by Jana Oliver
‘Come on, man. I’m . . . beggin’ ya here.’
There was a resigned sigh and the dragging halted.
That’s it. Open the bag.
As McGovern fumbled with the zipper, Beck prepared himself. He needed to make an explosive leap and tackle his kidnapper before the man had the opportunity to react. He’d never get another chance.
Suddenly McGovern yelped in terror. There were noises Beck couldn’t place, then two rapid-fire gunshots split the air. He grimaced, waiting for the searing pain, but it didn’t come.
‘This is mine!’ a voice cried out.
McGovern shrieked and then there was the sound of someone crashing through the brush in blind panic.
What the hell just happened?
The body bag continued its journey across the ground in the direction he’d originally been headed.
Beck called out. ‘Hey! I thought ya were gonna open this bag.’
‘Not yet,’ the new voice said. ‘In time.’
‘Who are ya?’
A low laugh turned his blood to ice. ‘Sleep, Denver Beck,’ the voice said. ‘For there will be little of it when you awake.’
Beck opened his mouth to protest, but his brain shut down before he had the chance to form one word.
Riley woke with a start, blinking open her eyes. The clock on the nightstand said she’d been asleep for over two hours. Beck should be back and in bed by now, but the light was still on in his room.
Probably reading his book.
She crawled out of bed and stuck her head round the door. Beck’s bed was untouched and the bathroom empty. She plodded to the window and pushed back the curtain – his truck was still gone and his trapping bag was where he’d left it. He wouldn’t go that far without it, even in his hometown.
Where are you?
Three hours in she dialled his cellphone. As she waited for it to ring, Riley tried to figure out what she was going to say to him. She suspected it would start with ‘Where the hell are you?’
It rolled over to voice mail. It was close to midnight now and he would never leave her alone for that length of time, not with how paranoid he’d been about Sadlersville.
Maybe he’s at a bar somewhere. The moment she considered it she knew that was wrong. Beck could go bar hopping in Atlanta with no hassles, but down here it was a surefire way to land him in a fight. He wasn’t looking for that kind of trouble, not with all the extra responsibilities that came with his mom’s death.
Something is wrong. She fumbled through the phone book until she could find the business number for the sheriff’s office. The radio dispatcher wielded a deep southern drawl like a blunt-edged weapon and it took Riley a bit to understand what the woman was telling her: the sheriff was out of town. What did she need?
Riley explained the situation and was relieved when the dispatcher said she’d send a deputy to the motel. Only then did she notice she was still in her night clothes so she quickly changed and took a position near the window. Fifteen minutes later there was the crunch of gravel as a cop car pulled into the parking lot. Riley hurried outside, tucking her jacket around her.
The deputy took his time hauling his butt out of the cruiser, like a missing person was no big deal. He was clad in a thick coat which was open at the front and he had a slight paunch.
‘You the one who called the office?’ he asked in a lazy drawl.
‘Yes. I’ve got a friend who is missing. I need you to find him.’
‘You’re the girl with Denny Beck, aren’t you?’
‘He’s the one that’s missing,’ Riley replied, walking closer. She nervously gave him the details of what had happened and why she was so worried.
The deputy clearly didn’t share her concern. ‘He probably ran out of beer. He’ll be back in the morning with one helluva hangover. That’s his style.’ The deputy began to fold himself back into the car.
‘Wait! Where are you going? He needs your help.’
‘He always took off, even when he was a kid. If he’s not back by tomorrow night, call the office. We’ll get you to the bus station. You wouldn’t be the first girl he ditched after he’s done with her.’
‘You . . . moron,’ she shouted, kicking gravel at the departing car. She stormed into her hotel room and slammed the door, then felt bad for the people trying to sleep in the next room.
What could she do? Call Stewart? That wouldn’t help much since the master was in Atlanta. With the sheriff unavailable and her without a ride, she was stuck here until morning.
Frightened of every sound now, Riley retrieved Beck’s steel pipe and climbed into his bed. It smelt of his aftershave but that did nothing to calm her. Tucking a pillow close to her chest, she closed her eyes and prayed that her worst fears were all imaginary.
Blinking in the dark, Beck found himself propped against a tree. A thin sliver of a moon was visible through the trees above him. He shivered in the cold, despite his leather jacket.
The good news was that the ropes on his wrists were gone. He rolled his neck around and felt it cramp on the right side in protest. At least his vision was OK so maybe he’d avoided a concussion. It was only when he moved his legs to stand that he discovered the bad news: a log chain, heavy with rusted links, stretched from the tree to his left ankle. A battered padlock mated him and the chain together in an unmovable union.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he said, his panic rocketing off the charts. A jerk on the metal proved his ankle would snap before he broke free. He dug his fingers underneath the links, trying to force it off his boot. It was too tight.
Beck rose on unsteady feet and studied the tree behind him. It was a cypress, one of the aged sentinels of the swamp, smooth and thick. It was so large that it would take three of him to get his arms round it. He cinched up the chain, braced his feet against the trunk and pulled hard. Heat spread across his arms and back muscles, but the restraint held. He returned to his feet, wiping his hands free of the dirt and rust.
