Chapter 14

 

The friendliest of country roads can become creepy as a carnival ghost house after dark. The road to Deception proved no exception. Thick fog wisped up from hot blacktop and danced across the roadway as Buck swerved to miss a darting rabbit. The frightened animal scurried into the forest, oblivious to its near demise. He bypassed downtown Deception and found the boat waiting where he’d left it. The motor cranked on the first pull and sent a swirl of vapor curling up from the surface of the lake. Foggy haze continued to thicken as he adjusted the bow light and motored away from shore.

Heavy fog began rolling in as he neared the center of the lake. The boat's tiny light provided scant illumination, even on a clear night. Now it was all but useless. He quickly lost sight of land. Thanks to the continued effects of Richardson's brandy, he wasn't immediately bothered by the lack of visibility. His blithe oblivion didn't last long. Within minutes he'd lost all notion of direction and rocked the fuel tank to reassure his self that he had plenty of gas. The heft of a half-empty tank only added to his growing concern. As marauding mosquitoes buzzed his head, a distant rumble interrupted the chorus of crickets and frogs. An unmuffled engine. Another boat was on the lake and Buck couldn't tell if it was approaching him or moving away.

“Hello out there,” he called, his cry eliciting no response except for silence in the creatures of the lake.

As he listened for a reply, his boat struck something in the darkness. The collision sent him sprawling. As he pulled himself off the bottom of the boat, he realized he'd rammed one of the old wood-framed drilling platforms. Luckily, he'd struck it at an angle. When he grabbed for a plank, a sharp splinter pierced his hand causing him to recoil and bang his head against the platform. Worse yet, red eyes glared up from the darkness beneath the platform.

When he gunned the throttle, the motor raced, along with his heart. The boat remained in place, the impact throwing the engine out of gear, sticking the boat in brush trapped beneath the musty old platform. Now the boat rocked precariously amid dank odor of stagnant water and dry rot. As his little craft floated in a circle beneath the platform, it passed through elastic strands of a large spider web. Claustrophobia chilled his neck as the web encircled his face. Forgetting the racing engine, he grabbed the platform and yanked the boat out from under the planking. With hand and head throbbing he slammed the boat into gear, motoring blindly into what he hoped was open water. Again, he heard the high-pitched whine of another boat.

He threw the engine into neutral, fear of striking a cypress tree or another platform in the thick fog fresh in his mind. After raking the spider web from his face he called for help again and listened for an answer. No help arrived as he felt something crawling down his shirt.

“Hey out there! Can anyone hear me?”

His cry faded as a powerful light penetrated milky fog. It was attached to a fast boat powering straight toward him. Standing, he began waving and yelling.

“Here I am!”

The boat's approaching wail sounded vaguely familiar to Buck but too late to worry about it. As it streaked past, its wake lifted his boat almost out of the water. The little craft remained afloat but rocked dangerously. Then he heard the other boat turning for another pass.

Holding on, he waited for the swell to subside. The wake had swamped the motor, stalling it. When the boat stopped rocking, he yanked the starter cord. The motor only sputtered and died with a sick sounding thump. He had little time to worry about the stalled engine.

The marauding boat's headlight blazed through the fog, powering directly toward him. With little time to react he abandoned ship, diving overboard before the speeding boat plowed into his own craft with a tremendous crash and an ensuing explosion of wood. The wake of the collision sucked him to the bottom of the shallow lake, pinioning him in the murky ooze for a long, terrifying moment. When the wake passed, releasing the suction, he tried to kick toward the surface, his arms flailing against swirling muck and slimy vegetation. Something had his foot in its clammy grasp and refused to let go.

The crooked branch of a submerged tree, part of the rotting mass of vegetation at the bottom of the lake, had trapped his foot. He struggled but his futile attempt served only to deplete what little oxygen was left in his lungs. Despite his efforts, he gained no leverage against the algae-covered stump.

His eyes bulged, his head threatening to explode, his lungs desperate to gasp something, even blood-warm water, into them. Just before losing consciousness, icy fingers encircled his ankle. Ephemeral hands freed his foot from the sunken tree and pushed him toward the lake’s surface. Stroking upward in near panic, he belched foul liquid from his lungs as he burst from the black water.

