Scorpion Page 5
Chapter Four
Sheriff Earl Lawson heard the buzzing of the flies a few seconds before he inhaled the repugnant odors of dried blood and human feces. The nauseating smells filtered through dry and dusty air and assaulted him as surely as the plague of flies that attacked his face, tickling, biting, itching. Frantically he tried to move his hands to brush them away, but couldn’t. He shook his head back and forth, but it didn’t seem to bother them. He tried to move, but he was frozen in place, wedged in tight or paralyzed. Shivers tingled along his spine, sweat fed the flies on his neck and face.
He opened his eyes and was swallowed by the darkness. He strained to see, but flies attacked his open eyes and he forced them shut in an effort to keep them out. He fought a rising urge to scream. He squeezed his eyes into slits, trying in vain to see some light. Nothing but flies and more flies. The constant buzzing, combined with the roasting heat, made him feel like he was in an oven being baked alive, the pig in the pit, buried for the luau, flies on his face instead of an apple in the mouth.
He tried to speak, to call out, but couldn’t. Something was wrapped around his face, wrapped around the back of his neck, wrapped around his mouth. He forced his tongue between his lips and touched something sticky. Tape. His mouth was taped shut.
He struggled to bring a hand up, to pull it off, but his arms were frozen behind his back. He moved his wrists. Handcuffs. He tried to roll over, to bury his face into whatever he was laying on, anything to keep the flies off. They were at his nostrils. He felt one crawling in and he snorted it out, but it came right back, it or another, there seemed to be thousands. Terror gripped him. They were going to flood up his nasal passages, he was going to drown in flies.
No, the thought screamed at him, no, not like this. He fought for control, fought against the rising panic, fought the fear, fought the terror, and like a scalded snake, he bucked his body and managed to flop onto his side. That chased the flies away from his face and gave him the renewed energy for another jerk and twist. Then he was on his stomach, face against an oily, dusty carpet. In an instant the flies were back, but with his face pressed into the carpet they couldn’t get up his nose or into his eyes, but they were at his ears and on the back of his neck, crawling under his shirt.
Where was he? What happened? What went wrong?
Then he remembered the briefcase and shooting Johnny Lee Tyler. Somebody smacked him in the back of the head. Kids must have had an accomplice. How could he have been so stupid? There must have been two cars, of course. Darren’s father, it had to be.
He wondered if they got Jackson, too. They must have, otherwise he’d be home counting the cash. They must have come in that garage quiet and careful. Must have snuck up behind them. One clobbered Jackson and the other got him. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to think. There had to be a way out. He wondered again where he was and how long he’d been unconscious.
His legs weren’t straight. Before he’d rolled over they were bent at his side, now they were bent unnaturally and uncomfortably against something, a roof of some kind. He tried to straighten them, but they were wedged firmly against whatever he was encased in. He thought of a coffin and shuddered, but it couldn’t be, not with the flies. Besides, it was too big.
He heard the sound of an engine starting. Then he felt movement. All of a sudden he knew where he was. The car hit a bump or went down a curb, then accelerated, throwing him toward the back of the trunk and scattering the flies. He smacked into something warm. Not warm like human warm, but not cold like stone either. Something in between. A dead man turning cold.
Johnny Lee Tyler, Darren or Jackson. He wondered who, and he shivered, despite the heat. Maybe all of them were in here with him. Maybe one of them was alive, like him. Maybe Jackson. Between the two of them they could get out of anything. He moaned through the tape, a mournful sound, like a poisoned dog.
No answer.
He moaned again, louder.
Still no answer. Whoever was in the trunk with him was dead. He tried to think. The man next to him was dead, and he wasn’t. That was fact. Again he tried moving his legs, but still he couldn’t. They were tied together. Whoever taped, cuffed and bound him obviously wanted him alive. That was a good sign. You didn’t go to that much trouble with a man if you wanted him dead. He wondered what they wanted with him, what they’d ask of him.
But he didn’t wonder about what he’d do for them, because he knew the answer. Anything.
Please, God, let me make it.
