by Tim Downs
“Not this again,” Nick groaned.
“Listen to me: A person who’s been sleep-deprived for seventy-two hours is as susceptible to hallucinations as someone taking LSD is—any psychiatrist can tell you that. When you start telling me you’re hearing engines and we’re being followed, I don’t know what to think.”
“You think I’m hallucinating?”
“I don’t know—but I do know you’re headed in that direction. Admit it, Nick—there’s only one reason we’re sitting in the middle of this godforsaken swamp in the middle of the night: You just couldn’t wait to get out here.”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “But you need to admit something too: You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I was on to something.”
“Is that why you think I’m here?”
He paused. “Why else?”
She shook her head and turned away. “I guess you’re not as bright as I thought.”
Nick allowed a full minute to go by before he said, “Can we go now?”
“What are you waiting for? Get me out of here.”
“I’m waiting for my vision to return. I’ve got this supernova burned on the back of my retinas.”
“Serves you right,” she said.
It was another twenty minutes before they finally approached the coordinates supplied by the geologist from LSU.
“This should be the place,” Nick said, “give or take a few meters.”
“I don’t see anything here,” Beth said.
“Shine the spotlight on the shore. This is your chance to look at all the trees.”
As they came around a slow bend, the channel widened slightly; Nick knew that it would undoubtedly widen more as the bayou opened up into the Gulf. On the right, the shore was still crowded with cypress, black gums, and buttonwoods right up to the water’s edge—but on the left there was a wide, flat clearing covered only in low marsh grass. Thirty yards back from the water, Nick saw a long tin shack partially hidden behind a stand of water tupelos.
“That’s what we’re looking for,” Nick said.
“How do you know?”
“It’s the only thing out here. Let’s take a look.”
“Wait a minute—you want to get out of the boat?”
“Well, we can’t see it from here.”
“You never said anything about getting out in the middle of a swamp.”
“You never said anything about an impromptu lecture on sleep deprivation, but you managed to come up with one. C’mon, loosen up—we’re improvising here.”
“I’m staying in the boat.”
“Fine. I’ll just pull up under these tree limbs. Is that just moss hanging down like that? It’s so hard to tell—I could be hallucinating.”
Five minutes later they were standing in front of the shed. Beth kept her arms wrapped around her shoulders and she rocked from foot to foot with a soft sucking sound, minimizing the time she spent in contact with the boggy soil.
Nick ran his flashlight over the corrugated metal panels. “It’s not very old,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
“There’s hardly any rust; this galvanizing wouldn’t hold up long out here.” He raised the flashlight and looked at the joint between the walls and the roof; a two-inch gap had been left for ventilation. Along the edge of the roof he could see long licks of black soot. “There was a fire here.”
They walked around to the end of the shack and found the doorway. The door itself was missing; he shone the flashlight at the slatted floor and found the door there. “Looks like there was a forcible entry.” He examined the doorframe; it was charred black. He pointed the flashlight inside and ran the light along both walls; he saw the burned remains of overturned wooden benches and a mound of shattered glass and blackened metal pans. “We’d better not go inside,” he said. “No telling what’s holding this thing up.”
He poked his head in the doorway, then drew back. “Whoa.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Smell this.”
Beth cautiously stepped up to the door and sniffed. “Smells like ammonia to me.”
“Me too.”
Suddenly a spotlight went on, flooding the front of the shed with blinding light; it was coming from the water behind their boat.
We’re federal agents,” a voice blared over a megaphone. “Come out “with your hands in the air. Do it now!”
Beth began to step out from the shadows and into the glaring light, but Nick grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back.
“What’s the matter? They’re federal agents.”
“So are we.”
“They don’t know that.”
“Maybe they do.”
“Nick, we should at least identify ourselves.”
“They know who we are,” Nick said. “They wouldn’t be out here if they weren’t looking for us.”
They heard the crack of a rifle and an even louder bang on the corner of the shack near their heads.
“Still think I’m hallucinating?” Nick asked.
“Maybe it was just a warning shot.”
“They fire warning shots into the air.”
There was a second shot; it struck the shack in exactly the same spot. “Stay where you are,” the voice commanded—then they heard the low rumble of an engine.
“Nick—they’re coming after us!”
“They have no choice—we’re sure not coming out.”
“What do we do?”
Nick pointed his flashlight at the marshy area behind the shack; it was a solid wall of vegetation. “C’mon,” he said, taking her by the hand.
She pulled her hand away. “We can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t know what’s in there, that’s why.”
“Well, we know what’s out here. Look, you’ve got a choice: You can take lions and tigers and bears in there, or a sniper with a rifle out here—take your pick.”
A third shot sounded—but this time the rifle seemed to have a different timbre and the shot came from a different place; it seemed to come from the water, too, but this time farther downstream. Now the beam of the spotlight swung away from the shack and illuminated the bayou instead. Nick and Beth heard a series of three single shots echo from behind the spotlight, followed by a pause . . . and then a reply.
