The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller (16 page)

24

Her
heart raced as it never had before. She rolled her head away from the sliver of
light and the view of the floor above, scooting her body back into the dark.
She pressed against Owen’s body.

“Move!
Now!” she said to him, no longer caring if those above heard her voice.

She
shouldered her husband. Sliding on his back, he scuttled through the dark,
knocked the broken piece of lattice aside, and started to pull himself through
the open space. His upper body was outside, his legs in the crawl space beneath
the house. Rayanne wormed her way behind him. The opening seemed to have
narrowed, and her husband was stuck. She looked at another section of
latticework to the right of the opening. She pressed her hands against the thin
wood lath. She pushed with all the strength she could muster. The latticework
gave way and she shoved it into the yard.

Rayanne
crawled through and stood beside the wall of the shack. Barely catching her
breath, she bent down and helped her husband out of the crawl space and to his
feet. She could hear someone on the porch. The heavy footfalls were coming
fast, echoing around her. Rayanne looked toward the back porch as Nelson came
around the corner, yelling. He sounded enraged and terrified.

It
took a moment before Rayanne realized he wasn’t yelling at them, but to Scut
and Roddy in the woods. He was calling for them.

Rayanne
squatted, considering her options. She surveyed the yard and the surrounding
tree line. To the north, in the opposite direction, where the boys had run
earlier, was the stone shed. Behind it, a deer path offered a narrow but clear
route into the woods. If she and Owen could get to it and disappear before Scut
and Roddy returned to the shack, they might be safe. They could hide. Even if
Nelson, standing on the porch, saw their retreat, they could still get away.

Rayanne
pulled Owen’s arm. “Run!”

She
helped him sprint toward the shed as Nelson shouted. She knew he had them in
his sight, and she urged Owen to move faster. They made it to the front of the
shed as a bullet hit the drying rack, splintering wood above her head. The boar
carcass swayed violently from the impact. Rayanne ducked. Owen held onto her.
Now he was pulling her toward the stone shed.

“Stop,
or I’ll shoot you in the back,” came a voice behind them.

Rayanne
and Owen froze next to the tree stump and the caged raccoon. It wasn’t moving
either, but hunched in a corner. Rayanne stared at it as Owen took her hand.
They turned around. Nelson walked toward them with a revolver in his shaky left
hand. He aimed it at them.

“I
don’t want to shoot you,” he said. He stood a few feet in front of them and
held up his right arm. Only his thumb protruded from the cast. “I just want the
rabbit’s foot. It belongs to my uncle.”

Owen
shook his head, saying, “I don’t have it.”

“I
don’t believe you.” Nelson trembled as he spoke, and it made the revolver waver
ever so slightly. “I know you stole it from my uncle fifteen years ago.”

“I
don’t know what to tell you,” Owen said, his arms raised. “I don’t have it
anymore.”

Nelson
sighed. Rayanne watched his eyes narrow, and then she looked over at her
husband’s hands. Blood trickled from his wrists, down both arms, and dripped
off his elbows. She could take it no longer.

Jumping
forward, she grabbed the wire cage, surprising the raccoon. It shrieked as she
ripped off the wire door and turned. Nelson fired the gun. Rayanne threw the
cage at him. The shot splintered stone on the shed behind them as the metal
cage whacked Nelson in the face. The coon tumbled out onto his shoulders.
Nelson screamed as the animal tore into him. He dropped the revolver and it
went off again when it hit the ground. He thrashed his arms, hitting the animal
with his cast. Its claws shredded his cheeks and then tore down his neck.

Rayanne
watched in horror as Owen limped toward Nelson. The coon scrambled off the teen
as he writhed in agony on the ground. Owen picked up the revolver. He aimed it
at the coon and fired. The gun clicked. He pressed the trigger again. Another
click.

“Dropp’n
F,” he said, tossing the gun aside. He returned to Rayanne and pulled on her
arm. Together they ran past the stone shed and headed for the trees. Owen
stopped.

“Wait,”
he said, pointing to four hay bales behind the shed. “Targets.”

Rayanne
was at the tree line along the edge of the deer path when she stopped. “Come
on, we don’t have time.”

Owen
limped toward the bales. He pulled an arrow from the upper corner of the
closest one. Rayanne yelled at him again. She could see Nelson lying on the
ground in front of the shed, crying and writhing in agony. The coon was gone.

“Owen,
we’ve got to get out of here,” she yelled.

He
didn’t respond. He had found another arrow stuck in the makeshift target. He
pulled it out. “We need a weapon.”

