A Killing Rain (31 page)

Va
rgas was crouched in the caboose, the last car on the children’s train in Lakes Park. He was soaked through and shivering. The pain in his shoulder was just a steady throb now. There was no sound except the rain on the metal roof of the caboose. There was no light, except the small white lights floating up in the dark sky. He struggled to focus on them.

Streetlights...that’s all they were.

He had lost track of time but he had the feeling it had been hours since he had left the cottage. He could remember dragging himself back to the car and speeding east, trying to get to I-75. But then he had seen the spotlight sweeping the trees along Summerlin, and he had heard the police helicopter. He knew they would find him, knew there would be road blocks ahead. He knew it would be impossible to get to Uncle Leo.

Then he
saw the park. He had been in this same park just six days ago. He could hide here, in the dark trees, out of sight of the helicopter and its light. And he knew there was a phone here, too.

Uncle Leo?

Where are you?

Lakes Park... Fort Myers... I’m hurt.

What happened?

They’re looking for me. Helicopters. Cops.

Silence.

Uncle Leo, please, I’m scared.

Silence.

Please.

Stay in the park. I’m coming.

Uncle Leo was co
ming. Vargas tried to look at his watch, but the glass was fogged and he couldn’t see it. God, he was cold, so cold. He closed his eyes, struggling to stay awake.

When he opened
them, he saw the white lights again. No...low now. Headlights.

He crawled from the caboose, easing his way to the road as the lights grew closer. He stayed behind a tree until the car passed and he could see
the shape. It was square, boxy. A Jeep...the Jeep he had seen parked at Uncle Leo’s house.

He watched the taillights until they were just specks, then he saw the Jeep do a U-turn and come back his way. He stepped onto the road, into
the headlights.

The Jeep stopped.

Vargas started toward the passenger door, but the driver’s side door opened.

“Uncle Leo?”

“Stay where you are, Adam.”

Uncle Leo was coming toward him, his black rain poncho billowing in the wind
.

“Uncle Leo, I’m cold.”

Uncle Leo stopped in front of him, face shadowed by his hat. He put a gloved hand on Vargas’s left shoulder and pushed him down.

The wounded shoulder exploded with pain, driving Va
rgas to his knees.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Vargas cried, holding his hand over his shoulder. “I was coming back, I swear.”

Uncle Leo walked behind him. Vargas didn’t dare turn, didn’t try to get up. A hand came down firm on the back of his neck. Then a hard, icy jab at his temple.

“What are you doing, Uncle Leo?”

“You’re going to shoot yourself, Adam,” Uncle Leo said. “Just like your crazy mother did.”

“Oh, God...”

“Shut up.”

Vargas hunched forward, trying to gulp back his tears but he couldn’t stop them.

“Don’t cry, you fucking faggot.”

He knew. Oh, God, he knew.

“Sit up. Act like a man, goddamn it.”

Vargas didn’t move. Uncle Leo jerked on the collar of Vargas’s denim jacket and pulled him upright. The barrel came back against his temple, harder this time.

Vargas closed his eyes, his heart hammering. “Stop! He’s alive!” he yelled.

“Outlaw?”

Vargas held his breath.

“Do you have him?” Uncle Leo asked.

Vargas nodded quickly.

The gun moved away from his head.

“Take me to him,” Uncle Leo said.

Her face was round and brown, her eyes dark and suspicious as she looked out at him through the leaded glass of the door. Louis held up Joe’s gold shield again so she could see it better.

“Police, ma’am. Please open the door,” he said, raising his voice over the sound of the rain.

The door clicked open and she stared up at him, clutching the lapels of her pink robe. She opened the door just enough to let him in. Louis stood, dripping on the white marble. The foyer was illuminated by a gold chandelier, but the rest of the house beyond looked dark. Normal for any house at two A.M. Not normal for Leo Ryker’s house if he were hiding his murdering nephew.

“I need to speak with Mr. Ryker, please,” Louis said.

“It is very late,” the maid said. She was Micronesian, an older version of the woman he had talked to at the refinery.

“I know. This is official police business. Get your boss, please.”

“He isn’t here.”

Louis tried to gauge if she was lying, but her smooth face gave nothing away.

“What about his nephew? Is he here?” he asked.

She shook her head.

Louis’s eyes went to the dark rooms beyond the foyer. He could see the outlines of furniture in the huge living room and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the black expanse of the gulf.

He saw a sliver of light beneath a closed door down a short hallway to
the left. He started toward it.

“Wait! You can’t
--”

He ignored her, going to the double doors and pushing them open. Shaded lamps cast shadows. Heavy wood book
cases and a massive desk. A sprawling map behind the desk. Thick green carpet under his feet. A bank of French doors. And heads...animal heads.

