John Lutz Bundle (62 page)

Harrison County, Florida, 1980

“He doin’ okay?” Cree asked over his shoulder, his hands skillfully playing the jumping, jerking steering wheel.

“He ain’t sayin’,” Boomer shouted back through the truck’s knocked-out rear window.

The old Dodge pickup rattled over the swamp trail that eventually widened and joined Palmetto Road. Cree was alone in the cab, fighting with the sweat-slick steering wheel. Boomer sat in back in the truck’s rusty steel bed with the boy and the dead gator. The mosquitoes didn’t seem to mind that the truck was moving. They allowed for windage and maintained their assault on Boomer and the boy with the skill and persistence of fighter pilots.

Boomer slapped at a mosquito on his sweaty forearm and brushed another of the pesky insects off the boy’s cheek.

Ahead of the truck the swamp was bathed in white light, not only from headlights but from a rack of spotlights on the roof. There were maneuverable spotlights on each front fender, too, aimed straight ahead. Cree and Boomer were poachers who froze their game at night with brilliant light that was followed by sudden death. The gators were wily in their dumb way and didn’t always stay motionless like the other swamp creatures pinned in the brilliance, the occasional deer, possum, or bobcat—even a panther once. Cree had opened up on the big cat with his twelve-gauge, but the panther bolted into heavy foliage along the bank and disappeared into the night.
If
it had been a panther, like Cree swore. Boomer had acted as if he believed him, but…well, he didn’t know what the hell they’d seen. The swamp was like that. It could trick a man, make him sure of himself and then surprise the hell out of him.

Like tonight.

An hour into the swamp, loaded for gator, they’d fired at a big one and it swam away and slipped under the water just as if it hadn’t been shot. Could be they’d both missed, but it wasn’t likely, and they used twelve-gauge shotguns with slugs in the casings instead of pellets. A lead slug that size was usually enough to stop anything it hit anywhere.

When they’d come across the other gator, the huge one that was now laid out in the back of the truck, neither one had seen the boy at first. Then Boomer had put a hand on Cree’s shoulder to stop him from firing his shotgun. “Got somethin’ in his mouth!”

“So?”

Boomer was squinting into the darkness where tree limbs shadowed the wash of the truck’s lights. “Whatever it is ain’t dead. It’s still movin’.”

Water stirred and Cree focused in and saw more clearly. “Deer, you think?”

“Deer, shit!” Boomer said. “Looks like a kid.”

“Mother of Christ, you’re right!” Cree had said, surprising Boomer a little, Cree not in Boomer’s memory being particularly religious.

Both men waded deeper into the black water to get closer, holding their shotguns high. Boomer’s breath was caught in his throat.

“Don’t shoot yet,” Cree said. “Gotta get closer so’s we don’t hit the kid.”

The kid, a skinny boy about ten like Cree’s nephew, apparently didn’t see them. They caught a glimpse of his pale face, his staring eyes that seemed to hold life yet observe nothing. He was still alive. His limbs were still moving, other than the leg the gator had hold of, but they were waving almost lazily. Boomer thought it was like the kid didn’t care he was caught in the jaws of something that wanted him for a meal. The boy was resisting his fate blindly, automatically, as if he’d already surrendered to what was happening and he’d turned off his mind to the horror.

Cree and Boomer were close enough to the big gator now. They moved slowly and silently to the side to get a better angle, both men sighting down the barrels of their shotguns.

The swamp exploded with the thunder of their shots. Cree’s gun was a double barrel, and he let loose with both barrels a second apart. Boomer had a pump action and he’d fired only once, but made it count. He was pretty sure his was the slug that entered the gator’s head. Another had missed and kicked up a spray of water a foot away from the huge gator.

The boy went limp, and Cree prayed to Jesus they hadn’t shot him. The big gator didn’t thrash around, the way most of them did when they took a twelve-gauge slug. But it did release the boy, whose still body floated off to the side. That was fortunate. Even shot in the head, a gator would sometimes in its death throes bear down harder with its jaws.

The gator suddenly whipped its tail around, flailing and foaming the black water, and then rolled over on its back, its pale belly luminous in the night.

Both men splashed forward and grabbed the boy. He was still alive, staring about blankly, somewhere else in his mind.

