Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  Lately, he’d been wandering the dimly lit sidewalks of his neighborhood when he couldn’t sleep. The sound of a squirrel scurrying in a tree, a car passing by, or a croaking frog made him leery with every step he took. He searched for answers to uncertain questions and tried to sort out his deteriorating relationship with Valerie. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

  That evening Adam drove to the R & R Gun Rack, taking the same route as he always did. It was five-twenty as he headed north on the four-lane A1A, not aware that he was cruising just under the forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. The last hint of the sun flowed over the tops of distant clusters of pines and palms as night slowly settled in. Nearby buildings cast their long shadows over the road, and street lights flickered.

  Damn it, there it is again.

  Adam checked his rearview mirror and spotted two cars, both more than a block behind him. He glanced at the road in front of him, clear of traffic, then back at the rearview mirror. The car in his lane, the left one, was now accelerating, it was coming up fast.

  Jesus, who is this?

  Suddenly, without signaling, Adam veered right, down a small side street and parked on the grassy shoulder next to a chain-link fence. He shut the car’s lights off but kept the engine running. Sweat began beading on his forehead, and his palms were moist. He checked his rearview mirror again. There were no cars coming down the street behind him. What’s going on? He wiped away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his right hand.

  He checked again, still no cars. As he eased off the shoulder and steered sharply into a U-turn, he caught an explosive flash of headlights in front of him. The twinge deep in his gut started his heart pounding. He jammed on the brakes, and the Volvo rocked to a quick stop. The car in front of him braked hard and slid for a few feet before coming to rest, he guessed no more than five feet from his front bumper. Adam sat motionless with his foot still mashed down hard on the brake pedal, his hands latched tightly on the steering wheel.

  Two men emerged from the car but left their doors hanging open. The street light was dim but bright enough for Adam to see that the two were not cops. The pang in his gut returned followed by a flow of adrenaline. Both men had thick mustaches and long hair. One wore his hair back in a ponytail. They approached Adam’s car in a menacing stride, heading for the driver’s side.

  God, what the hell do they want?

  Adam watched the two men stop beside his car. The one without the ponytail was carrying what looked like a baseball bat, but smaller than normal size, like kids use in Little League. He rapped the bat twice on the driver’s side window.

  “Get out of the car, riata,” the man with the bat yelled through the glass.

  Adam searched his limited Spanish vocabulary. Jesus, he called me a dick.

  “What do you want?” Adam said, his voice wavering a bit.

  Ponytail Man tried the door handle, but the Volvo’s doors were locked.

  The man with the bat said something to Ponytail Man, but Adam couldn’t make it out. Then he rapped the bat on the window again, this time harder. Adam was now concerned that the glass would shatter.

  “I’m not getting out!” Adam shouted.

  “Where the fuck you learn to drive, shithead?” the man with the bat bellowed through the glass.

  Adam gauged the distance again to the car in front of him. His steering wheel was already cranked to its maximum.

  “Chingate rul!” Ponytail Man screamed as he pounded both fists on the driver’s side window.

  “No, fuck you, asshole!” Adam shouted. Then he thrust his right foot down hard on the accelerator, and the Volvo lunged.

  The man with the bat managed to back off before Adam’s car clipped him, but his cohort wasn’t as fortunate. Out of the corner of his left eye, Adam could see Ponytail Man go down. Then he felt a thud followed by the back of the car lifting slightly then falling.

  Jesus Christ, I ran him over.

  Adam’s palms were slick with sweat, and his heart felt as though it was pumping blood from his throat. He reached the highway and looked back into his rearview mirror. The man with the bat was helping his friend to his feet. He trounced the accelerator pedal, flicked on the headlights, veered left, and headed back home.

  Adam raced up the driveway and quickly depressed the button on the visor, opening the garage door. The heavy metal door lifted slowly, too slowly for his liking right now. It let out an occasional howl and a crinkling and cracking sound. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel waiting for the door to open. He was pretty sure the two men hadn’t followed him but didn’t want to take any chances. He gunned the car into the garage and punched the button on the visor. The door crept back down the metal tracks and closed with a dull thud.