A spasm of cold fear shot through him as he sucked hot air in through his nose. The dry air brought along other smells besides the coppery scent of blood and the revolting smell of shit — grease, oil, dust and death. He fought the rising bile. To vomit now was to die. He thought about death for a second and he wanted to scream and rage, but he was trussed up tighter than a rodeo calf.
Please, God, please.
The car accelerated, swerved, fishtailed and he tasted the rising dust as it swirled around in the trunk. He felt something slam into the back of his head and he wanted to cry out, because he was butting heads with a dead man.
Please, God, please.
Then the car was on the pavement and going fast.
It made another hard right and he pulled his head to the side to avoid smacking into the body again, and he banged his head into something harder, something made of metal, like a jack or a tire iron.
“ Shit,” he murmured through the tape, angry now, and ashamed. He tried to think, but the shame rode over rational thought. He was Earl Lawson. Big Earl Lawson. Sheriff, sportsman, strong as an ox, tough as they come, hale and hearty, leader of men, ex marine, and now a coward. They’d broken him in seconds. All it took was a few flies, a dead man and a trunk and he was whimpering like a woman, praying to a god he didn’t believe in.
Please, God, please.
He felt sick. They hadn’t put a hand on him and he was a broken man, ready to fall on his knees the minute he met his tormentors, ready to beg for his life. No, that’s not the way it was going to be. If he was going to die, he’d go like a man, head up, proud. He was Big Earl Lawson, sheriff, marine, hunter.
No more praying, he told himself, grabbing his fear with a mental fist and squeezing it away. He bit into his tongue and curled his fingers into tight fists. The fear gone now, all he had left was anger, all he had to do was endure. Sooner or later the car would stop and sooner or later he’d get his chance. Nobody fucked with Earl Lawson. He felt an erection building. It happened every time he sighted in on an animal, every time he pulled the trigger, every time he dealt death. It was getting hard. It was starting to throb. He was going to get even. Oh yeah, somebody was going to die.
The car came to a skidding stop, throwing him against the dead man. The scraping sound of the screeching tires echoed through the trunk sending icicles shivering up his spine, but he met the cold terror with hot fury, clenching his teeth and firming his resolve. The car banked quickly right and his head smacked into the hard metal of the jack. He blacked out again.
When he came to he was bent over a round bar or tube, like a dead outlaw slung over a horse. Hands hanging down one side, feet over the other. He heard the rushing of the river and he knew where he was even before he opened his eyes. His hands were flopping below his head, swaying in the brisk breeze. His feet were on the other side of the fence, the safe side. His legs were bound together at the ankles, the ropes were tight, cutting off the flow of blood to his feet. Eyes wide, looking down, he saw the Guadeloupe River. He was just above the rapids.
The afternoon sun was blazing overhead, his view was excellent. He grabbed a breath through his mouth, the tape was gone. He felt the blood rushing to his head. He tried to move his hands. They were heavy, he flexed his fingers, felt the pain. The back of his head was throbbing, his erection was gone. The fence rail was digging into his stomach.
He reached behind himself, stretched out his right arm and wrapped his fingers around the lower rail. He was abou
t to pull himself up when he felt a hand on his leg. Someone was untying the ropes. He felt the fumbling fingers between his legs. He wanted to shout, to tell the man to pull him up first, worry about the ropes after he was on the bridge.
Relief flooded through his legs the instant the ropes came off. “Thank you,” he called out as he pulled himself up toward the rail.
“ Sorry, Earl,” Jackson said. Earl felt his friend’s strong hands grab him by the ankles and lift his legs into the air and over the rail. He held on to the lower rail as his legs came arcing over, bound for the river below. He screamed against the jerking pain that shot through his right arm, but he managed to hold on with that lone hand, dangling above the river, face even with the concrete bridge and his deputy’s feet.
“ Jackson!” Earl cried out, grabbing onto the rail with his other hand.
“ I am mighty sorry about this, Earl. I truly am, but sometimes things just get out of control.”
“ I thought you were dead,” Earl said, looking up and into Jackson’s eyes.
