The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller (14 page)

21

Standing
on the side of the road, Rayanne waved her arms. A sheriff’s patrol car slowed
to a stop.

Sheriff Petty climbed out, wearing
the same tan trousers and shirt she’d seen in the diner. Standing behind his
open car door, he looked over at her and squinted. “You okay, ma’am?” he asked.

“Sheriff,
my husband is hurt,” she yelled to him. Luger stood protectively between her
and the patrol car. She moved past the dog, toward the sheriff. She was on the
verge of tears. “Please. My husband is hurt. We had an accident and wrecked the
truck.”

“Where?”
Coming out from behind the door, he placed a hand on Rayanne’s arm. She wrapped
her arms around him and hugged him, then pushed back.

“By
the lake.” She could barely talk, and she gulped a deep breath to slow her
beating heart. “I’ve been walking through the woods since yesterday. I’ve been
looking for a house. Anyone.”

“Not
many houses out here. Where’s your husband now?”

“At
the truck. We’ve got to help him.” Rayanne pointed behind her as the Rottweiler
stepped to her side.

The
sheriff returned to his vehicle and picked up his radio, then he looked down at
Luger. “Your dog friendly?”

“He’s
not my dog. He belongs to those teenagers I told you about. They attacked us
and stabbed my husband.”

“Attacked
you? Where, exactly?”

“In
the woods, by the lake.” She looked down at Luger. He growled at the sheriff.
“Luger, stop it!”

“He
belongs to those teenagers?” the sheriff asked. “Where are they now?”

Rayanne
ignored the question. “We’ve got to get back to him. We drove off the dirt path
that goes to the lake.”

“There’s
hundreds of dirt paths. Where?”

“I
don’t know. I’m all turned around.” She thought about it a moment. “It’s the
Corps of Engineers’ land. We turned at an old windmill.”

The
sheriff called for support, then faced Rayanne. “Everything’s going to be fine.
You’re safe now.”

Rayanne
shook her head. “No, we’re not. Not if those kids are still out there.”

She
walked to the other side of the car and Luger followed. Opening the front
passenger door, she looked at the dog, then up at the sheriff.

He
shook his head. “Your dog’s not gett’n in my car,” he said.

Rayanne
turned to Luger and commanded him to stay before slamming the door shut. Behind
the wheel, the sheriff jammed the car into drive and, blasting dirt and gravel
from the rear wheels, screeched onto the road.

In
the side mirror, Rayanne watched Luger run behind them. She watched him till
she could no longer see him in the reflection. Slumping back against the seat,
she closed her eyes.

Rayanne
could feel the car accelerating, its tires pounding over the blacktop, and she
listened to the sheriff radio in to his department. When he finished, an
uncomfortable silence filled the car. Rayanne bit her lip, praying they weren’t
too late.

“These
are the kids you told me about? The ones in the black van?” he asked.

Rayanne
nodded, but didn’t say anything. She kept her eyes shut tight, praying. She
heard him say, “I saw the van in town and I ran the plates.”

Rayanne
opened her eyes, looked at him. “And?”

“It’s
registered to a man in Tarpon Springs, Florida.”

Rayanne
stared at him, waiting for more. “Does that mean anything?”

“Not
to me,” he said. His eyes never left the road. “Thought it might mean something
to you.”

Rayanne
shook her head. “I think … I think Owen grew up in Tarpon Springs.”

Twenty
minutes later, Rayanne saw the windmill towering over the side of the road. The
sheriff turned onto the dirt path. Tree branches struck the windshield and the
top of the vehicle, but he didn’t slow down. Halfway down the path, Rayanne
told him to stop.

Rayanne
hopped out of the squad car. She could see where their truck had ripped a path
through the underbrush. Broken limbs and scarred trees had marked the area, and
the two deep ruts in the ground were now a swirled gash where the truck had
skidded off the path. She noticed a pair of glasses lying on the ground.
Bending at the knees, she picked them up.