Louis stared up at them. They covered almost every inch of the dark paneled walls. Birds of every size and shape. Small game from badgers to fox. Antelope with great spears of horns. Deer with towering racks of antlers. Water buffalo with giant hulking heads. Rams with graceful curls of horns as thick as a man’s thigh.

Louis’s eyes settled on the head of a boar. Its glass eyes stared back, dead and black.

He didn’t see the small man with the red hair sitting in a chair in the co
rner. Rusty rose slowly, staying in the shadows. He just stood there, calm, slightly stoop-shouldered.

“Is he dead?” he asked.

“What?” Louis said.

“Is he dead?”

“Who?”

Rusty wiped a hand over his face.

Louis took a step toward him. “Who?”

“Adam,” Rusty said. “Is he dead?”

“Why would he be?”

Rusty held his eyes. “You’re a cop, right?”

Louis ignored the question. “What are you doing here?”

Rusty emerged from the shadows, moving toward the desk by the windows. He
walked slowly, head down. At the desk, he hesitated then picked up a brandy snifter. He raised it to his lips, started to take a drink, then grimaced and set the glass down.

“I can’t,” he said softly, shaking his head.

Louis’s eyes went to the bottle of cognac and the second glass on the desk. He knew Leo had been here, been here with Rusty.

“Can’t what?” Louis asked.

“I can’t do this for him,” he said softly. “Not this time.”

“Can’t do what?” Louis asked.

Rusty was just standing there, looking at him.

“Talk to me, Rusty,” Louis said. “Things will go a lot easier on everyone if you do.”

Rusty’s eyes roved over the room, looking up at all the animal heads.

“I’ve known Leo for nearly twenty years,” he said. “I was a guide working out of this crummy camp up at Okeechobee. Leo used to come out with his friends to hunt hogs and they hired me to take them out. He paid
good. Real good.”

Louis didn’t have time for this, but he forced himself to listen.

“He brought me into the business about five years ago.” Rusty gave a small shrug. “Don’t get me wrong, I was grateful and the money is damn good. But being inside in a factory all day ain’t what I call life.”

The wind crested, sending the blades of the palm fronds slashing against the tall windows.

“Why are you here tonight, Rusty?” Louis asked.

“Leo called me. Asked me to come.”

“What for?”

Rusty wouldn’t look at him.

“You said you can’t do something, Rusty? What can’t you do?”

Rusty’s
eyes went to one of the animal heads mounted on the wall behind the desk. “That was his first kill,” he said, pointing to the boar. “I was one of the guides on that hunt. That’s where I met Leo.”

His eyes drifted to a larger boar with tusks. “He got a taste for it real quick. Pretty soon after, he hired me as his personal guide.”

Rusty shook his head. “Hogs weren’t enough after a while. So we’d go up to this place up near Ocala, this private lodge where they brought in big game from Africa and places and then you could pick what you wanted to go after and pay by the kill.”

He pointed to one head. “That there’s an African Impala. Cost Leo five thousand. Over there’s a wildebeest. Cost more than seven thousand for that one.”

Rusty let out a long breath. “Some men just got more money than they know what to do with, I guess.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Louis said
. “Why’d Leo call you tonight?”

“He wanted me to go get Adam,” Rusty said. “Adam called here around two and then Leo called me. He said he’d give me a thousand dollars to go get him.”

“From where?”

“I don’t know. I told him no.”

“Were you supposed to bring Adam back here?”

“No,” Rusty said. “He wanted me to take him out to Starvation Prairie.”

“What’s that?”

“A place on some land Leo owns. He has a hunting cabin out there.”

“And do what?”

Rusty shook his head. “I don’t know. I was just supposed to meet Leo there.”

“Where is this place?”

Rusty shook his head slowly. “Man, you’d never find it.”

Louis looked up at the map behind Leo’s desk. “Is that Leo’s land?”

Rusty nodded.

“Show me where this prairie is,” Louis said.

Rusty went to the map and pointed to a blue area. “That’s
Fakahatchee Preserve. State land.” He indicated the sprawl of yellow below it “That’s Leo’s land. The north part is swamp, but the south part is open higher ground. That’s why they call them prairies. That’s where the best hunting always was.”

When he looked back at Louis, his eyes held memories, but Louis couldn’t tell if what Rusty was remembering was something he cherished or wanted to forget.

“Take me there,” Louis said.

The drive was endless, stretching deep into the blackness, the cypress trees along the side of the road rising up like monsters in the headlights.

Tell me where Outlaw is, Adam.

I’ll show you when we get there, Uncle Leo.

Tell me now.

I tell you now, you kill me now.