“It’s
an arrow.” Rayanne was on the verge of screaming. “We don’t have a bow.”

“We
don’t have a gun, either.” He found a third arrow in another bale. Grasping
that one, he held it with the other two.

Finally
he turned and limped to Rayanne. Together, they made their way deeper into the
protection of the trees.

No
other shot came.

They
hurried along the deer trail. The woods were relatively quiet as they came to a
bend in the path and paused there. Rayanne looked back.

“Maybe
they’re not following us,” she whispered, grasping Owen’s arm for support. Her
pulse hammered in her temples so loud, she wondered if he could hear it.

He
shook his head. “They’re coming.”

Rayanne
started to say something when Owen raised the hand clutching the three arrows,
silencing her. Rayanne listened, at first noticing how quiet the woods were. No
sound of animals or crickets or birds. Just deafening stillness, broken by a
voice in the distance.

Rayanne
looked at Owen. “It sounds like Scut.”

Another
voice carried on the breeze. She couldn’t tell how far away it was or even make
out what was being said. It was more a tone, really—and a gunshot. The bullet
hit a tree out of their view, but she saw squawking birds launch into the air
overhead. It was close.

The
voices grew louder. Then laughter.

“It’s
Scut and the bigger one, Roddy,” she said, but Owen didn’t answer.

He
was looking at something behind them, something in the dirt, and she noticed he
was leaving a blood trail. Droplets of red on trampled weeds and dark splotches
on the ground. She looked at him, and couldn’t imagine how they were going to
survive this. Owen took her hand. They moved on, picking up their pace.

After
two more bends, the trail forked and they followed it toward the left. Rayanne
worried they were circling back when the trail divided again. They chose the
new path, praying they had confused and lost their pursuers. In the back of her
mind, though, she feared that would not be possible with Owen’s blood spatters
trailing them. They walked a solid twenty minutes before reaching a crest, and
descended. Crossing a shallow gorge, they climbed a longer slope to a shelter
of oak trees, where they stopped.

Rayanne
turned and looked around, but saw no one. Owen plopped down on the ground,
resting his back against a massive tree trunk. He dropped the arrows on the
ground. Breathing deeply, he was almost gasping.

She
watched him a moment, then stood over him. “I think we lost them.”

He
tilted his head up. Pain showed on his face. “They’re not far behind,” he said
between breaths. “We got to keep moving till we find a road or a farmhouse or
someth’n.”

“If
they were behind us, we’d have bullet holes in our backs,” she said. “We
weren’t moving fast enough to outrun them. We must’ve lost them at one of the
forks.”

Owen
gripped his side now. He moved slightly so that his hip rested on an arrow
shaft. It snapped under his weight and he jerked back. “This is my fault. I’m
slowing you down.”

Rayanne
touched his shoulder, silencing him. “I’m not leaving you again.”

“You’re
right. We’re lucky we don’t have bullet holes in our backs.” Owen paused a
moment, possibly thinking, possibly fighting against the pain. After awhile,
his face relaxed. “Maybe we did lose them along one of the bends. Gave us just
enough time to escape.”

“You
think we were that lucky?” She stared at him, then slipped a hand in her
pocket. Her fingers grazed the soft fur of the rabbit’s foot. She pulled her
hand out and knelt down next to him. She touched his face. “How are you
feeling?”

“I
think adrenaline is pumping in.” He tried to stand, then clutched his stomach.
He slipped back down against the tree trunk. “But I’m running on empty.”

“You’ve
got to rest a minute, Owen. We’re hidden.” She observed his face as he tried to
mask the pain, and she said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

Owen
shut his eyes. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Rayanne
watched him a moment, waiting for him to continue. She shifted and placed a
hand on his shoulder. “These people are hunting us. They killed Darryl. They’re
trying to kill us, over what? A rabbit’s foot?”

He
looked up at her, but said nothing.

She
continued. “Is this about that silly rabbit’s foot you used to keep clipped to
your belt?”

“It’s
not just a rabbit’s foot.” Owen shook his head. Their eyes locked. “It’s
something else. Something powerful.”

25

“What
…?” Rayanne blinked. She stood over Owen as he sat on the ground with his back
against the oak tree. She waited for him to continue, then pushed for an
answer. “Do you know how that sounds?”

“Yes,
but it’s true.” Owen hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure how much he should tell
her. “My life changed when I found it. College. The job. You. Connor.”

Rayanne
opened her mouth to protest, but Owen raised a hand, silencing her. “And when I
lost it …” he said, looking away.

“Nothing
in our life has had anything to do with that rabbit’s foot,” she said. “Good or
bad.”

