Alligator Park (44 page)

“What should I do?”

“John’s a good man. Let him
handle it.”

I nod in agreement, but
secretly, I have a lump in my throat. What if I’m charged with murder? I would
need a good lawyer and they cost plenty. Where would I get that kind of money?
And then there’s my new job. The company might withdraw the offer if they find
out about this. I’d have no job, no money, and an upcoming trial to worry
about. What would I do?

Twenty minutes pass and we
come upon the canoe. Fargo inspects it, then drags it back to the place where he
stores it, under the bushes.

“Where’s the body?” Detective
Bolt says.

I point to the water. The
police investigators rush to the water’s edge and shine their flashlights all
around.

“There’s nothing here,” one
announces.

“It was right there. I
swear.”

“Show us where you last saw
it,” Detective Bolt says.

I walk to the water’s edge
and point.

“He was here.”

They shine their flashlights
at the water again, but find nothing. The two male investigators walk along the
shoreline, shining their flashlights along the bank and out into the water.

“There’s something here,” one
shouts, and leans in to get a closer look.

“Yep, it’s a body, well sort
of.”

They both put on rubber
gloves and drag the object out of the water. It’s grotesque. I turn away and
retreat to the far edge of the clearing so it’s out of my line of sight.

“Looks like a gator got to
him,” one of the investigators say.

Detective Bolt studies the
body.

“Indigo, come here. We need
you to ID this.”

“No, I can’t.”

Fargo comes to my rescue.

“Give her a break. Can’t you
see she’s in shock?”

“Okay. I’m going to describe
him and all you got to do is give me a yes or a no,” says the detective.

“I’ll try,” I say.

“He’s Caucasian, light brown
hair, about six foot one and a hundred and seventy pounds. No facial hair. He’s
wearing a light green shirt, white trousers, and white dress shoes. And my God,
it looks like the spear’s gone clear through his heart.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Okay, let me get a statement
from you and then you can go.”

So once again, I relate the
whole story to Detective Bolt about how I had first met Damon in a North
Carolina bathroom, how he had tried to rape me, and how he had tracked me to
Florida. He hastily jots it down in a notebook and then closes it.

“Fine, that’s enough. You can
go now. We’ll finish this tomorrow.”

“Coming back with us?” Fargo
asks.

“No, I’m not done yet. We’ll
call in a police boat to get us back.”

We stand and watch for a
moment as police inspectors photograph everything in sight, and then place the
corpse into a body bag. Fargo and I return to the airboat and make the short
ride home. He ties up the airboat and we trudge up the path to the cabin. All
but one of the police cars have left and the last one looks like it’s about to
leave at any moment.

Fargo opens the front door
and we go inside. He heads to the living room and I to the kitchen. I search
through the refrigerator out of habit not really knowing what I’m looking for.
I should be hungry, but I’m not. My stomach is too tied up in knots to accept
anything solid right now. I settle for the Muscadine, pour myself a drink, and
then wander into the living room holding the glass in one hand and the bottle
in the other.

“Want some wine?” I say.

Fargo shakes his head without
looking at me. I plop into a chair adjacent to him and gulp the wine. I feel it
travel down my throat and into my stomach giving me a warm pleasant sensation.
I pour myself another glass and place the bottle on the night table. We both
sit there stoically, staring at the walls, in frozen silence. I don’t know what
to talk about, so I keep myself occupied sipping the wine and avoiding eye
contact.

My gaze drifts to Will’s
sleeping bag. It’s on the floor, in the same place he always left it. My eyes
well up at the realization he will never use it again, and I fight off the urge
to cry. I see Fargo glance at me briefly and notice a tear forming in his eye,
but he quickly stands up and looks the other way.

“I’m going to bed,” he says,
and strolls down the hall.

I hear his bedroom door open
and then shut. I finish the wine then pour myself another glass. I feel myself
getting lightheaded, but it’s what I need right now so I gulp it down anyway
and then return the bottle to the refrigerator.

It’s almost ten o’clock so I
shut off the light and head for my own bedroom. I slip out of my damp clothes,
put on dry underwear, and then collapse on the bed. It’s hot and humid and
there’s no sign of a breeze through the screened-in window so I just lie on top
of the covers, stare at the ceiling, and recount the day’s events. Today was
both the best day and the worst day of my life, if that was possible. The best
day because I achieved the unimaginable; I brought a multi-national corporation
to its knees with only my hard work and intellect, but the worst day because I
lost someone who was like a brother to me. I realize now that success only
matters when you have someone close to share it with, and Will was the closest
one I had in the whole world. And now he’s gone and I am once again alone.

The caffeine from that
super-sized espresso, downed on an empty stomach, is pumping through my veins
and keeping me awake. I toss and turn, try to relax, but
can’t get my mind off the thought I might be facing a
murder charge from an overzealous D.A.
I
need a distraction, someone to talk to. I slip into the hallway and tap on
Fargo’s door.

“What’s wrong?” he calls out.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I was thinking.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

I timidly open the door and
enter the darkened room. Moonlight streams through the window and I see Fargo
on his back in his boxer shorts. There’s a sheen to his skin from a thin film
of perspiration. His hands are clasped behind his head and he’s staring at the
ceiling. He doesn’t move when I enter.

“What are you thinking
about?” I ask.

“Stuff.”

I sit on the edge of the bed
facing him.

“Do you mind?”

“It’s a big bed.”

“I need a friend right now.”

“Yeah,” he says, and lays his
arm across the pillow.

