Alligator (22 page)

Sam wiped his face and hands on a handkerchief and glanced over at Lee. It was as if Sam hadn't been talking at all. Lee was staring down at the knife, which he turned over and over in his hand. Suddenly Lee threw it into the ground, with such force that Sam was startled.

"Anyone I know?" asked Sam.

Lee smiled at Sam. It bothered Lee that Sam could read him so well, yet at the same time he welcomed it. He hadn't said more than a few words to anyone in the two days since they'd left, and while he'd never considered himself much of a talker, he'd become spoiled since Cindy. Lee felt a great sadness come over him. He had tried not to think about Cindy since he'd left. There was too much regret mixed in with the sadness.

Sam pulled the knife out of the ground and held it in his hand. "I don't suppose you can get Rye to stop," he said.

Lee laughed bitterly.

"I didn't figure you could," said Sam.

Lee handed the knife back to Sam. The need to talk was strong in him, and he wished it would go away. It was a weakness that he hated.

"I'm not sure that I want to stop any more," Lee said finally.

Sam tried not to look too interested. He didn't want to stop Lee from talking, and knew that any sign of interest would be just the way to do it. He was glad to find the knife in his hand. He aimed it at a spot on the ground and threw.

"No, I'm not sure at all," said Lee after a pause. "Then again, I'm not exactly sure what I want to do. When I came out here, I had every intention of gettin' that man."

"Getting him?" Sam avoided looking at Lee by retrieving the knife.

"Well, not killing him," answered Lee. "Just shaking him good."

"It doesn't look like he needs your help."

"No, he seems to be doin' that job pretty good all on his own, but..." Lee hesitated, hoping that he could stop the conversation right there, but he knew it was too late.

"But?" Sam insisted.

"That ain't enough. I want to show him I'm better than he is."

"I think down deep he knows it."

"Down deep ain't good enough." Lee's voice became very intense, and his eyes flashed with anger. "I want to force him to it. I want to have him scream it out to me."

"But you don't want to kill him?"

Lee could see from Sam's face that he had frightened him. He took the knife back from Sam and folded it up and spoke with an honesty he rarely ever granted himself. "I don't know. Sometimes, well, maybe sometimes I do."

"You up to telling me?" asked Sam.

"It isn't because of her," answered Lee. "Or at least that isn't all of it."

"So you know about Rye and Lizbeth?"

"I know some of it," said Lee. He didn't ask Sam what he knew, but the question was implicit.

Sam noticed that the men who had been fishing were walking back to the campfire. It was becoming too dark for them to see. He hoped that none of them would notice his absence and come looking for him

"I probably know a good deal less than you," he said, turning back to Lee. "I remember she was sweet on him for a time, but he went away to Miami. People said it broke her heart, and after that she never was the same. But I myself remember very little about it. It was long ago, and I was more interested in baseball than Rye Whitman at the time. Probably no one knows the real story, except him and her, and she's... well, you know."

"Yes, sir, I certainly do." Lee could hear the bitterness in his voice, and he laughed to cover it. But his hands betrayed him by opening and shutting the knife.

"You thought of asking him?"

Lee shook his head, then added, "I doubt he even suspects that I know."

"Well, if you want an answer, he's the only one who can give it to you."

"An answer to what?" asked Lee.

"Whether you're his son. There is something of a resemblance, you know."

"I don't look more like Rye than anybody else," said Lee.

"Maybe. But you look less like Aaron than almost anyone else."

"That proves nothin'."

"But it raises some questions," said Sam. He could see that Lee was coming close to cutting himself on the knife, and he reached over and took it from him. "And what if he is your father? What then?"

"I told you," said Lee. "I don't know."

"It puts a responsibility on your shoulders."

"On my shoulders?" Lee flared. "I'd say you got that backwards. On his shoulders is more like it."

"And you plan on putting it squarely where it belongs, is that it?" Sam asked with sarcasm.

"I told you, I don't know what I plan to do."

