by Mark Romang
The tiny land strip appeared tantalizingly close, so near she actually thought she had a chance of reaching it. But then she heard gunfire ring out behind her. Annie ducked her head. Bullets strafed the johnboat, piercing the stern in several places. And then she realized they weren’t shooting at her at all.
The mercury motor suddenly hemorrhaged from a group of masterfully placed shots. The johnboat slowed to a drift, and fearing her spine would soon shatter from the next wave of gunfire, she dove forward and searched the flooded boat for her lost Beretta.
Her fingers sifted through a mélange of fishing tackle, duck decoys, and crawfish trapping gear. Annie yelped when a treble hook snagged her hand. She ignored the pain in her palm, ignored the voice in her head telling her to hurry, and continued rummaging. The roar of approaching Wave Runners grew in decibels. Dear God, help me! She prayed.
Annie felt tempted to jump ship and take her chances in the water. But she hated the idea of not having a weapon. Give it five more seconds, and then bail, she told herself.
At last, even as the beam of a spotlight swept across the johnboat’s splintered stern, her bloodied fingers curled around the Beretta’s alloy barrel. She jerked the side arm up from the standing water with her right hand while her left hand pulled back on its slide, chambering a round. Armed and ready, her hands having positioned themselves comfortably on the plastic checkered grips, she rotated her upper body and trained the Beretta’s tritium sights on the rider driving the lead Wave Runner.
The rider had one arm extended beyond the handlebars. His hand pointed a side arm in her direction. She didn’t hesitate. To dally now would only ensure her a listing in next week’s obituary page.
She pulled the trigger three times. At the point-blank range of ten yards, the bullets drilled a red triangle into the man’s sinus cavity. Dead and faceless, he dangled off to one side of the fast-charging Wave Runner.
Annie leaped off the starboard side a split-second before the Wave Runner rammed the johnboat. The personal watercraft carved a V into the plywood boat, then listed over onto its side, its 145 horsepower Rotax motor still running at a rough idle.
Annie swam toward the unmanned Wave Runner, but her frenzied strokes and kicks couldn’t quite get her to the machine. The powerful current pulled her away into its channel. She bobbed along like a piece of driftwood, at the mercy of nature’s implacable wrath, a captive in a prison without walls and bars, just water, miles and miles of it.
On two occasions she spied land and swam toward the humps, but could never quite reach them. The gushing water pressure presented a challenge too much for her. She could hear but not see another Wave Runner keeping close pace behind her.
Despite the flotation vest she wore, her head often dipped beneath the surface swells and her nostrils would fill with fetid water, rife with the swampy smells of peat moss and catfish.
The floodwater soon carried her past the Boudreaux hideout. She watched the grimy window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gabby’s cherubic face peering out. But the grubby panes remained dark and lifeless, and she knew if history repeated itself, Gabby would be locked in the bedroom, or much worse, the clothes closet.
She could only estimate how far she’d traveled since her encounter with the Wave Runner. A few hundred yards at least. She knew that at some point the raging current had to weaken and deposit her on a sandbar.
But what then? What action would the rider of the Wave Runner take? Would he execute her, or simply take her prisoner? The rider undoubtedly hoped Mother Nature would perform the unpleasant task for him.
Annie spied an eddy just ahead. The main current seemed to be pushing her straight for it. She could do nothing to avoid it. Seconds later she found herself twirling in the small whirlpool. She looked for the Wave Runner when the eddy spun her around to face upstream, and spotted it. She couldn’t miss the brightly colored personal watercraft. It puttered along a dozen or so yards away, tailing her indiscreetly.
She briefly entertained snapping off a shot at the rider, but thought better of it. At the moment he didn’t appear threatening. If she took a shot and missed, she’d surely stir up his wrath. But at some point she would have to try something. The man astride the Wave Runner wouldn’t allow her to float unmolested all the way to the Gulf.
