Behind me, I heard a crackle as the taser volts discharged.
The Trooper’s mouth dropped open. Boyd fired the gun. Dakota screamed.
Everything went to shit.
46
Dakota wasn’t fast enough. One thousand four hundred volts pack one hell of a mule-kick when fired directly into your jugular, disrupting the signals from your brain to your muscles and stopping you right where you are. Real effective. But fired at the cream leather seat of the Mustang, not so much.
Boyd had seen her pull it from my carryall. In the mirror I saw his hand, and the Glock, moving beneath the sport coat. Swinging upwards.
Twisting in my seat, I tried to stop him, but I wasn’t fast enough. Time seemed to slow. I saw the rage on his face, watched his fist slam into Dakota’s chest and connect with the life-preserver, flinging her back against the seat. Heard the zip of the silencer as he fired the gun.
Dakota screamed.
The Trooper spun and fell.
Boyd pointed the gun at me, yelled, ‘Drive, bitch.’
I leant out through my window. The State Trooper stayed down, panting, his blood leaking out on to the sun-bleached blacktop. He stared up at me, his expression changing, registering surprise first, then confusion, then pain. A whole lot of pain.
Stay still. It’ll be okay, I thought.
His lips moved. I couldn’t make out the words. With his good arm, he reached for his radio. Every inch of movement was a battle. His breath grew more laboured, but he kept trying, clawing at the radio. Got it in his grasp, and slid his index finger on to the red button at the side: a way to call for backup, to alert control to an officer down.
‘Fucking drive,’ Boyd yelled.
I felt the hot barrel of the Glock press against my skin. Dakota was crying. JT thumped in the trunk. I ignored them all. Watched the Trooper press the red button, and hold it down. I hoped help would come real fast. They had to have a GPS tracker on his ride.
Boyd shoved the gun into my shoulder, yelled and cussed some more.
I’m sorry, I thought.
The Trooper closed his eyes, lost consciousness.
I accelerated away in a cloud of dust, the back end of the Mustang swinging like a steer on a rope. But that was the least of my problems. Boyd lunged at Dakota, yanked the taser from her, pulling the discharged pins from the backseat beside his head. ‘You little bitch. You thought you’d play me?’
‘Leave her the hell alone.’
He grabbed Dakota by the throat. Shook her. ‘You were gonna tase me, is that right? Is it?’
Her arms flailed, her scream was snuffed into a gurgling, strangled sound.
‘Boyd, shit!’ I slammed on the brakes, skidded the Mustang to a halt. Turned in my seat, lunged for him. ‘Get the fuck off her.’
He let her go, flung my baby across the seat like a ragdoll. ‘Little bitch. Fucking bitches the pair of you.’
Dakota cried louder, cowering against the door, her knees hugged into her body, her arms wrapped around her legs.
I touched her shoulder. ‘Sweetie, it’s okay now. He won’t hurt you again.’
She looked up a fraction. Met my eyes. Her look told me she didn’t believe me. I’d failed her. Again.
Boyd cussed under his breath and jabbed me again with the Glock. ‘Drive, will you. Before the cops get here.’
I put the Mustang back into gear, and accelerated down the freeway. In the rear-view mirror, I could see my baby sobbing. The guilt stabbed at my belly. If only JT’d stayed quiet, maybe none of this would have happened.
‘Hey, little bitch.’ Boyd was looking at Dakota. He gestured to the carryall. ‘Hand me the bag.’
Lower lip still quivering, Dakota pushed the carryall across to him. He shoved the taser into the open pocket and dumped the bag on to the floor beneath his feet.
‘No more surprises, bitch,’ he told me in the mirror. ‘’Cos the next time I get surprised, one of you is gonna get dead.’
‘Sure. No surprises.’
‘Good.’ He slumped against the seat. Pulled the cap lower over his eyes, and rearranged the sport coat over the Glock. ‘Keep driving. It’s not far.’
47
Driving those last few miles felt like the pause between pulling the trigger and the bullet hitting its target. Everything was in play; nothing was guaranteed. It would be only a short moment until I knew: escape or capture. Live or die. Three days ago I’d not known that, in taking this job, I’d signed on for a game of Russian roulette in which the gun rotated between the child I adored and the man I’d always loved. How could I hope to save them both?
