Chapter 33

 

Buck regained consciousness, finding himself hanging by his ankles again. This time from a rope extended over a metal rafter above the lodge's swimming pool. His vision had to clear considerably before he recognized the grinning face of Deacon John.

“Why in hell is a grown man running around butt naked on a night like this?” Deacon John asked. His words brought a peal of laughter from the room's occupants. “What do you think, Hump?”

“Beats the hell outa me.”

Deacon John returned his attention to Buck. “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”

A hard slap in the face surprised him, though did little damage. Not having a ready answer, he remained silent, this time earning himself a damaging kick in the head.

“Dip him,” Deacon John said.”

Humpback untied the rope and pulled it along the rafter until Buck was suspended directly over the center of the pool.

He had little time to draw a breath before the little deviant dropped him into the deep end. The first dunk lasted only a few moments, and was just a warning. The next three dunks lasted longer. He was seeing when Humpback finally hoisted him out. Twirling from the rafter, he coughed up chlorinated water as Deacon John and several paramilitary types looked on. After what seemed an eternity, Deacon John pointed to the side of the pool.

“Come on, Deak. Let me dip him again.” Humpback said.

“He's done. Put him in the basement. Do it now.”

Humpback and two skinheads lowered Buck to the tile floor. “Move it,” one said, prodding him with the barrel of a pistol.

They dragged him to the basement door, pushing him in, a blow from the weapon hastening his arrival. Rolling on the flagstone floor, he tried to massage away the ache in his head when the stark reality of his situation struck him. Judge Travis’ skinheads weren’t interested in letting him leave the island alive. The basement was cold, almost like a grave.

A single fluorescent bulb illuminated the basement, the temperature near freezing. He couldn’t stop shivering, arms folded tightly against his chest. He shouted for someone to let him out, or at least bring him some clothes. His captors did neither. Taking a bottle of wine from the rack, he found a corkscrew hanging from a hook on the wall. With cold hands, he removed the cork from the bottle.

Shivering as icy liquid dribbled down his throat, he slugged the wine, not remembering if an elevated blood-alcohol level impeded or encouraged freezing. Deciding it didn’t matter, he chugged half the contents of the bottle, hoping it would at least dull the cold. Time melded with the drone of the outside cooling unit. Aunt Emma’s wine did little more than provide numbness to his face and base of his spine. Pacing the floor and running in place to increase his metabolism, he sank deeper into lethargy as time passed.

When he could no longer feel the cold, he sat on a bench, arms folded. His senses seemed detached from his body, floating above him like an ephemeral cloud. How long he sat there, unmoving, he didn't know or care. His resolution and will to live had disappeared, like the last drops of wine trickling from the second empty bottle. He'd ceased to think or care, and found himself looking down from the ceiling at his own frozen body. His detachment included mindless euphoria—a pleasant, painless ascent to another level of consciousness.

Mesmerized by his own image, and shadows on the wall, his detached being moved between ceiling and unfeeling body. He'd become an interested voyeur to his own impending demise. When the door opened a crack, he drifted down from the ceiling.

Through frozen eyes, he watched a girl descend the stairs and enter the room. Suspended six inches above the flagstone, she floated toward him, kissing him with cold lips icier than his own. With the palm of her hand, she touched the cameo brooch still hanging from his neck. A warm glow emanated from the spot and extended outward in a circular pattern from his neck and face. As heat spread throughout his body, his skin began to throb from the effect of prolonged contraction. His lungs prickled when he took a deep breath but he was alive. The beautiful girl touched his shoulders and kissed him again before disappearing like star dust at dawn.

Buck wondered if he was still hallucinating from Mama Toukee's drug. Even if he were, he realized that someone had left the heavy metal door wide open. Free to leave, he crept up the stairs, out of the basement. When he reached the hall, he heard the ticking of the grandfather clock in the den. Still cold, he made his way to Malone's room for something to wear. Footsteps down the hall interrupted him.

“Search every room. He's here someplace.”

Deacon John's men had already discovered his escape. Worse, from the sound of the creaking floor, someone was heading directly toward Malone's room. Quickly grabbing a pair of pants, he opened the window, crawling out on the ledge encircling the lodge.

“Take the place apart. Don’t let him escape.”

Buck stood outside the window on the ledge, his back to the wall of the house, as two men searched the room.

“I'll take care of this floor,” One of the men said. “Check behind the house.”

