Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  I was catching up to Thoreau in the flat. Wait to wring his neck until you get in the car, Micky, I told myself. We had another fifty or seventy-five yards before we got to the road. There was another line of trees and shrubs, so I couldn’t see the pavement, but I knew the car was there. Thoreau was only about five feet in front of me. I would pass him and get the front seat beside Cordelia, I told myself smugly.

  Then I tripped. I couldn’t figure out how I had tripped on this immaculately smooth lawn, until I tried to stand up. Pain shot through my leg and I realized that I had been shot.

  I limped a few steps. I would never make it to the road in time without help.

  “Thoreau,” I called. He had just reached the cover of the trees. He turned back, looked at me, then at something behind me. He wavered for a second, but only a second. He turned and ran, leaving me behind.

  I staggered into the trees, waiting for the final bullet in the back or in the head. But it didn’t arrive. Not yet. I wasn’t going to make it to the road. Cordelia’s free, that’s all that matters. And so is that jerk. I thought about sitting down and just letting the goons catch me. No more running uselessly from fate.

  Damn it, no! I wasn’t going to make it easy for them. Besides, someone had to be around to object at Cordelia’s wedding. I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around my leg. I had been shot in the thigh. I didn’t want any blood dripping on to the ground and leaving a trail. Instead of heading for the road, I turned for the swamp. The edge of it was only about ten yards away. I could hide for a long time in that morass. If I was lucky.

  I half-rolled, half-slid down the slope into the bog. I hoped I didn’t leave too much of a bloody trail. Bracing against a pine tree for support, I hauled myself up. Using my good leg and trees for balance, I limped into the shadows of the swamp. I found a grassy knoll and crawled to the top, hoping to see the road. There was a gap in the trees, lighter with the encroaching dawn, but I couldn’t be sure if it was the road or not. I shouldn’t be lingering here on this high ground. Still, I stared at the gap. One more minute and I have to leave, I told myself. There was the briefest flash of red past the opening, then it was gone.

  She had made it. Cordelia was safe, I exalted. Finally, one person that I hadn’t let die.

  I limped off the high ground, the mud sucking wetly at my feet. Blood had soaked through my jacket and was running down my leg. I smeared it into my pants to keep it from dripping onto the ground. At least it was my own clothes that I was destroying this time. It was getting colder. No, it was getting warmer with the sun coming up. I was getting colder. I was wet and muddy and bloody and had to use too much energy just to keep going.

  I was guessing that they would assume I would try to make it to the road. So I headed toward the river, painfully making my way through the dense undergrowth and treacherous mud holes.

  One good thing about being shot in the leg was that it stopped everything else from hurting. The drop-something-very-heavy-on-your-foot school of headache cures.

  I found some relatively dry ground and gingerly let myself down. My leg needed attention. I slowly undid the jacket, trying not to make it bleed any more than it already did.

  Daylight was filtering in, penetrating even this dense tangle. Light enough for me to examine my leg. It wasn’t so bad, merely a flesh wound, I told myself. But what do I know about medicine, the voice of reality answered. I could be bleeding to death. I tried not to think about that.

  I took the razor out of my jacket pocket and cut off one of the jacket sleeves. Then I cut the sleeve into two halves, lengthwise. These halves I wound tightly around my leg, splitting the tail end of the top one and tying it off. That would have to do. I put the bloody jacket back on.

  I heard voices off in the distance. I had to keep moving. I hobbled toward the river, away from the voices. Every twenty feet or so, I had to stop, clutching whatever tree was handy in an attempt to take weight off my one supporting leg. Still, it wasn’t long before I could feel fatigue trembling in my muscles. I had to find some place to hide and rest. I veered farther into the swamp. I had been traveling parallel with One Hundred Oaks Plantation toward the river. Now I was angling away from it, toward the river and the place where Barbara and I had been held. So long ago, it seemed.

  The ground was getting wetter as I walked. Soon I was wading in water mid-calf to knee level. I was beginning to shiver from the cold water. And I was making too much noise splashing through the water on one leg. I tentatively put my weight on the damaged leg. Pain shot through me. I gritted my teeth and put a little more weight onto the leg. Muscles strained against the tightness of my makeshift bandage.

