Alligator Park (43 page)

“See, no hard feelings,” he
says with a smile, and then tosses the broken spear into the water.

I wrap my left hand around
the bow on the bottom of the canoe and grab an arrow with my right. I load the
arrow into the bow, but keep it hidden inside the boat. I decide it’s time to
put my fears aside and use my intellect.

“We can be friends if you want.
Let’s meet tomorrow, any place you want,” I say, hoping he takes the bait.

“No, not tomorrow. I want you
right now.”

He starts toward me. I stand
up inside the canoe, pull back the arrow, and point it at his chest.

“It’s tomorrow or never,” I
say with authority.

He throws up his hands in
defeat.

“Okay, you win, tomorrow it
is.”

Unexpectedly, he turns to
leave. I keep the arrow trained on him, but then, he slams down on the edge of
the canoe with all his weight tipping the boat and launching me overboard. The
bow goes flying into the water. Before I can react, he grabs my neck with both
hands and pushes me under water. I claw at his arms, reach for his face, attempt
to fight him off, but he keeps me face down, at arm’s length, beyond my ability
to hurt him. A half-minute goes by, then a minute, and then another
half-minute, and when I’m just about to run out of air, he pulls me up. I gasp
for a mouthful of air, coughing violently between breaths.

“Are we ready to play yet?”
he says.

I’m still gasping for air and
can’t talk so I shake my head from side to side.

“Then have some more.”

He shoves me under water
again. My lungs are burning for oxygen and I want to breathe so badly, but I
resist the overwhelming temptation to inhale.

And just when I feel I can stand
it no more, I notice a glint of light on the bottom, to my left. I recognize it
immediately; it’s the shiny metal end of the fish spear, the one he broke in
half and threw in the water. I nudge the spear towards me with my left hand
until it is hidden under my body, so he can’t see what I’m up to. And then, I
wrap both hands around the wooden shaft near the middle. I squeeze the shaft
tightly, tighten my muscles, but before I can do anything, he starts to pull me
up.

This is for Will
, I think, and with every ounce of
strength I have left, I ram the razor-sharp point into his abdomen. I feel the
tip enter his flesh going up, up, up, and into his chest, but I keep pushing. I
keep pushing until it will go no more.

I feel his hands convulse,
and then, soften their grip. I pop my head above water gasping for oxygen. His
eyes are locked in a stare, wide open, and his face is contorted, as if he was
experiencing excruciating pain. He looks like he wants to scream, his mouth
wide open, and his face frozen in the most grotesque shape. But nothing comes
out. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t do anything. Blood trickles down
the corner of his mouth... I think he’s dead.

I pry away the fingers around
my neck and push his hands aside. His knees buckle and then he slips into the
water. No fanfare, no acclamation, he just drifts to the sandy bottom, a
stream of blood emanating from the wound
.

Small baitfish
take an immediate interest in the newfound food, nipping away at the exposed
flesh. The swamp is unkind to the defenseless; tomorrow this corpse will be
nothing but bones, held together by the bits of tendon and cartilage
unappealing to scavengers.

I slog out of the
water totally exhausted but manage to pull together enough strength to guide
the canoe toward the shoreline. I drag it up the beach as far as I can, a
precautionary measure, to prevent it from floating away during a downpour.

I search Fargo’s
leather pouch and retrieve a small container, the one Fargo never uses, the one
with red stains around the lid. I open the container, dip two fingers into the
red paste, and then make two red streaks across my cheek, just under my right
eye. I repeat the gesture on my left cheek and then return the container to the
pouch.

I stand up straight, raise my
arms to the sky, and scream. I scream louder than I’ve ever screamed before,
drawing energy from every fiber of my body, from every pore. It is not a scream
of fear, or one of triumph, but a declaration, to heaven and to the stars, that
the natural order of things has been restored; justice has been served!
That blot of evil, that stain on the earth, that piece of
garbage that fouled the aspirations of countless innocent victims, has been
terminated, and I, Indigo Wells, of Philadelphia, was its judge, jury, and
executioner.