They were pulling him toward dry ground when Boomer glanced back and noticed the gator was right side up again. A stab of alarm went through him as he thought it might be alive, but he watched it for a full ten seconds and was pretty sure it was dead.

He waded closer to put another slug in its head, and he saw that it truly was dead. One of the heavy slugs had gone through its eye, leaving a black, gaping hole that held about as much expression as the boy’s eyes.

“Leg looks like shit,” Cree said, when they had the boy lying on the ground beside the pickup.

Boomer had his shirt off and ripped in strips and was wrapping the boy’s leg as gently as he could. Then he used a piece of greasy rope from the pickup bed to make a tourniquet. He knew he’d have to loosen it periodically so some blood could circulate, or the kid might lose the leg.

They decided to take the dead gator for its meat and hide, and the two of them wrested it into the truck bed, then gently laid the kid next to it. Boomer climbed over the rear fender and situated himself in the bed, just behind the cab, so he could keep an eye on the kid and make sure his head didn’t bounce around on the hard steel. They didn’t have anything soft to lay him on.

The gator was so big they had to leave the rusty tailgate down, and Cree could feel the lightness in the front end as he steered the truck along the rutted road.

After about twenty minutes, he braked the truck then pulled to the side on a barely discernable narrow dirt drive that led to Boomer’s shack, where they usually gutted and skinned their game.

It didn’t take them long to drag the gator out of the truck, letting it lie where it dropped near the crude wooden hoist they’d later use to lift it.

Boomer clambered back into the truck bed with the boy as Cree reversed the vehicle along the trail that would return them to the swamp road. He tried again to find out the boy’s name, where he’d come from, but the kid remained silent. He was in shock, Boomer figured, and why the hell not?

There was nowhere they could take the boy without arousing suspicion as to how and where they’d found him. What were they doing in the swamp at night? And what in God’s name had gotten the boy by the leg?

Most everyone would guess the answer to that last one, and there’d be plenty of explaining to do. Eventually that explaining would have to be done to the law.

Neither Cree nor Boomer wanted any discourse with the law. They hadn’t discussed the situation, but both men had been giving it a lot of thought.

“Doc Macklin,” Cree called back from the truck cab.

Boomer said, “Go!”

Doc Macklin was Jerry Macklin, spelled like a man only it was a black woman. She was rumored to have once had a regular practice somewhere in the panhandle, until there was trouble involving the death of a stranger. Now she depended on herbs and poultices and other swamp remedies to treat her patients. She was short on science but long on successes.

When they reached Doc’s cabin, just outside the small town, they gently lifted the boy from the truck and stretched him out near the door on the wooden front porch.

Boomer patted the boy’s cool forehead. Cree stared down at the kid and crossed himself.

Boomer pounded on the door with his big fist. Then the two men hurriedly left the porch and climbed back into the truck, both of them in the cab this time.

The rattling old truck made a cautious U-turn, then kicked up dust and gravel as Cree steered it back toward Boomer’s shack to deal with the dead gator. Cree leaned on the horn as they drove away.

Inside the ramshackle house, Doc Macklin lay in a stupor from one of her powerful remedies that relieved deep sadness, and heard nothing.

Just before dawn, Sherman awoke and wondered who and where he was. He slowly stood up before falling back down and realizing there was something seriously wrong with his right leg.

He pulled himself up again, holding onto the porch rail for support. There was a throbbing pain in the leg, but he’d felt pain before and could put it away in the back of his mind. He looked down and saw bloody, makeshift bandages, and a length of rope tied around his thigh. Where had they come from? Who’d put them there? He loosened the knot and tossed the rope away, and that made the leg feel better, though the deep gouges in it began to seep blood. The boy cautiously peeked beneath the strips of bloody cloth. Chunks of flesh were missing. What had happened to his leg?

No time to wonder now. He stumbled down off the porch and limped to the nearby dirt road. The sun had just risen and lay low over the swamp, warming Sherman’s face. He trudged toward the warmth, not knowing where he was going or why, only that he should keep moving. Something might get him if he didn’t. Something horrible and real and dangerously nearby.

A jolt of pain ran up his leg and he almost fell. But he knew he mustn’t. He had to remain upright. Moving.

He resumed his slow and limping gait along the road. It had to lead somewhere. Every road led somewhere.

The sun rose higher, and along with it the temperature.

