Rivers to Blood (27 page)

Not sure where that came from, but it didn’t sound half bad. Even if they had a cell phone with them, it was doubtful they’d get any signal out here.

They had the drop on me and I was pretty sure they intended to kill me. I had to figure something out fast.

“That double-crossin’ little cocksucker,” Shane said.

“Jake’s tryin’ to save his mother’s life,” I said, attempting to add more credibility to my story. “He’d do anything. Even leave me out here alone. He’s probably racing toward the hospital right now.”

“Where would he take her?” Todd said.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I’m not up on the black market. I honestly doubt Jake is either. He’ll probably wind up killing her faster. I didn’t say Jake was a genius. Just tellin’ you what he’s probably up to.”

“And why are you doing that?” Todd asked.

His question had been sarcastic, but I answered as though it weren’t.

“Because she’s my mother too,” I said. “If I thought there was any chance what he’s tryin’ would work, I’d be helping him. He needs to leave her alone, let her doctors do what they can. I wish you’d stop him. Besides, he double-crossed me too. Left me out here to die.”

“Come on,” Todd said. “Let’s get him in the boat.”

They trolled toward me, and when they got close enough to reach down for me, I ducked under the boat, deflated my BC, and tried to find the regulator as I quickly sank toward the bottom.

Above me, the trolling motor started again, and shotgun pellets began piercing the water around me.

I was descending too fast without stabilizing, and my head began to hurt from the pressure building inside.

As I fell, I searched frantically for the regulator, dropping the knife and the light in the process.

Nearing the bottom again, I kicked my fins and partially inflated my BC. I couldn’t be sure exactly how close I was to the riverbed, but if Shane was still firing, the rounds weren’t making it down to where I was.

Finally able to find the hose, I pulled the regulator, put it in my mouth and willed myself to take deep, slow breaths.

When I had begun my quick descent, the mask had been on top of my head, and somewhere along the way, it had been knocked off. In terms of visibility, it was irrelevant, but the river water stung my eyes, and I wished I had it.

As soon as I was able I began to swim. If Todd and Shane had their dive equipment with them, they’d be suiting up right now and would be down here momentarily.

I had no idea which direction I was headed in. I was just trying to get as far away from them as fast as possible.

It occurred to me that if I stopped swimming and let the current carry me, I’d know I was headed down river.

So I did, eventually swimming with the current for a while then turning and heading toward land.

Unable to see anything––even my own hands out in front of me, I felt my way forward through the blackness, and I wondered how long it would be before I came in contact with a snake, gator, or turtle, or a log propelled by the oncoming current that would strike me and knock me unconscious, causing me to drown.

When I realized all Todd and Shane had to do to find me was follow the bubbles pouring from my regulator and popping up on the surface, I took in a deep breath, held it, and then changed directions.

I went with the current for a while again, then turned back toward shore, only breathing occasionally.

Now in addition to my head, my lungs and muscles ached, and I felt as if I wouldn’t be able to go on any further, but just as I was about to give out, my hand felt the root system of a downed tree, and I knew I had made it to shore.

Using the root system for grip and the tree for cover, I came up slowly and quietly, and listened carefully as I wiped the river water from my eyes.

Suddenly the area around me was illuminated, and they were headed straight toward me in their boat, Shane firing the shotgun all around me.

They had me.

I was too close to shore, the water too shallow for me to disappear into it again.

They were coming at me fast as if they planned to just run over me, and there was nothing I could do.

Without warning, probably because it was running without lights and Todd and Shane’s engine masked its sound, a boat shot out of nowhere. It rammed Todd and Shane’s boat in the side, knocking them out of it and keeping it from hitting me.

A hand reached out of the darkness, grabbed my arm, and helped me roll into the boat.

“Come on, Chaplain,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Chapter Fifty-seven

L
ooking up, I could make out the faint outline of Sandy Hartman in the moonlight.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I overheard them talking about taking care of a problem tonight,” he said. “Figured it was me or you.”

As he gunned the motor and took off, I slipped out of my BC, took my gloves and fins off, and sat up. Behind us, I could see Todd and Shane scrambling to get back in their boat, and I knew it wouldn’t be long until they were coming after us.

The force of the wind on my wet body was cold and I began to shiver.

“You better get out of that wetsuit,” he said.

Unfortunately I didn’t have a whole lot on under it and I’d rather be cold than naked on the river.

“Shit,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Here they come,” he said. “This little boat won’t outrun ’em. We’ll have to find a place to hide.”

“Any ideas?”

“Not far from here is a slough they call the River Sticks,” he said. “Nobody goes back into it much. It’s shallow and filled with fallen trees and limbs. It used to cut over to the Florida River, but a big oak tree has it completely blocked now.”

“So if they find us, we’ll be trapped.”

“Unless we go ashore,” he said.

“Any other options?”

“Not around here,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

We did.

Once in the slough he turned off the motor and began negotiating the narrow, obstacle-filled passage with a paddle and the trolling motor. The moon provided just enough light for me to see how appropriately named this small tributary was. Fallen trees from the banks extended out into the water, their craggy root systems thick and gnarled. Breaking through the surface at various spots throughout, the remnants of deadhead cypress trees were splintered and jagged.

