her here?”
Before Gutter was, well, Gutter, he was Christopher Andrews, a phycologist in the military. He spent his time studying how the mind is affected by torture and deciding which techniques worked best and which didn’t work at all. He was good, too. They used to call him the human lie detector. Not because he could necessarily tell you if the person was lying or not, but because he knew exactly what means to use to extract the truth.
Needless to say that lying to Gutter is pointless, so I never have. “I just need to know if I’m wasting my time with her. If she’s ever going to tell me what I need to know”
“You said she suffered a head injury. How?” Gutter asks.
I recall the moment right before I found out that Mickey was a she and not a he.
“By way of headbutt,” I answer. “After that, she seemed confused for a little while. When I first met her she was the same way. Thinking people were around her who weren’t there. Don’t know what happened to her that night though. She says a kayaking or swimming accident or some shit, but I don’t fucking know.”
“What do you know?” Gutter asks.
I feel like I don’t know shit anymore for certain except for two things. I need the information only she knows, and I want to fuck her more than I want to breathe.
I tell Gutter neither of those things. Although from the amused look on his face, he already knows.
Gutter scratches his whiskers. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think she’s telling the truth.” He retrieves two more beers and passes one to me. “What she told me, anyway. But I can sense that her intentions aren’t in line with the intentions of whoever she’s working for. That girl has got her own agenda, so you may want to find out what that is if you have any hope of cracking her.”
Gutter’s right. If she has reasons of her own behind her actions, then I can use those reasons to get her to give me the information I need.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You was hoping she was lying to you?”
“I was hoping you would tell me to take a knife to her flesh, or remove her fingernails, and she’d tell me everything.” I press the cold bottle to my forehead to alleviate the budding headache threatening to burst through my skull.
“Nope. She’s what I would call a resistor. Her will is too strong for any of the usual antics. Like I said, find out her truth, and you’ll find out the truth.” Gutter leans his elbows on his thighs. “I’ll tell you one thing: You can’t keep the girl locked up. That ain’t going to help shit. Not with a girl like that. If anything, it will make her more determined to keep her mouth shut.”
“Why is that?” I press.
“Simple. If she hates you, she ain’t gonna open up to you. You’ve got to gain her trust. Get her to make the decision on her own. Let her know that her world ain’t gonna implode if she unburdens herself by telling you her secrets.”
I blow out a breath and crack my neck. “I don’t think I’ve got that kind of time. Or if it’s possible at this point.” I think back to what I’ve subjected her to and don’t see how she’s going to trust me after that or how she won’t see right through the act.
Gutter smiles. “She’s smart. She ain’t gonna fall for your tactics because she’ll know they’re tactics. I’ve told her about your kindness, and I’ve opened up the door. You’ve just gotta suck up your pride and walk through it. Be as real as you can. It’s not hard to be kind to her. She’s a good soul. Reminds me of my Atty.” Gutter looks to the sky with a sad smile.
“You sure a knife to her flesh won’t work?” I groan.
“Is a ten-pound rabbit a big rabbit?” he counters.
I don’t know much about rabbits and have no idea if a ten-pound rabbit is, in fact, a big rabbit. “I sure as shit hope so.”
“You got feelings for this girl or something?” he suddenly asks.
I laugh. “I got feelings for her all right. None of them good.” I stand and toss an e
mpty beer bottle into the bucket that doubles as a trash can. I head to the door to retrieve Mickey.
“Pike,” Gutter calls out.
I glance over my shoulder. Gutter stands and places his thumbs under his suspenders again, rocking back on the heels of his plastic boots. “What happens to the girl after you find out the truth?”
“That depends on what the truth is.”
Gutter frowns. His voice is calm if not slightly sad. “Be careful, Pike. They say the truth hurts for a fucking reason.”
That is something I already know all too well.
Pushing open the doors, I glance around the houseboat. What I find makes my anger flare and a roar tear from my throat.