He walked, because walking was everything. He walked away from the wooden porch where he’d found himself, away from whatever else was behind him. Walked despite the dizziness and the pain that beat with his heart. He didn’t ask himself why, but he knew he had to keep moving. It was his simple and unquestioned duty, his one chance and his salvation.

He was certain in his bones that whatever he was walking toward was better than what was behind him.

What was behind him was so horrible his memory drew back and hid from it in a deep well in his mind.

He walked.

New York, the present

After Ella left the Pepper Tree, Pearl walked over and joined Jeb at his table near the front of the restaurant, where it was brighter and there was a view of the street.

He took a sip of his draft beer, which was in a tall, graceful glass he’d lifted from a round coaster that had the green outline of a tree on it with the name of the restaurant.

“You spooked my friend,” Pearl said, settling into the chair opposite Jeb.

He smiled. “Your witness?”

“Not technically, as she didn’t witness the murder, but she knew the victim.”

“She thought she knew me, too. I assume that’s what you mean by my having spooked her. I get that stuff all the time, people thinking I’m somebody else. It must be something about my face. I should have been a spy.”

“I like your face,” Pearl said.

A skinny waitress who tended to act shy and clasp her hands together came over and Pearl told her she wasn’t eating but would have another glass of Pellegrino. Pearl knew it was politically insensitive to think of the woman as a waitress, but in the restaurant’s white blouse and yellow-checked apron uniform, she looked as if she’d stepped out of a fifties Norman Rockwell painting. As she was watching the aproned woman walk away, something outside, across the street, caught her eye.

“Excuse me,” she told Jeb. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her leave the restaurant and walk directly across the street to a girl in a baggy red shirt and jeans. The girl saw her approach and looked for a second as if she might bolt, then she seemed to change her mind and stood facing Pearl with her arms crossed, cupping her elbows as if she were cold.

They talked for a few minutes, then Pearl turned away and weaved and timed her way through traffic to cross the street back toward the restaurant. The girl followed, though it didn’t appear that Pearl was aware of her.

Pearl remained unaware until she’d sat back down at the table with Jeb. Lauri was standing over her, looking not exactly angry, but determined in a way that reminded Pearl of Quinn.

“I asked you not to follow me,” Pearl said, “and specifically not back in here.”

“I only want to make sure you understand I wasn’t spying on you,” Lauri said.

Pearl looked at Jeb, the man who should have been a spy. “She’s been shadowing me all day, staying out of sight while she observes me. Would you call that spying?”

Jeb looked up at the girl—young, attractive, short blond hair, a tiny diamond stud in her nose. “I’d have to say you
were
spying,” he told her with a smile. “Unless you’re selling magazine subscriptions.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what
are
you doing?”

“You could call it a learning process.”

“She wants to be a cop,” Pearl explained. She introduced Lauri and Jeb, who shook hands.

The skinny waitress returned with the Pellegrino. After placing glass and bottle on the table, she looked at Lauri and clasped her hands.

“Nothing for me,” Lauri said. “I’m just intruding.”

The waitress gawked.

“Sit down,” Pearl said to Lauri. She didn’t want a scene. She wasn’t used to dealing with teenage girls and had a feeling this situation could get out of hand within seconds.

Lauri sat down next to her and looked up at the waitress, who was still gawking and pressing her hands together. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have whatever she’s drinking.”

The waitress broke a jittery smile and retreated.

Jeb was grinning.

“You seem amused,” Pearl said, feeling simultaneously irritated and helpless.

“You should be flattered someone like this is following you,” Jeb said.

Lauri smiled at him.

“Why do you want to be a cop?” he asked her, obviously charmed. Lauri could spread bullshit almost as skillfully as her father.

“My dad’s a cop, and Pearl is. Was. Is again. I guess they’re two people I admire.”

Now Pearl couldn’t help but feel flattered. And like some kind of Grinch because she’d tried to discourage Lauri.

Jeb still wore the amused smile. Pearl thought it was amazing how fast he and Lauri had developed a mutual admiration. Or was it all for show? For her benefit? Two adventurers, chiding the cautious, professional Pearl. Maybe silently laughing at her. Pearl wasn’t sure if she liked that.

“Is she breaking any laws?” Jeb asked.

“She’s interfering with a police officer,” Pearl said. “A homicide detective at that.”

“Jeez!” Lauri said. “I only followed you to lunch,”

“Where I went to interview a potential suspect.”