  I took a few experimental steps, supporting as much of my weight as I could by holding on to trees and branches. The pain didn’t get any better. But it didn’t get any worse. Maybe I can do this. I have to do this, I told myself. No maybes.

  I took a few more careful steps through the deepening water. Then another step with my good leg, but there was nothing to land on. The quivering mud gave way to a void. I went down into the water, under for a second, unable to see or feel anything but the dark water. I flailed my way to the surface, spitting and coughing, trying to get the water out of my nose and mouth.

  It’s only a step, you can get back a step, I told myself, to calm my rising panic. I grabbed at stray clumps of marsh grass. It seemed an eternity before my hands sank into oozing mud. I didn’t even bother trying to stand. I half-dog-paddled, half-crawled until I got to a patch of ground that would hold me up. I lay, exhausted and trembling, unable to move, until the cold forced violent shivers through my body.

  I expected at any moment to see one of Milo’s boys grinning at me, with a gun pointed at my head. But all I heard were insect sounds, the morning song of birds, as if nothing had happened. Only humans mark death; the swamp didn’t care if I lived or died. If anything, my death would be more useful to it than my life. I remembered too well the innocent and rapacious beetle that I had thrown off Barbara. I shivered again, this time from more than just cold.

  I had to keep moving and find some place out of this wet muck. I started crawling, inching forward, listening with every move to the mud and water sucking and dragging at me, trying to pull me back into their embrace.

  Then my hand touched a fallen tree branch. It felt strong enough to support my weight. I pried it out of the muck. About the right length, too. I planted it upright in the mud and used it to pull myself to a kneeling position. It would hold my weight. I stood up carefully, using both the branch and a tree for support. I was able to tuck it under my shoulder and rest my weight on it. Not very comfortable, but it would do.

  I was heading back toward One Hundred Oaks Plantation, but I had to get out of the wet and muck. The ground was slowly, almost imperceptibly slanting upward.

  Even with my brand-new, handy-dandy crutch, I wasn’t setting any speed records. If one of those thugs caught sight of me, I was swamp history.

  Dawn had passed by now. The sun was on its way to solid morning. I would have preferred the darkness to hide in. Korby and the rest of his goon squad had to be back.

  Maybe they thought I had escaped with Cordelia and Thoreau and they weren’t even looking for me. Or maybe they figured that they had wounded me and that they didn’t need to bother looking. I had left a puddle of blood where I had been shot and probably a few traces leading into the swamp, if they were astute enough to spot them. Or maybe they needed to leave this place in a hurry and searching for a wounded detective through a swamp wasn’t high on their priority list, particularly after two prisoners had escaped by car.

  Maybe. A bunch of maybes. I was still cold, wet, and bleeding.

  The ground sloped upward and led to a small clearing. The clearing had been used as a dump site. There were plastic garbage bags strewn around, a number of them torn open by small (I hoped) animals. Korby and his friends didn’t strike me as the kind of people who would be neat and take out their trash as they left. Maybe I
would be safe here for a short rest period. At least the ground was high and dry and the trash bags would be useful.

  I emptied one, then tore one large hole for my head and two smaller ones for my arms. I put it on. What the fashionable girl detective is wearing these days. I saw why these bags were left out here. Drug paraphernalia, the trash of Korby’s operations, was dumped here. No cops in this swamp to dig through your garbage. I emptied three more bags. That done, I clumped over to a flat, unlittered spot and put one of the bags on the ground. I sat down on the bag and covered myself with the other two. I rested my back against a tree, hoping that some of the weariness and pain would seep out of me. I tried to keep awake and alert, listening for the distant wail of a siren that would herald my rescue. Or the gruff voice and broken twig that would mean they were still looking for me.

  I must have dozed, though not for long. The sun was still close to where it had been in the morning sky, but I felt groggy and I couldn’t remember what I had just been doing.