The
frames were bent and the right lens was shattered. Specs of dried blood spotted
the glass, and she immediately knew they were Darryl’s. She hadn’t noticed them
before, and wondered if he’d wandered past here during the night.

She
looked at the broken limbs and disturbed earth. Maybe Darryl saw it too. Maybe
he found the wreck and was with Owen right now.

The
sheriff stepped beside her and pointed in the direction of the truck. The woods
looked impenetrable, despite the hole she’d carved through it a day before.

“I’m
not going to be able to get my car through there,” he said.

“Then
we’re going to have to walk.” Rayanne plunged forward into the woods, and
yelled back to the sheriff, “It’s not far.”

She
gripped Darryl’s glasses in her right hand as she picked up her pace, following
the track left by the truck. The sheriff strode behind her, snapping branches
as he went along. They walked a lot farther than Rayanne expected. In her mind,
she’d only driven a few feet before they crashed. She ran faster as the sheriff
struggled to keep up.

They
slowed down when they came to the mangled boat trailer, and the sheriff walked
to it, studying it. He touched a bent beam along the tow hitch. Rayanne came up
beside him.

“We’re
almost there,” she said, setting Darryl’s broken glasses on an overturned
wheel. It looked shiny, with a rich blackness and deep grooves, and she
realized it was the new tire Owen had replaced.

When
they reached the stretch where the truck had fishtailed and dived into the
ditch, Rayanne could see the elevated rear bumper. She couldn’t make out any
more than the taillights and chrome, but she felt a wave of relief anyway.

She
ran to the waiting Chevy. The sheriff chased after her, yelling for her to hold
up. Rayanne ignored him and slid into the ditch. Mud covered her legs and butt,
but didn’t slow her down. She called out for Owen and grasped the back bumper
for support. The bottom of the ditch was a pool of shallow mud, and her feet
splashed into it. Approaching the driver’s side door, she peered through the
window.

The
passenger seat was empty.

Rayanne
opened the door and felt a wave of heat on her face, like an oven. She climbed
into the truck. Owen was gone. She looked into the backseat. Darryl’s body lay
stiff across it. She gasped as the sheriff poked his head through the driver’s
side door.

“What
is it?” he asked.

“Owen’s
not here.”

Rayanne
pushed him aside as she made her way out of the truck. She ran up the muddy
slope and looked into the woods. She yelled for Owen. Her voice echoed through
the trees, upsetting the crows flying not far above her.

“Owen!”
she screamed again, louder this time.

The
sheriff came up beside her. “Who’s that in the truck?” he asked.

Rayanne
looked at him, her mind scrambling for answers. “Where’s Owen?”

She
rushed past the sheriff, to the other side of the ditch, and called out again.

No
one answered.

She
brought her hands up to her mouth to scream again, when she noticed something
at the bottom of the ditch. It chilled her, and she scrambled back down the
slope, splashing into the mud, and coming to Owen’s guitar. She picked it up.
The strings had snapped and were dangling along the arm. The bass was
shattered, as if it had been smashed against something. Or someone.

“Ma’am
…” The sheriff dropped into the ditch beside her. “Mrs. Meeks, who is in the
truck?”

Rayanne
turned her head, locking eyes with the sheriff for a second.

“Mrs.
Meeks?”

She
gaped at the guitar, and lightly ran her fingers along the arm. She didn’t look
at the sheriff when she whispered, “Nobody ever calls me Mrs. Meeks. Call me
Rayanne.”

“Who’s
in the truck?”

Rayanne
nodded at him, then looked at the Chevy. “That’s Darryl, my husband’s best
friend.” She dropped the guitar, letting it splash into the muddy pool. “Those
teenagers beat him. Savagely. At the boat ramp. He must’ve crawled away. Made
it to the truck.”

She
stepped back as the sheriff spoke. “Do you think your husband left the vehicle
to find help,” he asked, “or possibly got worried and set out to find you?”

