Yokche:The Nature of Murder

by P. J. Erickson

  It came streaming down, pelting them with sharp needles of water. Within minutes the wind had grown so intense it howled around them, blasting the rain almost horizontally into their faces. The water grew gray and choppy, slapping angrily at the canoe. The sky darkened so much it seemed like nightfall and at the same time the heat intensified, sucking up the air so that they felt smothered. They paddled faster. As yet there was no thunder or lightning, but they did not want to be on the water when it came.

  They were two strong men, but it was hard going. They had to fight the wind for every inch and to make matters worse it screamed around them forcing rain into their eyes and down their throats. The rain streamed from their sodden backs cooling heated muscles and streaming from their clothes in steaming mists. They paddled doggedly, heads down, blinded but determined. They had made little headway when all at once the wind changed direction, pushing them from behind. Neither man had seen weather like this before. Both were used to sudden storms blowing up, but this was something different. It was almost like tornado weather, yet it wasn’t. Too busy to wonder about it, both men bent to their task.

  The slicing rain beat down on and around them, reducing the world to a silvery curtain. They bent low in their seats, muscles straining, minds blocking the pain, focusing on the rhythm of their strokes so that they sliced through the water like automatons.

  The storm kept pace with them. The devilish wind sent branches hurling toward them, turned into flying cannonballs, almost as if they had been aimed and the wind was bowling, trying for a strike. The automaton broke its rhythm as overtaxed muscles quaked in protest and refused to obey. As soon as their pace slowed the water took over and the wind changed its game. The wind was winning. Now it shoved them, first in one direction, then in another. Still stubbornly working as best they could towards shelter Joe and Chase fought the storm until the inevitable happened. A flying branch hurtled into the canoe, driving it onto an unseen obstacle.

  Chase last saw Joe struggling to maintain a grip as Chase was hurled into the water. He knew that the Everglades could be extremely shallow in places and had no idea what depth of water they had been paddling in. His visibility was nil and he thought only of alligators and water moccasins as he flew through the maelstrom. He figured Thor had finally gotten tired of playing with him and now it was up to the gods.

 

 

  Twenty-two

  Dominick stood out like a sore thumb. Only someone with his arrogance would have walked into a biker-owned strip bar located in the poorest black neighborhood in the north end, even if it was in the middle of the afternoon. True, a respectable neighborhood was only a couple of blocks away, but it was also a couple of worlds. Outside, crack addicts lounged on the sidewalk and hookers meandered up and down the block.

  Nor had Dominick been intimidated by the bouncer the size of a brick wall who had merely given him a perplexed look as he sauntered inside. One of his clients had told Dominick once that he had had life too good. He had never suffered, never been put down, abused, or hungry and therefore had no concept of the danger he placed himself in at certain times. Since he had never experienced being on the receiving end, Dominick viewed the seamier sides of life as not pertaining to him and was convinced, with true legal beagle superiority, that as a lawyer, no one would dare mess with him. This same client had also predicted that it was only a matter of time and that Dominick would push one button too many and not be able to deal with the consequences.

  Dominick supposed that was why he pushed it. He seemed to have a knack for knowing just how far he could go without getting into trouble. While he would not admit it to himself, he knew that when he stepped on the line he ran like a frightened rabbit. He was confident though, that no one suspected this. Dominick’s opinion of himself was that of a ballsy guy who had the world by the tail.

  Occasionally, like now, while he was sipping beer and munching peanuts in a seedy strip bar, an introspective mood descended and he was forced to take inventory. He was not broke, but he had not hit the big case yet and he was getting older. Last year they had finally stricken him from the Young Lawyer’s Association although they should have done it years ago. He was losing his hair. He had not spawned a family to carry on the name and he could not party like he used to. Other lawyers were judges now or in high income tax brackets with grown kids and even grandchildren. Dominick didn’t really like women very much and couldn’t stand kids. There was, therefore, only one purpose to life - screw everyone and continue searching for the proverbial good life.