I snuggle up next to him and
lay my head on his shoulder. I gaze at his face, but he continues to stare at
the ceiling, as if I’m not even there. I wonder: Has my constant harping about
not having time for a relationship gone too far? Have I rebuked him one too
many times? Or is there some other reason he’s ignoring me?

His bronze body, glowing from
the subdued light of the moon, and marvelous in its anatomy, entices me; I feel
my inhibitions evaporate. I lay my fingertips on his chest, and with the
lightest of touch, begin caressing first one side, and then, work my way to the
other. He doesn’t move, stares at the ceiling, totally ignores me.

“Are you gay?” I ask.

“Why would you ask that?” he
snaps.

“I never see you with women.”

“Will never told you I was
married once?”

“He said you didn’t have time
for a wife.”

“That was my mother talking.
After the divorce, she used to tell anyone that would listen I was too busy to
have a wife. I guess Will forgot who said it first and thought it was me.”

“Who was she?”

“A waitress, at a truck stop
off I-95. Her name was Trish. Had this blond hair, put up in a ponytail, and
skin white as a morning frost. I’d seen her there several times, but she paid
me no mind. Then one night I was the only one in there and she comes over to me
and starts chatting. Tells me she gets off in five minutes and if I’d take her
to a bar. I was young and dumb so off we go to this sleazy bar she knew. We
drank and danced and drank some more. Then she tells me she wants to go home.

“And then?”

“She gives me directions to
this mobile home park so I drops her off. She convinces me I’m in no shape to
drive home, offers to let me sleep on the couch. Except she had other ideas.
Next thing you know I’m in her bed.”

“Sounds like love at first
sight,” I say.

“More like trouble at first
sight. We dated a bit, but my mother hated her right off. Told me to stay with
my own kind. Said white women are trouble. Turned out she was right.”

“What happened?”

“We married about six months
later, but she kept her job. She used to make the sixty mile trip every day
even though I told her we didn’t need the money. Her hours were three till
eleven, but then she started coming home later and later. Told me the tips were
better late at night and didn’t want to miss out. Some nights she wouldn’t get
here until 3 AM.

“Did you suspect anything?”

“At first no, but then things
didn’t add up. Finally I drove to the truck stop at midnight. The other
waitress told me Trish had gone home. I drove around for a while and then drove
over to her old trailer. She told me she sold it, but something told me I had
to check it out anyway. I park my car about a half-mile away and creep up to
the trailer. It was dark inside, but I hear these noises, human noises. I peek
in the window and there’s my wife—with another guy! It came out later she was
picking up truckers and giving them a ride for cash, sometimes three or four a
night.”

“How do you deal with that?”

“I busted open the door, grabbed
my wife’s hand, and pulled her out of bed onto the floor, naked! She starts
arguing with me, as if I was the one doing wrong, but I was in no mood to
negotiate so I picks her up, still naked, and carries her towards the door.
Then I feel this pain in my back. The son-of-a-bitch stabbed me so I drops my
wife and busts this chair over his head knocking him out cold. I could have
killed him I was so mad.”

“What stopped you?”

“I learned at an early age if
an Indian injures a white man, the burden of guilt always falls on the Indian,
especially when he’s on white-man’s land. Then there’s the lawyers, the trial,
putting up bail, and all the hassle it would create, but most importantly, the
worry it would give my mother. So I just left my wife on the floor, slammed
open the door, and then drove myself the sixty miles back to the rez, bleeding
all over the seat. The camp doctor fixed me up, but that scar on my back
reminds me my mother was right.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“The divorce was easy. She
wanted out and I was all too happy to get rid of her. Turns out she had
twenty-five grand in the bank from her late-night gigs so she wasn’t entitled
to any of my property.”

“And now you hate women?” I
ask.

Fargo turns and gives me a
kiss on my forehead.

“No, I don’t hate women,” he
says, and lays back down staring at the ceiling.

I continue caressing his
chest with the most delicate touch, all around his well-developed pectorals,
first one side then the other. And then I work my way down to his rock-hard
abs.

“Keep that up and there’s
going to be consequences,” he says.

I stop what I’m doing and
gaze into his eyes.

“I want the consequences,” I
say.

Fargo stares at me with the
most befuddled look I had ever observed, but I maintain eye contact. Then after
a moment of contemplation he leans over to me and meets my lips with his, ever
so gently, just making contact. He pulls back and locks eyes with me testing my
resolve. I raise my lips ever so slightly telegraphing my approval. He leans
towards me and we kiss again, gentle at first, but then explode into the most
gratifying display of human emotion. The warm humid air causes us both to sweat
profusely, but tonight I don’t care. It raises my excitement and intimacy to a
level I have never felt before.

Our kisses increase in fervor
until I can stand it no more. I shed my impediments and Fargo does the same. And
then, he accommodates me. For several precious moments we become one body and
mind, sharing our thoughts, emotions, and feelings. Our breaths have become
short and rapid and of such intensity it would appear we are engaging in a
marathon. Fargo grunts and groans and the floorboards creak to the rhythm of
his thrusts. I moan in ecstasy as my body tingles with the most euphoric
sensation. We both shudder and then erupt into an intense and satisfying
conclusion. I feel his muscles relax and then he rolls to his side without
placing any weight on me. We both lie there, catching our breath, and I
experience the most perfect feeling of intimacy. I wonder to myself, is this
the first time... or is it the last? Will this great passion be repeated... or
will we just go back to our hum-drum lives and pretend it never happened?