by Glenn Trust
He waited patiently, letting his eyes adjust. Cells called rods around the edges of his retinas, took in light from all directions. The man had never heard of rod-cells, but he did know it was easier to make things out in the dark by looking to the side and not focusing directly on them. That was why. Eyes adjusted, he examined his surroundings.
The ground he stood on was almost park-like. Eighty-foot black gums, bays, pines and cypress soared overhead mingling and overlapping the foliage at their tops, blocking out most of the sunlight that tried to filter down by day. Below, in the carpet of leaves and pine straw, saw palmetto and a few other shrubs survived, scattered around in clumps where rays of light managed to make it to the ground. Most shrubs and undergrowth, usually common to the area, did not flourish in the shadows beneath the trees
He reached into the boat, retrieving a paddle and a large can, and walked into the woods. His footsteps made no noise on the damp carpet of leaves. He swept the paddle in front, close to the ground, alert to the possible presence of a snake resting through the night in his path.
Something moved noisily, digging into the leaves and straw. It could have been a scene from a million years earlier. Armadillos had been roaming the earth for sixty million years. This one searched in the dark for a grub or insect. The man’s interest was not scientific. An armadillo made a tasty meal, and hunting them was often as easy as walking up and clubbing them while they dug into the topsoil for some insect morsel. The paddle in his hand would be perfect club for the work. He moved on. Hunting up supper was not his purpose.
Deeper in the dark forest, he skirted a clump of palmetto and came abreast of a black gum tree. He peered beyond the tree into a small clearing, watching quietly for several minutes, the starlight in the clearing shining brightly, after the dark of the woods.
A small wood frame house, a shack really, stood opposite him in the clearing, its weathered boards ghostly luminescent in the starlight. From the shadow of the tree, he watched the clearing and house for several minutes, looking for some sign of movement, of awareness of his presence. There was none.
Several singlewide house trailers huddled around another clearing a half mile through the woods. They were not visible through the trees.
Water bordered the side of the shack to the left, the same creek he had used to approach in the johnboat. Part of a network of waterways, the vast wetlands extended into and became part of, the Okefenokee Swamp.
Assured that all was quiet, he pushed aside the strands of Spanish moss that hung from the tree and moved quickly across the clearing. Softly placing the paddle on the ground beside a window to the side of the small front porch, he worked his way around the house with the can. Methodically, paying special attention to doors and windows, he circled the small dwelling until he returned to the place where he had left the paddle. The can was empty.
The wheel on the disposable lighter spun under his large thumb until the flame lit, and he tossed it at the front door. The hum of the night insects was drowned by the rushing roar of the flames. Dry and old, the boards of the house began cracking and spitting as the fire climbed and grew with incredible rapidity.
Calmly standing by the window, he picked up the paddle. It was the only point where he had not splashed gasoline. A woman’s scream from within let him know that the occupants were aware of the fire that was now raging along every side of the house…except by the window where the man stood, waiting. He heard a door slam, the bedroom door being closed against the flames spreading into the house.
“The window!” The man’s voice was panicked, desperate. “Elma, come to the window!” He coughed. “Hurry!”
“Jobie, I can’t see. Where?” It was a plea screamed into the smoky dark.
“Here! Come to my voice, woman…here!” More coughing, from both now.
The open window was covered with a screen, a necessity in this country. A man’s arm came through suddenly, punching a hole in the mesh. Hands ripped at the hole tearing the opening so that they could escape.
The man’s voice, by the window now, called again back into the room. “Elma, now, hurry, c’mon!”
“I’m here. Get on through and help me out the other side. Hurry Jobie…it’s terrible hot.” More bumping and rustling sounds came from inside, and the woman gave a shriek. “Sweet Jesus…the bedroom door is burning! Oh God, oh God…sweet Jesus, help us!”