  Busy with his ruminations, Dominick had not paid attention when the bouncer seated him at a rather large table in the center of the room. It was dark and smoky and he had other things on his mind. Now it got darker and the music started. Dominick was about to take another swig of beer when a spotlight fell full on his table and he found himself staring up at a pair of shapely chocolate brown legs and two very large breasts that descended toward him, shaking and twitching to the music.

  Dominick instantly realized that he was the only person in the place, other than the dancer, in full view, and from the jeers and catcalls coming from all around him, it appeared that the place had filled up rather suddenly. There was only one thing to do. Sit back and enjoy the show. Dominick grudgingly tucked a single dollar bill into the girl’s g-string, leering obscenely as he did so, then sat back and watched while she gyrated sinuously for him, fascinated despite himself. She was not too young and not too attractive but she had a body to kill for and Dominick urged her on jeering and catcalling with the rest of the customers.

  He didn’t want the bouncer to enjoy his little joke, so when the lights went back on, he stayed where he was, signaling the waitress for another beer. He was getting restless. Mick should have been here by now. Dominick looked around for a phone to check his answering machine for messages and it was in the dingy corridor that Mick finally appeared looking sullen and hungover. Mick’s case was coming up for trial and Mick professed not to have any money to pay Dominick’s fee.

  Dominick had initially called this meeting to bow out and leave Mick to hang with a public defender, but the meeting with Myles had changed Dominick’s mind. Mick’s lousy attitude and tough veneer was just what Dominick needed. In reality Dominick thought the man a useless punk who liked to bully women, but he did ride a motorcycle and he looked the part.

  To Dominick a bike was a bike. He could care less whether it was a Honda, a Kawasaki or a Harley. He had also found out through a background check that Mick would do almost anything for money. His rap sheet included breaking and entering, petty theft and a little strong-arm stuff. He had no convictions yet, just arrests but he had been in and out of trouble for most of his life. Dominick had fleetingly wondered how the man had managed to come so far without a conviction but wasn’t interested enough to follow through.

  This time Dominick selected a corner table in the back and the two men got down to business. Mick was a regular and every time an acquaintance passed by Mick would introduce Dominick as his lawyer. Dominick relaxed a little. He wouldn’t have any trouble with anyone if he was representing one of their own.

  Mick knew what this meeting was about and went on the offensive. “So Dom, we ready for trial? I thought you had everything you needed from me.”

  Dominick scowled at the temerity of his low-life client. He hated being called Dom and Mick knew it. “I do Mick. Everything except money. You haven’t paid dime one since your retainer and you know damn well I don’t work for free. Have you got the rest?”

  Put immediately on the defensive, Mick’s face darkened with anger. “Not on me, but I’ll have it for you. I told you I would.”

  Dominick took no notice of Mick’s surly attitude. “Not good enough, Mick. I don’t get paid, you go to jail.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Mick exploded. “You can’t back out now, we’re too close to trial. I’ll never get anyone who can be ready in time.”

  Dominick observe
d Mick’s sniffy nose with disgust just as Mick wiped it on the back of his arm and took another giant sniff. He sat hunched over, as if cold. Evidently, Dominick’s money was going up the man’s nose.

  Dominick shrugged uncaringly. “Those are the breaks.” He waved a finger in Mick’s face. “Don’t try to con a lawyer Mick. All those jokes about us are true.” Dominick got up to leave.

  Mick laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Dominick, you can’t do this to me. I promised I’ll get you the money and I will. I just can’t do it now. Can’t we work something out?”

  Dominick felt the power in Mick’s arm and saw that his mood was getting ugly. “Like what? What have you got?” Dominick sat back down again. He didn’t want the rest of the place getting involved in their conversation.

  “What do you need? Dope, guns, women, what?” Mick was back in his Mike Hammer role.