  Keep awake, Micky. If Ranson shows up to rescue you, you’ll probably have to tell her where you are. Ranson. Joanne. Remembering her made me wake up. I wondered if she would be able to rescue me. Damn it, the last time I saw her I behaved like a petulant child. Don’t die, Joanne. You need to yell at me for getting into this mess. Just don’t die, I breathed a silent prayer.

  A quick motion across the clearing caught my eye. A little field mouse chewing furtively on some garbage. Then a dark hand jerked out of the bushes and grabbed it. No, not a hand, the jaws of a snake. The mouse squirmed, still eating as it was being eaten. But this wasn’t the snake of my nightmares. It was an everyday snake that ate mice and that I could easily kill with my staff.

  I shifted and one of my hands slid down, dangling at my side. It didn’t touch ground. I knew the feeling. I knew what was next to me without even seeing it. Still, I angled my head to look, trying not to move anything else. I was suddenly very glad of the cold.

  My hand was resting about three inches from the head of a large rattlesnake. Its tongue was flicking in and out. Like the other snakes, it probably came here for the rodents that ate the garbage and had coiled up beside me for warmth.

  I fought the urge to laugh hysterically. My first thought on seeing the snake was “Happy Birthday, Micky.” Somewhere between yesterday and today, I had turned thirty. February twenty-ninth, a day caught in limbo between the twenty-eighth and March first. Today was the first of March. Somewhere in the night, I had grown older.

  It looked like the swamp was going to win. Unless, of course, Milo or one of the goon brothers should show up right now. Then maybe I could throw the snake at him and the two of them could fight it out and leave me to my nap.

  The snake flicked its tongue out, tasting the air. I wondered if it could feel my fear. I couldn’t jump or roll far enough away to get out of striking distance, and trying to would only rile it up. I could hope it would go away, but since I was the warmest thing going, that didn’t seem very likely.

  I remembered my dad catching snakes. When one got too close to the house, he would catch it, sometimes using a stick, but if he had no stick, with his bare hands. He would grab it right behind the head so that it couldn’t strike him. Then he would take it away from the house and let it go. “Snakes kill rodents and other things we don’t like,” he would explain.

  Like lizards and rats. The snake’s head was only inches from my hand. Easy, I told myself, as good as I am at grabbing crabs. Just don’t let go.

  I let out a breath and relaxed. I had to be faster than the snake.

  Then I grabbed, catching the rattler at the triangle of its head. It hissed and started thrashing its body, throwing the coils over my arm and into my face. I got a hold on its body with my other hand. That stopped the worst of the thrashing. I kicked one of the garbage bags off me, then managed to open it with my good foot. I held the writhing snake over the bag and, as best I could, aimed its tail into the opening. I let go of the body and quickly pulled the bag up around the snake. I pushed myself into a kneeling position, ignoring the pain in my wounded leg. Then I let go of the head, at the same time lifting the lip of the garbage bag as high as I could. The snake thrashed wildly in the bottom of the bag, but I was out of its reach. I tied the top of the bag with a scrap of string and put it down. The snake was still whipping about, but it wasn’t going anywhere. I searched around until I found a long stick. I tied the string to the end of the stick so that the bag would dangle from it.

  I had a weapon against Korby.

  I looked back to where I had seen the first snake. It was still there, digesting the field mouse, the rodent face sticking out of the snake’s mouth like some grotesque Halloween mask. It was a pygmy rattler. A perfect snake for what I wanted. Pygmy, or ground rattlers, are mean-tempered little napoleons without even a real rattle to shake. With the mouse in its mouth, it was easy to capture, even limping as I was. I put it in the bag with the rattlesnake. They could keep each other warm. I was going out of the personal heating business. There was a hiss of greeting as the little snake landed on the big one.

  I heard voices off in the distance, coming from the direction of the house. One of them sounded like Milo’s. It was time to move on.

  With my snake bag and crutch, I hobbled out of the clearing and into the undergrowth as quietly as I could. I was still heading in the direction of the river, although my main purpose was to stay out of sight and hearing of any of Korby’s gang.