She finally popped out of the whirlpool and continued her tumultuous journey downstream. There wasn’t much she could do in her powerless situation but think. And her thoughts drifted all over the map. Her brain processes were overwhelmed by the sensory overload of a Category Five hurricane and the rider on the Wave Runner stalking her. But she kept working at it, and eventually a reasonable thought penetrated her scattershot cognition. She needed to commandeer the Wave Runner in the worst possible way. It was her only shot at survival.
But to get it she had to somehow lure the machine in closer, close enough that she wouldn’t have to swim to it after dispatching the rider. How can I do that? She asked herself. Almost instantly she figured out a way to make it happen. The half-baked scheme required participating in a stunt that could easily kill her if she failed. But like she once told Cooper, rewards come to those who take risks. She didn’t know how operate any other way. Life is full of missed opportunities for those who hesitate.
Up ahead a cluster of ancient cypress trees soared from the roiling water. Annie knew she couldn’t wait any longer. She took a few deep and nervous breaths, filling her lungs with as much oxygen as they could hold. She then unsnapped each buckle on her life vest and allowed the flotation aid to slide off her shoulders.
Tensing the muscles in her arms and legs, Annie gave the floodwater free reign to suck her under. She dropped like an anchor to a depth of ten feet. The muddy water, filled with storm debris and sediment, gurgled like bubbling gravy.
She had to stay under long enough to convince the rider on the Wave Runner she’d drowned. She had no idea how long that would take, or how long she could hold her breath. She hoped ninety seconds would be sufficient to fool her stalker.
Bending her upper body forward, Annie changed her vertical position to a horizontal one and kicked her legs, swimming underwater with the aid of the current. She may as well have been swimming in a cavern stream. She couldn’t see anything, not even the strokes of her hands as they moved in front of her face.
Before her descent into the depths, she had chosen a line of cypress trees as her destination. The trees stood 50 to 60 yards away in the distance. She blindly kicked toward them, hoping she remained on course to bump into their submerged roots. Before she went under she had studied how the storm-accosted bayou flowed. She thought the current veered directly toward the rot-resistant trees. She didn’t know what to do if her calculations were wrong. She would have no choice but to surface out in the open and risk being spotted.
She began counting off seconds. Keeping her mind busy distracted her from her watery surroundings. Claustrophobia sometimes troubled her, and not being able to breathe or see provided the perfect conditions for an episode.
Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty… She felt like giving in. All she wanted to do was exhale and suck in a sweet gulp of fresh air. Annie pursed her lips and blew out through her mouth. She knew it spelled her demise to do so, but couldn’t stop herself. A string of air bubbles gurgled from her lips.
Sixty-four, sixty-five…
In contrast to the whistling rain and concussive thunderclaps above the surface, an unearthly quiet muffled the silted depths. The steady purl of water pressure rippling against her ears blocked out any other noise.
She didn’t know how much longer she could stay under and swim. Her ragged arm strokes benefited little, and she kicked more and more with her feet instead of her hips. Exhaustion devoured her will to continue. But then she thought of Gabby, afraid and all alone, hoping someone would come and save her, and her resolve flared back up.
Where are the trees? Shouldn’t I have bumped into them by now?
She wanted to breathe so incr
edibly bad. Ninety-five, ninety-six…
Water pressure accumulated behind her eyes. Glittery spots, like sunlit snowflakes danced in her vision. She had exhaled all the air from her lungs, and now full-on panic caused her arms and legs to flounder uselessly. She needed to surface but her rigid body refused to rise.
I’m going to die, she thought. Is this really how you want it to end, God? What about Gabby? Who’s going to help her now? Don’t you want her to be rescued?
She was still lamenting her rotten luck when she crashed into an unyielding object. Pain jolted her chest and knees. As soon as the initial shock wore off, she thrust her hands above her head. Her fingers clawed at a rough and scratchy surface. At once she knew she’d reached the trees. She scrabbled for purchase on the tree trunk, and fueled by an untapped reservoir of adrenaline, began shimmying upward.