Boyd told me to take a ramp off the freeway, heading towards the start of the Everglades. Swamp territory. Not a terrain that I’d ever been comfortable with. You never can tell what lurks beneath the murky water, or in the dense undergrowth that surrounds it. I have always preferred my predators in clear sight and on solid ground. Fights seem fairer that way, no matter the odds. This was a whole bunch of different.
‘We’re here,’ Boyd said. ‘Slow down. I’ll tell you when to turn.’
Ahead I spotted two thick poles with a slab of timber slung between them high above the road. On the wooden slab, the word GATORWORLD was spelt out in two-foot high lettering made from tree branches.
At that moment, I thought we were dead for sure.
A little ways further along, another sign, fashioned like a Wild West sheriff’s ‘wanted’ board, gave the opening times: ten until four-thirty. I wondered what time it was. The clock on the dashboard was bust, permanently set at ten after two. As the sun was sinking lower in the sky, I figured it was past six at least, maybe near on seven. So the park would be empty. Good. Whatever it took to end this, I’d do it. Things would be a whole lot less complicated without tourists.
Boyd shifted forward in his seat. ‘Take the next right.’
I made the turn into a narrow road flanked by high trees that served well as a shield. I couldn’t get a proper look-see at the layout.
A few hundred yards later we reached a gate: rustic construction, spike-topped. Beside the gate was a square cabin.
‘Stop here,’ said Boyd.
The door to the cabin swung open and a heavy-set guy in khaki pants and a white beater emerged. From inside the cabin, I heard the roar of a crowd cheering, and a sports commentator talking animatedly over them.
The guy gestured for me to roll down the window. ‘Y’all set?’
Boyd nodded. ‘The boss is expecting us.’
Without a word the guy returned to the cabin, keen to get back to watching the game, no doubt. There was a brief pause, then the gate swung open. Electronically operated. Interesting – the place looked like a two-bit joint, all tacked together with nails and timber, but that was just a façade. I figured there’d be plenty of tech: security, computers. Cameras too. Right then, I wasn’t real sure if that was good or bad.
I drove through the gateway slow and steady. The gate swung shut behind us. The twist of tension in my belly tightened.
The park seemed deserted. Perhaps it was the contrast with the busy freeway, or that the high trees lining the road blocked out most of the light. Either way, the effect was the same, I felt corralled. Trapped.
‘Keep going,’ Boyd said, like he could sense my hesitation.
I inched the Mustang forward. Swallowed down the panic. Glanced in the mirror at Dakota. ‘You okay, honey?’
She nodded, didn’t speak.
I got that. The time for talk had gone. What happened next would be all about action.
I kept the Mustang crawling along the road – past a bunch of one-storey cabins ringed by chest-height post-and-rail fencing clad with wire mesh. Gator-proof, I guessed. The track curved around a bend and opened out into a parking lot.
‘Park up,’ said Boyd with a nudge of the Glock.
‘Here?’ There was nothing. All four parking slots were vacant. No one was waiting. I pulled into the nearest slot.
‘Get out.
We go on foot from here.’
In the mirror, my baby’s expression was exhausted, terrified. The light was beginning to fade. She must have known that in another hour or so it’d be dark.
‘All of us?’
Again, Boyd shoved me with the gun. ‘Yeah. All. So move.’
Opening my door, I climbed out and folded the seat forward to free Dakota. ‘Come on, sweetie. Time to stretch our legs.’
She scrambled from the car. Stood close to me. ‘Momma, I’m real hot.’
She looked it. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bloodshot.
I knelt beside her, started unbuttoning the rain jacket. ‘I know, honey. Let’s get this off you.’
Boyd leapt out of the car. Pointed the Glock at me. ‘The jacket stays.’
I glared at him. ‘My daughter’s sick from the heat. Unless you want her to pass out, it’s coming off.’
He kept the gun trained right at my chest and shrugged. ‘Just the rain jacket.’
I pulled it off, and saw, beneath the bulk of the life preserver, Dakota’s purple t-shirt was dark with sweat. I smiled at her, stroked her face. ‘It’s going to be just fine, sweetie.’
She didn’t smile back. ‘Okay, Momma.’