‘Ya bastard!’ he shouted, his voice echoing in the wilderness around him. In the distance an owl hooted in reply. Who had done this? Why attack McGovern just to steal him and chain him to a tree?
Beck tried to slow his breathing, think it through. He knew this swamp, respected it. Right after Sadie had abandoned him, Donovan said it was high time he learned how to survive on his own. The sheriff had taken him into swamp and taught him how not to get eaten by gators, how to catch a snake, skin and cook it and to survive on what he could forage. Looking back, Beck realized those had been good times, just the two of them hanging together.
The primary lesson he’d learned during those outings was that Okefenokee could kill him without even trying.
Looks like it’s gonna get another chance.
If he didn’t find a way to escape, this was going to be short and brutal: if one of the swamp’s demons didn’t take him down, he could die from exposure. A bear or snake could get him, or an alligator would tear him free of the chain and carry his ravaged body into the water to stash in its larder.
A rustling in the undergrowth pulled his eyes in that direction. He had no weapon, so Beck reeled in the chain and held it between his hands. If he was lucky, it was a foraging raccoon.
Not with all the noise I’ve been makin’.
When there was no further rustling, Beck forced himself to relax. If he remained on the ground he’d be more vulnerable, so he tried to scale the tree. That was a major fail: the slick bark wouldn’t give him any traction. Swinging up, he managed to dislodge some Spanish moss from a long branch above him and he kept kicking until a thick pile of it hit the ground. At least that would help him stay warm tonight. Come morning he’d have to find a way to break free or he’d never see Riley again.
Riley was out of bed at a little before seven in the morning, though there had been scant sleep overnight. Every noise jerked her awake, reigniting her hope that it was Beck and that he’d finally returned. But he never had.
He’d been gone for ten hour
s now. She’d promised his mother she’d keep him safe and the woman wasn’t even in her grave yet and Riley had already broken that vow.
She didn’t bother with make-up, not caring what she looked like. After using her laptop to figure out where the sheriff’s office was located, she bundled up in her warmest clothes, hoisted her backpack and began the hike into town. The cold morning air nipped at her nose and ears. Every time a car passed her she’d turn to check it out. One old guy pulled off the side of the road and offered to give her a ride, but she refused. There was no way she could trust anyone at the moment even if they had more wrinkles than a shar pei. Adjusting her pack, she kept hiking.
Five minutes into her walk she’d worked up the courage and dialled Stewart. She needed back-up.
‘Lass, good mornin’ ta ya. How’s it goin?’
He sounded in good spirits and she was about to ruin that. When she gave him a rundown of the situation, she heard a long sigh down the phone.
‘Ah, damn,’ he said. ‘Where are ya now?’
‘I’m going into town to talk to the sheriff. He seems to like Beck so he’ll help me find him.’
‘That’s a good plan. Things are in a mess up here so I can’t come down, but I’ll see who I can spare. Keep me in the loop. Be careful, ya hear?’
‘I will. Thanks.’
She hung up and kept walking.
Chapter Thirteen
She reached the outskirts of Sadlersville just as the town was stirring to life. When Riley walked past the diner, she wasn’t surprised to find the old guys already lined up at the long table, coffee and gossip in abundance. One of them was the dude who’d offered her a ride. Once she’d checked in with the sheriff she’d come back and have some breakfast, try to tap into the town’s rumour mill.
It has to be good for something.
According to their website, the county sheriff’s office was housed in a single-storey building located next to the courthouse. A patrol car sat out front, but it wasn’t the sheriff’s. Maybe this cop would care about Beck’s disappearance, unlike the last one she’d talked to.
Riley pushed open the front door and then paused to get her bearings. The moment she crossed the threshold into the sheriff’s office the aroma of fresh coffee teased her nose. It reminded her of the old Starbucks where she attended school.
‘Hello?’ No reply. Since there wasn’t anyone in sight, she moved to the closest desk, put her pack down and plopped into a chair. Clearly the city wasn’t a hotbed of criminal activity. About a minute later a deputy wandered out from the back of the building, coffee cup in hand. He was young and had a suntanned face. His name tag proclaimed he was Steve Newman and he’d been a cop for the last three years.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Hi, is Sheriff Donovan here?’
‘No. He’ll be back later today. What can I do for you?’
At least this guy is nice. ‘I’m looking for Denver Beck. He’s missing.’
‘Are you the young lady who called the dispatcher?’
‘Yes. Would you have any idea where he might be?’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Deputy Martin said you were worried about him not coming back to the motel. Tell me what’s going on.’
That sounded good so Riley laid it all out, point by point. At least this time the cop took notes.
‘What makes you so sure he’s in trouble?’ the young man asked.
‘Beck left his wallet behind and he never goes anywhere without his trapping bag. That’s one of the first things we’re taught – carry Holy Water at all times or you’re demon food. He left it in his motel room, along with the steel pipe he uses for protection.’
The deputy blinked. ‘You’re a trapper too?’
Riley nodded.
Newman took another sip from his mug – it had a picture of a collie on it. ‘I heard his mother died yesterday. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.’