Annie felt detached from her flesh as she scaled the tree. Concussion symptoms caused her limbs and brain to lose synchronization. She couldn’t tell if she were alive or dead or simply acting out lunacies from a bizarre dream.
Inch by frustrating inch, she scaled the tree. Her right hand scraped across a hump on the tree bark. She latched onto the knotty projection and used it to hoist herself higher. Her progress seemed trivial at best. It was as if a virus containing a paralyzing agent infected her limbs. Yet she kept climbing, pushing herself upward, knowing if she could only breach the surface, the battle would turn in her favor.
Forgetting for a moment her great distress, Annie furiously groped and clawed her way up the cypress trunk until her nose finally poked above the water line. Coughing and sputtering, she wheezed for air like an asthmatic. Her gasping lungs seemed utterly confused as to what she wanted them to do. But then she coughed and vomited swamp water, and they finally began functioning again.
Chapter 19
By either dumb luck or divine intervention, the hollow-point rifle slug entered Rafter’s right pectoral muscle and exited cleanly out his upper back, somehow avoiding vital organs.
Escaping the bullet’s fury by scant millimeters, Rafter’s heart still pumped blood into his arteries. But the flesh wound needed attention. Blood coursed unchecked from his chest and turned the muddy water scarlet. If the wound could be plugged, the bleeding arrested, he would likely live. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in a position to treat the wound.
His mouth just above the water line, Rafter clung to a large, plastic storage tub and drifted helplessly towards the Gulf. The storage tub had washed into his hands at just the right moment and unquestionably provided him buoyancy. But he needed to sever his dependence and reach stable ground ASAP. He had to close the wound in his chest.
The average adult has five to six quarts of blood circulating in their body. He’d lost at least half that amount already. As a result, his systolic blood pressure sagged dangerously low. The marked decrease in blood flowing to his brain made him lightheaded, and he spiraled into numbness only a drug addict could appreciate.
If he couldn’t stop the blood loss and increase his blood pressure, organ failure would kill him. In this his darkest hour, his mind drifted away from his body and floated through distant galaxies. Don’t close your eyes. You might not wake up again, he warned himself.
He hunted for landfall, something static he could latch onto. He spotted cottonwoods half a football field away. Rafter kicked his legs with his remaining strength, trying by sheer willpower to guide the rudderless tub toward the lofty trees. But willpower couldn’t overcome his rubbery legs or the bestial current. He watched the distance to the cottonwoods grow another twenty-five yards.
He felt like a convict watching his last shot at parole slip by. Hopelessness correlated into a loss of strength, and he slipped off the plastic tub and back into the depths.
I’m sorry, Gabby. I’m sorry, Annie. I’m just not strong enough.
As he sank to his watery grave, he wondered how Annie Crawford was making out. Had they also shot her? And what would happen to Gabby Witherspoon now?
Thinking of Gabby and her tragic plight evoked a terrible rage. The anger spurred his limbs into action, and for a moment he actually neared the surface. But then reality pushed back at his frail health. He started to sink faster than before.
He couldn’t cheat death any better than he could cheat at cards. And now he stood at eternity’s doorstep.
He didn’t know what he’d say to God when asked to account for his life? He’d frittered away so many opportunities to make the world a better place. Long ago he’d sworn an oath to protect and serve the innocent. It never occurred to him he should keep upholding the pledge even after he left the police force.
He supposed he could point to the kindness he showed to residents at the Grayson Manor Senior Center as proof his faith wasn’t dead. But like many things in his life, he waited too long to act, allowed fear and self-doubt to keep him on the sidelines and in the shadows.
A puncturing sensation in his left forearm suddenly ended his browbeating. The knifing sensation dwarfed the pain in his chest. Beyond the agony, he felt himself pulled in the opposite direction. At first he thought an alligator had latched onto his arm. But then his torpid brain finally realized he no longer descended.
It can’t be an alligator, he reasoned. Alligators prefer to drag their victims down to the bottom and stash their carcasses under logs or other underwater structures.