Only I wasn’t sure it would be fine. Boyd had given in too easy. He’d let me ride roughshod over his instruction to keep the jacket on, pushing on his authority. I had a bad feeling that the change was not a good thing.
‘Over here, kid.’ With the gun still trained on me, Boyd beckoned Dakota closer. I followed them both around to the rear of the car.
He nodded towards the trunk. ‘Open it.’
I popped the lid. Inside, JT lay motionless. More blood had crusted across the thigh of his jeans, turning them dark red, almost brown. Beneath the tan, his face was pale.
Shit. Don’t be dead.
Holding my breath, I put my hand on his forearm. ‘JT?’
His eyelids flickered open.
I exhaled in relief. Smiled. ‘Hey.’
‘Get him out,’ ordered Boyd.
It didn’t go well. JT was six foot three and a whole lot of muscle. He’d been cramped in the trunk for near over four hours, and weakened by blood loss. He tried to push himself up to sitting, failed twice, dropping back on to his side, unable to break his fall with his hands bound. The second time he banged his head, groaned.
I leant into the trunk, wrapped my arms around his shoulders and supported him as he tried a third time. Wasn’t easy, but it helped.
Boyd cussed under his breath. ‘Hurry it up.’
I glared at him. ‘Things’d be a damn sight quicker if you helped.’
He checked his watch. ‘Just get it done.’
I wanted to argue. To tell that son-of-a-bitch to go hang, but it wouldn’t do no good. Pick your moment real careful, my mentor had always told me. So I fought my instincts, kept quiet, and did as Boyd said.
Somehow we managed. As JT’s left foot hit the ground he inhaled real sharp, and pitched forward. I grabbed his arm, stopped him from falling. The pain must have been a real bitch. He twisted to face me, his breathing laboured, his nostrils flared. He needed more air.
I ripped the duct tape from his mouth.
He took great rasping breaths until he got the pain under control, then straightened up as best he could. Beneath the bruises and the blood, his expression was unbeaten, determined.
‘Let’s go.’ Boyd nodded across the parking lot to a narrow path between the trees. ‘Kid, you’re walking with me.’
Dakota shook her head. ‘No.’
The bug chorus seemed to grow louder.
Boyd pointed the gun at Dakota. ‘Didn’t your momma teach you how it’s rude to answer back?’
She stared at him. Silent.
‘Look, kid. You remember what I told you about that jacket you’re wearing?’
Her lower lip trembled.
Boyd raised his voice. ‘Remember, kid? Yes or no.’
JT stumbled towards Boyd. ‘Leave her be.’
Boyd swung the gun, pointed it at JT’s head. ‘You’re in no position to tell me to do anything.’ He looked back at Dakota. ‘Answer, or I’ll shoot him again.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Good. So you walk with me. If you try to run off – boom. You start crying or whining – boom. You dawdle. Boom.’
She glanced at me. ‘Momma?’
I could see the gun pointed at her had gotten her freaked. And Boyd’s original calmness had gone; now he was acting real twitchy. Not good. We’d seen what happened when he got spooked with the State Trooper. I didn’t want him shooting one of us. The more agitated he got, the more likely that was. I couldn’t let Dakota do anything to force his hand.
So I forced a smile. ‘It’s okay, honey. You go on ahead, I’ll be right behind. It’ll be fine. All the gators are sleeping.’
‘You promise?’
Boyd’s finger was rubbing against the trigger of the gun. We should do as he said. Just for a little while longer.
I nodded. ‘Sure.’
She approached Boyd. Flinched as he put his hand on her back, and pushed her ahead of him. I told myself we’d be out of this soon, that I’d get us free. Wasn’t sure if I truly believed it.
‘Haul ass,’ said Boyd over his shoulder.
I put my arm around JT. ‘Put your weight on me. We have to stay close to her.’
He took a step. Grunted as he forced weight on to his injured leg. Tried again, fighting through the pain. ‘Tell me you’ve got a plan.’
‘I’m working on it.’
We followed Boyd and Dakota out of the parking lot and along a dirt path that took us deeper into the swamp. We made slow progress. JT limped, every step torture. I struggled to help him stay upright. The evening air was thick and chewy, making the yards seem longer and the effort greater. Sweat glistened on our skin, and I felt the nip of bugs biting.