Realizing they would soon spot the open window, he crept along the steep overhang, halting when he reached the front of the lodge. There, he learned why the house was empty when he’d escaped the cellar. Twenty armed men were milling around in the clearing near the helicopter pad. Hiding behind a gable, still clutching the pants he’d taken, he heard an approaching chopper. Flying low over the tree tops, its rotor whipping their branches, the chopper appeared through the darkness. Someone exited. When the man reached the light at the front door of the lodge, Buck recognized him. Dressed conspicuously in a Nazi officer's uniform, was Judge Jefferson Travis.

High-powered spotlights illuminated the front of the lodge. When a wandering beam focused on the roof near his perch, he slipped and dropped the pants. Helicopter noise masked the sound, though spooking him enough to inch around to the rear of the building, taking a chance the inside search was done. He never found out. Slipping on the slick ledge, he tumbled into the shrubbery at the back of the lodge.

***

Buck opened his eyes to someone slapping his cheek. When he took a round-house swing, his assailant grabbed his wrist and quickly wrestled him to the ground.

“Whoa, boy,” the man said. “It's me. I'm on your side.”

It was Ray Johnson. When he stopped struggling, Ray released his grip and allowed him to rise up into a sitting position.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Ray said.

“Didn't you forget something?”

“Like what?” Ray asked.

“You hate my guts.”

Ray grinned and said, “I think you're the one that forgot something. What happened to your clothes?”

“Long story,” Buck said. “How'd you know I was on the island?”

“Lila called me. Said you were drunk and that you'd left the mansion. I found your truck down by the lake. Personally, I don’t care much for your worthless hide. I’m doing this for Lila.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Besides, you may be white and stupid but it doesn't take a fool to see you're not part of Travis' army.”

Although he wondered if Ray knew that Travis was his real father, he decided not to broach the subject. “Now that you found me, how do you intend to get us out of here?”

“There's a canebrake on the north side of the island. It's fairly inaccessible and I have a boat hidden there.”

“I’m not leaving without Tiger. That’s why I came here in the first place.”

“What?”

“I saw him in the kitchen.”

“You still drunk? There's probably fifty armed men in there by now.” It was Buck’s turn to be stubborn. The frown on Ray’s face expressed his feelings. “You wait here. I'll get your damn cat.”

“No,” Buck said. “Lila would kill me if I let you get hurt.”

Ray rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “I'm the one Lila's going to kill if I don't get you off this island in one piece. Now, I've lived here all my life and I know every inch of the lodge. You wait here. I'll get the damn cat.”

Still half crocked, Buck was in no mood to argue. Ten minutes passed before Ray returned from the lodge with the sleeping kitten in the pocket of his jacket. He also had a shirt and a pair of pants.

“Put these on and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Mama Toukee's magic smoke had long since dissipated. After donning clothes for the first time in several hours, he followed Ray through the island's undergrowth, this time with human difficulty. They reached a canebrake on the north side of the island and Ray led them through a narrow opening, the ensuing maze ending at the lake. A small boat awaited their arrival.

“What now?” Buck asked.

“Home,” Ray said, pushing away from shore.

The storm had passed, sky clear, and a crimson halo just above the trees signaling the coming of dawn. The boat’s tiny motor hardly made a ripple, barely disturbing a muskrat slipping into the water. Buck finally broke the silence.

“I'm confused. Hogg Nation bought the island at sheriff's sale but Travis and his skinheads are occupying it. What's going on?”

Buck didn't really expect an answer, mostly bouncing the question off Ray so he could reflect on it. He was surprised by Ray's candid reply.

“Despite what Daddy says, I think Nation's getting a bad rap around here. He bought the island for Travis. You saw what they’re using it for.”

“Yeah,” Buck said. “It’s perfect for Travis. I should have guessed.”

“Travis probably had Emma killed to get her island,” Ray said.

“And coerced Hogg Nation, Clayton Richardson and Bones Malone to help,” Buck said. “Otis Spangler and I spotted Malone’s hideout from the air. I could never find it by boat in a million years. We need to get to him. He’s our key to breaking Travis’ stranglehold.”

“If what you say is true, Malone’s a dead man if he talks.”

“It's the only chance we have.”

Ray reflected on Buck's pronouncement, and then said, “I know where he is. I'll take you there but we need Wiley's help. Bones is slippery and it’ll take all three of us to corner him. We have to hurry. When I saw him yesterday, he was packing to leave town.”