Dark Cay

by Douglas Pratt

The directions to Quartermain Road that the server at Las Palmas gave me were difficult to understand. Jotting them down on a napkin, I tried to catch every turn, and there seemed to be a lot as if he only knew the most circuitous route possible. As I snaked around Lake Apopka, I realized that wasn’t necessarily the case. The roads around the lake, which made up the center of Floral City, wound around like a spastic ball of yarn. Every turn went the opposite direction from the last road. Take a right, drive a quarter of a mile, take a left, drive half a mile, and take a right. Each road meandered around pockets of water and swampy growths of cypress.

  Street signs were superfluous; the locals must know them on sight. Road maintenance wasn’t something the county held in high regard. The edges of the blacktop were jagged and broken from tires that strayed too far to the right. Gaping holes in the middle of the road, filled in with gravel, jolted the rental as the tires bounced through them.

  A small sign at the end of a gravel driveway read “Haynes Grove.” The server didn’t remember the name of the farm, but he was adamant that it was the only one on the road. This had to be the property. The security cameras mounted in the trees gave a strong indication that the owners wanted to protect what was behind the forest, or more accurately, they wanted to see who was nosing around their driveway. Three large placards announced that the area was under video surveillance, and trespassers would be dealt with through prosecution.

  Driving up to the house seemed like a less than stellar idea. I drove a mile down the road through several more dog-legged turns and snaky curves before I found a place to pull off. A vacant house sat in a state of sore disrepair. Rotten wood and a four-inch diameter tree limb extending through the roof was a significant indicator.

  The security around Haynes Farm wasn’t designed to keep people out. The cameras and warning signs were a deterrent only. The border was lined with a wall of bamboo rather than actual fencing, and the cameras focused on the driveway. Fifty feet into the woods, the cameras were non-existent. If someone like me wanted to make a covert approach, then the swampy forest was perfect. That was the problem with using a natural barrier. Sure, it will prevent most petty thieves, looking to do a grab-and-go, out. It might even slow down more determined thieves. But real insurgents look at something like that as a mere inconvenience.

  Not that the idea of getting my feet wet was all that appealing. The thought wasn’t about to slow me down, either.

  The trees were chirping. Small songbirds flitted about the branches overhead, chattering to each other. The aura of tranquility would have been complete were it not for the constant buzzing in my ear from the thousands of mosquitoes swarming. Ignoring the bites inflicted on me, I trudged slowly through two to three-foot deep waters. My eyes scanned the surface for tell-tale eyes that distinguished the American alligator from a log.

  In the few years that I’ve lived in Florida, I have gotten a little more adept at spotting them. At first, I could be staring directly at the reptile without seeing it. Now, I might be able to point out one or two out of the ten or more I passed. That kind of spotty observation could get me killed if I was in a combat zone, and I wasn’t overly excited about the prospect of tripping over an alligator because I couldn’t recognize it.

  For the most part, I continued to encourage myself, I’m too big for most of the ones here. At least, I hoped that was the case. Every week there’s a story about a 10 to 13-foot alligator ending up in someone’s swimming pool or devouring a dog. A 13-foot beast would be more than enough to turn my day bad. The .45 stayed in my hand, ready to deter anything that might want to take me for a roll.

  A plop behind me jerked my attention, and my head snapped around in time to see a large turtle surface in a ring of ripples. A snapper. A guess, but judging from the pointy nature of his head, it was a good guess. He vanished under the surface while I grumbled to myself.

  I prefer water that is clear, so I can see the dangers lurking ahead. A bull shark might do as much damage, if not more than an alligator, but at least I can see him coming. Since I’m almost always armed with a spear pole, fending off a predator seems like something I was capable of doing. As long as I can see it. That snapper or some sharp-tooth gator lurking in the muck was invisible. I’ll know it’s attacking when the first chunk of my calf is ripped off.

