The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller (2 page)

Fifteen years later…

2

With
her bare feet propped on the dashboard, Rayanne stared at her husband sitting
behind the steering wheel. She smiled at him, but his eyes, hidden behind
mirrored sunglasses and beneath a camouflage ball cap, remained focused on the
road.

Owen
Meeks had barely said two words since they had left Tampa three hours ago. Now
they were several miles past the Georgia state line, where the interstate
veered north and local traffic had to exit onto a two-lane county road.

Absorbed
in her story, Rayanne paid no attention to the route. “So we confirm that
there’s a family of raccoons living in these homeowners’ attic, and guess who
he picks to climb up there and go get them? Guess.” She raised her voice to
compete with the rattle of the boat trailer in tow behind them. She’d been
struggling to talk over its clank and clatter for the better part of the trip.

When
Owen didn’t respond, she glanced ahead to see a swarm of brake lights. A solid
line of cars, RVs, and semitrucks came to an abrupt stop. Rayanne leaned
forward in her seat to get a better view out the windshield.

“You
think there’s an accident?” She turned her head toward him, but he still didn’t
acknowledge her.

Seemingly
focused on the road, Owen inched the Chevy forward, creeping closer to the
supervision of four local deputies standing along the shoulder. He pulled up
alongside a sheriff directing traffic, and honked. Rolling down his window,
Owen stretched his head out as far as he could and waved his hand. “Hey,
Officer, there an accident?”

Rayanne
leaned against her husband’s right shoulder for a better view of the sheriff.
The man said nothing and waved his right arm to keep the cars moving. Probably
in his fifties and carrying a full, round belly, he still appeared
commanding—more so than the thin, young deputies around him. She flashed him a
prying grin.

The
sheriff stared back with tired, disinterested eyes. He looked bored and
slightly hostile, though most of the features of his face were lost in the
shadow of his stiff, wide-brimmed hat.

“Keep
it movin’,” was all he said.

Owen
nodded and rolled up the window. His foot tapped the accelerator. The truck
jolted forward, then abruptly stopped. Owen muttered something Rayanne couldn’t
fully hear as his fist landed on the horn again. It blared, loud and long.
Rayanne cringed and started to say something when he maneuvered the truck to
the right. He cut off a station wagon and bullied into the far outside lane.

Rayanne
craned her head backward to see if the sheriff behind them had noticed. The gun
rack holding a refinished Winchester blocked most of her view. Beyond that,
what little she could see out the back window was taken up by the trailered
maroon-and-white bass boat.

Giving
up, she flipped forward. “Just calm down, okay?” she said. “We’ll get there.”

If
he heard her, Owen didn’t show it as he mashed the brakes again and they both
lunged forward. He let loose another rage of expletives. The Chevy came to a
stop and Owen bore down on the horn. When it was finally quiet, Rayanne propped
her bare feet back up on the dashboard and continued the story she’d started
some thirty minutes and forty miles ago.

“So,
did I tell you who had to climb into the attic to go get this family of
raccoons?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I did. And I find a mama coon with
three little babies all nestled up in the insulation. You’d think it woulda
itched or something.”

Rayanne
paused and glanced out the window. She gazed up at the massive wall of pine
trees skirting either side of the interstate. She wondered how deep the woods
went and how far away from civilization they had traveled. The thought made her
forget what she was saying, but only for a moment.

“Oh,
and this one baby raccoon walks right across the rafters and climbs into my
arms,” she said. “Like, you know, I was some long-lost friend it hadn’t seen in
fifteen years or something …”

Owen
whipped his head around, facing her. Rayanne could see nothing but her own
reflection in his mirrored glasses, but she sensed a subtle change in his face.
As if something from his past had reached across the years and gently nudged
him.

He
turned the steering wheel, taking the exit, and merged onto the two-lane road.

Rayanne
noticed the course correction as she wiggled her toes on the dashboard. “Why
are we getting off the interstate?”

“No
sense in sitting in traffic.” It was the first thing he’d said to her in over
an hour. “I think there’s a lake out here somewhere.”

Though
Owen seemed uninterested in the story, Rayanne didn’t care. She continued,
picking up where she had left off. “So we cage up the mama and get the other
two coon babies, but this one little baby holds onto my shirt with those little
hands, like I’m its mama or something.” She spoke rapidly, as if she had a lot
to tell him. “I held onto the little guy in the truck all the way back to the
shelter. Can you believe it?”

Owen
turned his head toward her again, then back at the road. “Raccoons carry
rabies, you know.”

“I’m
thinking about adopting it when we get back, just so you know.”

Owen
let out a disinterested “Uh-huh,” but kept his head forward.