I maintain the scream for as
long as I can, until the tiniest sac in the most remote corner of my lungs has
been emptied of its contents. And then, I drop to my knees, taking deep breaths
to replace the depleted oxygen.

An eerie silence pervades the
swamp provoking me to reflect on what I have done. By my own volition, with my
own bare hands, I have extinguished the life of a man.

But strangely, I
have no remorse. Instead, I find myself with an unbelievable sense of
satisfaction and perhaps even joy. I would have never believed I could
experience these kinds of feelings, joyful feelings, for such a horrid act. And
that scares me. But I pray it is short-lived. I never want to feel like this
again!

I trudge back to the cove, attempting to
reach the safety of the airboats entangled in the dense underbrush. The sun has
dropped out of sight and darkness is making the trail difficult to see. I’ve
been warned that snakes often seek the warmth of the sandy trail at night and
the thought of stepping on a Rattlesnake or Cottonmouth terrifies me. Why can’t
this just be a bad dream? Why can’t I just wake up and find myself in a warm
bed, safe and protected, and realize there’s nothing to be afraid of?

But it’s not to be. I’m
hungry, and wet, and completely exhausted, and I need to leave this place. I
must drive myself relentlessly with my last remnant of strength and ignore the
pains that envelop me. I walk slowly, carefully searching the trail for
anything that might harm me, utilizing the subdued light from the full moon
which is just now coming up over the horizon. I look back repeatedly, peering
down the darkened trail, fearing Damon might not really be dead and is stalking
me, waiting for that opportunity to strike again. I expect him at any moment to
run up the trail like a madman, attack me from out of the blackness with that
lethal stiletto.

Every little noise shakes me,
the rustle of leaves, the crack of a branch, the hoot of an owl. Every little
noise causes me to stop and look around in terror. The urge to run wells up
inside me, but the fear of stepping barefoot on one of those lethal critters
restrains me. I pull myself together and press on, steadily, methodically,
taking no chances, but wasting no time either. Oh, how I wish Fargo was here.
How I wish anyone was here, anyone but Damon that is. But how could they be? No
one knows where I am. No one would have any reason to come here at night. I
must endure. I must do this all alone.

Up ahead I see the end of the
trail and the shadowy outline of a wall of bushes against the night sky. I’ve
finally arrived, but the safety of the airboat eludes me. I must still cross
thirty feet of water which at this hour could be laden with alligators. It was
dangerous enough to swim across it during the day, but now, at night, when
alligators are most active, it could be suicide.

From my previous encounters
with alligators, I have learned they will seek out any movement in the water,
lest it be an animal in trouble. These reptiles are basically lazy so they
don’t do any more work than they have to in order to fill their bellies.
They’ll wait for hours for a meal to come to them rather than waste energy
foraging after an animal that may never appear. And their two favorite places
to wait are on the bottom of a pool of water or on the surface with only their
eyeballs above the water line.

I scan the surface of the
water for any interruption to the mirror smooth surface. The light from the
moon causes a sheen on the water making it easy to see ripples or protrusions,
but I see none. But what about the bottom? Any misstep on or near a waiting
alligator would be certain death. He would instinctively pull me underwater and
engage in a death roll which for over a hundred million years has served to
confuse and drown the victim. I wouldn’t have a chance.

I contemplate my options. I
could walk around the edge of the cove in the shallow water to get closer to
the airboat and then make a mad dash for the boat. But that’s where gators like
to hide so I could be walking into a trap. Climbing through the bushes would
not work either because they’re too dense and wouldn’t carry my weight anyway.
The only option that makes any sense is to swim right down the middle, just below
the surface so I’d be out-of-view of any gator scanning the lake for food. And
the ones lying on the bottom tend to be inactive unless you kick or step on
one.