  He sat in the car long enough for the overhead light on the garage door opener to automatically flick off. He had mixed emotions about the trip tomorrow to Key West with Val and Dawn. The mini-vacation has been planned for several months, actually from back in June. He convinced himself the getaway was necessary, a hiatus for everyone to clear their minds. But things weren’t going well with Val. With each day that passed they seemed to grow farther apart. When they weren’t arguing, they didn’t speak to each other. Maybe the trip to the Keys would change things … maybe.

  89

  THE DAY AFTER he met with Judge Vetter and Owen Jacobson, Harley saw his client in the afternoon at the Brevard County Jail. The two men were in their familiar positions in the musty meeting room. Sikes’s handcuffs were secured to the eyelet on top of the metal table with a hefty brass padlock. His fingers were laced and his forehead rested on them. The chain that secured his handcuffs to the steel table was drawn tight. The way his head was tucked downward gave the appearance of someone deep in prayer. Perhaps he was.

  “Let me know when you’re ready,” the guard said as he strolled out.

  Harley glanced up and nodded as he slid his chair closer to the table.

  “Your boy there is in another one of his moods, counselor,” the guard warned, using his fingers for quotation marks to emphasize moods.

  As Harley eased back in his chair the guard slammed the door shut, and the heavy lock engaged. Sikes raised his head slowly and stared at Harley with dark hollow eyes, his fingers still interlocked.

  “You all right, son?” Harley inquired.

  Sikes didn’t speak. He seemed detached. He just sat there, glumly, staring at Harley. But then he formed a narrow smile.

  “You have something important to tell me, don’t you?” Sikes asked in a deep voice.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. How’d you know?”

  Sikes’s smile widened. Maybe it was more like a smirk. “Tell me, now.”

  Harley sat silent for a moment trying to sort out how Sikes could know anything about what he was about to tell him. It didn’t matter, not now.

  “Okay, let me get right to the point. The judge has ruled in our favor on both motions we filed. You’ll be a free man no later than next Tuesday.”

  Sikes continued staring at Harley with that haunting grin, not saying a word.

  “You hear what I said, son?”

  “I heard you,” Sikes finally answered. Then the smirk faded, and his eyes seemed even darker, like two pieces of coal set back into his skull. There was nothing to read in them, just dark, cavernous holes.

  Harley reached down for his briefcase at his side and swung it up on the table.

  “I’ve got to get back to Orlando,” Harley said dryly, and with a hint of annoyance.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  Harley snapped his briefcase open, shoved some papers into one of the accordion folds, and shut the lid.

  “Have you read your Bible since the last time we talked, Mr. Buckwald?”

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” Sikes crowed out a hideous laugh that lasted several seconds. “I can assure you, this is far from nonsense.”

  Harley slapped the top of his leather br
iefcase. “Then what the hell is it?”

  Sikes lifted off his chair and jerked up hard on the chain that secured him to the table, the handcuffs digging deep into his skin. “It’s coming!” he blurted out coldly.

  Harley wheeled back in his chair. A chill ran down his spine and temporarily numbed his legs. “What’s coming?” Harley asked, his voice wavering.

  Sikes sat back down and lowered his hands, resting them one on top of the other on the cold steel table.

  “Apofasi mera,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Apofasi mera, the day of resolution.”

  Harley had had enough. He felt the strength return to his legs so he stood. “Boy, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and I don’t care.”

  Sikes once again broke out into shrill, unnerving laughter. With his briefcase in hand Harley headed for the door and never looked back. He’d seen and heard enough of David Allen Sikes to last a lifetime. Right now all he cared about was seeing his wife and having a relaxing dinner at their favorite restaurant, Flavio’s, the best Italian place in Orlando.

  It appeared that dinner would have to wait. Outside the jail was a sea of news vans, reporters, and cameramen. When the press saw Harley emerge from the front door, a swarm of reporters, with their cameramen in hot pursuit, converged on him. A barrage of questions were shouted, cameras flashed, and microphone booms sparred to gain advantage.

