Blood of Cain

65

At 8:00 pm, I set the bait. I carried Suzy into the house, turned on the television, and placed my house guest in front of the screen. I positioned her so the flickering light from the TV screen would cast the silhouetted form of a woman against the curtains in front of the bay window. I adjusted the light levels in the room, walked outside and checked. Perfect. Since Suzy was presumably watching TV, no one should notice that she wasn’t moving. At least I was counting on no one noticing.

And now, the countdown. In the conversation I had with Dave, I’d told him — and whoever was listening — that Courtney Burke was expected to arrive at midnight. Would they plan to be here before that time, or could I expect them anytime between midnight and dawn? I didn’t know, but I did know what I needed in my hands to stop the intruders if they came as a team — two or more.

I went inside and opened the gun cabinet, removed my Remington Special Ops Tactical 12-gauge pump shotgun, and loaded the chamber and magazine with double-aught buckshot. I cleaned and reloaded my Glock. Learning to expect the unexpected, I was seldom surprised.

Max seemed anxious, pacing the floor once or twice, occasionally glancing at our silent and lifeless house guest. I didn’t want her in harm’s way, but I needed her uncanny sense of hearing. Her bark would be a short alarm, just the edge I’d need to have a better advantage against the intruder or intruders. I’d planned on locking Max in a back bedroom facing the western approach to my cabin. The darkest area of the property. I would be outside, hidden, waiting in the shadows or trees. My point-of — view would include a bird’s eye perspective of the entire property, especially the road frontage, my driveway, and the side of the house with the silhouette in the window.

I went back inside, secured Max in a bedroom, and dressed in dark jeans and black T-shirt. I sprayed insect repellent on my exposed body parts before stepping onto the screened-in front porch and reaching inside a bag of charcoal. I removed two briquettes, crushing them together in the palms of my hands. Then I rubbed the black residue all over my face, ears, arms and hands. I used a wet-wipe to keep my palms clean.

A curlew called out across the river somewhere on the edge of the national forest. The dying sunset cast the St. Johns in cavernous shade from the palms, oaks and weeping willows along the shore. The river was very still. Woven in between the saw-tooth shade was the reflection of clouds like clusters of purple grapes floating in red wine, a wiry mist frolicking off the water and painting the surface into a river of dreams.

But the illusion of tranquility was short lived. I spotted the ripple of a V formation as a massive alligator slowly swam from murky water beneath a cypress tree. It swam around cypress knees sprouting like knobby posts out of the water, the big gator’s nostrils and eyes above the surface.

I was wondering how I might carry out a plan without resulting to torture. The thought of replicating the use of gas on a stove, like what was almost tried on Kim, disgusted me. I’d prefer to use Mother Nature. She could be much more convincing.

I used an aluminum ladder to get to my lookout position — my rooftop, pulling the ladder up behind me. I’d taken a viewpoint position from behind my stone chimney, putting it between me and the road. That was three hours ago. Watching. Waiting. Mosquitoes orbited my head, whining off-key in my ears. I set the shotgun down and did twenty-five pushups, moving the blood, keeping my senses as sharp as possible.

The moon was on my side tonight. It slept late, but like an old friend, the full moon was there, rising in the east above the tree-line, and its light like spun gold off the liquid face of the river. Bats did aerial stunts under the moonlight. I waited. Listened. Would they come?

To my far right, in the west, I saw the distant flash of lightning. I was hoping the soldier or soldiers would arrive before the rain. It would be much harder to spot them in a moonless night with rain falling. I heard the distinct hoot of a barred owl, the hooting coming from one of the cypress trees near my dock. Cicadas vibrated in the limbs. Then there was the mechanical sound of man.

A car was coming.

I peered from around the side of the chimney and watched the light from the headlamps travel across the treetops. Within seconds, a car rounded the bend. It moved at a speed slower than the posted forty-five-miles-per hour, but not so slow to be obvious that the driver was searching for something. When the car was near the spot where my driveway joined the road, there was a minor reduction in speed. Then it passed the driveway. Fifty feet later, a tap of the brakes. But only for a second. The driver continued.

I knew he’d be back. And he wouldn’t be in his car.