Sam stood up. It was almost completely dark, and the flashing embers of the fires were the only things Sam could see of the camp. He could just barely see Lee's face right next to him. "That's too bad," he said. "I'd rather you did know what you're going to do. It's not thinking a thing out fully that gets a man into trouble. Being a lawyer, I've got some experience with that kind of thing. You take murder. They've got this thing called premeditated murder, but if you ask me, that's a load of hogwash. All it means is murder's occurred to a person. Hell, murder's occurred to us all; that doesn't mean anything. I've talked to a lot of murderers in my day, and most of them couldn't plan their own dinner. Their minds are all mixed up with a million alternatives, until that moment. No, sir, murder is never premeditated. A man never knows what he'll do until it's already done."

Sam touched Lee's shoulder. It was a gesture of fondness and concern, but Lee hardly felt it. He had slipped back into his own private anger, and he didn't even look up as Sam walked away.

The next morning, there was more mist than usual. It wasn't until ten o'clock that Lee could see the sky was filled with clouds. They weren't thin, wispy clouds, either, but thick and heavy, piling up on themselves, shading from pale gray to gun-metal and, on their underbellies, black.

Lee wheeled on Rye, who was dozing in the back, and yelled, "I thought you said you listened to the weather forecast yesterday."

"That's what I said," answered Rye.

"Well, you can't have listened real good, because that looks like a storm ahead."

Lee leaned over Maurice and pulled out the radio. He didn't need to ask what had happened: The severed wire explained itself. Rye flashed a smile at him, part sheepish, part brash. Lee put down the boat pole. His movements were slow and calculated, as if he were watching himself. Rye could see the power behind Lee's anger, and felt himself flinch.

Just then a shock of wind ruffled past the men. The heavy clouds stirred and started moving through the sky. Lee knew it was the first sure sign of trouble, and it stopped him as nothing else could have.

"You got any idea what a storm's like out here?" Lee hissed.

"I'd say I'm about to find out," said Rye.

John had been staring at Rye, stunned. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed Rye's throat. "Why, you crazy bastard!" he screamed.

Lee pulled him off Rye. "We ain't got time for that now," he said, pushing John back into his seat. He watched for a moment to make sure John stayed where he was, then looked up at the sky. He was thinking fast now, checking the clouds, reading the water, the winds, the movement of the birds. Finally he said, "We'll make a try for Sand Fly Hummock."

"What do you mean, a try?" screamed John. The blood had drained from his face.

Lee kept his voice even and calm. "Exactly what I said. If that storm catches us on one of those unprotected hummocks, you can forget any ideas you might have about comin' back alive."

John was hysterical. "But there's a chance we won't make Sand Fly in time, isn't there? That'll mean we'll get caught in the water? And the storm would be even worse on the water."

"That's right," Lee answered.

"I don't think we should risk it."

"Up to you," said Lee. "You can get off here, if you want. We'll be back later to fish for the pieces." Lee turned from John impatiently. There wasn't much time left, and he'd wasted enough on him already. He called to Maurice, "There's rope under your seat next to the gas tanks—get it out. We'll be needin' it soon." Then he turned back to John. "If you plan on stickin' around, you'd better warn the others." Lee didn't wait for a response. He looked at Rye, barely controlling the fury that was tightening in the pit of his stomach, and said, "I'll take care of you later!" He watched for a second to make sure John got off the boat, then pushed by Rye and climbed into the pilot's seat.

"I'll be waitin' on ya," Rye growled.

The wind had come up. Rye felt it rushing against his face and flapping at his clothes; it was charged with an electric excitement. Rye laughed in response and yelled, as if to all men; as if to all of the swamp, "I'll be waitin' on ya all!"

The storm was gathering fast. It was only ten minutes since Ben had got the warning, and already the clouds were so thick, so heaped on top of one another, that they blocked out a whole section of sky. The winds shifted and flickered like frightened birds, forcing the water to a chopped and angry green.

Ben tried to keep a steady course, but the growing wind was fighting him for every inch. It altered his course and rocked the skiff from side to side. He did his best to anticipate the shifting, but he was always behind the indecisive winds.

For the first time, Ben realized that they might not make it. He shook off the thought. Bent double, straining his massive frame, he shoved the pole deep into the ooze and tried to propel the boat forward, while Sam worked the engine's rudder in an attempt to control their course. Every once in a while, Ben shouted to Sam to head to the right or the left. He knew Sam couldn't hear the orders, much less follow them. But it helped Ben forget that he was at the mercy of the winds, and that whether they made it or not wasn't a matter to be decided by him.