  The water shallowed, and I was grateful to pull myself up on a cypress log. Let me find a vine to swing across, and a giant diamond ring, and I’d feel like a regular Pitfall Harry.

  As I trudged through the muck and mire, my mind began mapping out scenarios. Plan for the worst. How many men might I encounter? How deadly should my force be? I was working on hunches. Nothing concrete said that Joe Loggins owned this farm or even that Lily and her father were here. The cops and Feds might not look the other way if my hunch was wrong, and I invaded an innocent farm.

  Surveil and evaluate. Avoiding the cameras should be easy, at least until I got closer to the house. Even then, security is only as good as the person monitoring it. While there is some new technology that allows computers to analyze and monitor closed-circuit video, most people rely on the camera footage after the event. Few people have a person sitting full-time in front of a bank of screens. The ones that do are still ineffective–hours of watching nothing happen causes immense boredom. Minds wander. Nowadays, phones distract. The stopgap in the security is far from failsafe, and the odds that the watchman’s eyes are pinned to the screen for every second, or even for 45 seconds of every minute, are pretty low. Of course, there’s always the new guy that takes his job very seriously. However, as long as I avoided the cameras or made my movements slow and hidden, then I liked my chances.

  The afternoon sun was dropping in the east, casting eerie shadows across the green-filmed water. Night was the perfect time to make an approach. Loggins seemed to hire former soldiers, which should mean that they maintain a state of alert, and the Army was known to produce drones ready to charge into battle.

  These guys, so far, had been traditional ex-Army, though. They transitioned to the mercenary business as a means to hang onto a glorified past. In my high school, there was a basketball coach that spent half a season in the NBA. Coach Hurt spent half a season as a bench warmer. One wrenched knee during practice, and his dreams of gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated went out the door. He was a terrible coach because he never actually played.

  Loggins’ boys were the same. They were all hyped up to play in the big leagues, and the US government decided to leave the desert, for the most part, to the people. Or maybe they did get to see some action, but now it was a thing of the past. Something they longed for, again, perhaps this time without the constraints of expected military conduct. Killing defenseless kids was no longer an ethical dilemma for them. Although, it probably wasn’t an issue for them personally, to begin with. Simply a violation of the Army’s expectations.

  The border of the grove and yard was ahead. I could see the glow of sunlight against the soft manicured grass. Scanning the treetops, I searched for cameras. There were no signs of wires or strange objects sticking out and detracting from the wild swamp allure. Nonetheless, every move I made was deliberate and slow. The edge of the swamp was thick, as the brush and overgrowth thrived on both the excess sunlight and moist ground. Crawling under an entangled vine, I squirmed on my belly until my face was clear of the leaves. Thorns dug into my skin, burning with some natural toxin.

  Haynes Farm spread out in front of me. A large white house that could have easily been plucked from the pages of any Southern literature stood on a raised hill. The Gothic columns and gingerbread indicated it was an older home. The mound of dirt that the structure sat on was artificial, likely built up to avoid any flooding from the nearby lakes. From the front porch of the plantation house, one would be able to look upon rows of various types of citrus trees, pruned into a picturesque grove. A small flock of sheep grazed under the limbs of the trees, an old practice used long before the invention of zero-turn mowers and chemical
herbicides. Throughout the grove stood three-foot-tall white beehives. At least 10 sets were scattered between the trees, allowing the denizens to assist in the annual pollination of the blossoming trees.

  Behind the house, a red barn stood with a corral attached to the side. A single horse was chewing on the leftovers of a bale of hay. Behind the barn, a pasture, fenced in with white split rails, stretched over several acres. Citrus trees sprouted sporadically around the pasture, providing at least two horses some shade. The trees didn’t show the level of maintenance that the front grove got, nor the precision in planting. They were either random seedlings that took hold or just planted to provide the equines some cover.

  A graveled parking area held four vehicles. An older rust-red Ford F-150 with splatters of mud along the bottom was, no doubt, the farm truck. Two black Range Rovers and a black Mercedes Maybach parked alongside the truck made for a quick game of “Which One of These Is Not Like the Other?”

