Seduced

TWENTY-EIGHT

I drew the pistol and backtracked as fast as I could go, vaulting roots, ducking limbs. When the water came into view, I slowed before exiting the mangrove fringe-and was knocked sideways by a blinding impact.

When I looked up, Larry towered over me, his charred face grotesque beneath the silhouette of a machete that was poised to strike. Only one long bar of his mustache remained. The effect was surreal.

“The boat key?” he yelled. “Where is it?”

I scrambled backwards, and said, “In the boat!” because I was too dazed to invent a lie.

“Show me your hands! I’ll cut your head off, damn you. Where’s that gun? Pull your gun, I’ll do it.”

There was a panicked edge to his insanity. He was as scared as me, I realized, scared I’d shoot him, but it was more than that. Kill me now, he was doomed if I was lying about the key. Police would link him to my murder-if a snake didn’t get him first.

I extended my hands, palms out, to prove they were empty. “Take it easy… I’m lying on it. There’s a holster on the back of my belt where-”

“Don’t. Don’t reach for anything. And stop your damn squirming. Spread your arms-not like that, dumbass. I want your hands away from your body; as far from the gun as you can get them.”

I lay in a sodden crevice between trees. My shoulders were blocked by coiled roots and deadfall. I scanned the area around my head before threading my left arm through the tangle. Then, with exaggerated difficulty, I extended my right hand until it rested behind the roots. It was because of what I had just seen: a flash of silver. My pistol had landed there.

“What’s your problem, girl?”

“It hurts. I think you broke my arm.”

“Good. Your shooting hand. Tell me the truth. Where’s that goddamn key?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s a python on my boat. Look for yourself. It crawled up there to get warm.” In a hurry, I added, “Don’t-I was lying!” because he straddled me, moving as if to crush me with a knee.

“No more of your bullshit. Where is the key?”

“In my bag,” I said. “There’s a zipper pocket on the flap. The key’s in there.”

The man stepped back and went through the bag. As he scattered my things on the ground, a baritone voice called, “Hey… Buddy. Buddy Luck! Don’t leave me, man. I’ll triple what I paid. Are you there? Goddamn it… ANSWER ME.”

Larry howled in response, “Kiss my ass, Martinez!” and held up the spare boat key in triumph. Then, looking down, started to say, “Put on your dancing shoes, girl, because-”

That’s as far as he got before he saw the pistol; me, sitting up now, my eyes staring cold, ready to pull the trigger. And I would’ve done it, shot him square in the chest, had he moved toward me. Instead, he backed away and dropped the machete as if in surrender.

It was a ploy to defuse my willingness. He waited until I was getting up, then sprinted toward the water, using trees as cover.

I followed. By the time I exited the mangroves, he was almost to my skiff, which had drifted a little but not far. A huge man with a charred mustache was easily tracked over the pistol sights, yet I didn’t fire. His back was to me; he was slogging along, muck up to his knees. An easy target.

That’s not the only reason I didn’t fire. I wanted to see what happened. If he made it to the boat and climbed aboard, yes, I’d pull the trigger-better to wound an unarmed man than to be lost to a place like this.

It all depended on the python. Larry hadn’t noticed what resembled six feet of fire hose stretched across the stern. The tail, my warning flag. That’s all that was visible. It lay as motionless as a hose, too. The snake was still a lifeless lump due to hypothermia.

Larry doesn’t know that, I thought. When he sees what’s in there, he’ll panic again and run.

If he didn’t…?

That decision could wait. I would let it play out, watching from the water’s edge.

Larry stumbled, fell sideways. His bulk made a mighty splash, displacing a geyser that sprinkled the deck of my skiff.

I watched the python’s tail twitch, then twitch again. Or was it an illusion created by waves rocking the hull?

The big man righted himself, tried to stand and fell forward, but this time lunged within a body length of the skiff.

I watched the python’s tail slowly curl itself into a question mark. Or was that imaginary, too? When angry, I am often guilty of perverse hope.

Larry did something smart that Roberta and I had learned weeks ago. He closed the distance by belly crawling, then reached up and slapped a big hand on the gunnel so he could hang there and catch his breath.

My eyes swung, hoping for a reaction, but there was nothing to watch. The python’s tail lay as immobile as a frozen chunk of pipe.

I’d holstered the pistol but drew it when the man noticed me for the first time. Immediately, he turned his back and hollered, “Once I get the motor started, you’re welcome to come aboard. But not with that damn gun.”

“Look what’s on the deck,” I said. “You might change your mind about me and my gun.”

He swung his head around, still sitting on his butt in the water. “In here?” He rapped the hull with his knuckles. “I don’t give a shit. All I know is, you won’t shoot an unarmed man in the back. That would look real good in a magazine, the famous girl fishing guide…” His voice trailed off because of a sudden change in my behavior. He’d seen a swift shift in countenance, and I’d raised the pistol as if to shoot him in the head. “Hey, don’t! I said you can come along. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“I warned you,” I said, barely able to whisper. “Move… Get away from there.”

The man considered the pistol’s angle and looked up to see what I was aiming at. His brain had only a microsecond to process the image-a swaying lamppost with a serpent’s head, a flicking tongue the width of a pitchfork.

I fired.

The python struck.

Larry screamed.