Trapped (40 page)

appears to be strands of swamp grass.

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Looks like he’s got a head full of snakes, and that’s how

he’s acting, too.

“Your name is Davis,” Ricky says to Stick, who’s rolling

around, clutching his shattered foot. “I can read your mind.

I can see your spine and all the bones. I can see your fat liver.”

Roy, careful not to make any sudden moves, slowly backs

away from the wing and says, “It’s not what you think.”

Ricky finds the remark hilarious. But his laughter is silent

and therefore terrifying.

“You’re on the run, we figured you’d need money,” says

Roy.

Even funnier. Ricky finally gets his breath back and says,

“Do exactly what I say or you’re dead.”

Dug looks sullen but Roy quickly nods assent.

Ricky says, “Kill the girl and bring the boy to me.”

He tells them where and when to deliver Seth Manning,

watches them scoot away like scalded kittens, scampering to

their precious pickup truck, away to do his bidding. Underlings

dispatched, his attention returns to the wounded pilot, who is

attempting to crawl away. Not making much progress, either.

“How you doing, Mr. Davis? Did you find your toes?”

Stick whimpers.

Ricky goes, “Inside your head, you know what I see? I see

lies and alcohol. I see guns and money and drugs. I see a life

wasted ruining the lives of others.”

“Don’t shoot,” Stick begs, holding up his hands as if at-

tempting to catch bullets. “Please don’t shoot.”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Ricky says, slipping the Glock

into the pocket of his muddy cargo pants. “Ready?” he asks.

Stick, weeping, asks, “R-r-ready for what?”

Using both hands, Ricky upends the five-gallon bucket of

jet fuel, drenching the pilot.

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Stick coughs, begins to shiver as the rapidly evaporating,

highly flammable fuel cools his flesh. He’s been around,

seen some amazing sights in his time, and he knows what

happens next.

“Shoot me,” he begs. “Shoot me in the head.”

Ricky apologizes, explains that he’s already put the gun

away, and that therefore it will not be possible to shoot Stick

in the head.

Then he strikes a match.

7. The Mysterious Mr. Fish

Stuffed animals are not my thing. Not teddy bears, not real

bears, stuffed. Not in museums, not in homes, and certainly not

in restaurants. Excuse me, but killing an animal and trying to

make it look alive, or not quite dead? Creepy. You want to kill

a big deer? Catch a big fish? Fine. Eat what you want and throw

the rest away. Just don’t expect me to admire it on your wall.

So the Glade City Hunt Club is not exactly my kind of

place. Then again, we’re not here to admire the alligators

nailed to the paneled wall, or the huge black bear that guards

the entrance, glaring at visitors with beady glass eyes and

exposed fangs that look like they need a good brushing.

Ugh, disgusting. The bar, where the only thing stuffed is

the tip jar, is not my scene, either. In terms of design it’s

actually quite pleasant. A curved mahogany bar top with

matching brass rails, and wide-bladed ceiling fans stirring the

thick, muggy air. Behind the bar, liquor bottles glow like

amber jewelry, illuminated by hidden lights. It’s the clientele

that turns me off. Too much testosterone, combined with the

loud, braying voices of manly men bragging about them-

selves. Truth be known, I go for the strong silent types, and

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silence does not seem to be an option at this particular

watering hole.

We’ve been told that if you want to locate Leo Fish, who

doesn’t want to be found, start at the Hunt Club. One of the

guides will know where to find him, although persuading any

of the locals to help an outsider might be tough.

That’s the gospel according to Trishy with the flat-gray

eyes. We’re about to see if there’s anything to what she says.

Shane glances at his watch, announces, “We haven’t got time

for finesse,” and then abruptly strides out onto the screened-

in porch, where the raucous crowd clusters two or three deep

around the bar. Leaving me at the entrance looking lost and

feeling a lot of hot stares checking me out.

