by Jerry Brown
He needed only one item, a fishing pole. He walked to the underside of the cabin where a number of bamboo poles were stored and selected one eight feet long with a stocky base. He withdrew a penknife from his pocket to cut away the line spiraling down and a hook embedded in the base of the pole. With a shrug, he decided that would make no difference and returned to the skiff with the pole and placed it with the other gear.
Motoring down the canal, he was confident and resolute, but otherwise numb. He had run the plan through his mind numerous times during the previous evening. He intended that his movements be by rote. It would be easier for him if he didn't have to think. I can't allow questioning or second thoughts at this point. The plan will either work or it won't. Good, bad, or indifferent, the die is cast.
In the half light of the early morning, the trees and undergrowth cast spooky shadows across the water. The eeriness was heightened by a morning fog which was absent in some spots and as high as two feet above the water in others, causing Bowman to operate the motor from a crouching position. The odor of swamp gas was nauseating. He clenched his jaws and refused to allow his mind to react to the ghostly air.
Whether due to overconfidence, resolution, or an effort avoid consideration of the morality of his actions, he did not pause and gather himself when he arrived at the sandbar where Big Ugly had baited him with the vest. The skiff would be beached there. He drove the bow in solidly, then he pulled it well up on the sand. Without scanning the area, he turned himself facing the boat and quickly gathered all the paraphernalia he needed with him. His right side was unfettered save for the shotgun he carried with his hand on the stock, his finger on the trigger guard with the top of the barrel resting on his shoulder.
He advanced only about twenty feet when he heard a loud thrashing noise. Bowman froze - his head pounding in his ears. He crouched low while bringing the gun to his lips. His heart raced. He sucked for breath straining to determine where the point of attack would occur. Then he saw a large startled blue bird bursting from the shallows though the undergrowth with ponderous flapping wings. Damn you, Flint!
When he dared to take his eyes from where the bird had been, it was only in quick glances to the left and behind him. Had he frightened the bird, or had something else? He remained in a crouch as he slowly and carefully retreated to the skiff. Once there he quickly pushed it away from shore and jumped in the bow, almost in a single motion. He pulled the starting rope using his left hand, carefully keeping aim of the gun directed at the suspect area.
The motor caught and moved the boat away from shore. He motored for about fifty feet, bringing the boat to a stop in an open expanse of water. His body was clammy, the demand of his lungs for air dominated, he could feel the pounding of his heart and the throbbing of the blood through the veins of his temples. When he had calmed enough to release his grip on the gun stock, he placed it down beside him, pulled his thighs to his chest and rested his eyes against his knees.
He held this position until he was thoroughly calm, then he reached for the monitor, placed it on the transom before him and switched it on. The signal was stationary, indicating no movement of the vest from Big Ugly's camp. Bowman kicked himself mentally for his cockiness.
His intention had been to get in early and locate a concealed position before the quarry was up and about. He realized that in trying to deny his fear, he had allowed himself to become foolhardy. He remained in place in the skiff on the open expanse of water for two hours, his eyes glued to the monitor. He was not hyping himself or calming himself or questioning his motives. His decisions were not complex. If that signal did not move, he was not going in. He would merely return to the cabin, turn over his information to the authorities ,and leave. If the signal showed the patterned movement, he would return to his original plan.
A grin passed over his face when he saw movement of the signal. He returned to the sandbar, but this time his movements were slower and more deliberate. His attention was divided between concentrating on the surroundings and the actions of the monitor. The screen indicated a sustained easterly movement only about an eighth of a mile to the north of his position. The charts reflected water bound areas separating the two positions. Since the quarry always traveled the same paths each day, Bowman assumed that portion of the charts remained accurate. Fingers crossed, he quickly made his way to the middle portion of the high ground of Big Ugly's territory, carrying the bamboo fishing pole with him. Cautiously, he moved about the area, hoping to spot terrain differences between his chart and the way the area now looked. He checked the monitor - the blip continued to move in an easterly direction in the area just north of him. Bowman's route took him on a continuous rise as the chart indicated it would. Once at the top of the rise, he checked the monitor again. No problem. He stood and looked over the bluff which rose steeply to a height of about fifteen feet. He then took the bamboo pole, throwing it like a spear, heavy end first, at the base of the rise. It performed as expected, the full length of the pole was quickly sucked beneath the surface. He blew on his palm, then briefly covered his eyes with his hands, grateful the quicksand bog shown in the chart still existed. There was no way to know its dimensions or whether the Big Ugly knew it was there. The steep angle of the bluff was the key. If the man charged and avoided the bog, he would have a steep climb. If that obstacle did not slow Big Ugly's rush dramatically, Bowman would have to shoot. But, if time allowed, he could beat a hasty retreat to the skiff. There was nothing to do but monitor the screen and wait. He knew the route Big Ugly would take, and he knew roughly when that would be.