“ The river is going to kill you,” Jackson said. He leaned over the rail and smiled down at Earl. “Sorry, buddy.”
“ Jackson, we’re friends,” Earl shouted up to be heard above the river.
“ Yeah, Earl, we were, but the cash sort of got in the way.”
“ There’s plenty for us both. There always has been.”
Jackson ignored him and leaned lower over the rail. For a second Earl thought he was going to pull him up, but instead he grabbed onto his right hand and tried to pry it loose. That was a mistake. He should have stepped on the fingers, like they do in the movies, but he didn’t and that gave Earl his chance. Rattlesnake quick he whipped his left arm over and grabbed Jackson around the wrist. The weight of his body pulled Jackson into the fence, slamming his stomach against the bar as he flayed out with his free hand and grabbed onto it for support.
“ Pull me up,” Earl said.
“ No!” Jackson clenched his abdominals against the rail to support himself.
“ Come on, Jackson,” Earl said. His erection was returning.
“ You’re going,” Jackson said, and now that he had his balance he was able to let go with his free hand and he grabbed downward, reaching for Earl’s hand. He was ten years younger than Earl and had the rippling muscles of an athlete, but Earl was scared strong. The more Jackson tried to free Earl’s fingers from his wrist the tighter Earl squeezed.
“ I can’t hold on much longer. Pull me up or we both go.” He was hard now, throbbing and ready.
“ No,” Jackson said.
“ Fuck you!” Earl yelled, letting loose his anger. He let go of the hand that was holding on to the rail and grabbed onto Jackson’s dangling arm and now all of his weight was pulling Jackson downward. It was too much, and in the instant it took Jackson to figure out what had happened it was too late. He slid off the rail, tumbling after Earl, and together they fell toward the river below.
“ Son of a bitch!” Earl yelled as they fell. He felt Jackson’s body jerk, and he let go of his arm just as they hit the water, grabbing a great breath as he slid into it feet first. The cold wet chilled him, body and soul, as he sank like a missile to the bottom, feet digging through the moving silt and into the soft mud. The adrenaline sparking and slicing through his body killed the river cold as he pushed and swam toward the surface. But the rushing river had a mind of his own, dragging him away from the spot where he’d plunged into the water and toward the rapids.
The more he struggled toward the surface the more the river struggled to keep him below, pulling him along, like a leaf on the breeze. His heart was thumping, his lungs were aching. There was a jackhammer pounding in his chest, demanding oxygen. The dark wet of the river engulfed him.
The river hit a bend and something struck him as he made the turn. He couldn’t hold out much longer. The thing hit him again. A log, his mind screamed. A floating log. A log floating on the surface. He was close, so close. He couldn’t quit now. He wouldn’t quit now.
He surfaced, grabbed a quick breath and went under again. If only he could grab onto the log. He could maybe ride it through the rapids. Maybe. He bumped it again and threw an arm around it. It sank some as he pulled on it, but it allowed him to get his head out of the water again, and he grabbed another breath.
Not far now, rapids and rocks.
He knew his chances weren’t good. He’d seen what the rapids could do to a man, been present at more then one autopsy. The river broke your bones, lacerated your skin, filled your lungs, then it beat you raw and spit out a thing in the calm below that didn’t look human.
And people came from miles around to ride the rapids. They called it a challenge, a thrill. They called it fun. And Earl was one of them. He loved riding the river. Knew its every twist and turn. He’d done it dozens of times. But always in a raft, and never solo.
The first dangerous turn was coming up. There was a large group of rocks to the right, on the outside of the turn, and a smaller cluster in the center of the river. You could either take the turn on the left, close to the bank or take the more dangerous route, between the rocks. He’d done it both ways and preferred to go between the two groups of rocks, because it left you in a better position for the next group. But he was without a raft and there was nobody on the river except him and the log, so he wrapped his arm around it and frantically kicked to the left.
It was a cloudless sky and the sunlight reflecting off the rushing water made the rocks ahead hard to see, but he sensed he was heading right for them. He kicked himself around the log and positioned it between himself and the hazard ahead. The log hit the rocks first, cushioning the collision, and that surprised him, but he held onto it until they were through the narrow gap.