  Dominick stared at him thoughtfully, assessing the risks. Mick’s role-playing fantasies were borderline schizoid and his moods were unpredictable but there was no one else on short notice. He would have preferred an intermediary to handle this, but he was so close now. There wasn’t time to finesse anything. They could blow the whole thing apart. After it was over it wouldn’t matter whether they could tie him to Mick or not. The only question was whether Mick could handle the assignment.

  Finally he decided he had no choice in the matter. He leaned forward, forcing Mick to lean towards him to hear what he had to say. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I need a little job done that is extremely confidential. It’s between you and me and no one else. If you talk, I will hear about it and you will be finished, capisch?”

  Mick nodded. “Understood.”

  “Okay. If you get the job done I will represent you at your trial and all post-trial proceedings and there will be no charge. We’ll consider it a wash, okay?” Dominick knew that Mick was aware just how much private lawyer representation would cost him at a drug trial, Mick was very astute in matters of money. He watched as Mick’s face reflected calculation, satisfaction and a certain vicarious anticipation.

  Mick peered around and lowered his voice. “You want someone hit do you?” Mick had apparently decided that the cost of freedom was going to be high.

  “No. I want you to be available at any time up until the time of your trial to do some investigative work.” Dominick knew that playing Mike Hammer would puff up Mick’s feathers no end. He only hoped he would keep his mouth shut. “I need you to follow someone for me. There may be some breaking and entering, if I decide this person has what we’re looking for. My regular investigator is away. Since you are not a licensed investigator and are known to the police, you will be on your own if you are caught. I will represent you but you will contact me only in the capacity of lawyer, is that clear?”

  “Sure, no sweat.” Mick became affable and Dominick could tell the moron was convinced he had a great deal now.

  “One more thing. This person is a biker. If he catches on to you, he will come after you and there may be some rough stuff. It is very important that you stay in the background. I’m sure you can take care of yourself but I don’t want this guy to know he’s being watched unless I say so. Got it?”

  Mick scowled but reluctantly agreed. “Got it.”

  “I may want him to know. It might be necessary to, shall we say, convince him to give me what I want. In that case you will need help. Do you have someone who will do a little convincing for a few bucks?”

  Mick grinned. “I don’t need no help with that. You just give the word.”

  “Good. Have you still got your phone?”

  Mick patted his side pocket affirmatively.

  “I will call you when I need you. I expect an immediate response. Don’t let me down.” Dominick checked his watch. He looked around the bar and satisfied that no one had been paying them any attention, he left quickly, sticking Mick with the exorbitant tab.

 

 

  Twenty-three

  Something hurt. As he came back up from the depths, Chase realized that pain had brought him back. He thought about this without opening his eyes. Finally, he had the pain localized. It was in his right wrist and forearm. Taking inventory, Chase determined that every muscle in his body hurt, but aside from his right arm he seemed to be okay. He could wiggle his fingers and toes, move all his limbs. He seemed to be wet and he was lying on his stomach. It was quiet. So either the storm had passed or he had died. Chase licked his lips, sniffed the air, listened to water lapping and the unmistakable sound of hungry insects and concluded he was still in one piece. He opened his eyes.

  He was lying on a small muddy stretch of mangrove roots. Evidently he had pulled himself up on them with his right arm before passing out. His forearm was torn and bleeding. His wrist was puffed and swollen, but experience told him it was likely just a strain.

  He was still sopping wet but that didn’t tell him how long he had been out. It could have been raining for hours. It was still light, but dusk would not be long coming. Chase had been in some ungodly places at different times during his life, but he did not relish the thought of a night in the Everglades alone. He sat up gingerly and looked around.

  The mangrove roots seemed to be moving. Closer inspection revealed tiny crabs scuttling around, going about their business without regard to the newcomer in their midst. On one side was an expanse of water, a sawgrass prairie, brown and discouraging, topped here and there with swarms of mosquitoes so thick they made dark, dense clouds. Florida mosquitoes were devilish cunning, Chase thought, they were almost silent until they were right on you, but not here. Chase could hear them loud and clear.