From downstream came an eruption of automatic-weapons fire. The first shot shattered the spotlight and returned the entire bayou to darkness. Nick wondered if the other shots had found their mark; as if in answer, he heard the first boat’s engine rev and then begin to slowly fade away upstream.
Nick and Beth stood in the darkness, staring in the direction of the water. They heard the sound of another engine now, low and rumbling and steady; a boat was approaching from the left. When it pulled up even with their position, a flashlight clicked on. Nick and Beth instinctively shielded their eyes.
“You two,” a deep voice said. “Get in da boat.”
24
Beth huddled beside Nick on a wooden bench that spanned the bow of the boat. They faced backward, staring at the forms of two very large men who shared the bench in the stern. From the upward slant of the boat, it was obvious which couple contributed the bulk of the weight. They motored along slowly, heading deeper into the desolate bayou—precisely where, they didn’t know.
The men were concealed by the darkness, but Beth had caught a glimpse of them when she’d first stepped into the boat. Their faces looked similar in shape and proportion, though one was considerably younger than the other. They were unshaven, at least for several days, and they both had dark tousled hair—though the older man’s was longer and streaked with gray. They were dressed in well-worn khaki and faded flannel, and their leather boots were black from repeated oiling.
The two men said nothing when Nick and Beth cautiously approached the boat. They didn’t stand up; they barely moved; there were no warnings, or threats, or further instructions. “Get in the boat” was clear enou
gh, and their automatic weapon left no room for negotiation. The younger man just pointed at the bench in the bow and waited for Nick and Beth to climb aboard before shoving off. The older man appeared indifferent, almost bored; he slumped motionless on the bench, with the butt of his rifle resting on his thigh and the barrel pointing into the sky. The younger man held a flashlight at shoulder level and moved it back and forth from Nick to Beth, observing their faces.
“Thanks for helping us out back there,” Nick offered.
Neither man replied.
The younger man glanced over at his companion. “Police?”
The old man made a huffing sound. “La femme? Non.”
Beth was shivering even harder now that adrenaline had flooded her bloodstream. She kept her arms folded tightly across her chest, but it didn’t seem to help. She found herself wishing that Nick would put his arm around her shoulders, but she knew she might as well wish that their little boat ride would turn into a dinner cruise. She couldn’t help wondering what it might turn into instead; the thought made a knot in the pit of her stomach.
She could feel a thick blanket or rug in the bottom of the boat; she could feel the warm fur against her exposed ankles, and she wriggled her feet in as deeply as she could. She wanted to reach down and pull the rug up around her shoulders, but she knew she didn’t dare.
“Excuse me,” Nick said unexpectedly. “I couldn’t help noticing your ring.”
Beth turned and looked at Nick. The two men dressed like rejects from an L.L. Bean outlet store, and Nick was commenting on their accessories? What was he doing?
The younger man slowly extended his left hand and held the flashlight out to illuminate it. His ring was silver with deep black engraving, with a black onyx stone shaped like a football in the center. The stone was outlined by two lines of gems that looked like diamonds, and the words NATIONAL and CHAMPIONS surrounded them both. The ring was enormous; on his thick, stubby fingers it looked almost the size of a golf ball.
“LSU Class of 2004,” Nick read. “Go Tigers.”
“Whomped da Sooners in da Sugar Bowl,” the man said.
“Congratulations,” Nick said. “What position did you play?”
“Guard. Defense, mostly.”
“I didn’t figure you for a running back. What did you study?”
“At LSU?” The letters blended together when they rolled off his tongue—it sounded like elleshyew.
“Yeah, at LSU.”
“Wildlife management.”
“Is that what you do out here, you and your friend?”
“Him? Dat’s my nonk—my uncle. I call him Tonton; he calls me Boo—dat’s Cajun.”
“I thought so,” Nick said. “You guys look like hunters.”
“Hunters, sometimes—trappers most of da time.”
“What do you trap out here? I guess it depends on the season.”
“Not in da bayou. We trap what we want.”
Nick nodded.
“Boo,” the old man said.
“Ain?”
“Axe ’em—Que voulez-vous?
”
“My uncle, he wants ta know what you want out here.”
Nick paused. “We were trying to get away from some federal agents.”
Beth waited, but Nick said nothing more. She opened her mouth to offer further explanation, but Nick put his hand on her thigh and squeezed.
The old man considered Nick’s words, then nodded; it seemed to be enough for him.
“Thought you might be gang wardens,” Boo said.
“Gang wardens?”
“Wildlife agents.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not with Fish and Wildlife.”
“Figured. Not dressed for it. The woman, she dressed for a fais dodo.”
“A what?”
“A party. You two ain’t from da bayou.”
“Does it show?”
Suddenly, the boat ran aground and lurched to a stop. Beth felt herself jerk backward; if Nick hadn’t been holding her thigh, she would have fallen off the bench. The uncle shoved the tiller to the side and gunned the engine briefly, swinging the stern of the boat into shore. Without a word, he took the flashlight from his nephew’s hand and stepped out of the boat with a splash. He waded into the marsh grass and headed inland, leaving the three of them sitting together in total darkness.