A head poked through the torn wire of the screen. For a moment, he took a deep breath of the fresh night air, clearing his head. Hands on the sill, he started to drag himself through the window. His eye fell on the man standing outside. In the light of the spreading fire, his face paled.
“Evenin’, Jobie.” The big man’s voice was calm, pleasant. Holding the boat paddle in two hands like a baseball bat, he swung for the grandstands. The blade of the paddle caught Jobie just above the bridge of the nose, and he crumpled, sliding back into the smoke filled bedroom.
More shrieks and screams filled the night air. The woman was by the window.
“Jobie! Jobie! What is it? What…” Her words were choked out by a spasm of coughing.
Gray smoke poured out of the bedroom window now, rising quickly into the night. For a moment, there was no sound or movement from within, and then the woman’s hand extended out the window, the fingers opening and closing as if she were trying to grasp onto life. But there was not much life left for her.
The man outside swung the paddle again, crushing the knuckles of the woman’s hand. A feeble, pain-filled moan, was barely audible. Then all was silent except for the rushing, roaring fire that seemed to suck the oxygen from the air, and the popping and snapping of the boards as they turned to ash.
The man stepped back now. Certain that no one would be coming out of the window, he crossed the clearing to the black gum and turned, giving one last admiring look at his work. The red-orange glow shimmering and rising like a funeral pyre off the surface of the creek’s black water lit the smile on his face. He turned and disappeared into the woods.
2. Business and Prosperity
Wearing sunglasses dark enough to prevent anyone, including his companion, from seeing his eyes, the thin dark man with the thin dark mustache sipped the rum and fruit concoction. He was focused on the undulating bottom of the bikini-clad server walking around the pool to the bar.
When she was gone, he turned his head to watch the single bead of sweat make its way down the side of the face of the man sharing the table with him. It rolled over the man’s fleshy cheek, stopping, seeming to hesitate for a moment and then continuing quickly downward to his jaw where it hesitated again. The dark man sipped his cocktail, waiting until the drop released and fell onto his companion’s beefy forearm leaving a small wet puddle on the skin. The heavyset man was unaware of the drop of perspiration or the thin man’s fascination with it.
Shifting his gaze to the heavier man’s eyes, he broke the silence at the poolside table. “So, you can provide the product we require.” It was a statement, not a question. He spoke fluently with just the slightest hint of an accent, able to use the right inflection in the words to communicate subtle meanings.
“Yes,” his companion said nodding in agreement, looking out across the Gulf of Mexico. “We can provide the product, as much as you want.” He turned his head. “For the agreed price.” While English was his native tongue, he spoke with the slow drawl of the south.
“Of course, of course. The agreed price.” He sipped his cocktail. “One hundred a package.”
The heavy man nodded. “One hundred.”
They sat quietly now, looking out at the gentle surf, considering the profits soon to come. The Clearwater Beach hotel was decent but moderately priced, definitely not the five star accommodations the thin man would have selected. But, located in a part of Florida where it was easy not to draw too much attention it made for a good meeting place, a good place for business.
One hundred, the heavy man thought. One hundred thousand for each package and he intended
to provide a minimum of fifty packages the first year, triple that the second year. Much of the network was in place. Expansion was taking place, even as they sat by the pool sipping fruity, sweet drinks. Fifty packages made…he did the math easily in his head…five million dollars…U.S. dollars. And that was just the beginning. He smiled.
Leaning forward on the deck chair in his green cargo shorts and sandals, the heavy man pulled the multi-colored Hawaiian shirt away from his neck at the collar and fanned it, cooling himself. They sat under a cabana, but the July air was hot and humid. His olive skinned companion, dressed in a white linen shirt and light tan cotton slacks, wearing soft canvass boat shoes seemed completely comfortable. Not even a mist of perspiration was visible on his brow.
Back to business. “We can provide the product, but…” He waited for the dark man to turn his gaze from the sun glimmering on the smooth Gulf waters. “Do you have access to the cash?”