  There was no sign of the canoe or of Joe. Chase was wearing boots, jeans and his shirt was still in one piece. He rinsed off his arm as best he could wondering if he was doing it any favors with the brackish water around him, then rolled down his sleeves buttoning one. The other had lost its button. He tied it with a thong of vine. He put his jeans inside his boots and relaced them tightly. Then he buttoned his shirt all the way up and turned up the collar. That done, an inspection of his pockets provided some wet cigarettes, a weatherproof lighter, a pocketknife, a comb, his wallet and keys.

  Chase took an experimental step into the water. It was like entering a field of steak knives. He stepped back as hastily as the muck sucking greedily on his boots would allow. No good that way. He would get slashed and sucked to death and God knows what else. The previous alligator encounter loomed large in Chase’s mind. In fact he thought he saw one further out, submerged up to its snout but it was too far to tell. Guess with a hide like that you can swim anywhere you want thought Chase, stepping further back. He knew he was far from alone. There was the occasional plop of fish and dragonflies whizzed about him. A flock of black birds appeared out of nowhere, swooping low over the water like dive bombers. What else there was Chase was in no doubt he would find out.

  Turning he surveyed the expanse of mangroves behind him. Dark and brooding, they grew thickly together and gave Chase no hint of what lay beyond. It looked primeval and sinister. So, he was marooned. No way through the water and a solid wall behind him.

  Chase knew that if Joe had made it to safety he would come looking for him. The dilemma Chase faced was whether to stay put or try to find his way out. The stretch of mangrove roots he was standing on was no longer than ten feet. There was no place to escape from whatever predator might chance upon him there. He did not like those odds and he did not know whether the water would rise to cover the roots. Really, there was no decision. Chase knew he could not sit on those roots all night waiting for the monsters of the swamp. At least if he was moving, doing something, he could limit his imagination to the task at hand.

  Chase hoped that his shirt and jeans were thick enough to protect him from the mosquitoes. He spread a mud paste over his face and hands, and as an afterthought, even in his hair. That left nothing for the little nasties to feed on. Little, they were dinosaur-sized out he
re. They sounded like Zero’s on a kamikaze run. The next problem was where to go. Chase had heeded Joe’s words, “anywhere but north, and you had to come out somewhere”, the problem was the obstacles in between. Then too, should he try to travel through the night or find a shelter and build a fire?

  Since he couldn’t walk on water, which was full of knives anyway, the first problem was solved for him and Chase eyed the long stretch of densely packed mangrove, searching for a possible entrance. It didn’t look promising.

  Finally, he settled on a patch just to the left of where he was standing that looked a shade less dense than the rest which wasn’t saying much. There was only one way to handle this. Chase let loose with a thunderous Viking war cry startling the little crabs. He worked on it, louder and longer and then as he felt the berserker mood settle on him, Chase charged the trees, squeezing his way in, twisting and bending, clawing his way, making as much noise as possible to announce his visit to any residents inclined to cross his path. Too bad he didn’t have a battleaxe.

  It was dark in there, a black hellhole. The trees reached out with their long fingers to keep him captive. Too squished to yell anymore, Chase grimly clawed and shoved his way through thrusting away the branches that seemed to try and keep their scraggly hold on him. The branches seemed to compress more the further he got and he envisioned being found, held captive by the spiny fingers of a massive mangrove, clutching him close and eventually growing through him as he hung there in its embrace.

  Chase closed his eyes to shut out the vision of those black spindly branches and so he wouldn’t see any spiders. Chase hated spiders. He wondered if the brothers Grimm had ever wandered through the mangroves at night. Snakes didn’t even bear thinking about.

  Eventually, scratched, sweaty and disheveled, Chase broke through into what looked like passable terrain. He shook himself and thrashed at his hair and face to dislodge anything that might have hitched a ride there fighting the urge to strip. Chase remembered the leeches in New Guinea. He had stripped then. He shook with revulsion. Ugh. One battle fought. How many more to go?