As we ventured deeper and deeper down the small channel, the swamp on either side of us became thicker and thicker. My sense of claustrophobia increased with every stroke of the paddle or turn of the propeller. The trees, limbs, and roots scraped the sides and bottom of the boat, but never stopped it. With amazing skill and precision, Sandy adroitly steered the craft to safety.

Bringing the boat to rest against the huge fallen oak completely blocking the path, Sandy cut the trolling motor and we sat in silence, waiting. Within a few minutes we could hear Todd and Shane’s boat approach the entrance of the slough, pass by, and continue down the river.

“What is it?” Sandy asked.

“What?”

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.

“You mean besides the obvious?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You just look … you’re looking at me …”

“Where’s Jake?” I asked.

“Huh?”

It was a risk, but one I had to take. Jake’s life could very well depend on it.

“In your rape room in the old bunker? Is it close by? Has to be. No way you could have gotten through all those trees in the dark if you hadn’t done it many, many times before.”

The change that came over him as he sloughed off his public persona reminded me of taped interviews I had watched of people suffering from multiple personality disorder, and it was as if I were instantly, inexplicably with another person.

“I’ve worked with a lot of people who’ve done some evil things over the years,” I said, “but there’s very few I’d call evil.”

“How’d you know?” he asked.

“Do you have Jake?”

He shook his head.

I thought about it.

“I’m just playing with you,” he said. “I’ve got him.”

He could be lying but I never believed Jake would leave me out there alone—not unless he was forced to.

Now that his mask was off and the man beneath could be seen, it was obvious that Sandy Hartman was detached, cold, and arrogant. He sat there patiently as if I posed no threat to him, as if I were completely in his control.

“Let’s go see him,” I said.

I wondered where he was, if he was really close by, and what Sandy had done with his boat.

“Tell me how you knew it was me,” he said.

“The murders or the rapes?” I asked.

“Both,” he said. “Start with the sex.”

“It was brilliant to put the mark on yourself and pretend to be a victim,” I said, “and you played the part to perfection—except for a few mistakes, which made a lot of little things add up for me.”

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. It was as if we were talking about something that only mildly interested but ultimately had nothing to do with him.

“You had access to the library and knew right where the Dalí was,” I said. “I’m sure that there’s a book of symbols that has the Mars and Venus and male and female signs as well. Not that you need a book for that.”

“I wasn’t familiar with the Dalí painting,” he said. “See what you thought of it but it didn’t provide any inspiration for me.”

I nodded. “And while we’re on the subject of the symbol and the act itself—they both speak of someone with a high degree of androgyny and sexual identity issues. You certainly fit that.”

“That hurts my feelings,” he said, his voice flat and insincere.

“What happened to you?” I asked. “Who made you a monster? Dad, step-dad, uncle?”

“I was born this way. Go back to the mistakes you said I made. What were they?”

To him this was all just a game—how he had fun—and all he seemed interested in was what he had done to betray himself.

“During the times you came to counseling with me,” I said, “which I assume you did not only because you found it fun and exciting—and added dimension to the game, but so you could keep up with what we were finding out, you would periodically have toxic leaks.”

“What?” he asked. “What is that?”

“The coarseness and profanity that spewed out of you,” I said. “It didn’t fit with the mask you were wearing—even considering what had happened to you. If something had actually happened to you.”

He nodded and seemed to think about it, as if receiving feedback in an art class.

“The first day when you were telling me what the rapist had done to you,” I said, “you got carried away. You were trying to gain my sympathy, to make sure I wouldn’t suspect you, but you went too far. You told me after you did everything the rapist made you do, he still raped you.”

“I knew that was a mistake the moment I did it,” he said, “but I was caught up in the moment and went with it—what can I say? Hazards of the profession.”

“The profession?”

“Acting.”

I nodded.

“It was smart to use a shank to make it look like an inmate was responsible,” I said, “but you just couldn’t keep yourself from committing these crimes on the outside too.”

“Didn’t figure anyone on the outside would report it,” he said.

“And they didn’t.”

“But of course you found out,” he said.

“Hiding the shank in Jensen’s duffle wasn’t a bad idea, but there’s no way he’d leave it on the van if he knew it was there, no way he wouldn’t use it in his escape. Speaking of Jensen, after you raped him did you intercept a request to me from him?”

“The hell you know that?”

“He and his family mentioned to me about not helping him when he asked for it, but as far as I knew he never asked for it.”

We were silent a beat.

“You’re as good as everybody says you are,” he said.

I shook my head. “If I were,” I said, “my brother wouldn’t be in your rape room and I wouldn’t be out here in the middle of the swamp with you.”

He laughed.

We were quiet another moment. In the distance we could hear Todd and Shane’s boat motor. They were headed back in this direction.

“What about the other?” he asked, as if unable to call them murders.

“Well once I realized the lynching victim was the pilot from the plane that went down, I figured it had to be you search and rescue guys,” I said. “But once Jake convinced me it wasn’t the whole group, then I got to thinking who it could be. Todd and Shane, even Fred were strong possibilities, but it came down to you for two reasons. The sexual component—you took Junior’s clothes off and tied his hands to expose his genitals, you took the SEALs clothes off and strapped him down in a spread eagle position, and tried to make Turtle’s look like an autoerotic asphyxiation accident—and since you bring your victims down here, it’s possible Turtle or the SEAL died because they saw you doing that or found your bunker and didn’t have anything to do with the plane or finding the money.”