A small smile just barely moved the end of his thin mustache. He nodded. “Yes, my friend. We have the money, perhaps much more than will be required. My partner is very well…” He paused, thinking of the right word. “Endowed, shall we say?” He sipped his cocktail. “Of course, we intend to earn a great deal more money from the product you provide.”
“Of course.” Turning his own gaze outward towards the Gulf of Mexico, the heavy man continued. “There is the matter of bonafides.” He turned back to the dark man, peering at him intently. “Bonafides." He pronounced it bone-uh-fi-dees. "You know what that means?”
“Yes, yes, I know the word. I prove to you who I am and that we are able to do business, my partner and I.” Now his gaze was intent and for the first time, he removed the sunglasses, allowing his dark brown eyes to be seen, looking directly into his new partner’s face. “And you, my friend, prove your…bonafides as you say…by proving that you can obtain what we need. On my next visit, we will want to see the first shipment, ready for export.”
The heavy man nodded his agreement and reached for his glass, leaving a wet streak of perspiration on the table. Lifting the glass to his companion, he toasted. “Here’s to business.”
“To business,” the dark man said nodding, “and prosperity.”
The glasses touched with just the slightest clink. The long legged girl in the bikini came and asked if they wanted another. They did, and she returned to the bar for the drinks, while they watched the sun lower over the Gulf until it became a flaming orange ball floating on the gentle water.
3. Families
The warbling floated musically into the upstairs apartment from the forsythia bushes beside the barn. The pattern repeated, first a robin, then a sparrow, a finch, the sharp, strident cry of a blue jay, ending with the melodic, almost melancholy call of a solitary whippoorwill.
The whippoorwill made her brow furrow. It was out of place in the early morning hours. Lying on her back with her eyes closed, listening to the bird opera, she folded her hands behind her head and smiled as the mockingbird in the forsythia began the concert once again.
The aroma of coffee brewing floated in the air through the open bedroom door. Sunlight angling through the window onto the bed warmed her body. The sensations of scent and warmth mingled with the bird songs. The world felt right, was right.
The bed moved and sank with the weight of another person lying down on top of the sheet beside her. A thick finger traced a circle on her bare stomach, tickling.
“Mornin’ girl.” The voice was soft and deep, whispering, not wanting to startle her. That made her smile again.
Her eyes opened. “Morning, Mackey.” Taking one of the arms from behind her head, she placed her hand on the back of his neck and pulled his head to her, letting it rest against her breast.
They lay, not speaking, feeling the sun’s warmth, listening to the mockingbird. She wondered if the bird had any awareness of the beauty of the songs it made, mimicking so closely the other birds. Was it showing off, saying, hey, look what I can do? Or was it just killing time waiting for the next insect to stray too close? She pushed that thought away. He sang for them. That was how it felt today. That was how she wanted to think about it.
He slid his hand over her stomach, tracing a circle around the scar again. Sharon Price, Agent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, had very nearly lost her life a year and a half earlier, taking a blast of 00 shotgun pellets in the back. The internal injuries had been significant. Some of the pellets had penetrated so deeply that the surgeon had made the incision in her stomach to retrieve them from her body rather than dig and probe from the rear.
George Mackey laid his hand flat against the scar, over it, wanting to take all the pain from it and from this woman. He had been there that night. He was with her still.
After the case, the GBI task force they had been a part of was disbanded. George returned to his duties as a deputy in Pickham County, Georgia. Sharon spent weeks recovering at a hospital in Jacksonville, Florida. When the doctor had said she could go home to her family, there was no family, only George. An only child, whose parents had passed away years earlier, Sharon Price had devoted herself to her career with the GBI. That was before George.
Now, with George, they were family. Were they in love? She wondered. It was not a word that either used often or lightly. Willing to give everything to protect the other, they were bound together in ways that most lovers would never know or understand. Was that love? Neither would have ventured a guess on the subject.
He lowered his face to her stomach. George kissed the scar gently and then raised his head looking into her open eyes. “How’d you sleep girl?”