Bowman concentrated on the movement of the blips. Suddenly, to the right of him, he spotted Big Ugly! The tall man's head and chest moved through the bushes to an opening. His oily brown hair was receded from his forehead and lay in snarls. He had a splotchy growth of facial hair, huge hands and massive feet covered with faded and cracked military boots. Their size forced a slew footed gait, like a circus clown. Now he knew what Emrick meant by "walkin' funny".
Bowman waited for the right moment to show himself, to ensure a more frontal assault. He stood abruptly. The man's reaction to the movement was immediate. The startled look on Big Ugly's face changed to a depraved and vicious grin. He threw back his head and roared like an angry animal. Raw instinct fueled by rage. The tall man rushed toward Bowman, eyes locked, scowl frozen. His gait was unusual because of his extremely large feet. The distance between them was quickly being diminished by the man's long stride and his disregard for obstacles ahead and beneath him. The noise of snapping twigs and the man's grunts broke the silence. Bowman had no time to cower, no place to hide, no time to run. There was only the shotgun, the bog, the bluff, or failure.
The man moved closer toward the base of the bluff. He's missin' the bog. Mama's instincts must've been right. I'll end up in jail. All chances for any meaningful life with Annie are gone.
He spread his legs to brace himself, raised the shotgun to hip level, and moved his finger inside the trigger guard; now calmed and expressionless.
Suddenly, with gangly flaying arms, the tall creature hit the quicksand and stumbled to his hands and knees. A look of puzzlement replaced the defiance and rage in his expression. He was waist deep in the sandy ooze by the time he managed to free his hands, but his lower body was securely bogged in the quicksand. He initially struggled to free himself, but seemed to tire quickly. Chest deep, his face sagged. As he sank, his expression transformed to one of submission. His eyes, constantly locked on Bowman from the beginning, remained fixed. Bowman returned the stare until the head slid beneath the surface.
Bowman felt no elation or sense of victory. The struggle had been too unevenly matched for that. From the time Big Ugly accepted the proffered vest, his end was inevitable. Whether by the events as they had occurred or the bullets of some deputy's revolver, he was a dead man. His advantages vanished once circumstances were removed from his control. No more chance than had Flint. In both instances, strengths had become weaknesses.
Bowman squatted on a foot and a knee on top the berm and sat perched there long after the bubbling ceased. He could allow no surprises.
Only one duty remained. He left the monitor and the shotgun atop the rise and made his way to where he believed the base camp would be. It consisted of little more than a makeshift tent formed from a camouflage tarp. Even with the exposure to air, the stench was overwhelming as he leaned inside. He walked away a few steps, took a gulp of air and returned, holding his breath. The jar was not hard to find. He swirled it and saw what he was looking for floating among the pig's feet. Reaching down inside, he grasped all that was left of his friend and placed the organ in the plastic bag, sealed it and stuck it in the vest pocket.
His attention was drawn to two items positioned next to where the jug had been. A child's coloring book and a box of large crayons seemed strangely out of place. He picked up the book and walked a short distance away to breathe fresh air while he examined it. Flipping through the pages which consisted of large cartoon characters, he came to a page that had been colored. The picture consisted of three cartoon figures walking side by side. The background was untouched - only the characters were colored. These figures were heavily outlined. The interior of the figures were colored with the same crayon in careful diagonal slashes. The features within the outlined area were obliterated by the coloring, for the most part.
The figure to the left was blue, the figure on the right - was brown, and larger figure in the center was red.
Taking another deep breath, he returned the book to its place, stood back, recording details of the camp in his mind, and retraced his steps, giving the bog a wide berth. Once on top of the bluff, he slid the strap of the shotgun over his shoulder, grasped the monitor in both hands and headed for the skiff, taking care to avoid the tracks he made coming in.
He placed the gear in the boat and slid it off the sandbar with little effort. Once the engine was cranked and he was headed down now familiar waterways, his mind numbed. A tremor began in his hands and worked its way up his arms to his neck and shoulders. He motored away from the mainstream and flicked the gear to neutral once the boat was lodged in place by shoreline bushes.
His entire body shook as he wrapped his chest with his arms and pulled his knees to his chest. When the shaking subsided, he leaned back against the motor. Eyes closed, he rubbed them with the palms of his hands and wiped away a tear sliding down his cheek.
Can't allow this, Bubba. I'm gonna be raked over the coals by Sheriff Toliver, gotta be on my toes for that. Robert must be briefed. Goodbyes must be shared with Yvonne and a late night visit made to Flint's grave. And then there's tomorrow, his expression eased and the hint of a smile grazed his lips. Annie's comin'. I'll just have to make peace with myself once she goes back to work.
He reversed the engine and backed far enough for the bow to miss the bushes. Steering toward the middle of the stream, he stiffened his shoulders and held himself erect. Head high, he continued on his way.