Within a few minutes, half of the gray-green sky was blocked up with thick clouds, which raced forward like an express train. The shifting winds scattered the boats even farther apart, cutting the men off from one another.

Marris couldn't see any of the other boats, and he hadn't seen the Saurian since they got the warning. He had never felt so exposed and vulnerable, so alone, in all his life. Looking up at the sky, the terror overtook him.

"Dammit, Marris, push!" screamed Thompson.

"The winds—" It was all Marris could manage to say. The enormous winds choked off everything, even his breath, and he felt as though he would suffocate. He was too giddy to even move.

"Marris, you'll kill us both!"

Marris sat transfixed, staring out at the sky in horror. Thompson cut the motor and fought his way to the front of the skiff. He took hold of Marris's shoulders and shook him. "Goddamn you!" he screamed. "Goddamn you!"

Marris stared at him dumbly. Thompson's fury suddenly melted away, exposing the fear below.

"Goddamn you!" Thompson screamed again. "Goddamn you!" He fought to regain control of himself.

Thompson shoved Marris down into the bottom of the boat. As he restarted the motor, he told himself he would just have to do it alone, but he knew he was kidding himself. Even with Marris, their chances were slim; without him, they were nonexistent. Thompson glanced over at Marris. He was sitting rigidly, gazing blankly at the green sky and churning water. He didn't move, but Thompson could see tears running down his face. He turned from the sight quickly.

The Saurian was far ahead of the rest. It was handling the wind well, and by using the motor and the pole, Lee was able to play the wind to his advantage. As Lee turned into a stretch of open water, he spotted Sand Fly Hummock. "I must live right," he said. He cut the motor and jumped into the water.

"What's the matter?" yelled Maurice.

"Nothin's wrong," Lee yelled back. "There's just too many branches and roots. We'll have to push the rest of the way."

Rye cupped his hands against the wind and called, "Need any help?"

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience you," Lee returned.

Rye, John, and Maurice got out of the Saurian and waded to the back of the platform. The wind was so strong that, even standing right next to one another, Lee had to yell to be heard.

All along the shore of Sand Fly, huge branches were being torn from the trees and sent spinning through the air into the water.

Lee kept his eyes on the water ahead, watching for large branches and pockets of quicksand, but he also kept glancing back at the skiffs struggling to shore. He counted only nine; he kept hoping the tenth would appear. As the skiffs drew closer, he muttered to himself, "Thompson's missing. Don't it just figure."

Lee waded over to Maurice and yelled, "When you get ashore, take the rope and lash down everything that moves. Cover what you can with tarps, especially the food and clothes. Make sure it's airtight. You got that?"

"Where are you going?" screamed Maurice.

"One of the boats is missing," yelled Lee. "I'm going after it."

"You can't!" screamed Maurice. "We'll never do it alone!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to for a while!" Lee yelled. "So you better listen to me!"

Maurice knew there was no chance of stopping Lee, and he tried to control the panic he felt. Lee reached on board for the rope and handed it to Maurice.

"After you got all the supplies tied down, take what's left of the rope and tie yourselves to a tree—make sure it's a sturdy one."

Maurice shuddered. The idea of tying himself down was terrifying. He knew he had no control over the wind, but at least he felt control over his body. Tied up, he would be helpless.

Lee read the terror in his eyes. "You ain't got no choice!" he yelled. "Tie yourselves good and tight, or the wind'll suck you from the hummock like marrow from a bone. Make sure John and Rye help you. They ought to be good for somethin' besides makin' trouble, okay?" He looked at Maurice as if he had confidence in him. But he knew that although Maurice was the best of the bunch, his competition wasn't exactly stiff.

"I'll do my best," said Maurice, expecting to fall short and yet hoping this time he'd be wrong.

Lee nodded to Maurice, then waded into the swirling water. He worked his way back toward the narrow channel he had just come from. Head down, almost as though he were trying to butt an opponent, he pressed against the water while the wind thrashed his clothes against his body with incredible force. The water churned against his legs, tripping him up, pushing him off balance. It took enormous effort just to keep from falling.