She
wished he’d take off the sunglasses so she could see his eyes. Rayanne often
wondered what was ticking behind that square, blunt face of his. It looked as
if it had been chiseled of granite and held deep, dark secrets locked away like
some Egyptian Sphinx. His brown hair was cut short, with heavy sideburns that
were now graying, and merged with the thick stubble on his face. He hadn’t
shaved in several days, and it made him look a solid ten years older than
thirty-three.

“I
know, right?” she said. “I’ve always wanted a raccoon, ever since I was ten and
reading
Ranger Rick
magazine.”

Rayanne
sighed and swept her hand across the crown of her head, as if to put her dark
hair in place. She was a thin woman, with high cheekbones and the pale skin of
a vegetarian. Sorrow lines crossed her face. Over the last two years it had
become a part of her, and they matched the scars on her wrists.

Wearing
one of Owen’s large brown T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan “Show off your
pole – Fish naked,” and her favorite Daisy Duke cutoff-jeans shorts, she’d
wanted to make sure he knew how excited she was about this getaway. She looked
sexy and flirty, but so far he hadn’t noticed.

She
glanced out the window and into the side mirror. Within the sticker stating
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear,” she noticed a black van
tailing close behind them. Muddy. Rusty top. Tinted windows. Flipping her feet
off the dashboard, she abruptly swung around to look out the rear window.

“Is
that van following us?” She tried her best to see beyond the gun rack.

Owen’s
eyes darted up, glancing into the rearview mirror. “What’re you talking ’bout?”

“The
creepy black van that’s directly behind us again,” Rayanne said to him, then
twisted back into her seat. “It was tailgating us a couple of times back on the
interstate. If it gets any closer it’s going to rear-end the boat.”

“Probably
just gettin’ off the interstate like we did.”

Rayanne
glared at him for dismissing her like he always did. She turned her head to
stare out the passenger window. It had been raining off and on all day and a
light fog hovered over the blacktop and threaded through the pines that grew
thick on both sides of the road. The Chevy raced along, with the boat bouncing
and rocking behind it.

Eventually,
the van tailing them slowed and turned right onto a narrow side road. Rayanne
noticed this in the side mirror.

Owen
must’ve noticed it too, as he said, “They turned. Are you happy now?”

She
didn’t answer, instead keeping her gaze locked firmly on the passing trees.

“I’m
so glad to be out of the city,” she said after awhile. “Do you think we’ll see
some deer?”

“Probably.”

Owen
was grumbling at the traffic again. A station wagon in front of them drove some
ten miles below the speed limit, and he couldn’t pass it. She watched the veins
bulge in his neck and thought about massaging his shoulder. She reached for
him. He recoiled. She pulled away. Looking out the window, she sighed.

“Is
this where you go on your hunting trips?” Weariness tinged her voice. When he
didn’t answer, she turned her gaze to him and tried to think of something else
to say. “I just love the ski boat.”

Quickly,
under his breath, he said, “It’s a bass boat.”

Then
nothing else. Rayanne stared out the window again.

Finally
the oncoming traffic cleared and Owen maneuvered into the left lane. Rayanne
listened to the engine accelerate as they passed the station wagon.

“Well,
I’m excited.” She felt the weight of her body sink into the seat as Owen
returned to the right lane and let the truck ease back to sixty. She wanted to
tell him to slow down, but thought better of it. Instead she smiled at him.
“I’ve been looking forward to us getting away for the weekend.”

“Uh-huh,”
he muttered.

They
passed a sign welcoming them to Willow, population 670, and the blacktop road
turned into Main Street. It was lined with dusty brick buildings, a post
office, and a corner diner. Beyond the town a thin road, bending like an
arthritic finger, poked into the thick woods and disappeared into the fog.

Owen
pulled the Chevy into a Texaco station. Between the full-sized truck and the
boat and trailer, he took up two pumps, but didn’t seem the least bit
concerned. He hopped out of the truck. As he removed the gas cap and inserted
the nozzle, Rayanne walked across the street to the corner diner.

The
door chimed when she entered. She smiled at a waitress behind the counter who
was smacking on gum and cleaning glass cups with a white hand towel. Her lips
were a deep orangey-red that competed sharply with the rouge on her cheeks. Her
hair, a slightly different shade of red, was confined for the most part within
a hairnet on the top of her head. The woman stared wide-eyed and unblinking,
without saying a word.

Rayanne
hesitated at the door. For a split second she felt self-conscious about the way
she was dressed. She hadn’t planned for anyone to see her wearing Owen’s old
“Fish Naked” T-shirt and inappropriately short cutoffs. She looked like she
should be serving beer in an episode of
The Dukes of Hazzard
. Just as
quickly, though, she pushed the thought aside. She’d never see these people
again, so what did it matter?