Then for a few seconds it would be smooth, then came the worst or the most challenging part, depending on your point of view. He tried to pull himself up on the log, but it wasn’t buoyant enough, and it had more give than a log should have. He turned away from the rocks and rapids up ahead and stole a quick look at it.
And screamed.
The log had a face.
It was Loomis, eyes stone wide in death. He let go of the body, flaying the water and fighting for air. Then something smacked into him. He grabbed onto it, and screamed again. This log had a face, too. But the need for survival overcame his terror and he grabbed onto Jackson’s limp body and sucked in a huge lungful of air.
Then he was in it. The river churning and boiling all around him. He fought for air, fought to stay afloat and fought through the gaps, using Jackson’s body as a cushion against the rocks. He did it without thinking, his will to survive stronger than the revulsion of hanging on to the dead man.
And even with the body he was still taking a beating. He had to get out of the river. Several homes lined the riverbank at various places, but yelling for help was out of the question. He was in the river canyon twenty feet below. No one would hear.
He tried to form a mental picture of what lay ahead. Not the rapids and the rocks, he knew those, but the places on the side that he might be able to get to, places out of the river rush. There was one, not far ahead, sort of a side pool, blocked by a huge rock that rose from the river. He’d actually seen fishermen in it as he’d rushed by with Jackson in the past.
If he missed the pool there was a section of the river after the next group of rocks that had several overhanging branches on both sides of the river. He remembered having to duck to keep his head as he and Jackson had rafted under them.
He started to make his way to the right as the river rounded another bend. If he could stay far enough to the right, but not so far that he smashed into the giant rock. If he could summon enough strength for a few good kicks, and if his timing was spot on, he might be able to swim into the pool.
It was coming up faster then he anticipated and he was too far to the right. He was going to crash into the giant rock. Frantically he pushed Jackson in front of him, using the body as a shi
eld, as the raging river threw them toward the rock. The dead body careened into the it and he smashed into the dead body. He heard bones crunching and cracking as he lost hold of Jackson. The river picked him up and flung him sideways. He hit the rock back first and slid along it, clawing and scratching for a hold. Then he was past the rock and he kicked and swam for the hole into the pool, but the river was too fast and he didn’t have the strength.
He sucked in a lungful of air as the river drew him under. Now he was going down the river without any protection and he was only halfway through this group of rapids. If he made it through them, he would have nothing but rushing river for a few hundred yards. He’d be able to grab onto the overhanging branches by the riverbank. Then he was in it again, swimming and dodging, holding his breath, lungs bursting, adrenaline flowing. His body took over, it was all reflex now. His experience and memory of the river, its twists, turns, rocks and hazards, all buried in the subconscious that took over. Sheriff Earl Lawson was only along for the ride, the animal within was running the show.
He was an eel, sliding through a narrow passage, then he was a great fish, powerfully swimming toward the next opening in the rocks where he became an eel again. A few times his animal judgment was off and he’d scrape along a rock as he struggled through a slim opening, and once he smashed into a smooth shaped boulder his animal self didn’t remember. But he managed to keep his breath, despite the crash, and then he was through it, floating down the rushing river, headed for the next group of rapids.
He fought the pulling river as he pulled in air and he swam toward the side. The next group of rapids would be the last. If he didn’t make it this time he was history. He knew it and the animal within knew it. Just as he thought it was all over he saw an overhanging branch within his reach. He gave it his last and his best effort as he thrust his arms out of the water and grabbed onto it.
He didn’t know how long he’d been hanging onto the branch, a few seconds or a few minutes, but he had to do something. His arms were straining, he was still in the water from the waist down, and the river was sapping what little strength he had left. He tried to pull himself up and he managed to almost chin himself, holding his eyes level with the branch, knees in the river, stomach muscles screaming as he struggled to get out of the water, but he couldn’t do it and he sagged back down. He didn’t have the energy or the strength left to pull himself up onto the branch.