She picked at a fingernail in nervous frustration. ‘Beck was upset, but we talked it out. Look, I know him. He wouldn’t leave me on my own. He’s like a . . . big brother. He’s always worrying about me and he was really spooked that something might happen while I was down here with him.’
The deputy nodded in understanding. ‘Truth is, I can’t file a missing person’s report on an adult until twenty-four hours have passed.’ At her protest, he added, ‘But I’ll put the word out. Give me a description of his truck. Someone must have seen him.’
She gave him the information, along with her cellphone number.
The cop finished his notes. Looking up, he issued a reassuring smile. ‘The sheriff is due back in town in a couple of hours and I’ll make sure he knows about this. Maybe by then Beck will have shown up.’
If he does, he better have one amazing excuse or he’s a dead man.
‘Do you need a ride back to the motel?’
‘No, I’m headed for the diner.’ She rose from the chair. ‘Thanks. I really appreciate it.’
‘We’ll see if we can find him.’
That’s all I want.
Dawn brought a raging thirst and the realization that this wasn’t a bad dream. By now Riley would be freaking since she knew him well enough to realize something was wrong. He knew she’d be smart: she’d call Donovan and Stewart for help and between them they’d figure out what had happened to him. Riley would be OK. If anything, he needed to worry about himself.
It’d been a rough night, especially since he was the main course for the voracious red bugs that lived in the Spanish moss. Northerners called the things chiggers and they’d found he was a great feast. The old swampers would use smoke to kill them, but Beck was a few matches short for that. Soon those bites would start to itch, but it was that or hypothermia.
When Beck rolled over, his bladder kicked in so the first order of business was to manoeuvre the chain round the back side of the tree and take care of that problem. Then he returned to his original position to survey his surroundings.
In most people’s minds, a swamp was one big watery mud hole, but that wasn’t the case with Okefenokee, which offered a variety of terrains. Donovan had shown him every one: the prairies, hammocks, cypress bays, lakes and bogs. As swamps went, this was a big one, over four hundred thousand acres, opened to the world by a series of man-made canals. It was teaming with wildlife and included remote sections that rarely saw a human.
This time of year was a mixed blessing: There were fewer tourists floating up and down on the tour boats so Beck’s chance of being discovered was reduced. On the other side of the coin, the colder weather worked in his favour when it came to the gators: They weren’t as active. Or as hungry.
Plenty of other things that can kill me.
There’d been no sign of whoever had stolen him away from McGovern, and though it really was tempting to panic, he fell back on his survival training. He began by excavating a hole to about a foot or so deep using a stout branch. Since the swamp was pretty much just floating ground, the hole would fill with water and he’d need something to drink soon enough.
Once that was done and he’d wiped his muddy hands on his jeans, he began to examine the links of metal that held him prisoner. The chain was old and rusty and looped through a large ring. The ring itself was corroded and had a half-inch break in it, though not big enough for him to force a link through to gain his freedom. The gap gave him hope. If he could work on that weakness, maybe he could break free. He’d still have the chain attached to his leg, but at least he could travel.
‘I’d kill for my steel pipe,’ he muttered.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Something was watching him. He swept his eyes over the landscape, looking for the threat and found two red eyes peering at him from around a tree.
Demon.
‘Trapperrr . . .’ the fiend hissed as it stepped out into the open. It was short, about three and a half feet tall, totally hairless with glitteringly sharp teeth and wicked talons. The loca
ls called them swamp devils and they weren’t like the fiends in the city: Hellspawn were good at adapting to their surroundings.
It’s not a Grade Three. Those were hairy and didn’t have much of a brain except when it came to food. A Pyro-Fiend was considerably smaller and this one didn’t seem to have an obsession with flames.
‘What kind of demon are you?’ he murmured to himself.
The creature hunched down in a crouch, observing him. ‘The kind that always wins,’ it said.
He knew in an instant. ‘Yer a Four, one of the Mezmers.’ The fact that it spoke decent English told him it was an older Hypno-Fiend, but not as powerful as some he’d met. Still, it had been strong enough to put him to sleep and haul him away like a bag of Halloween candy.
Instead of sifting through his brain and making him do its will, this one would have to worry on him like a dog on a bone. If he became desperate enough, hungry enough to make a deal, it’d claim his soul. In the meanwhile Beck was just food tied to a tree for any predator.
‘You do not want to tangle with me right now,’ he declared.
The fiend’s strange barking laugh echoed around them, telling Beck how much it considered him a threat.
‘You put McGovern up to this?’ he demanded. He could think of no other reason for the undertaker’s bizarre behaviour.
‘No. I do not know of that mortal.’ The demon rested its elbows on its knees and it appeared as if it had nothing else to occupy it for the remainder of the day. Or the next month, for that matter. It gestured towards the chain. ‘Your freedom for your soul.’
‘No deal.’
It scratched behind an ear in thought. ‘Blackthorne’s daughter will not come for you.’
‘Of course she will,’ Beck retorted. That was a given.
‘No. The Fallen lives and has claimed her as his own. She will do whatever he says. She has no need of you, trapper.’
‘Yer lyin’.’ God, I hope you are.
‘You will die here,’ the demon replied.
‘Might happen. Might not. No way I’m going to Hell.’