Because what I find is nothing.
Mickey’s gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Mickey
Inside Gutter’s houseboat is one single room surrounded by accordion metal walls. The kitchen consists of a rusted utility sink, a portable electric burner set on top of a crate, and the cooler he told me I’d find inside. A cot sits in the corner, with mesh netting hanging from the ceiling above.
I’m suddenly too aware of being alone although Gutter and Pike are talking only a few feet away. It feels wrong as it often does, especially since growing up with three sisters I was very rarely alone. The past five days have been a lesson in being alone as well as a test of how much I can…wait.
Any captive held longer than a period of one week must be either killed when the clock strikes midnight on the fifth day…
It’s one of the guidelines on the ridiculous memo I found in Pike’s truck. At least, I thought it was ridiculous until I just realized that today is day five.
If Pike is planning on following those guidelines, it means I’m almost out of time.
I push aside my panic, searching for logic amongst the fear.
I know what I need to do.
No, what I have to do.
I risk a glance through a crack in the door. Pike and Gutter are deep in conversation. Good. It’ll buy me time.
I move quickly and quietly. While my brain is screaming for me to hurry, I take it as slow as I possibly can, padding to the back of the room. At a pace slower than a snail’s I push aside one of the metal panels in the back of the room. The murky water below looks like a vat of tar.
Don’t think about it. Just do it.
With a deep breath, I crouch down on the wooden planks, then slowly lower myself into the water so as not to make even the slightest ripple. It’s over eighty degrees outside, but the water might as well be from the arctic. It’s that cold. My teeth chatter as I begin to move, walking slowly through the waist deep water, too slowly for the pace my mind is racing and heart is beating. It’s not until I’m deep enough inside the reeds to be hidden from view that I pick up my pace. Thankfully the black water is shallower here, hitting at my knees. But it’s also thick and filled with grass and weeds and I don’t want to know what else. My thighs burn with the effort it takes to lift my feet from the mud that sucks them in with each step. I walk for what seems like hours, but in reality I have no idea how long it’s been. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead into the dark to avoid spotting whatever critters might be lurking nearby.
What you don’t know can’t hurt you. It doesn’t exactly apply in this situation because I’m pretty sure an alligator I don’t know is there can hurt me, but I’m going to go with it and pretend it makes sense.
A sigh of relief escapes me as I reach an area surrounded by cypress trees where the water is only ankle deep. My jeans are soaked through, wet and heavy against my skin. I slap a mosquito on my cheek, shaking off the dead, bloody bug from my palm. The hot night air feels icy as it blows over my wet skin. I shiver, rubbing my hands over my arms.
A honk of a horn in the distance drags my attention toward an embankment up ahead. As quickly as I can, I trudge toward the sound. When I don’t hear it again, I think I imagined it.
But I see lights. Headlights.
My shoes get sucked into the mud, falling free from my feet, but soon, my foot lands on more solid soil. My feet ache and sting as I step on countless sharp branches and rocks. It takes everything I have left to climb the embankment.
My hair snags on a branch. Untangling it would take time I don’t have, so I use my hand and yank, pulling it free from the tree and some of it free from my head.
When my feet hit pavement, I know I’ve found the road.
Minutes pass without another car, and I remember that I’m in the middle of nowhere in the Everglades. The chances of spotting another car out here in the middle of the night are slim to none.
With nothing to do but wait, I begin walking toward where I think the highway could be. A wild boar runs across the road a few feet in front of me, and I cover my mouth to keep from shrieking and drawing attention to myself.
Headlights appear behind me. I turn around, happy to see it’s a car and not Pike’s truck. I leap into the middle of the road, waving and jumping around frantically until it slows to a stop.
I round the car, an older style classic black Cadillac. I reach the driver's side window just as it rolls down.
“Thank you so much for stopping,” I say, not realizing how out of breath I am until I have to stop to breathe for a second so I can continue. “I’ve been kidnapped. I need to go to the police. Or anywhere where there’s people. A gas station if the police station is too far.”
