The New Madrid Run (20 page)

Little Walt wilted like a daisy in a microwave as his mother stood silhouetted in the doorway. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’, Ma. I just . . . he called me—”

“I don’t care what he called you,” she spat at him, the “sweet old lady” façade melting off her features, leaving a cold, rock-hard face that could make a steelworker flinch. “I told you to put them in the shed. I didn’t tell you to touch them, did I?”

“No, Ma—ma’am,” Walt stuttered. “It’s just—”

“Shut up,” she growled. “You have offended me, Walt. Don’t offend me again today. You know the law.” The implied threat was ugly, sinister, and Walt wilted even more, his head down, eyes cast to the floor.

The heavy woman was no longer concerned with her image. She lumbered over to Travis like a refrigerator with legs, her cobalt eyes hard and merciless. Looking down at him, she pointed to the preacher. “Who’s your friend here?”

“Don’t know,” Travis replied, looking her in the eye. “Never saw him before today.”

The preacher was sitting on the floor beside the woman, totally unprepared for what happened next. She turned casually, reached into her apron, and pulled out an extremely sharp-looking pruning knife. Before anyone realized what was happening, she grabbed the preacher by the hair and said, “Then you won’t mind if I cut him some, will you?” Drawing the knife from the temple, next to the preacher’s right eye, she ran it down his cheek. The older man cried out and pulled away, sprawling onto the floor, blood streaming across his face.

As she reached for the preacher again, Travis yelled, “Okay, okay, don’t hurt him anymore. I know him. I know him!”

She turned back to Travis with a mirthless smile. “That’s better. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions and, as long as you’re answering, I won’t have to cut him again. Tell me, are those your boats out there in the bay?”

Travis hesitated just slightly, and once again, she reached for the preacher.

“All right, all right. They’re our boats.”

“How many people are with you on the boats?”
“Four more, that’s all.”

“I hope you’re telling me the truth,” she said, riveting Travis’ eyes with hers. “You offend me with your lies and there will be hell to pay. Do your friends have any more guns on them boats?”

“Yeah,” replied Travis truthfully.

“I’m thinkin’ I might like to make a trade with your friends on them boats—you and this here fella for whatever they have that I want. I think that’s a real good deal, don’t you, Mister? You two think on it. The boys here will snug you up while I finish my work in the kitchen. We’ll check on you a little later.”

Travis and the preacher were bound hand and foot, then dragged over and tied against the wood slats that framed the stalls.

The brothers left, and as soon as the doors closed, Travis turned to the preacher. “Listen, I’ve still got my pistol tucked into my belt under my sweater. Those idiots didn’t even search me. If one of us can get untied, we’ve still got a chance.”

For the next twenty minutes, they struggled with their bonds.

The preacher finally collapsed, exhausted and exasperated. “It ain’t no use. I’m trussed up tighter than a Sunday goose.”

Travis, pouring with sweat, spoke through clenched teeth, “I’m beating it, Preacher. My wrist ropes are giving just enough.” Then, with a short lurch of his shoulders, a hand broke free. “Got it,” he whispered as he pulled his other hand loose and struggled to his feet. Seconds later he was standing, free of the ropes. “Now you,” he said, but as he bent to the preacher they heard footsteps outside. With no time to plan, Travis pulled his gun and scrambled over against the wall next to the doors.

A moment later the brothers sauntered through the door. Just inside the room, they stopped dead when they saw only the preacher sitting there against the stall. Travis moved in behind them, kicking the younger brother in the base of his back and sending him sprawling across the floor. At the same time he put his gun to the temple of the older brother. “If you want to keep what little brains you have inside your head, drop that gun, now!” As little brother scrambled up, grabbing his gun, Travis stepped behind Billy, his gun still at the man’s temple. “Drop it, Walt, or I’ll blow your brother’s brains out.”

Walt looked like he was just about to cooperate when Travis saw him smile. Travis was just starting to turn when something hard and heavy smashed against the base of his skull, delivering an explosion of pain, then darkness.