Smiling
at the waitress, she strode to the counter and ordered a large Mountain Dew for
Owen and an iced tea with no ice for herself. The waitress nodded and picked up
two glasses she had just wiped clean.

“That
order’s to go,” Rayanne added as she gazed out the large front windows. She
froze, seeing the black van on the street outside.

3

Rayanne
watched the black van roll slowly down Main Street. It hesitated in front of
the Texaco, blocking her view of Owen at the gas pump across the street. She
rushed from the counter, toward the large front windows. Peering out, she
placed a hand on the pane and studied the van.

Mud
specked the sides and windshield. Paint had chipped away in jagged oval flecks
that made the vehicle look diseased. The windows were tinted, and whoever was
inside had slowed to barely a crawl. Someone was watching Owen, she thought.
Her open palms hit the glass, pounding on the window. She needed to warn her
husband.

The
waitress came up behind her. “Here’s your drinks.”

Rayanne
turned, startled. Her eyes widened, and the waitress cocked her head.

“You
okay, honey?” she asked, smacking her gum and holding up two Styrofoam cups.
“You look paler than a corpse.”

Rayanne
shook her head and turned to face the windows. The van was gone.

“What
is it, honey?” The waitress set the drinks on a table beside Rayanne and
reached out a comforting hand.

“I
don’t know.” Rayanne focused on the road. She looked as far down the street as
she possibly could. “Do you know who owns that black van?”

The
waitress stepped beside her and peered out the window. “I don’t see no black
van. Can’t think of nobody in town who owns one. Now, white trucks, that’s a
different story. You ever noticed how many people own white trucks these days?
I mean, when did white become a color?”

“Thank
you,” Rayanne said abruptly. She gave the waitress five dollars and left the
diner with her two drinks.

Crossing
the street, Rayanne made her way back to the service station. Owen was talking
to a heavyset man wearing greasy overalls and a backwards ball cap. She
interrupted them.

“Owen!”
She almost yelled his name, and could hear the panic boiling in her throat.

The
men stopped talking and stared at her, clearly waiting for her to say
something.

“Yes?”
Owen took the nozzle from the Chevy and returned it to the pump.

Rayanne
looked at the mechanic and then at her husband. She wanted to say that she saw
the black van again. She was positive it was following them. Positive there was
something wrong here, very wrong. But she thought about what Owen would say to
that, how he’d respond.

So
she handed him a Styrofoam cup. “I got you a Mountain Dew.”

“Great.
Thanks.” He took it from her hand.

“I
got an iced tea,” she said.

Owen
turned to the mechanic. “So how do we get to the lake?”

The
man in the overalls scratched his chin as if thinking about it. Raising an
eyebrow, he shrugged. “You’re on the south end of the lake here, and all the
ramps I can think of are on private property.”

Rayanne
waved and turned to the truck. “That settles it. We’ll find another lake,” she
said.

Owen
raised a hand, signaling her to wait a second. “There’s got to be public
access.”

“Ain’t
no parks on this lake.” The mechanic looked away, and his face brightened as if
he suddenly had an idea. He looked back at Owen and Rayanne. “But I think you
can get on it from the north end. There’s a boat ramp on some government land.”

Rayanne
barely let him finish. “Oh, we wouldn’t want to trespass.”

“Ah,
ma’am,” the mechanic said, “it’s a wildlife sanctuary. No one goes out there
but a few bird-watchers, maybe.”

Owen
grinned at Rayanne. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The
mechanic pointed toward the street ahead. “You take Main Street outta town, to
the county road and stay on it six, seven miles north. When you see a windmill,
head left and take that road to an old boat ramp—if it ain’t washed out.”

“Washed
out?” Rayanne didn’t like it. “Owen, let’s find another lake.”

Her
plea fell on deaf ears. Owen thanked the mechanic, shook his hand, and then
hopped into the truck. Rayanne stood beside the pump, staring down the street,
wondering where the black van had gone. When Owen honked, she jumped.

“I’m
coming,” she said, and moseyed around the front chrome grille. She noticed the
dirty bug shield and hood splattered with the remains of dead lovebugs, and she
hoped their acidic, gooey insides wouldn’t eat through the paint.

Owen
honked again, longer this time, and Rayanne moved faster. She climbed into the
passenger seat and fidgeted with her seat belt. She could feel the weight of
his stare, and when he asked her what was wrong, she shook her head. “I think
we should find another lake.”

Owen
raised his hands, then brought them back down on the steering wheel. “What are
you talking about? We’re already here.”

“He
said the ramp might be washed out.”

“So
what do you want to do?” He clutched the steering wheel, and Rayanne noticed
his knuckles turning white. He looked over at her. “Go home?”