  Harley finally managed to make it down the long ramp from the front door. He stopped at the bottom and looked out over the crowd. They were in a state of delirium. He had talked to the media on three prior occasions concerning this case, but this time he looked forward to the exchange. Why not? He’d won and Mr. Slick had lost.

  Properly poised and wearing his characteristic smile, Harley was ready to answer any and all questions. Several microphones bobbed and jabbed and then finally settled into position. The crowd quieted.

  “Is it true that the charges against your client, David Allen Sikes, have been dropped?” asked Jack Stanley from Channel 6 News.

  “The state attorney, Owen Jacobson, has dismissed the case against Mr. Sikes,” explained Harley, as he looked around. “The charges of kidnapping and murder have been dropped.”

  This sent a wave of frenzy through the crowd. The front row moved in unison closer to Harley, some of the microphones now only inches from his face.

  “Was this because of the scandal at the FDLE forensics lab in Orlando?” asked another reporter, yelling to be heard over the din.

  “The charges were dropped against my client because there wasn’t enough evidence.”

  “But what about the scandal at the lab? Didn’t Sam Weber falsify a lab report that was related to Sikes’s case? Didn’t that cause some of the evidence to be thrown out?”

  “I won’t comment on the activities at the FDLE lab or anything about Mr. Weber. That’s now in the hands of Mr. Jacobson.”

  “How do you feel about David Allen Sikes being released from jail and possibly committing another murder?” asked Amy Fitzpatrick from the Orlando Sentinel.

  Harley anticipated this one. He knew Amy Fitzpatrick and wasn’t surprised she’d ask this. “Miss Fitzpatrick, you know as well as I do that Mr. Sikes did not stand trial. He wasn’t convicted of any crime.”

  “But he could kill again,” she insisted.

  “He wasn’t convicted of any crime,” Harley repeated calmly. “There wasn’t any compelling evidence against him to begin with.”

  And so it went, question after question. Harley eagerly and brilliantly answered all of them until the shine of the moment wore off. He knew when to stop the invasion of questions. It was like a comedian’s instinctive timing to hit the punch line, or a jockey making his move to win a horse race.

  90

  BY FIVE-THIRTY Wednesday morning, Adam, Valerie, and Dawn were loaded into the Volvo and on the road to the Keys. The drive along the seven-mile bridge between Vaca Key and Bahia Honda was always one of Adam’s favorite parts of the road trip to Key West. You were surrounded by sparkling deep-blue water, nothing but a long stretch of road ahead of you. And there was no need for air-conditioning, just four windows down and fifty-five miles an hour. The smell of the sea air was spectacular.

  This was the fourth trip for the Riley family to Key West. Each time they stayed at the same place, the Rothchild Mansion Inn, in the historic district. The inn was originally the home of Charles Sinclair Rothchild, a wealthy New York City businessman. Rothchild took his family life very seriously. He wanted a place to escape the unbearable New York winter weather, so in 1894 he built an expansive twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion with twenty-five rooms.

  The villa had occupied two acres on what is now Caroline Street. The mansion was eventually restored and converted into a bed-and-breakfast. Each room was elegantly appointed with antique furniture, crystal door knobs, a fluffy comforter, right down to the fresh fruit basket awaiting them on the dresser. Adam especially liked the lush foliage that surrounded the swimming pool and the continental breakfast served up at pool-side each morning. They were also within walking distance to Duval Street, where there’s always buzzing excitement in the air any time of the day. Duval Street is to Key West as Bourbon Street is to New Orleans: picturesque, colorful, loud, and always unpredictable.

  After dinner that evening the three walked to Mallory Square for the sunset celebration. There were magicians, jugglers, musicians playing guitars and singing, and even a bagpiper. After a brilliant sunset, they walked Duvall Street. They passed by the Hard Rock Café and Sloppy Joe’s. Adam stopped and offered up his story, for the fourth time, about how Sloppy Joe’s bears the name of a confidante of Ernest Hemingway, someone who shared his poignant stories with the author, who then turned them into prize-winning novels.