  On the front porch, a woman moved around cleaning or straightening. From this distance, she looked to be in her 50s. Her hair glowed either white or blond; I couldn’t tell from here. The sun just gleamed off her.

  The barn door was open. A thin man moved back and forth in front of the opening but was too far to distinguish much about him. He passed from one side of the door carrying something on his shoulder. He would return across empty-handed. A second or two later, he was carrying something again.

  The rest of Haynes Farms was quiet. No former Rangers making rounds. No sign of Loggins. He didn’t seem the type to participate in heavy farm chores, so I suspected that the man in the barn wasn’t him.

  Worst yet, no sign of Lily or Travis Porter.

  Was this even Loggins’ farm?

  The shadows of the citrus trees stretched toward the house. There wasn’t much I could do. When it got dark, I could move closer to the house. Try to put my eyes on anyone else.

  The security was enhanced as I neared the house. From my nest, I counted seven cameras angled across the farm. Double that if they put the same amount of security on the opposite side of the house. That was a lot of cameras for a small farm. Who was watching those cameras? Probably no one, but avoiding them, at least, for the most part, wouldn’t be difficult. In fact, I could remain utterly invisible if time wasn’t a concern.

  Settling in, I waited and watched

  31

  Travis Porter reclined in the antique Queen Anne chair. His feet extended out in front of him as if bending them required more effort than he could muster. He cradled the stump where his hand had been. The rags covering his arm were caked with brown blood and in need of changing. His eyes, staring across the room, were vacant, except for the regret.

  He was angry with himself. Allowing Lily to get dragged into this was his fault. He should have told Joe where the money was. Taken his death sentence so that Lily wouldn’t have to.

  Why didn’t he just do it? Why did he bother to take the money in the first place? What did he care if a couple of politicians somewhere got killed? Even when he called the F.B.I., he was too scared to tell them any details. Not even his name.

  Taking the money seemed like the easiest way to stop the murders. It was stupid. He didn’t even know who the money was going to or who was supposed to be killed. Just clean the cash. That was his job. If he hadn’t overheard the phone conversation, he would have never known what the money was for.

  Now, Lily was going to die because he was too cowardly to do anything. He should have just cleaned the money and sent it to its destination.

  He stared into nothing. Roiling in his failure.

  Lily paced. Her father didn’t have the strength to sit up. He wasn’t going to get them out of here. She moved to the window. They were sealed shut from years of paint or possibly nailed shut.

  From the window, she could see the sun set. In a different situation, the view would have been beautiful. Rows of orange trees catching the soft red-orange tint cast by the evening sun.

  Two-hundred yards, she guessed. Two-hundred yards from the house to the woods. How hard would it be to smash the glass and make a run for it? She had seen four men and the older woman in the house. Loggins and the old farmer would be easy to out-run. The other two looked like Chase. They might be fast. Still, if she had a head start, she might make it. Once it got dark, she could try to get to a highway.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she studied her father. He’d never make it to the woods. Even if he did, Lily wasn’t sure that he could keep up the pace all night. They needed to try. There was no other way out.

  “Dad,” she called to him as she moved close and knelt. “We have to get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he muttered.

  “Dad, can you stand?”

  His head moved up and down. She took his hand and pulled him out of the chair. Even standing, his body hung loosely like he was missing bones that used to hold him up. Shuffling behind her, Porter walked to the window.

  “I’m going to break the glass, Dad,” Lily explained. “We have to climb through and make a run for it.”

  He stared out the window, judging the distance from the house to the tree line for himself.

  “You need to do it,” he urged. “I’ll never make it.”

  “I can’t leave you here,” Lily objected. “You have to come with me.”

  Her eyes implored him, and with a wave of reluctance, he nodded. “You go first,” he insisted. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Staring at her father, she demanded, “You better be.”