Vargas closed his eyes. He was exhausted. His face was starting to swell from where the lady cop had hit him, and the wound in his shoulder ached. It was only the growing knot of fear in his belly keeping him awake.

The Jeep pulled off the gravel road, hitting a bump that jarred new pain into his shoulder, then came to stop. For a second, Vargas could see thickets and trees stretching endlessly before them. Then the lights disappeared.

“All right,” Uncle Leo said, turning in his seat. “Where is he
?”

“With the women,” Vargas said.

“Why?”

Vargas felt dizzy. “What?
”

“Why did you bring him here? Why didn’t you just kill him like I told you to do?”

Vargas struggled to think. “I thought you’d want to be sure this time, Uncle Leo. I thought you’d want to see him yourself.”

Uncle Leo was quiet for a moment, staring out into the darkness. “Get out,” he said finally.

Vargas climbed out and closed the door. Uncle Leo walked to the back of the Jeep then reappeared, holding a Coleman lantern and his crossbow.

Vargas looked at the bow. “What’s that for?”

“We’re going black-birding, Adam.”

Vargas stared at him. “What?”

“I’m going to have a little fun while I’m cleaning up your mess.” Uncle Leo nudged him with the tip of the bow. “Walk.”

Vargas started into the brush, pushing aside palm fronds and branches. Even in the darkness, he knew where he was. It was the path that led to his cabin and the shack. It was the same path he had taken the two women down that first night after he picked them up on the alley.

Vargas could hear the crunch of Uncle Leo’s boots behind him, feel his own heart pounding in his chest. What the hell was he going to do when they got to the shack and Uncle Leo found out he had lied, found out that Outlaw wasn’t there?

They had reached the fork. Vargas stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Uncle Leo demanded.

Vargas couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

“Let’s go,” Uncle Leo said, poking him in the back with the bow.

Vargas started down the fork, more slowly now.

“You know, Adam,” Uncle Leo said. “Maybe I should’ve taken you hunting a long time ago.”

“I’ve killed things before,” Vargas said weakly.

“But you haven’t hunted.”

Vargas was quiet
.

“If I had taken you hunting, maybe you wouldn’t have turned out to be such a fuck-up,” Uncle Leo said. “Hunting helps a boy understand himself at his most primitive level. Helps him know what he is.”

I know what I am.”

Uncle Leo laughed. “Yeah, you’re a queer.”

Vargas turned around. “Is that why you’re going to punish me?”

Uncle Leo stopped and held the lantern up so he could see Vargas’s face.

“Is it?” Vargas asked. “Is that why?”

Uncle Leo leveled the crossbow, the tip of its arrow an inch from Vargas’s belly. “Let’s get to where we’re going, Adam,” he said. “It’ll be light soon.”

Vargas turned and walked on, throwing aside the branches. The ground became more solid, and he knew they were close. Close to the shack. But also close to his cabin.

He wiped his face, trying to clear his mind, trying to co
me up with a plan. His cabin...that’s what he would do. The cabin was less than a half mile from the shack. He would take Uncle Leo to the shack and tell him Outlaw was tied up inside. And when Uncle Leo went inside to get him, he’d run. Run to his cabin. Then he’d figure out how to get away.

Va
rgas stepped through a cluster of trees and stopped, the shack a few yards in front of him. Uncle Leo came up next to him and turned up the knob on the lantern, bathing the shack in light.

Vargas had seen the shack in daylight many times. But now, in the dark, illuminated by the white lantern light, it looked different
-- its rotting gray planks seeming to expand and contract like a breathing animal, its warped door hanging open like a slit of a black mouth.

“He’s in there,” Vargas said, nodding.

Uncle Leo took a step toward the cabin. Vargas glanced toward the trees on his left.

“Open the door, Adam.”

Vargas hesitated then pulled on the old door. It was hanging on one rusted hinge and opened easily. Vargas took a step back.

“Now go in and bring him out,” Uncle Leo said.

“What?”

Uncle Leo pulled a flashlight from his jacket and tossed it at Va
rgas. Vargas caught it and stared at Uncle Leo.

“Go in and bring him out here.”

Vargas looked at the shack then back at Uncle Leo. He shook his head slowly.

“Get in the shack, Adam.”

Vargas shook his head harder.

Uncle Leo leveled the crossbow at Vargas. A sharp zip. Vargas jumped back against the shack. When he opened his eyes, the arrow was in the dirt between his legs.

“I said, get in the shack.” Uncle Leo drew out another arrow.

Va
rgas dove into the shack. He pulled the door shut behind him, throwing his weight against it, trying to catch his breath.

Dark. He couldn’t see anything. But he could smell. He gagged, hand to his mouth.