The sun was just beginning to set as Travis awoke. His first sensation, past the blinding pain in his skull, was the constriction of his right arm. When his head cleared and his eyes focused, he found himself in front of the house, tied to the ominous tree stump he had noticed earlier. His left arm was secured tightly to his side, and his legs were tied together. His right arm, however, had been laced to the top of the stump, held by cords that were fastened to spikes nailed into the side of the old tree. It was bound so tightly that he couldn’t move his wrist a quarter-inch in any direction, and the pressure from the ropes was numbing. Most ominous of all, though, was the axe blade buried in the wood only inches away. He looked closely at the red-black matter that covered the old oak and his stomach convulsed: The entire stump was covered with dried blood. He suddenly knew, with terrifying certainty, that it wasn’t just from unlucky chickens.

He strained at his bonds, attempting to survey the area when he heard footsteps behind him. A moment later he saw Ma waddle into sight, flanked by her pair of wolf-dogs, whose cold eyes scrutinized Travis with the deadly intention of hungry sharks. Behind her came the brothers, pushing a trussed-up preacher ahead of them.

“I see you’re awake,” she purred. “That’s good. I want you awake for this.”

Travis’ insides did a back flip at those words. “Listen, wait a second –” he croaked, trying to keep his wits about him.

“No, you listen,” she snapped, her face contorted in anger as she leaned down next to him. Her breath washed over him, hard and foul. “You have offended me. Your right hand held a gun to my boy’s head, and the Lord says ‘smite the hand that offends.’”

Oh my God,
thought Travis.
This can’t really be happening.
“Listen,” Travis started again. “I don’t know exactly what you want, but I’m sure we can work this out. This . . . this just isn’t necessary. You can’t—”

“Oh, but I can,” she said, snatching the axe from the stump, a maniacal gleam in her eyes. “Now you will learn to obey,” she hissed as she raised the axe.

“For God’s sake, no!” Travis cried, and as the axe fell he screamed again. He shut his eyes at the last moment, as the blade sliced through his flesh and buried itself in the wood.

When he opened his eyes again, Travis was immediately assailed by two emotions: The first was major relief, as he discovered his hand was still attached to his arm. The second was a combination of pain and nausea when he realized that the axe had cut into and through almost a half-inch of the meaty part of his forearm before burying itself in the stump. He was bleeding considerably from the wound, but it was small change compared to losing a hand. Looking up, he could see the boys behind Ma, giggling like demented elves, and the ugly smile was still fixed on the old woman’s face.

The preacher stood by with a look of stricken relief.

“Now that I have your attention,” she whispered coldly, “this is what I want from you, and it better happen just as I say, or that axe will fall again. And the next time, I promise you, I won’t settle for a piece of your arm.”

“You,” she said as she stabbed a finger at the preacher, “are going to go back to your boats with my boys. Walt’s gonna wait on the shore while you and Billy go pick up the rest of your friends and bring them back to the bank. If anything happens to Billy, Walt’s gonna fire his gun. In fact, if I even hear a gun go off, I’m gonna come over to this stump, cut this man’s arm off and let him watch himself bleed to death. You understand? Billy’s gonna have a look at your stuff and when we’ve taken what we want from your boats, then you’ll be free to go.”

Right,
thought Travis.
When pigs fly.

“Do you understand?” she said, staring at the preacher.

He sighed and looked at Travis, “Yeah, I understand. I understand completely.”

The woman swung around to her sons and pointed at the shrimper. “You boys take him back to the shed, then get some sleep. I want you out of here before dawn.” She glared at the preacher once more. “Remember my words, old man. I hear a shot, and your friend here dies.”

As they started to drag the preacher off, he hesitated, and turned to the woman. “Can I say goodbye to my friend?”

She paused, then shrugged, “Sure, why not.”

He was released, and walked over to Travis. The old shrimper, his hands tied behind him, knelt beside Travis. His eyes were tired and worried and dried blood was caked down his cheek and neck. “I’ll do everything I can, son, to get you out of this.”

Travis did his best to smile and failed miserably. “I know you will.” Then, in a last effort for salvation he told the preacher, “Tell the sensei, ‘remember
katana
.’” The preacher looked puzzled, but repeated the phrase dutifully. “Just tell him that,” Travis emphasized.

His friend rose reluctantly. “God bless you, son,” he said, in a tone that sounded far too much like a eulogy to please Travis.

It was a long night. The preacher, contemplating the possibilities of a no-win situation, didn’t sleep much. Travis, tied up like Houdini at show time with an axe buried in the meat of his arm, hardly shut his eyes.

Just before dawn, Travis heard them pass behind him. Moments later he could just make out their shadows as they reached the trail in front of the clearing. “Good luck, Preacher,” he whispered.