“He’s awful good-looking for a suspect,” Lauri said, grinning at Jeb.

“Not Jeb, the woman I came here to meet first. The woman you saw leave. And she’s not a suspect. He’s not a suspect. Unfortunately, nobody’s a suspect.”

“So now you’re at lunch? This is just social?”

Pearl sighed. “You could say that.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Jeb said.

“Love to. If it’s okay with Pearl.”

“Of course,” Pearl said, defeated. “I give up. I can’t fight both of you when you gang up on me.”

“Ever think of being a journalist?” Jeb asked Lauri.

“Now and then, I have to admit.” She gave a little shiver. “It seems romantic.”

Pearl thought she might be troweling it on too thick, but Jeb didn’t seem to notice.

A lesson here. Unless he’s just trying to get my goat.

The waitress returned with a second bottle of Pellegrino. Lauri ordered a vegetable omelet, then ice cream for dessert. Throughout the meal she continued to charm Jeb, knowing he was the way to get Pearl to agree to be her mentor. Or so she thought. Pearl knew better. These two people didn’t understand police work and its dangers.

Or its subtleties.

She didn’t mention to either of them the presence of Wormy slouching bonelessly in a doorway across the street, waiting for them to emerge from the restaurant. Apparently he’d been following Lauri while she tailed Pearl. Maybe he was trying to protect Lauri. Or assuring himself of her fidelity.

Either way, Pearl wasn’t going to confront him. She decided to let the situation ride for a while. She didn’t want to get Lauri into trouble by telling Quinn about her persistence in shadowing her. Also, if Quinn learned about this, he’d learn about her assignations with Jeb, and Pearl wasn’t quite ready for that to happen. And if Lauri was secretly hanging around Pearl, what harm could Wormy do? The two kids were apparently in love—at least Wormy was, judging by the way he was mooning around. Maybe he should be the one to convince Lauri to pursue something other than a cop’s career.

Pearl had to admit there was something about this that amused her, Lauri inexpertly tailing her and not noticing Wormy inexpertly tailing
her.
A procession of incompetents.

When the time was right, Pearl would tell Quinn about this and he’d find it immensely amusing. They’d share a big laugh.

When the time was right.

That night Pearl lay in bed unable to sleep, listening to the window air conditioner humming away in its mechanical battle with the heat. Its low monotone was punctuated by night sounds of the city, muted and diminished in number by the late hour.

Rather, the early hour. Pearl knew it would start to get light outside pretty soon. The dark between the blind slats would become gray, then the gray at the edges of the windows would brighten, and warm sunlight would find its way inside. Pearl, who felt as if she’d had two minutes of sleep though she’d gone to bed at eleven o’clock, would have to get up, shower, and dress.

She wanted to remain comfortably in bed. She asked herself why it was necessary to struggle upright, trudge into the bathroom, and stand nude under running water. Why did people do that? How did that kind of thing ever get started?

Surely there must be a better way.

She rolled onto her stomach, punched her pillow with gusto, and tried to enjoy what little time she had left in bed, but her head began to pound.

She knew what might really have disturbed her sleep. It was the way Ella Oaklie had thought she recognized Jeb when he walked into the Pepper Tree.

Ella had seemed so sure Jeb was the man she’d met with Marilyn Nelson not long before Marilyn’s death. And Pearl didn’t agree with Jeb that he had the type of face that would cause him often to be mistaken for someone else. Of course, that could be because of the way she felt about him.

Might Jeb actually be the man Ella had met? Jeb using the name Joe Grant?

Pearl punched her pillow again and told herself she was being too cynical. That was why she’d quit the department and become a guard in a quiet, efficient bank where everyone was polite and almost everything worth stealing was locked away in a vault with walls three feet thick. Banks were orderly islands of calm.

Not like the outside mad world where people died horrible deaths for no apparent reason, where questions evoked more questions instead of answers, where a teenage kid followed a burnt-out cop on a dangerous job and was in turn followed by a human worm.

Where a killer might change identities as easily and consciencelessly as if he were changing clothes.

Pearl decided it was time to turn off her mind and turn on the shower. As she climbed out of bed and padded barefoot toward the apartment’s tiny bathroom, she wondered if it actually was possible to be too cynical.

She told herself the answer had to be yes. That Jeb Jones and Joe Grant were simply two different people.

The answer had to be yes.