Despite the fact he moved closer to the surface, Rafter could feel death inching steadily up his body. Its creeping presence chilled his spine. And like a ghost drifting through a portal, he had one leg just inside the doorway to immortality, and the other lagging behind on planet Earth. Either way, he knew he couldn’t straddle the two realms for very long.
Just keep fighting, he told himself. The surface can’t be far away.
Seconds later his head cleaved the bayou’s surface. He exhaled mightily like a breaching whale clearing his blowhole, then gasped for oxygen.
Rafter couldn’t get the sweet delicious air fast enough, and nearly hyperventilated. Then he saw his rescuing benefactor and stopped breathing so frenetically.
Samson.
He didn’t need any more evidence. All his doubts had been erased. His guardian angel resided in the slobbery, gas-plagued dog. Samson had an uncanny ability to show up just when he needed him the most.
The stalwart dog hauled him up to a patch of land before releasing him. He wagged his tail and barked incessantly. Rafter crawled farther up the bank and collapsed in the mud. He lay face down in the soft peat, three-quarters dead and fading fast. Blood squirted from his chest. It pooled around his face. He could taste its coppery tang on his lips.
With great effort, he lifted his head and looked around. He spied Spanish moss piled up in the mud within arm’s reach. He raked some over with his left hand, and then used his remaining strength to roll over onto his back. He hastily stuffed the stringy, muddy glob into the bullet hole in his chest.
The fibrous mixture actually had another name. Cajuns call it bousillage. Long ago builders used Spanish moss to insulate the plantation houses of the Deep South. Rafter hoped it contained holistic powers as well. He patted his chest and called Samson.
“Lay on my chest, Sam,” he croaked. The Newfoundland obediently clambered atop him and applied 125 pounds of direct pressure to the wound. They huddled together in the downpour, pitiful and frightened but inseparable friends to the bitter end.
For a brief moment the cobwebs lifted in his head. I have to live. Annie needs me. Gabby needs me. I’m no good to them dead. They were his last cogent thoughts before he slipped into convulsions.
Chapter 20
Still clenching the cypress tree, Annie watched the rider on the Wave Runner putter through a labyrinth of water hyacinth and cypress trees. She made herself as invisible as she could. Only her eyes and nose rose above the waterline, yet she still felt conspicuous.
Beneath the surface the current buffeted her legs like breakers crashing against a rocky shoreline. She
didn’t know how much longer her grip would hold. If she were at full strength she supposed she could cling there for a long time. But the physical beating she’d endured over the last several hours had weakened her. Her fingers and legs twitched uncontrollably as she bear-hugged the tree.
I’m a goner, she thought.
The Wave Runner disappeared for a few unnerving seconds. When it reappeared it was much closer than she expected it to be. Panic grasped at her. Annie didn’t want to go back under, but knew she had to. Filling her lungs, she dunked her head back under the surface. She wormed her way around the tree, hiding on its opposite side and waited for the showdown to arrive.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The Wave Runner idled to a stop directly over her, its fiberglass hull no more than two feet above her head. She wondered how the man had found her so quickly. She could only guess she hadn’t been as deep as she thought during her underwater swim, and that her yellow slicker had given her away.
It doesn’t matter now, she thought, as she eased her head back above the surface. She now treaded water on the Wave Runner’s starboard side. Annie grabbed hold of the edge of its footrest and caught her breath. Luckily the rider was too distracted peering into the water on his portside to detect her presence.
Lack of leverage and her position in the water prevented her from pulling the rider off his machine. That left shooting him, a violent act she didn’t much care for. But after stripping her dire circumstances down to their boiling point, it became evident she had to kill or be killed.
Annie raised her Beretta above the water and placed it just behind the man’s right ear. Her finger tightened around the trigger, taking out its slack. She waited for the kill shot to come, but nothing happened. She squeezed the trigger again. But the gun clicked harmlessly. The clip must be empty, she thought.
She must have made some noise, perhaps a gasp of irritation because the rider turned his head and looked right at her. Annie shivered when she recognized the rawboned face, the piercing falconine eyes.