I strip off my dress to
create the least possible drag in the water and then scan the area for any sign
of a gator. It appears to be clear, so I slide gently into the water making as
little noise as possible. I take a deep breath and then slip quietly beneath
the surface into a modified breast stroke using only my arms to propel me while
keeping my legs perfectly still. The gentle movement of my arms causes little
turbulence to the water, but provides enough forward motion I am able to
traverse the thirty feet in just seconds. My hands contact the bottom of the
airboat, and I pull myself up inside. How relieved I feel. I theorize that the
shiny hull of the airboat must be scaring the gators and keeping them away due
to their limited contact with humans.

And then I see it, a full
grown gator about six feet away lying under the bushes. Apparently this one was
not so easily spooked because he just lies there and stares at me. I pick up an
oar, and then bang it against the hull making a loud metallic sound. It does
the trick; the gator drops below the surface and slithers away. Perhaps the
loud noise disturbed him from his comfort zone, and he concluded I wasn’t worth
the risk. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator, even for alligators.

I attempt to free my airboat
from the dense underbrush, but the impact from Damon’s airboat has driven it
securely into the bushes. There are thick branches all around the motor and
wedged between the seats. It appears to be futile to attempt to free it.

I jump into the other airboat
and manage to push it backwards into open water. I set the controls and attempt
to start the engine. Wah, wah, wah, it goes and then backfires kicking out a
cloud of black smoke. I try again. Wah, wah, wah, and then it attempts to
start, but sputters severely. I back off the choke and the engine begins to run
better. It’s obvious what happened, Damon failed to turn off the choke and
flooded the engine. It’s amazing it ran at all.

Thick black smoke emanates
from the exhaust pipes and the engine runs very rough. I remember Fargo telling
me that means it is getting too much raw gasoline so I back off the choke
completely. The engine immediately runs smoother and the black smoke clears up.
I set the throttle to one-third, and maneuver the airboat out into the lake.
The darkness makes it impossible to see any landmarks, but fortunately, the
full moon, low on the horizon, acts like a beacon, helping me navigate to my
destination.

I make the wide sweep around
the island and notice blue flashing lights off in the distance. They’re in the
direction of Fargo’s cabin and shine with such intensity they dominate the
horizon even though they must be at least ten miles away. It can only mean one
thing; Fargo found Will and called the police.

I ram the throttle to
three-quarters and speed up to fifty miles per hour, which I calculate should
get me back in about twelve minutes. As I get closer, I can clearly make out
five police cars. And then, I see Fargo on the dock, waiting for me to arrive.
I cut the motor and let the airboat drift towards him. As soon as I’m close
enough, I toss him the rope. He pulls the boat alongside the dock and ties up
the front rope and then a second rope near the back. I step out of the airboat
and join him on the dock.

Fargo gazes at me, and then
gently runs his fingertips over the red stripes on my cheeks.

“You killed him?”

I nod in agreement.

“Where’s Will?” I say.

“The rescue wagon took him.”

Fargo wraps his arm around my
shoulders and pulls me close, shielding me from the gawk of onlookers. We walk
unassumingly up the path towards the cabin. Detective Bolt cuts us off, holding
up a handbag.

“Is this yours?” he asks.

“Yes, thanks,” I say, and
reach out to take it.

“Then this makes you a
suspect.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was found next to the
victim. That places you at the crime scene at the time of the murder.”

“He was dead when I got there.”

I notice Fargo getting antsy.

“John, why would she do
this?” he asks.

“I’ve got to follow procedure,
or the D.A. will have me for lunch. Now, at what time did you first encounter the
victim?”

“About six. Or maybe it was
six-thirty.”

“Well, which is it, six or
six-thirty?”

“I’m not sure. I think it was
six-thirty.”

Fargo cuts in: “Come on, she’s
traumatized?”

“This will only take a few
minutes. Tell me what you saw when you arrived.”