  I wondered what time it was. My watch was smashed. It said three-eleven and I didn’t think that very likely. Time seemed fluid, contracting and expanding at an arbitrary whim. How long had Cordelia and Thoreau been gone? Long enough to have found a phone? What if Korby had intercepted them? Could he have recognized the speeding BMW in time to have caught it and stopped them?

  Was Danny back from Baton Rogue yet? What would she think of my message?

  I heard voices through the trees. They sounded like they were coming from the clearing that I had just left. One of the voices was Milo’s. The other one I couldn’t be sure of, but it might have been Lafitte’s. I stood still, wanting to go for better cover but unwilling to risk any noise. I hoped my snakes wouldn’t choose now to thrash around in their plastic prison. I could make out some of the words.

  “Well, I stopped them, didn’t I?” said the voice that could be Lafitte’s.

  “How long?” Milo returned sneeringly.

  “Long enough. Who let them get away in the first place?”

  “Who told me how to tie them up?”

  “If you had done it right, they would still be here.”

  “Seems to me a slick cop like you could have gotten a country bumpkin police officer to release them to you.”

  “Almost. But the girl was smart and confessed to some murder that happened here, so he wouldn’t let me take them. Best I could do was convince him not to let them make any phone calls. I told him we were about to do a big bust and that he could blow it by letting them call anyone.”

  “How soon before all the stuff is loaded?” Lafitte asked Milo.

  “Soon enough. If the girl doesn’t get anyone out here.”

  “She won’t,” Lafitte tersely replied. “What about that smartass detective?”

  “She’s bleeding and running around in this swamp. I’ve got one of the boys posted on the road to cut her off. Not a big worry.”

  “Yeah, you keep saying that. Blood,” Lafitte said, changing the subject, I presumed. “Here on the ground. She was here.”

  There was a pause, then he continued, “Aren’t you going after her?”

  “Naw, I’ll send some of the boys. I’m wearing expensive shoes.”

  “Make sure you get her this time.”

  Their voices were receding, going back to the house. To tell some of the boys to come after me. I started moving, to get away from any telltale blood. My leg was still oozing, but probably not enough to give me away. I had left a spot back in the clearing because I
had stayed there.

  I couldn’t stray too far from the house because of the treacherous bog. Maybe I could find some place to hide. I certainly wasn’t going to outrun them.

  I had to edge even closer to the plantation to avoid a dense tangle of vines. It would take too much strength to plow through them, although I would have preferred their cover to the overgrown path that I was treading now. I could see patches of clear sky through the trees. I was that close to the lawn.

  The snakes hissed as the bag swung. A nice idea, but maybe I should let them go. Carrying my weight was bad enough.

  A patch of white through the trees caught my attention. Then I saw some red numbers. Korby’s plane.

  “End of the line, fellows,” I whispered to the snakes.

  Somewhere I had given up. I knew I wasn’t going to get out of this swamp alive. All that was left for me was to make the game as hard as I could for my opponents. It made my next move easy and the risk seem unimportant.

  I edged closer to the clearing, making my way to the lawn perimeter. This was the widest part of the lawn. Wide enough for a small airplane to land and take off. The plane was parked at this end, maybe ten yards from where I was, ready to whisk Korby away to freedom.

  They were so sure of themselves, they hadn’t even bothered to guard it. Who could get to Korby’s plane from the middle of a swamp?

  I crawled up the slope to the lawn, dragging the hissing bag behind me. A purpose, a goal, made it easier to ignore the pain in my injured leg.

  This part of the lawn was hidden from the house and the barn by a thick swatch of trees and underbrush. I could hear voices over at the barn, but couldn’t see anyone. Nor could they see me.

  My good foot suddenly slipped in the wet leaves of the slope. I had to brace myself with my wounded leg to keep from sliding back down. I grabbed a tree, but the pain still shot through me. It didn’t even feel like it was in my thigh, but more like a huge knot in my chest with tendrils twining through my arms and legs. The bag slapped against me and I felt the thrashing coils of a snake. I put the bag on the ground, then sank to my knees, not wanting to slide back down the hill. I held onto the tree with both hands, my cheek resting against the cool bark, as I waited for the pain to subside. Slowly it ebbed out of me, down to a dull throb in my upper leg.