“It
did, Rayanne. That rabbit’s foot has a hold over the owner,” he insisted. “That
is, until the day you lose it. I saw it firsthand with Grover Lott.”

Rayanne
absent-mindedly put a hand in her pocket, feeling the soft fur of the hidden
rabbit’s foot. She thought about it a moment, then responded to Owen. “Grover
Lott?”

“The
man in the wheelchair,” Owen said. “We grew up together in Tarpon Springs.”

“And
he wants this rabbit’s foot?”

“He
found it when we were seniors in high school. He told me it changed his life.
He got a music scholarship into this fancy college and his parents got back
together.”

“That’s
ridiculous. That had nothing to do with some stupid rabbit’s foot.”

“I
didn’t believe it either.” Owen paused, leaning forward, clutching his stomach.
He talked through clenched teeth. “Not until the day he lost it.” Owen groaned
and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Sit
back and relax.” Rayanne put a hand on his forehead, wiping away the sweat.
Then she moved his arm to look at his stomach. Her torn yellow shirt, now
soaked in blood, was still wrapped around the wound. “Don’t talk,” she said.

“I
need to tell you.” He sighed, winced in pain, and took another deep breath. “It
was the summer after we graduated from high school. Me and Darryl and some of these
other guys were swimming. Jumping off this cliff into the water and stuff, and
Groves was with us.”

He
stopped talking again, scrunching his face in pain. Perhaps it was the memory
that inflicted it.

Rayanne
leaned forward. “And …?”

“And
he lost the rabbit’s foot. Couldn’t find it anywhere.”

“Why
is he in a wheelchair, Owen? What happened to him?”

“He
jumped off the cliff. Hit shallow water. It paralyzed him from the waist down.”

“Oh
my God.” She looked away, then back at him. “But that could’ve happened to
anyone. It had nothing to do with a rabbit’s foot.”

“It
had everything to do with it. He lost it right before he jumped. I found it on
the ground and kept it ever since. Now he wants it back.”

Rayanne
stood. “Owen, this is ridiculous. This whole thing is crazy. People don’t kill
other people over a superstitious rabbit’s foot.”

“It’s
not a superstition.” Owen reached out, grasping her hand. His voice grew deep,
serious. “Are you listening to me? Groves lost it just before he fell and broke
his back. He lost the rabbit’s foot, like I did. I’m lucky I’m not paralyzed.”
He paused. “Or worse.”

They
both realized his voice was carrying. It had silenced the birds. She turned to
look at the trees as his faint echo subsided. She prayed that—

Splintered
wood and bark sprayed over them simultaneously with the sharp crack of gun fire.

Rayanne
ducked as another shotgun blast tore into the tree bark. The shot reverberated
through the trees, and Rayanne plunged forward into vegetation. Owen followed,
blundering into shade and wild ferns.

Rayanne
paused, turning to help him. He flung an arm over her shoulder as she gripped
his waist. She felt warm, sticky blood on her hand, and it shocked her. But
there wasn’t time to think about that. They moved through the thick ferns. Over
her shoulder she saw the giant in the distance.

Rude
Roddy, large as an angry bear, barreled toward them. He came to the oak trees
where they’d just left, and he paused. His eyes connected with hers, and he
sank to one knee. He aimed the shotgun.

Rayanne
held Owen tighter, her hand pressing against his stomach and squishing with
more warm blood. The knee-high foliage at their feet was slowing them down.
Tripping them. She fell to her left and brought Owen down with her. He landed on
top of her as a tree somewhere ahead splintered from another bullet shot.

Owen
cried out in pain as Rayanne rolled his body off her. They were covered by the
tall ferns and grass and though she attempted to look over her shoulder, she
couldn’t see anything but long, green fronds. She knew Roddy was coming. She
could hear him rustling through the wild ferns.

Getting
to her knees, she tugged Owen’s arm. He groaned again, holding his side. She
tugged harder, forcing him to come with her. On hands and knees, they crawled
through the waving ferns. The tree line was a few yards in front of them. Owen
stumbled, landing on his side.

“Go,”
he said to her. “Get out of here.”

She
turned her head. Sat up. Pulled his arm.

Owen
pushed her. “Run,” he said.

Rayanne
refused. Her brain struggled to grasp what was happening. She looked back to
see Roddy coming, trampling through the undergrowth. He was getting closer. She
pulled Owen’s arm again.

“Run!”
he yelled at her, and broke her grasp.