The first cognizant sound he recognized was the boat returning at high speed for another pass. Ducking beneath the water, he plunged back to the bottom of the lake just as the boat passed directly overhead. This time no sunken vegetation entrapped him and he bobbed to the surface, coughing up water although in no imminent danger of drowning.

Fog cloaking the lake showed signs of lifting and moonlight illuminated the silky sheath with a pulsating glow. It left Buck with the sensation of being trapped in a giant Lava Lamp. Having no better plan, he dog-paddled toward what he hoped was the shore. It wasn't. Rotting vegetation impeded his forward motion, tangling him in scummy tentacles. Tearing loose, he back-stroked into open water.

A dozen or so strokes brought him to the edge of the lake where his feet finally touched shallow bottom. Neck deep in lily pads, he remained in stagnant water until he'd caught his breath, his thoughts turning to poisonous snakes and prehistoric fish with mouths full of razor-sharp teeth swimming around him.

A breeze began blowing fog off the lake and the moon soon poked a small hole in its gossamer shroud. What he saw frightened him more than the thought of an alligator swimming between his legs. Through the underbrush, not more than twenty feet from where he stood, were Humpback and Deacon John floating silently in their boat. Both carried automatic weapons. He looked for a path of escape as the two men searched the darkness with a powerful spotlight. He found only red eyes glaring back at him from misty darkness near the shore. Suppressing a cough, he almost gagged from the cesspool of stagnant, foul-smelling water surrounding him.

“See anything?” Humpback asked.

“Why hell no,” the skinny man answered in his distinctive countrified accent. “You think you can do any better?”

Buck didn't hear Humpback's answer and presumed he had ignored Deacon John's angry question.

“Make a loop,” Deacon John said. “If he's still alive, he couldn't have gone far.”

The engine cranked and the boat moved slowly away. Stepping forward into shallow water, Buck sank into deep mire that sucked his leg into its grasp. Yanking hard enough to dislocate his knee, he managed to pull free. The struggle left his shoe in the muck. Grabbing a quick breath, he swam underwater toward shore, desperately wanting to get out of the water. When he ran out of the lake, he ran headlong into a cypress tree, the impact knocking him senseless. As he opened his eyes, a hand grabbed the back of his neck, another his mouth, muffling his response.

“Don't have a conniption. It's just me.”

Buck recognized the voice of Wiley Johnson.

“Wiley, I . . .”

“Shhhh,” he said, gripping Buck's mouth tighter. “They're still out there.”

Wiley released his hold and Buck glanced up into his big face, ebony against the moon. “How did you know I was here?”

“Didn't,” he said. “I was fishing.”

Buck wanted to ask Wiley what he was fishing for but saved the question for later. Wiley crept into the trees and signaled for him to follow. Deacon John and Humpback had docked their boat around the bend and were continuing their search of the shoreline on foot. As they approached their position, Buck pressed his face into soft dirt. When Deacon John stepped on a nearby branch, he felt the opposite end move beneath his leg.

“I say you're crazy as hell, DJ. I saw him go under when we hit the boat.” Waiting for Deacon John's response, Humpback added, “We gonna chase around this shit hole all night?”

Deacon John still didn't answer. Finally, he waded into the lake and back to the boat. Silence gripped the darkness. When Buck tried to rise, Wiley signaled him to remain in place. Harsh engine sounds disturbed the silence as Deacon John let the motor idle a minute or two before moving slowly away from shore. Again, Wiley shook his head and motioned Buck to remain still.

A shrill whistle sounded from the spot in the lake. A minute later the boat returned, its hull scraping bottom. Water splashed as someone waded from the shore to the boat. When the engine cranked, the boat pulled away, this time for good.

Glancing up at Wiley, Buck said, “How did you know someone was still there?”

Wiley didn't answer. Moonlight flooded through parting clouds as he started away through the underbrush, Buck happy to be alive as he followed after him. Wiley led them through the forest and back to the lake where a narrow boat waited, wafting in shallow water.

“Pirogue,” Wiley said, replying to Buck's inquisitive stare.

He propelled the sleek little craft through the maze of cypress trees. At the Fitzgerald Island dock, he steadied the pirogue as Buck climbed to shore.

“You have something you want to tell me?” he asked.

“Such as?”

“What you were doing on the lake?”

“Night fishing,” Wiley said.

With no further explanation, he strolled away to his room in one of the bunkhouses. Still damp from his visit to the bottom of the lake, Buck shook his head and watched him go.