“He was sitting in his chair
as usual...” and then I relate to Detective Bolt the whole incident of how I
found Will, and how Damon had chased after me with the airboat.

“So you’re saying there’s
another body?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

“You’re admitting to a second
murder?”

“No, not murder! He was
trying to drown me!”

“John, can’t you see it was
self-defense,” Fargo says.

“I’m only after facts,” he
says, and then glares at me.

“What are those red marks on
your face? Are you in a cult?”

“You have to be Indian to
understand,” Fargo says.

“Okay then. Show me the
body.”

“It’s far away, at the canoe.”

“I’ll take you. Let her stay
here,” Fargo says.

“If she doesn’t come, I’ll
have to say she’s not cooperating,” Detective Bolt says. “Not my rules.”

“Okay, I’ll go,” I say.

Fargo hops onto the airboat
and I follow close behind. Detective Bolt sprints over to a group of
crime-scene investigators. He chats with the investigators and then returns
with four of them, two men and two women.

“They’re coming with us,” he
says, and proceeds to hop onto the airboat. The investigators follow his lead
dragging some large canvas bags on board. One of the investigators, a black
woman, about forty, dressed in jeans and a blue tee-shirt with ‘POLICE’ across
the front, and a light jacket draped across her shoulders, sees me staring at
the bags.

“Body bags,” she says, and
then sits in the seat in front of me. She turns to face me.

“Why are you in your
underwear?”

I relate to her the whole
story about how Damon chased me across the lake in the airboat, how he had
tried to kill me, and how I needed to remove my dress in order to swim
undetected back to the airboat. She removes the jacket draped across her
shoulders and hands it to me.

“Here, it’ll keep you warm.”

I put on the jacket and thank
her.

“By the way, name’s Pam.”

“I’m Indigo,” I say, as I
pull the jacket tightly around me to stave off the wind.

She removes an extra-large
cup of espresso from her tote bag and hands it to me.

“Bought this for later, but I
think you need it more than I do.”

I try to refuse, but she
insists so I take the coffee and thank her. I’m hungry, and tired, and
desperately need something to pick me up, and she is my angel. As I sip the hot
coffee, the consequences of the whole incident begin to sink in and cause me
great anxiety. Pam notices my despair.

“Don’t worry, we do this all
the time,” she says. “Just routine. No one thinks it was your fault.”

“Thanks,” I say, glad to have
a friend.

“It’s the D.A. What a
firecracker!”

She leans over to me and
lowers her voice.

“I don’t know what her
problem is, but she prosecuted this senior from Florida State for rape, really
bright boy, good future, even though the victim insisted it was consensual.”

“Was she underage?”

“Well... that’s where it gets
interesting. It happened on her birthday. Police caught them in the back seat
of his car. The D.A. managed to convince the jury that the alleged crime
occurred a few minutes before midnight making the girl technically seventeen.”

“No room for ‘reasonable
doubt’?”

“She kept hammering away at
the jury, telling them the facts are clear and the jury must follow the law.”

“No compassion?”

“Not in her world. I really
wish someone would put her in her place,” she says.

Pam notices the forlorn look
in my gaze.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I
said too much.”

“It’s okay. I need to know
this anyway.”

Fargo hands out hearing
protectors to everyone on board and then casts off the ropes. We head across
the water at high speed under the glow of the full moon.
Pam’s jacket flutters in the wind, but it’s keeping me warm
and that’s all that matters.

I finish off the coffee just
as we arrive at the cove. My airboat is still blocking the entrance so Fargo trains
the spotlights on it and hops on board. He cuts away some of the branches and pushes
it out of the way using the long pole. He hops back onto our airboat, guides it
under the branches into the cove, and then, beaches the front end to give us
easy access to the shoreline. He grabs a flashlight and leads us along the
trail to the place where he keeps the canoe. I’m feeling very vulnerable, so I pass
the others, and walk alongside him.

“I’m worried about the D.A.”
I say.

“Yeah, she’s tough.”