“It’s a small world,” Nick said.
“Ain?”
“You went to LSU; I’m a college professor.”
“Where?”
“NC State, in Raleigh.”
“Wolfpack,” Boo said. “ACC football sucks.”
“Won’t argue with you there.”
Thank you, Beth thought.
“I’ve been to LSU several times. My friend here—she was there just this morning.”
Beth instinctively smiled, though she wasn’t sure why; there was no way the man could see her face in the darkness.
Just then they heard a single shot from the automatic rifle; Nick and Beth turned and looked in the direction of the sound. A minute later they heard the marsh grass whisking apart again; the old man planted one foot in the shallow water and the next one in the boat, pushing off from the shore. He held the rifle in his left hand and the flashlight in his right; but there was something else in his right hand too—something large and heavy.
Boo took the flashlight and pointed it at his uncle’s hand. The man was holding a large, brown, furry creature with a tail like a rat.
Très bon,” Boo said. “Good fur.” “
To Beth’s horror, the old man swung the creature by its foot-long tail and plopped it into the bottom of the boat near her feet; it landed in the darkness with a sickening whump. Her mouth dropped open; she drew in a sharp breath but didn’t let it out.
“May I?” Nick said, pointing to the flashlight.
Boo shrugged and tossed it over to him.
Nick held the flashlight over his head to illuminate the entire floor. It was covered with dozens of the lifeless creatures. They had blunt, rounded snouts with coarse white whiskers that angled down and back, and two enormous front incisors that were a sickly yellow-orange. Their ears looked like little black seashells pasted to the sides of their heads, and their meaty haunches curved up over hairless black feet.
They stared up at Beth with glistening eyes.
Beth jerked her feet up onto the bench. “What is that?”
“Beats me,” Nick said. “I’m not into mammals.”
“Nutria,” Boo said. “Swamp rats, some say.”
“Rats?”
“Nutria,” Nick said. “I’ve never heard of them before. They’re awfully big—how much do they weigh?”
“Eighteen, twenty pounds—seen ’em up to twenty-five.”
Beth was panting like a spent mare. The lack of oxygen was causing her head to spin; she imagined herself passing out and falling forward, landing face-first in a pit of yellow teeth and wriggling tails. In a panic, she threw both arms around Nick’s neck and began to scramble up onto his lap.
“Ouch,” Nick said. “Watch the heels.”
The uncle turned to his nephew. “Quel est le problème?”
The nephew just shrugged.
“Sorry,” Nick said. “My friend is muriphobic—she’s afraid of mice. She has a hard time with the little ones; I’m afraid twenty-pounders are over her limit.”
“Dat’s no mouse,” Boo said. “Dat’s a nutria.” He hoisted one by the tail and stroked its fur, as if to reassure her.
Beth squeezed her eyes tight and climbed even higher, wrapping her arms around Nick’s head like a python. Nick twisted his neck from side to side and straightened his glasses as if he were pushing his head through a turtleneck sweater.
“Better put it down,” Nick said. “She’ll be up on my head in a minute, and I don’t have the neck strength for that.”
Whump.
Beth could feel the dead rodents coming to life all around her, poking their blunt snouts into the air
and sniffing; they could sense her presence, they could taste her flesh—their whiskers were almost tickling her feet. She jerked her head up and measured the distance to the shore.
“Don’t even think about it,” Nick said.
Beth told herself again and again that her fears were irrational. Only minutes ago she had welcomed the soft warm fur around her ankles—she wanted to pull it up over her shoulders like an afghan on a chilly night. It was no different now, she told herself, nothing had changed. The fur was exactly the same; the only difference was that this time the fur was attached to a body—the bulbous body of a hideous, twenty-pound rat.
It was no use—no matter what mental hallway she started down, there was always the same demon in the closet at the end. She felt a wave of nausea rising over her; she tightened her grip on Nick’s neck to force it back down. She began to tremble like a leaf. She tried every relaxation method and breathing technique she could remember, all the ones she so glibly recommended to her own patients. None of them worked; she wondered if they ever did.
“Nick,” she whispered. “I’m begging you.”
Nick looked across at Boo. “Mind if I ask where you’re taking us?”
“Our place.”
“Is it much farther? I hate to complain, but she’s squeezing all the blood out of my head.”
“Five minutes. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Stay for supper den.”
“Glad to. What are we having?”
He nodded to the floor.
“Thanks,” Nick said. “Maybe just a salad for her.”
25
The boat veered around to the left and pulled up in front of a rickety old dock. The nephew threw a loop of rope around the closest pier and pulled the boat in; when he did, the dock leaned so far toward them that Nick thought it might collapse.
“Hurricane wrecked it,” Boo said. “Not much good before—even worse now. We go one at a time, or we go swimmin’.”
“The woman first,” Nick said. He lifted Beth in his arms and set her on the dock; it shifted even more under her weight. She still had her arms wrapped tightly around Nick’s neck; he gently pried them away and said, “Walk to the shore. Take it slow. I’ll be right behind you.”