“No.”
Rayanne climbed into the truck and kneeled on the driver’s seat, maneuvering
around the broken steering wheel. There was barely enough room, but she
squeezed in. She stared at the blood stains in the passenger seat. Brownish-red
splotches covered the dashboard and center console. A bloody handprint marked
the window.

“No,
Owen was hurt too bad to leave the truck, much less walk through the woods.”

She
noticed the shotgun was missing as well, and she forced herself to look in the
back again. At Darryl’s body. He almost didn’t even look like a real person,
more like a department store mannequin. A broken, bloody mannequin with one
hand lying across his chest and the other bent over the edge of the seat,
resting on the floorboard. His face was beaten, swollen. He died in pain, she
thought.

“Backup
is on the way.” The sheriff was next to her.

“Poor
Darryl,” she said, unable to take her eyes off the body, no matter how much she
wanted to.

The
sheriff shifted in the seat beside her, and she could feel his arm touch her
leg.

“He
came into the diner yesterday morning,” the sheriff said, “after your husband
dropped his drink on the floor.” He crouched beside her for a better view of
the backseat.

Rayanne
didn’t budge, though, giving him very little room.

He
twisted his neck to look at her. “He seemed like a good man,” he said in a soft
voice.

Rayanne
nodded. “Those boys. They did this.”

The
sheriff got out of the truck, saying, “I’ll check the area.”

She
reached to touch Darryl’s knee. Her hand moved up and grazed his cold hand
resting over his chest. Her eyes teared, and she pulled her hand away. Then she
noticed a bulge in his breast pocket. Something was inside it.

She
reached for his shirt, slipping her fingers into the pocket. They felt
something soft, furry, and she pulled out the rabbit’s foot. She held it up in
her hand and stared at it. The little pink foot seemed so delicate and
precious, yet there was something hard inside. A bone?

Her
fingers caressed the soft pink fur and she held it in her palm. She squeezed
her hand shut around it, gripping it tighter. So tight her knuckles ached.
Somehow it soothed her. It was a familiar feeling, like being a child at her
grandparents’ house, and Rayanne now understood why this thing had been so
important to Owen.

Outside
the truck, the sheriff said something, and Rayanne snapped back to reality.

She
looked at Darryl’s body, then slipped the rabbit’s foot into her jeans pocket.
She shouted to the sheriff, “Come again?”

“Maybe
someone found the truck and helped your husband.” The sheriff came over to the
driver’s side door. “Hunters, maybe?”

Rayanne
swiveled, maneuvering around the bent steering wheel. She looked over at the
sheriff, then made her way out of the truck.

“I
think those kids found him,” she said.

“You’re
jumping to conclusions.” The sheriff moved away from the truck and climbed up
the slope. “Let’s get back to my car and call in. We’ll—”

He
stopped talking. Rayanne noticed it and came to the edge of the slope behind
him to see what had happened. The sheriff stood frozen at the top of the ditch,
his right hand reaching for his holster. She followed his gaze up the ditch and
saw the black Rottweiler standing on the edge, looking down at them.

“Luger,”
she yelled, as the dog scrambled down the slope, past the sheriff, toward her.
She reached for him when he greeted her. She looked at the sheriff. “He found
us,” she said.

“Obviously.”
He shook his head. “We’ve got to get to my squad car.”

Luger
cocked his head and Rayanne pulled her hand away. The dog ran to the front of
the smashed truck and sniffed the edge of the grille. He went under the truck,
toward the passenger side.

“Wait,”
Rayanne called to the sheriff. “He smells something.”

She
watched the dog sniff the area around the side of the truck, then make his way
up the slope on the opposite side. He hesitated a moment, looking back at
Rayanne. A minute later, he was at the top and scrambling into the weeds
surrounding the ditch.

Rayanne
looked back at the sheriff. “I think his owners are out there.”