“Warm.” She smiled, sliding her hand down the back of his neck to the muscle in his shoulder. “You have a hot ass, Mackey.”
“Been told that before.”
“Not that kind of hot, Deputy. Hot like you’ve been sitting on a wood stove...hot.” She pulled his head down and kissed him on the forehead.
“Well, hot or not, it’s time to get up. Coffee’s on.”
“I smell it. Bring it to me. I don’t want to get up.” She yawned and stretched on the sheets, tightening her muscles and throwing her legs and arms straight out stiff, then relaxing, letting them fall to the bed.
Roaring around the corner of the house and across the yard, the riding mower with old Fel Tobin astride came to a halt beneath the bedroom window. The mockingbird’s song was lost in the buzz of the mower’s engine. Fel called up to the second-story apartment over the old barn. “Y’all up?”
It was a ritual, Fel up and on the mower as soon as there was light enough to see. He kept the yard scalped, ever on guard against a possible invasion of rodents from the adjoining fields, routinely referring to them as little fuckers, or little sonsabitches. The barely-living, mowed grass and the feral cats around the place kept the varmints at bay, or at least out of the house and the barn.
Rolling off the bed, George, stood, stretched, and padded to the window. “We’re up, Fel. Quit your hollerin’.”
“Smelled coffee. Got some made?” The old man squinted up at the window, pulling the straw hat down lower over his eyes as he tilted his head back.
“You know we do, Fel.”
“Can I have a cup?”
“You know you can. Come on up.”
Smiling, Fel cut the engine on the mower and walked around to the other side of the barn. Wooden stairs led up to the second floor apartment that George, now George and Sharon, rented from him. There was a time, before Sharon, when Fel pretty much stayed out of George’s space, spending most of his time with the deputy on the front porch of the house, drinking beer, watching the day, or the night. Since Sharon had come home from the hospital, he had taken to having coffee with them in the morning.
Dressed in his undershorts, George waited at the top of the stairs with a mug. Fel took it from George’s hand as he passed through the open door to be greeted by Sharon, wearing a cloth robe and standing in the center of the apartment’s tiny living room. She smiled at
the old man.
“Well, if it isn’t the lady GBI girl,” Fel said sipping his coffee and plopping down in the one chair. It was what he had called her the first time he had met her and what he would probably always call her. Fel liked his traditions. He yanked his hat off and rested it on his knee.
George walked in shaking his head and went to the small cooking area along the room’s back wall. He poured two cups, handed one to Sharon and sat beside her on the old sofa, scratching between his legs as he did so.
“Stop that.” Sharon smacked his hand away from his privates.
“Why?” George sipped his coffee with a loud slurp. “Nothing the old man hasn’t seen before.”
“That’s true. That’s surely true.” Fel grinned, giving a sharp old man’s cackle.
“Besides,” George said. “We’re family.” He slid his arm around Sharon’s shoulders and laid his hand on her breast. Fel grinned and laughed. Sharon swatted the hand away, pulling the robe tighter in self-defense.
“You just quit digging and scratching, and keep your hands to yourself when we have company. It’s not polite.”
Fel watched the ritual grinning as if it was the first time he had ever seen it and not how every day for the last year had started. Sharon caught his eye and added, “Even with family here.”
The old man’s grin spread from ear to ear. Family. That’s what they had become. An unlikely trio, they sat in the tiny apartment over a barn…family. The word felt right.
*****
The rushing thump of feet running was followed by a louder, heavier thump as something, or someone, hit the floor.
“Oowww!”
It was someone. Atlanta homicide detective, Andrew Barnes, stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom putting a tight, neat knot in the silk of the flower print tie. Satisfied with the result on the first try, he checked the nine-millimeter pistol on the dresser, holstered it and picked up the black pin striped suit jacket from the back of a chair across from the bed. Stepping into the hallway, he looked down.