Fortune's Fool : Chance McCabe Book One, page 29
So far, so good.
Slide your foot. Shift your body. Follow with the other foot.
The silhouetted creature remained in place.
Slide. Shift. Slide. Shift.
No movement from the other side of the water.
Slide. Shift. Slide.
His foot hit a cypress nub. He felt his ankle turn, twisting. He tried to right himself, but lost his balance, and stumbled. Instinctively, he reached out, trying to find something to halt his lurching, a tree to brace himself against, but his fingers found only air.
He hit the ground with a wet, slapping sound. His head bounced off a cypress nub. Pain reverberated down his spine. He grimaced, then looked back, but couldn't find the silhouetted creature. He felt darkness encroaching and then consciousness deserted him.
fifty-eight
McCabe awoke to sunlight streaming through gaps in the trees and onto his face. He had that momentary disorientation that comes from passing out drunk and waking in a strange place. Only he wasn’t drunk, he’d been shot and beaten near to death and the strange place he’d awakened was the middle of the Hatchootucknee Swamp.
The swelling around his right eye had tightened overnight. It felt like he had a baseball pressing against his orbital socket and, try as he may, he couldn’t open the eye. He looked down at his shoulder. The sock he’d stuffed into the exit wound was tacky with fresh blood. Shit. He was bleeding again.
There was a pool of algae-covered water not more than half a dozen steps from where he sat. He briefly considered going to it, cupping and filling his hands, drinking until his thirst was slaked. But the thought of all the parasites and nasty things that he might ingest dissuaded him.
Yeah, sure. You can barely see. You’re dehydrated. You’re feverish. Hypothermic. You’ve got a gunshot wound that’s likely infected. Probably headed for septic shock, if you’re not there already. You’ve got broken ribs and maybe a collapsed lung. You’re bleeding to death. And you’re worried about dysentery?
And a lion or something that looks like a lion but might have stripes could be stalking you. Don’t leave that out.
He looked around, but whatever it was he had seen in silhouette last night was nowhere to be found. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated it? Was it a fever dream?
Those thoughts came to an abrupt halt when he saw enormous paw prints leading from the water’s edge to where he lay. Longer and wider than his hand, four toes with the indentation of thick claws, pressed ridiculously deep into the soft mud of the swamp floor. He compared his own footprints. Whatever made these tracks was much heavier than he was. Several times heavier.
It came right up to me in the night. Did it think I was dead? Is that why it left me alone? No, you idiot. Lions eat carrion. All big cats eat carrion. So why did it leave me alone?
Whatever it was had crossed the pool to investigate him and then, inexplicably, left him unharmed. Birds chirping in the trees, squirrels stirring amongst the branches, told him that whatever the fuck it was had moved on.
He pulled himself to his feet and braced against a cypress tree, rested there for a moment. He checked to make sure the snub-nose was still in his pocket. It was. He felt something in his other pants pocket and remembered his phone. He pulled it out and pressed the power button. The screen came to life, but he had no signal. At least the kid who’d sold it to him was right about it being waterproof. He tucked it back into his pocket and trudged through the swamp.
He didn’t have the strength or the energy to move any faster than he had in the dark. He knew he was in bad shape. Closer to death than he’d ever been. He told himself to just keep moving. Hold to a northeasterly direction and keep moving. Just keep moving. Get out of the swamp. And don’t die.
The ankle-deep green water he waded through became thigh-deep green water. His feet sank in the mud and he worried about getting stuck. He knew he was expending too much energy, but he kept moving. By the time the sun reached the center of the sky, the thigh-high water was ankle-deep mud again.
He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. He was close to checking out. Shutting down. Already, a part of him wanted to just give up. The longer this took, the longer he went without medical attention, the more likely it became he would not make it.
He wondered if maybe it was better to just lay down and die. At this point, he was unlikely to survive without hospital care. And going to a hospital would mean ending up behind bars again. He wasn’t going back to prison. He wasn’t.
So why keep going? Just find a nice spot, sit and lean against a tree. Pull the sock out of the wound and let it bleed. Close your eyes, lean back, and let it bleed. It would be like falling asleep.
Unless the lion, or whatever the fuck it was, came back and ate him alive.
The canopy of tree cover overhead thinned, more sunlight streaming down on him. Ahead, he could see a clearing. An old rusted, barbed wire fence nailed to rough-hewed, weathered posts. Tall grasses beyond them swaying gently in an invisible breeze.
He dropped his head and let out a long sigh of relief. He had reached the edge of the swamp.
He staggered to the fence, pressed the wire down with his good hand, and slung a leg over it. He startled a small family of deer hidden in the grass. They sprang away, four white cottony tails flapping as they bolted. He lost his balance and fell, getting wrapped in the wire, the barbs biting into his wet pant leg, scraping through and gouging his inner thigh. He pulled down a section of the old fence and lay on his back in the grass.