“No,”
Rayanne said quietly. “It’s just that …”

“It’s
just what?”

“I
saw that black van again.”

“So?”
He hesitated a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “It’s probably somebody
who lives ’round here.”

“The
waitress in the diner didn’t think so. She’d never seen it before.”

“Babe,
I’m tryin’ to wrap my head around this.” His grip tightened on the steering
wheel to the point where Rayanne could imagine him snapping it in two. She
watched him shut his eyes, take a deep breath, then open them again.

He
turned to her and spoke slowly, clearly trying to curb his anger. “I cancelled
the tournament. Cancelled my plans with Darryl to take you fishing with me. You
said you wanted to go. So what’s the problem?”

“I
think—”

“You
wanted to spend alone time together, right?”

“Yes,
but …” Rayanne’s voice trailed off. She folded her arms and turned to look at
the diner. She could see the waitress in the front window, watching them. Owen
started the engine and put the Chevy in gear. It made a low rumble in the
floorboard that Rayanne could feel along the soles of her feet.

“Then
what is it?” he asked as he pulled out of the Texaco station and onto Main
Street.

Rayanne
wished he would turn the truck around. “I don’t know,” she said, noticing the
splotches of dead lovebugs on the windshield. The glass was covered with them.
She hadn’t noticed it before. “I don’t want to trespass, you know?”

* * * * *

With
little downtown traffic, Owen drove quickly along Main Street. It was drizzling
again, and he flipped on the windshield wipers. They swished bug remnants from
one side of the glass to the other. His Chevy, even hauling the boat, handled
the wet road easily enough.

After
a minute of listening to the monotonous squeak of the windshield wipers,
Rayanne cleared her throat. “I’m fine, I guess. It’ll be good for us to get
away from it all.” She’d decided to make the best of it. It’s what she really
wanted. She looked over at Owen and smiled at him. “And it’ll be good for you
to take a break from the job search.”

In
a flat drawl he said, “I’ll find a job. You don’t need to ride me.”

“I
wasn’t riding you.” She kept the smile on her face, though now it was forced.
It was a testament to her determination, and she tried again. “You don’t think
Darryl is too upset about me commandeering your fishing trip, do you?”

“It
wasn’t a fishing trip, it was a bass tournament.” His voice was sharp, direct,
and Rayanne clearly took its meaning: the conversation was over.

When
they drove out of town and the speed limit bumped up from 35 to 45 miles per
hour, the Chevy had the road to itself. Owen pressed down on the pedal,
hurrying. He didn’t look at her, but added, “And yes, I’m sure he understands.”

Rayanne
didn’t respond, twirling the wedding ring on her finger.

They
drove for nearly twenty minutes in silence before she pointed ahead. “There it
is,” she said. “There’s the windmill.”

Roughly
125 feet tall, it was a ghostly landmark, conspicuous and battered. A
fragmented wheel—missing several blades—creaked slowly atop a narrow wood
frame. The structure towered above an overgrown field of palmettos, with pine
woods behind it.

Owen
turned off the road, passed the windmill, and followed a rutted dirt path,
barely two worn strips of tire tracks grooved in the ground. It led across the
field to the woods. There, the trees grew thick right up to the edge of the
track, making it difficult to see where they were going.

“Are
you sure this is even a road?” Rayanne asked.

“The
guy at the gas station said turn at the windmill. I turned at the windmill.”

Branches
hit the windshield and scratched against the side windows. The boat behind them
rocked and jiggled with every bump on the path that took them deeper into the
woods.

When
a rock hit the windshield, Rayanne jumped in her seat. It sounded like a
gunshot, making a loud crack that left a circular crater with outstretched
feeder lines in the glass. Owen screamed, causing her to jump again.

“I
just got the windshield replaced,” he yelled, slamming on the brakes. Rayanne
lunged forward. She watched Owen swing open the door and jump outside.

Taking
a deep breath, she followed him out of the truck. “It’s not the end of the
world,” she said, slamming the passenger door shut. “The insurance will cover
it.”

She
took careful steps to the front of the truck and paused, as if sizing up the
forest. The wall of trees and brush opened to a clearing, and Rayanne could see
sunlight shimmering on top of the water through a break in the foliage. There
was a lake back there, guarded by spindly cypress trees with greenish-gray moss
dripping from their branches.

She
looked at Owen. He removed his sunglasses and leaned over the hood, examining
the crack in the windshield.

For
some reason, she thought of the waitress in the diner and then the black van.
Its peeling paint. Tinted windows. And she noticed that the cracked glass with
squished bug innards scraped across the windshield reminded her of something
from a crime scene.

“At
least we found the lake,” she said softly, twirling the wedding band around her
ring finger. “We’re fishing, right?”