I couldn’t actually walk into a police station, but asking for a ride to where I really need to go would draw questions I’m not going to answer. More than anything I just need to get into town.
The man cocks his head and looks me over, revealing a tangle of vine tattoos on each side of his head. “Who kidnapped you?” He takes a drag on his cigarette, and I quickly realize from the smell that it’s not tobacco he’s smoking.
“His name is Pike. I’ve been locked in his apartment. He took me out here to meet someone, and I escaped through the swamp.”
“So that’s what that smell is…” he says, taking in my mud-covered state. “Okay, okay, hop in. I’ll give you a ride to the Logan’s Beach police station. I’m heading in that direction anyway.” He reaches over to the passenger side and opens the door.
I blow out a breath of relief and round the car. I jump in and slam the door shut.
“Are you hurt?” the man asks, putting the car in drive. His dress shirt is rolled up to his elbows exposing his tattooed forearms as he fiddles with the radio station.
I shake my head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Just a little banged up.”
“So, this Pike fellow, he’s a gentle kidnapper then?”
We pass under a street light, and I notice the man’s yellow bow-tie and matching suspenders. Street light. We’re getting closer to civilization.
I remember his earlier question. “Are there different levels of being held against your will?”
He nods. “Several.”
Now, I’m curious. “How would you know?”
He smiles and bobs his head to the Taylor Swift song playing on the radio. “Just trust me, I know every level of kidnapping and torture there is to know. Been there. Done that. Burned the motherfucking t-shirt.” He turns onto a road next to the highway, and I almost cry out for joy when we spot a sign that says Welcome to Logan’s Beach.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I rub my hands over my arms, feeling cold even in the heat as the water dries on my skin. “Michaela, but they call me Mickey.”
He pulls one hand off the wheel and extends it to me. “I’m—”
The phone I was about to ask him if I can use rings. He answers before it can do so a second time. “Hey, Doc. What’s cracka-lackin’?” There’s a small pause. His eyes go wide. “He did what? Again?” he says, trying to fight a smile. “It’s my wife,” he explains.
Another pause. “Oh, that’s just Mickey. She was kidnapped. Found her on the side of the road. I’m just giving her a ride. Very magnanimous of
me, I know. But, back to Bo.”
His wife doesn’t seem to mind what he’s just said or at the very least isn’t surprised because his response tells me that they have, in fact, gone back to the prior conversation.
“I don’t understand the problem. I wrote a letter to his principal explaining everything. Isn’t that what parents do? Write letters explaining their child’s slightly off-colored borderline homicidal behavior?” he says, tapping his fingers on the wheel.
He blows out a breath. “What do you mean there’s no such thing as an emotional support knife?”
Pause.
“Isn’t there a dog we can get him? Like a homicide dog?”
Pause.
“No, I was not aware that’s not what a homicide dog does. But you gotta admit, it would be cool if they did.” He chuckles.
We turn down another street, and the lights of town appear in the distance.
“Fine, we will talk about it tonight after the sex but before the weapons sweep,” he relents, hanging up the phone.
“You got kids?” he asks, lighting another joint.
“Not that I know of,” I reply, feeling the best I have in days, knowing that I’m free.
He bobs his head to the music again. “Kidnapped and still got jokes? Wow, we have a lot more in common than I thought. All things considered.”
“All things considered?” I question.
I look outside and recognize the street. I spot Pike’s Pawn up ahead, and dread fills my stomach.
Stop worrying. You’re free now. It’s on the main road. We have to pass it to get anywhere in this town.
The car begins to slow. He parks it at the curb outside the pawn shop.
My chest tightens with panic. “Why are we stopping here?” I ask, turning sideways toward him in my seat.
“Never abandon your captive,” he says, and immediately, I recognize those words.
Pike: The Pawn Duet, Book One Page 11