Unable to disentangle himself, he let the wire have his pants. He unzipped and somehow worked them off one-handed without removing his shoes or losing his boxers. His legs were cut and bleeding, but he was over the fence and out of the swamp. He got to his feet, took a step, and then remembered the contents of his pants pockets. Snub-nose, wallet, and phone. He retrieved those three items and made his way through the grasses and up a gently sloping hill.
It was near dusk by the time he reached the crest of the hill. More than a day after he’d been shot, taken the beating of his life, crashed his car into a river, and walked miles through the Hatchootucknee Swamp. Somehow, he was still alive.
Ahead, he could see an old barn and the backside of an A-frame house. The house of the person he had hoped to keep out of this. The old Beckett place.
Leah’s house.
fifty-nine
Gina Taylor woke in the darkness. She rolled over, reaching for her husband, but Ben wasn’t in the bed. She sat up, removed her sleeping mask, and looked around. Moonlight bled through the vertical blinds covering the window.
“Alexa, what time is it?” She whispered.
“The time is 3:21 am,” the AI whispered in return.
“Benjamin,” she muttered, shaking her head in exasperation. She got out of bed, lifted her robe from where it lay draped across a dressing chair, and pulled it on.
She peeked into Damon’s room as she walked down the hallway. His blue-tinted nightlight illuminated the race car bed and the curve of his little body beneath his blanket. A cell-shaded T’Challa was emblazoned on the blanket, leaping, claws extended. Damon was smiling in his sleep.
He deserves all the good dreams in the world, she thought. Her mother often told her she and Ben were spoiling the boy. But she didn’t care. After the way Damon had endured the chemo and all the other treatments, the inner strength he’d shown through it all, shown for his whole short life, frankly, he had earned a little spoiling.
She left his room and continued down the hallway and through the living room. She stopped in front of the sliding glass doors and stared past the slab of concrete that passed for a patio and into the backyard. Ben was where she expected him to be. Back under the oak, shirtless, wearing sweatpants, and combat gloves with coiled wrist straps. He was covered in sweat, throwing short, hard jabs into the bag. Leading with his left, then swinging an overhand right that landed so hard it sent ripples across the flesh of his back.
She watched for a few moments, then slid the door open and stepped out onto the patio. Ben kept punching. She could see he had white buds tucked into his ears. His phone lay atop the small glass table on the patio. She picked up the phone, tapped the screen, found his audio app, and closed it.
Ben threw another stiff right, then stopped, dropped his head, and turned to look at her.
“This again?” she asked.
He pulled the buds from his ears, dropped them in the front pocket of his sweats.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Go back to bed.”
“Did you even come to bed at all?”
“I made a sandwich when I got home. You were already asleep.”
“I’m always asleep when you get home from an evening shift.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“So you’re not planning to sleep tonight? Good plan.”
“I didn’t think I could sleep.”
“I could help you fall asleep,” she said with a smile. “Got a sure-fire method. Works every time.”
“Like I said, I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Wake me. I don’t mind.”
He forced a smile.
“Or I suppose you could just come out here and beat up a bag of sand. My way is more fun,” she said.
“Not in a ‘fun’ place right now.”
“So I gather. You want to talk about it?”
“Gina,” he sighed, looked down at his hands. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’ve just got to work this out. I’ve got to figure out my next step. I’ve got no margin for error.”
She stood, adjusted her robe. “Nothing I can do?”
“Just let me work through this, okay?”
She slid the patio door open, stepped inside, then turned back. “Reverend Bloodsaw stopped by my office this afternoon. Wanted to know why you haven’t come by to see him.”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“He’s stopped by the house several times and now he’s coming to my office.”
“I’ll give him a call. Later.”
“You’ve known him for a long time,” she said. “Longer than you’ve known me. Longer than anyone else here, right? Maybe you should go see him. Maybe he can help?”
Ben nodded. “I will. But later.”
sixty
Sandy Wiggins watched through the front glass windows of the Smiling ‘Possum as the man got out of his car, looked up at the sign atop the diner, shook his head, then closed the car door. He looked around as if he thought someone might be watching him.
He walked into the diner, the bell on the door jangling as it closed behind him. He looked at Sandy and forced a smile.
“You can just sit anywhere,” she said. “The menu’s on the table. I’ll give you a minute to look it over. Get you some coffee?”
The man nodded. “Yeah. Coffee would be good.”
He was of average height, but broad-shouldered and fit. He had dark eyes, a wide face, and a flat nose. His hair was ditchwater brown and thinning on top. He wore a dark suit without a tie and had a watch that was either a good-looking knockoff or too expensive for somebody who would eat at the Smiling ‘Possum. His left hand was bandaged and it looked like the last two fingers were missing.
He took a seat in a booth at the far end of the diner.
Sandy went to the register and rang up the check of the men from the insurance agency on Main Street who had left just before the man with missing fingers came in. $29.67 with tax and they’d left a twenty and a ten on the table. Thirty-three fucking cents for her. Now she could retire to the Bahamas. She slammed the drawer of the register without bothering to pocket her ‘tip’.
The morning rush was over and it’d be at least an hour before the early lunch crowd trickled in. Only two customers left in the diner. The new guy in the dark suit and at the other end of the diner was Virgil Tomkins.