Shane is anything but lost. He opens his wallet, extracts

some cash and waves his fist high in the air.

“Five hundred dollars to the man who can put me in

contact with Leo Fish!”

Wow. The resulting silence is shocking to the ear. An

entire roomful of macho hunter-fisher types eyeballing the

big guy, sizing him up. Maybe this was what it was like in

the Old West when a new marshal came to town. I’m ready

to duck in case gunfire erupts, but after a few thudding heart-

beats, conversation returns to the previous level. Eyes look

elsewhere. We’re being ignored.

Shane waves his fist again. “Hey! Pay attention, you

maggots!”

Again, utter silence, not to mention death-ray looks.

Shane, having got their full and undivided attention,

explains: “We need to contact Leo Fish because he may be

able to help us save the life of a young woman. Anybody who

wants the finder’s fee, or who just wants to do the right thing,

may contact me in the parking lot at the Motorcourt inn. I’ll

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be there for the next hour. The man who helps me find Leo

Fish will have a friend for life, as well as the five hundred.

Thank you for your attention and have a good night.”

He takes me by the hand and more or less drags me out of

the Hunt Club and doesn’t let go until we get to the rental car.

“Sorry,” he says. “The exit was overly dramatic but I

wanted to leave ’em hanging. Wondering who you are.

Maybe curious enough to help.”

“That was an act?” I say, a bit breathless from trying to

keep up. “‘Pay attention, you maggots’?”

Shane gets in, fires up the engine and puts the car in gear.

“Absolutely. We want the whole town buzzing. If anybody

in Glade City knows how to put us in contact with the mys-

terious Mr. Fish we’ll know in the next hour. And if not, we’ll

know that, too, and not be wasting our precious time.”

“Kelly’s precious time,” I remind him.

“Exactly,” he says.

Shane’s idea is to wait outside in the Motorcourt parking lot,

so any potential snitches will feel more comfortable approach-

ing under cover of darkness. But the mosquitoes are so bad—

they feel as big as blue jays—that we have to remain in the

Crown Vic or be drained of blood long before the hour is up.

“How did they stand it around here before they had screens

and air-conditioning?” I ask.

“I assume they drank heavily. A habit that doesn’t appear

to have died out with the invention of bug spray.”

Shane is trying to keep the conversation light, but I just

can’t do it. Can’t fake being wry and relaxed when inside

I’m screaming.

“When will they start searching again?” I want to know.

Shane considers, then replies, “There may be ground units

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working through the night, investigating known locations. Air

surveillance will resume when the sun rises.”

“That may be too late,” I point out.

“All we can do is keep trying,” Shane tells me. “Never give

up. That’s the only way to proceed, and you’d be surprised

how often ‘never give up’ produces results.”

To his everlasting credit, the promised results are produced

about fifteen minutes later, when an old pickup bounces into the

parking lot and begins to circle, as if uncertain of what to do

next.

Shane gets out, does his raised-fist thing, and the truck

stops. A scrawny little dude gets out, looks around to see

whether he’s been followed. I’m beginning to recognize the

type. Except for the long scraggly hair tied in a ponytail, he

could be kin to the sheriff, or to Trishy for that matter.

“What you want Fish for?” he asks suspiciously. “You a

cop?”

“Retired. This concerns Ricky Lang. Heard he was married

to Leo Fish’s sister, and thought he might help us find Mr.

Lang.”

“The crazy injun they huntin’ for?”

“The fugitive,” Shane insists. “Lang kidnapped this

woman’s daughter.”

“Um, Leo and Ricky don’t exactly get along.”

“That’s no concern of ours. We just want possible loca-

tions. Can you contact Mr. Fish or not?”

The scrawny dude with the ponytail scrutinizes the larger

man. “It ain’t like Leo’s got a phone or ’lecricity. He’s a white

man but lives more or less like them Seminole Indians in the

old days. He ain’t got a normal home, he camps out deep in

the Glades, moving when it pleases him. Take me two hours

to get to him by airboat, and two hours back if he wants to

come.”