The boys knew the trail well, so they tied a rope to the preacher’s hands and pulled him along. They moved fast and failed to sympathize with the man’s inability to see in the dark. When he stumbled and fell, they dragged him until he managed to get to his feet again. An hour after dawn, they arrived at the shoreline and the preacher showed them where the
Avon
was beached.

Billy turned to his brother. “You remember what Ma said, Walt. Now I’m gonna go on out and look around on them boats.” He turned to a big tree on his left, about fifty yards away. “If I’m not back by the time the sun reaches the top of that tree, you high-tail it back to Ma and finish off that fella, you hear?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Billy, I hear,” answered Walt nervously. “I’ll wait. But you’re comin’ right back, ain’t you, Billy?”

“Yeah, I’ll be right back. This should only take a few minutes.” Billy looked at the preacher. “All right, mister, let’s go meet your friends.”

When they reached the sailboat, the preacher yelled out and the sensei came on deck, along with Ra. The Japanese’s face was a mask, but his eyes riveted on the man with the gun. Billy instantly stiffened at the sight of Ra, who growled menacingly. “Have ’em tie that thing up now, before I come on board.”

The preacher called to the sensei, “There’s been some problems. We’re coming aboard to explain. Tie Ra up.”

As the sensei complied, they pulled the raft alongside and secured it. The rest of the crew was on deck by then, anxious to know what was happening.

Pointing the gun, Billy yelled, “Everyone back away, I’m coming up.”

The preacher’s voice boomed out behind him, “Let him come, don’t do anything!”

Billy reached the deck, keeping his gun leveled on the confused group. The preacher climbed aboard behind him and put his hands out, palms up. “Whoa, listen everybody.”

“Yeah, you tell ’em, mister,” Billy interrupted, obviously nervous, still waving the gun.

The preacher continued. “This man and his . . . his family, have taken Travis prisoner. They want to trade Travis for whatever goods they need that we have on our boats. We’re supposed to go ashore now so they can check over the boats. If we do anything wrong—if there’s a gunshot—the one on shore will signal them to kill Travis.”

There was an audible gasp from Christina, and Carlos muttered under his breath, “
Madre de Dios
.” The sensei remained stoic.

“Everybody inside,” Billy yelled. “I want to see what kind of goodies you got in here.”

As they entered the hold, the preacher remembered Travis’ last words. He whispered urgently, “Sensei, Travis said to tell you, ‘remember
katana
.’”

There was no change in the sensei’s face, but his eyes came alive. “Yes,” was all he said. Billy kept everyone in front of his gun as he examined the gear, the food, and the equipment he planned to steal. When they reached the forward cabin where the National Guard guns were stored, he demanded, “What’s in those boxes?”

“Nothing much,” replied the sensei, “old clothes, extra sails, that sort of thing. If you promise to let my friends go, I have something very special I will give you.”

“Oh yeah?” said Billy, turning away from the army cases.

“I have a sword given to me by my grandfather. It is four hundred years old and the hilt is made of gold and silver.” Billy’s eyes lit up. “Yeah? Show it to me.”

Everyone, sensing what was about to happen, slowly moved back. Billy just thought they were frightened, and paid little attention. The sensei turned to his bunk. “It is here,” he said as he reached under the mattress.

Billy backed up, leveling the gun on the Japanese. “Slowly, mister, slowly. One wrong move and I’ll blow you in half.”

“Do not worry,” said the sensei in his softest voice. “I just want to give it to you so you won’t hurt my companions.”

As the sensei turned to present the sword, he subtly clicked the scabbard release. When he reached out to hand it over, he tilted the weapon just slightly. The sheath immediately slipped from the blade and fell to the floor.

Billy tensed, as did everyone else in the room. “Oh, so sorry, so sorry,” said the sensei as he went into his best Japanese act and bent over to pick up the scabbard. The barrel of Billy’s gun was just in front of and above the sensei’s head. The unsheathed sword was in his right hand. The sensei reached for the scabbard with his left hand, when suddenly, in one lightning-quick motion, he swept the barrel of the gun aside and struck. It was an instant replay of the last time he had drawn his sword. There was a whir, then a snap as the blade sliced through the man’s wrist as if cutting butter, and cleaved into the butt of the shotgun. The hand and the gun dropped to the floor.