Virgil was in his deputy’s uniform. His flat, broad-brimmed campaign hat with the chin strap rested on the table next to his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He sopped up the last of his fried egg yolks with a biscuit, popped it into his mouth, and chewed. He licked his fingers when he was done. He pushed the plate into the center of the table and looked at Sandy. He gave his head a little tilt to the side, wordlessly summoning her.
Sandy clenched her jaw, then picked up a carafe of coffee, and walked to Virgil’s booth.
“What else can I get you, Virgil?”
Virgil’s eyes traced the contours of her waitress uniform, then drifted down to his crotch. “How about a handjob?”
Sandy looked and saw he had his fly down and his dick out already. Erect and pointing at her.
“Goddamnit, Virgil," she whispered. "Put that thing away or I’m going to pour coffee on it.”
“You know you owe me, right?”
“I don’t owe you shit,” she said.
“Who do you think told the Sheriff the nigger had you in the box? You think your ass wouldn’t be sitting in jail right now if it wasn’t for me? I’ll settle for a handjob, but I think you owe me a lot more than that.”
Sandy stared at him, grinding her teeth.
“C’mon. Just a few little tugs,” he said. “I won’t even make you lick me clean.”
She set the carafe on the table, reached into her pocket and took out her order pad. She tore Virgil’s breakfast check from the pad, dropped it on the table, and picked the carafe up again.
“Get the fuck out,” she said.
Virgil smiled, made a show of tucking his dick back into his pants, and zipped his fly. “Your debt just went up. I’ll be by later to collect.”
He picked up his campaign hat and fitted it onto his head. He slipped the aviators on, pushed them into position on the bridge of his nose, and slid out of the booth. He stood, adjusted his duty rig, and brushed up against her as he walked out. He casually dragged his hand across Sandy’s ass as he passed.
He looked at the stranger sitting at the other end of the diner, but said nothing. He walked nonchalantly out the door. He left the check laying on the table.
Sandy picked it up and crumpled it in her hand. She tossed it behind the register as she passed the counter.
She took the carafe to the stranger’s table, gave him a practiced smile, and poured him a steaming cup. She didn’t know how much he’d heard. Virgil hadn’t exactly been whispering.
“What did you decide on?” She asked.
If the man had overheard, he gave no indication of it. “Just some dry toast. A few strips of bacon.”
“I’ve got biscuits. Eggs and grits, too. Gravy.”
“Just bring me what I asked for, okay?”
“Okay,” she said and turned to leave.
“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m tired and that didn’t come out right. I don’t like eggs and I don’t know what the fuck grits are.” He held up his bandaged hand. “I just need a little something so I’m not taking pain meds on an empty stomach.”
“What happened to your hand?” If he hadn’t wanted her to ask, she figured he wouldn’t have held it up like that.
“A little accident at work. Got careless.”
She nodded, but asked no more questions. She didn’t want details.
“I’ll get you some toast and bacon,” she said. “Be right out.”
Sandy left the carafe on the table. She wrote down his order and went to the kitchen. When she came back a few minutes later with his toast and bacon, he was tapping out a message on his phone. He put the phone away when he saw her. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, put it between his lips, and lit it with a zippo.
Sandy put the plate on the table in front of him. “You can’t smoke in here,” she said.
He took a drag, exhaled, and looked around, making the point there was no one else in the dining room.
“I know,” she said. “But it’s the law.”
He held the pack out to her. “Not even if I share?”
She took one, dropped it in a pouch on her apron. “I’ll save it for later.”
He smiled.
“Can I get you anything else? Some jelly for the toast? We got muscadine. Make it here. Jalapeño, too, if you want something a little spicy.”
He looked confused. “I don’t know what a muscadine is either, but I know I don’t want no jelly made out of fucking jalapeños.” He picked up a foil-wrapped tab of butter from a saucer on the table. “I think I’m good.”
Sandy reached for her order pad, but before she could tear off his check, he put a hand on her arm. His right hand, not the one missing fingers.
“Can I ask you something?” He said.
She looked at him cautiously, wondering if he was about to take his dick out and ask for a handjob, too.
“You lived here long? This town, I mean?”
“My whole life. Nobody just moves here.”
He smiled. “I’m looking for someone. Old buddy of mine. He used to live here. Maybe still does. I’m passing through. On my way to New Orleans. I was hoping to see him. Maybe catch up a little before I have to get back on the road.”
She shrugged. “You should try calling him.”
“Did that already. I’m guessing I’ve got an old number. I figured, you know, this being such a small town, a place like this, probably everybody eats here. I bet you know everybody in town.”
“Not everybody eats here.”
“His name’s McCabe. Chance McCabe. You know him?”
Sandy shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? Big guy. Little taller than me. Light brown hair. Kind of a crooked nose.”
She shook her head again.
“Not ringing a bell, huh?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He picked up a strip of bacon, took a bite, and chewed. “Good bacon.”
“It’s only bad if it’s turned green,” she said. She tore his check from her order pad and placed it on the table.