From up ahead, Boyd yelled, ‘Move it. We’re on a schedule here, people.’
He pushed Dakota around a turn in the path, the pair of them disappearing from view. Shit. ‘We need to stay close. I told Dakota I’d be right behind her.’
JT nodded. ‘Loosen off the tape. If I can lean on you better, I’ll be able to go faster.’
I peeled away the duct tape binding JT’s arms. Left one strand slack but intact, for show. ‘Okay, put your arm around me.’
He did as I said. From there things went a little easier, but he was getting weaker. The blood loss, the heat and the bullet lodged in his thigh were starting to beat him. He looked like he’d aged more in the last few hours than he had in all the years we’d been apart. I guessed being together wasn’t so great for either of us.
Up ahead, Boyd and Dakota had reached a wooden walkway. The dirt track ended as the ground underfoot changed from dry to damp. The walkway led out across the water.
‘How much longer?’ I heard Dakota ask.
Boyd ignored the question.
The sun had gotten lower still. By my reckoning it must be way past seven o’clock. Another half-hour and the sun would be gone. The last light shone between the tree branches, casting twisted patterns on the water either side of us. The shapes seemed to move and warp, like the flow of the water changed them. Except the water shouldn’t have been moving. Swamps are stagnant, static things. Movement meant one thing: gators.
The sudden noise of Boyd’s cell phone ringing made me jump. As he answered, he clutched a fistful of Dakota’s t-shirt sleeve, holding her still.
‘We need to get closer,’ I whispered to JT.
He nodded.
We sped up, JT labouring with the effort, dragging his foot more than before, taking shorter strides.
Boyd was talking, half turned away from us. He didn’t seem to notice I’d relaxed JT’s bonds. ‘… It’s done. You got my money?’
With him distracted, this could be our chance. I glanced at JT, nodded towards Boyd and raised an eyebrow. JT shook his head. Not yet.
Boyd
was still talking, ‘Dead or alive, yeah? … Good, good. I’m thinking it’ll be dead.’ He listened, checked his watch and said, ‘I’ll be there by nine, maybe before.’
Shit. Boyd sure as hell was playing something. Was taking us to Emerson just the start? Had he made some kind of deal with the mob? If he had, that meant Ugo Nolfi hadn’t managed to call in the truce, or that Boyd had made him a better offer. Either way, things were going to get a whole lot worse.
Ten yards later the walkway ended. We were back on firm ground. An island of sorts: dirt, some patchy scrub, and a small, doorless wooden shack, with heaps of crates piled high outside it.
I shivered. We should have acted when we had the chance.
As we followed Boyd across the island I noticed the algae was thicker around the water’s edge, an uneven green crust lying on the surface. I peered closer. Shit. It wasn’t just algae. Below the crust I could just make out the outlines of motionless gators.
Up ahead, I heard Dakota cry out. She thrashed against Boyd’s grasp, trying to break free. ‘Let me go … stop … Momma?’
‘Sweetie, what is it?’
We rushed forward. JT cussed.
I followed his gaze and read the sign: Gator Feeding Station 6.
48
A man emerged from the shack. He didn’t look much of a threat. He was in his early fifties, wiry in build, with neatly cropped hair and wireframed glasses. He looked like a businessman on vacation. But, from the sudden change I felt in JT’s energy, I knew it had to be Emerson.
I hurried to reach Dakota, half dragging JT along with me. I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay close, sweetie.’
Boyd gestured at me with his gun. ‘Stay there.’
The man from the shack smiled. ‘Tate, it’s good to see you again. Ms Anderson, welcome, I’m so glad we finally meet.’
His face wasn’t unattractive, but his smile still creeped the hell out of me. I wondered what I’d expected him to look like – a monster? I’d seen those video clips, knew the sick trade he dealt in. Whatever he looked like on the surface, inside he was twisted and rotten for sure. I stared at him, didn’t smile back.
‘Nothing to say? Shame. I expected you’d be kinda chatty.’ He glanced at his watch, the smile faded. Looked at Boyd. ‘You’re late. Light’s almost gone.’
Deep Down Dead Page 29