It smelled like...

It smelled like the trailer did when his stepfather was gutting
the hogs.

Hog blood in the dirt. On the sink
, on his stepfather’s hands.

It smelled like...

It smelled like the other one, the other shack.

You stay in there. They'll get you if you don’t.

Outside, Uncle Leo laughed. And Vargas knew that Uncle Leo had never believed him that Outlaw was ever here. He just wanted to bring him here. But not to just punish him this time. To kill him.

Vargas started to shake. He fumbled with the flashlight,
finally turning it on. He forced himself to move the beam up, over the walls.

Big metal hooks.

You tell anyone, boy, I’ll hang you up just like them hogs.

The light jumped down, over the wooden skinning table.

Knives. Lots of knives. All sizes and shapes. Brown with rust. Brown with blood.

This here is your birthday knife, boy,
a skinning knife.

Take your pants down, boy.

Don’t you dare tell on me, boy.

Shoot yourself. Just like your crazy mother did.

You’re a queer, that’s what you are.

Laughter. Laughter.

He couldn’t even tell anymore if it was coming from inside his head or outside the door. He dropped the flashlight. His hands came up and he held his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Something shattered and the pieces fell around him, bright pieces of things that glittered in the dark and then disappeared.

He took his hands down. He opened his eyes. In the beam of light he saw a knife. It was standing on its tip. He stared at it, fascinated. He focused on the edge of the blade, hearing the clean sound the blade made on the whetstone, feeling it getting sharper, feeling his mind getting clearer, honing all his thoughts to one shining purpose.

Vargas jerked the knife out of the wood table. He looked at the door.

“Uncle Leo,” he called out
.

No answer.

“Uncle Leo! Come in here. I think Outlaw is dead.”

S
ilence. Then -- “Drag him out,” Uncle Leo yelled.

“
I can’t, Uncle Leo. My shoulders hurt. Open the door for me, Uncle Leo, so I can back out.”

Through the cracks in the boards, he could see Uncle Leo set the lantern on the ground. But he didn’t put the bow down. He carried it sideways in one hand.

Vargas set his flashlight on the table, the beam pointed at the door. He slid up against the front wall, knife poised.

He heard footsteps then saw Uncle Leo’s fingers come around the edge of the door. The door creaked open. Uncle Leo gave the door a final shove and Vargas moved
so the flashlight beam hit Uncle Leo full in the eyes.

Uncle Leo blinked in the beam. He saw the knife, and the crossbow flew up to block it
. But Vargas was quicker, plunging the knife into his belly. Vargas grabbed Uncle Leo’s neck with his other hand, jerking his body tighter. And deeper onto the long rusted blade.

Uncle Leo gasped, his eyes rolling up to Vargas’s face. They glistened with anger
and disbelief.

Vargas twisted the knife, pushing it deeper, his hand warm and wet as it nearly slid inside the wound.

The crossbow tumbled to the dirt. Uncle Leo’s hands came up, his fingers gripping Vargas’s denim jacket, his breath hot against Vargas’s face.

“You bastard,” Uncle Leo whispered.

Then he went limp, falling against Vargas. Vargas tried to step back, but he was off balance and Uncle Leo was heavy. Vargas fell backward, Uncle Leo’s body crushing him to the floor of the shack.

Uncle Leo was
wheezing, his head limp against Vargas’s shoulder, his hair damp against Vargas’s cheek. The knife was still inside Uncle Leo, sandwiched between their bodies.

Vargas didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.

He stared up at the hooks on the wall, feeling Uncle Leo’s breathing grow thinner and thinner.

Then
it stopped.

Vargas closed his eyes, then after a moment, rolled him off. He
scooted back against the wall, his gaze drawn to the bright white light outside.

He felt a jump of panic, thinking maybe he was the one who had died and the white light was the one that came and got you. Then things came back into focus and he knew it was just the lantern outside he was seeing.

He heard something, something moving outside. Sounds in the brush, something out there. He stayed as still as he could, his ears straining to hear what was out there.

Just stay in the shack, Adam, and they won’t get you.

He opened his eyes and in one quick move, scrambled across the floor and out the door. He grabbed the lantern and the bow and drew back inside the shack. He pulled the door closed as tight as he could get it, and held it, listening.

He couldn’t hear
them anymore.

He turned, and sat ba
ck down next to Uncle Leo.

Some things just need killing.

He closed his eyes tight. He jabbed the tip of the knife into the wood flow with every whisper.

Act like a man.

Act like a man.

Act like a man.

Gonna teach you, boy...

He looked over at Uncle Leo’s body. Slowly, his hand shaking, he reached over and slit the black poncho up
the middle.