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“Take me to him,” Shane says. “I’ll talk to him there,

wherever it is.”

Ponytail dude shakes his head. “No way, Jose. Ain’t

leadin’ no lawman to Leo Fish. I’ll take him your message,

see what he says, but it’ll cost you a thousand.” He looks at

me for the first time, nods politely. “Evening, ma’am. Airboat

is expensive to run, blows through gas like you wouldn’t

believe, that’s why I got to get my price.”

“Two hours?” asks Shane.

“Four or five round trip.”

Shane nods agreement. “Okay. Five hundred to cover the cost

of the airboat, regardless. A thousand if you bring me Leo Fish.”

Scrawny licks his chapped lips. “The five up front?”

“When you get back,” Shane says firmly.

“How I know you won’t drive away, leave me for a fool?”

“Because you have my word.”

“Okay, deal.” Scrawny shakes on it, looking like he

believes in Randall Shane.

That makes two of us.

8. The Furious Thing

Roy Whittle has Old Sparky on his mind. The electrified

killing machine used by the state of Florida to execute death-

row inmates. Called Old Sparky because the method—

surging two thousand volts through the human body—is not

entirely reliable. Sometimes the inmate’s head catches fire

and has to be doused with a handy bucket of water, kept

nearby for that purpose. Sometimes the heart fails to stop

beating and a second or third jolt is required. Sometimes, and

this is what really bothers Roy, the inmate starts sizzling like

a big ham under the broiler.

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If it comes to that, Roy figures he’ll opt for lethal injec-

tion, on the grounds that going to sleep and never waking up

is way better than cooking to death.

“How you gonna do it?” Dug wants to know as they

approach their destination.

Distracted by thoughts of flaming skulls, Roy asks,

“How’m I do what?”

“Kill the girl.”

Roy slows the truck to a stop, shifts the stick to neutral,

and looks his brother in the eye. “We’re not killing no girl,

get that straight.”

Dug has that stubborn look he gets. “Ricky said.”

“Ricky Lang done lost his mind,” Roy reminds him.

“Think about it. We kill the girl, there’s nothing left for us.

Ain’t like he’ll be around to pay us our share. Whatever he’s

got planned, it ends with him getting his head blown off.”

“He told you that?”

“Hell no! Didn’t have to. The crazy bastard thinks he’s

Superman. He thinks bullets can’t touch him. And sooner or

later, he’ll find out different.”

That silences the slower twin for a few moments as he pro-

cesses the information. “I could do it if you want,” Dug even-

tually offers. “Tap her down.”

Most observers would conclude that Roy Whittle shows

remarkable patience with his brother, but even he has his

limits. “Listen to me, Dug. Get this straight. The girl is our

only remaining chance of getting anything out of this. We’ll

trade her for money once Ricky’s gone.”

Dug makes a face, stares at his hands. “Ricky burned

Stick,” he points out.

“Yeah, he did, and he burned the plane, too, but he ain’t

going to burn us. You’re gonna take the boy to him, like he

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wants. That’s all he really cares about, the rich man’s son. He

won’t know if the girl’s alive or buried in the swamp. We’ll

keep her somewhere safe till this blows over, then see what

we can get for her. If her family won’t pay, we’ll find

someone who will. Good-lookin’ white girl that age is fully

negotiable.”

Dug is clearly troubled, but mutters a reluctant acceptance

of his brother’s superior judgment. “Whatever you say, Roy.”

Roy sighs, keenly aware their prospects have plummeted.

“I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. A thousand

percent right. We messed up, getting in with Ricky Lang, but

I’m gonna fix it. That’s a promise. Carolinas here we come.”

They drive until the road ends, then hike half a mile

through the saw grass, following an old Indian trail so

obscure and overgrown you have to know it’s there. A per-