  Then it was on to the Lazy Gecko, Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, and Irish Kevin’s. They took a detour off Duvall down Front Street to walk by the Hog’s Breath Saloon. On the way back to the Rothchild Mansion Inn, they stopped at the Bull and Whistle at the corner of Duval and Caroline. Adam and Valerie had two frozen margaritas each, and Dawn sipped a Pepsi and flirted with three boys. They all listened to the country wailings of Yankee Jack for an hour.

  Not once did Adam sense he was being watched, and there wasn’t one argument with Valerie. The two even held hands briefly walking from Mallory Square. Everything seemed so right, but that was about to change.

  91

  IT WAS ELEVEN-THIRTY when they arrived back at the Rothchild Inn. There was still activity around the swimming pool. A young, svelte blonde, wearing a red bikini bottom and no top, was sitting on the edge of one of the blue-and-white chaise lounges. Adam figured she was no more than twenty-five. She was leaning backward slightly, forcing her shapely breasts, with stiff nipples, outward. As the three of them walked by the pool, the topless blonde locked eyes with Adam for a brief moment and smiled. Adam’s eyes drifted down to her firm breasts then darted away quickly, only to catch Dawn’s stare of disapproval as she shook her head from side to side and mumbled something. Valerie was a few feet ahead of the two, unaware of Adam’s brief lustful interlude.

  Inside the two-bedroom suite, Adam snapped on the TV in the corner of the living room and plopped down on the wicker couch. The effect of the two margaritas was slowly melting away, but there was still a lingering, mellow warmth engulfing his body. He hurriedly flipped through the channels using the remote control. There was a limited selection of cable channels, but who went to the Keys to watch TV?

  Something caught his eye. He went back two stations and stopped on the late news on one of the Miami stations. What the hell! There was a picture of David Allen Sikes in his orange jail jumpsuit in the upper right corner of the screen. Under the picture, the words: Sikes Released Next Week.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Adam shouted.

  He heard feet stomping on the hard wood floor and looked up to see Valerie and Dawn rushing into the room.

  “Wha
t is it?” Valerie asked.

  Adam clenched the remote control in his right hand and stared at the two of them then pointed it toward the TV. Their heads turned, following his outstretched arm.

  “Oh, God!” Valerie shrieked then covered her mouth.

  “How could this happen?” Dawn screamed.

  Adam sat on the couch, completely disillusioned. He stared at the TV set, still clutching the remote control. The glow from the margaritas was suddenly gone, replaced by rage and anger. He didn’t hear a word spoken by the attractive Hispanic anchorwoman. His eyes were fixed on the image of Sikes with his greasy hair dangling on his forehead. He thought back to the phone call he’d received over a month ago, the man who warned him that Sikes would be set free. Who the hell was it?

  92

  LATE TUESDAY MORNING David Sikes, a free man again, trudged down the long, sharply angled concrete ramp that connects the front door of the Brevard County Jail to the parking lot below. An occasional wind gust sent clumps of greasy, dark-brown hair dancing on his head. The temperature was a comfortable seventy degrees and the humidity was low, a Florida dream day. Wispy cirrus clouds overhead were spun up in the cerulean sky like cotton candy, and the sun’s rays filled Sikes’s eyes, sending bursts of pain along sensitive, light-deprived nerve pathways. Snatching a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of his ragged blue-jean shorts, he slipped them on and continued down the ramp.

  Sprawled across the parking lot was the media circus that had been camped out since early morning. There were several large TV vans, their antennas extending high in the air, pointing to orbiting satellites, ready for real-time reporting of the event. It was basically the same crowd that had greeted Harley Buckwald less than a week ago. NBC, CBS, and ABC affiliate stations showed up, along with a team from Fox News, CNN, and Central Florida News 13. There were reporters from the Orlando Sentinel, Florida Today, Miami Herald, and the Tampa Tribune. The major difference today was an appearance by Dalton Abramson from Court TV.