  “If we get separated,” he explained, “we need to keep going. They won’t kill us unless we’re together.”

  “We can call the police,” she urged. “They can help.”

  He shook his head. “Just get to safety. Can you find Grandma’s old house in Jacksonville?”

  Lily thought about it. She hadn’t been to the house since her grandmother died. She wasn’t even sure of the address, but she nodded anyway.

  “It will be okay,” Travis stated.

  At this point, Travis didn’t believe his own words. He had outlived his usefulness, and Lily was an eye-witness. Teaching Travis a lesson was no longer going to be Loggins’ goal. If she got away, she’d have to run her whole life. He wanted to tell her that. To warn her. If she got to the road, she just needed to keep going. Change her name and forget about Lily and Travis Porter. They would be dead.

  Instead, he pulled her close in an embrace. Her hair smelled like Laura’s. He inhaled everything about her. “I love you, Lily.”

  “I love you too, Dad.” She released his hug, picked up a bronze statue of some military figure, and smashed the window.

  Three swipes with the statue cleared most of the shards of glass. Lily threw the figure onto the ground and scrambled through the window. A jagged piece of wood scraped across her neck.

  “Run!” her father ordered when her feet hit the ground.

  She turned to see him crawling through the frame as the door to the study opened. She tried to pull him through, shouting, “Daddy, come on!”

  Blake crossed the room in four big strides, reaching Porter and catching him by the arm. Porter jerked back as Blake yanked him into the study.

  “Run!” Porter shouted.

  Gasping, she saw her father’s eyes. She spun on her right foot and bolted for the tree line. The ground was flat, and her feet sank softly with each step. Despite the grassy cover, there seemed to be a sandy layer on top of the earth. Her shoes kicked up handfuls of the sandy-dirt mixture.

  The front door of the house slammed. She could hear footfalls on the wooden porch. Her heart raced, and she swallowed huge mouthfuls of air. Too scared to look back, she tried to speed up. She was over three-quarters of the way to the woods. She couldn’t stop.

  The sun continued to sink, and she prayed that the night would hurry up. Maybe in the dark she could elude Blake.

  The light faded as soon as she hurdled over the brush lining the woods. Her ri
ght foot landed in a knot of vines, and when she took the next step, she faceplanted into two inches of mud. Her hands caught the weight of her body and pushed her back to her feet.

  A chance look showed Blake only 20 feet behind her. The mud swallowed her feet as she ran, slowing her first few steps. Using a log, she pushed herself out of the mud and launched herself to another log. The renewed traction gave her a boost, and she heard Blake curse as he hit the muck.

  A gunshot echoed through the trees, and Lily froze. The tree next to her popped, scattering bits of bark, as the round buried itself into the trunk.

  “Stop running, or I’ll shoot you,” Blake demanded from behind her.

  Perched on a rotting log, Lily turned to look at the man. His right foot was sunk deep in the mud. Standing lopsided, he held a 9 mm Glock in his hand. The barrel was enormous, even from 15 feet away.

  A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched him force his foot out of the mud. For a second, she considered taking her chances. Would he really shoot her? Was he even allowed to kill her?

  The gleam in his eyes scared her. He might not kill her, but he could certainly shoot her in the leg. It didn’t matter anyway. He’d catch her eventually. There wasn’t anywhere she could go.

  “Come on,” he commanded.

  She slid off the log with a slow and deliberate move. Each second that passed left a resignation that there wasn’t anything that she could do. It was all over with. Her hand wiped the trail of the tear from her face. She would be damned if she would cry for them now.

  Blake grabbed her, shoving her through the thorns and brush into the open field. She fell to the ground, scraping her knee across the sandy surface. The grass wound up between her fingers like cool strands of thread. The sun was all but gone, leaving only the purple sky and a few stars beginning to wink in the night. Lily went limp and rolled onto her back. The first stars seemed to look down on her, and she thought for a second about her mother reciting “Star light. Star bright. The first star I see tonight.”