She
let go of him and he fell to the ground. When she glanced back, Roddy saw her.
He moved faster, closer. Everything seemed frozen for a second as blood pounded
in her temples. All she could hear was the loud pulsing of her veins, then
Owen’s voice again: “Run!”

She
stumbled slightly on her hands and knees, turned, and got to her feet. She
headed for the tree line, running. Her legs ripped through the ferns. She
craned her neck. Stumbled. Looked over her shoulder.

She
saw Roddy again. He had her in his sight. He stopped. Raised the shotgun. She
held her breath, watching him aim. She struggled forward. Turned toward the
trees, then looked back one final time.

She
saw Owen rise from the sea of green fronds, yelling, maybe screaming, and Roddy
jumped, raising his arms. Owen plunged an arrow into Roddy’s chest.

Rayanne
screamed as the large teen dropped the shotgun and tumbled backward. He
disappeared into the foliage. Owen came down after him. She could see nothing
but waving green fronds, hear nothing but her own pulse pound in her head. Then
she saw Owen’s arm come up, his hand gripping the bloody arrow. It dropped back
down into the ferns.

Rayanne
stopped, gasped for air. She thought she heard a shriek. Maybe it was Owen. It
was probably Roddy. Then silence.

“Owen?”
she called out.

He
didn’t answer. Wind rippled the pointed tops of the ferns.

Scrambling
out of the thick vegetation, Rayanne made it to the oak trees. She nearly
tripped and grabbed a low tree limb for support. She leaned over it, feeling
like she was about to puke. She struggled to hold the bile in her throat, and
shut her eyes. The breeze hit her skin, sending cold waves across her arms and
down her back. She was sweating.

Her
arms pushed against the tree limb and her back straightened. Blood rushed from
her head and the entire forest spun. She thought she was about to lose
consciousness, when she felt Owen grab hold of her right arm. He turned her
around, held her, and Rayanne buried her face in his chest.

She
listened to his beating heart, and sobbed until her body stopped heaving.

Reining
in her fear, she raised her head, looked into his rough face. Their eyes met.
It was a silent question. He nodded, confirming what she already knew, but said
nothing. There was nothing more to say.

Releasing
her, Owen turned toward the field of ferns. He stepped away from her. She
grabbed his hand.

“Where
are you going?” She gripped his fingers.

“We
need that shotgun.” His hand slipped from her grasp.

“Wait!”
Rayanne heard another voice echo in the woods beyond the ferns. It was Scut. He
was calling for Roddy. She couldn’t tell how far. She heard his voice again.
“Owen, we need to get out of here.”

Owen
headed into the ferns. Scut’s voice grew louder, closer.

“Owen!”

Barely
a foot into the ferns, Owen stumbled and fell to his knees. Rayanne ran to him.
Placing a hand on his back, she helped him to his feet.

Scut’s
disembodied voice echoed in the distance again, and she paused, listening to
it. She looked at her husband. “We need to get out of here.”

“We
need that gun.” He could barely speak.

“There
isn’t time,” she said.

Scut’s
voice rang out again, and she tugged Owen tighter. At last, he relented.

Holding
him, she guided him away from the wild ferns and into the woods. She wrapped
her arm around his back, allowing him to lean on her as they moved. Gradually,
Scut’s echoes faded until they no longer heard him at all.

The
ground turned rocky and uneven, and she felt Owen’s arm tighten, pulling her
closer to his side. Her head fit snugly under his arm, as it always did, and
she knew he was using her for support. It made her feel calmer. Safer.

They
made their way down another slope, sliding quickly where the fallen leaves
underfoot were damp. Rayanne held out a hand to balance herself, but her
fingers scraped through mud as she slid.

At
the bottom of the slope, Owen splashed into a shallow stream, with Rayanne
tumbling into him. He let out a painful grunt. They struggled to their feet,
standing in ankle-deep water.

“This
is one of those channels,” Owen said, his face squinting as he held his side.
“It will lead back to the lake.”

Rayanne
ran a hand through her hair. She could feel a streak of gritty mud on her
forehead. “The lake?” she said. “We don’t want to go to the lake. We’ve got to
find the highway.”

“We
can flag down a boat.” He stepped forward in the shallow water. Turning to her,
he waved his arm. “Someone’s got to be out fishing.”

She
watched him, then looked in the direction they’d come. She could feel the
rabbit’s foot rubbing against her upper leg. It felt like it was weighing her
down. Swiping a hand over the small bulge in her pocket, she shifted the
delicate foot to the right. With no other option that she could think of, she
shrugged.

Splashing
toward Owen, she took his hand. Together they plunged through the stream, going
in the direction of the running water.