In for the Kill

39

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.