The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller (3 page)

4

The
rain drizzle had stopped, making for a sunny, hot afternoon on the lake. Owen,
standing starboard at the bow with his fishing pole in hand, had his shirt tied
around his waist by the sleeves. Rayanne still wore his hand-me-down T-shirt.

Faded
and tattered and with the slogan “Show off your pole – Fish naked” scrawled
across the chest, the shirt was kind of vulgar. He’d bought it before they got
married. And she’d stuffed it down deep in a dresser drawer, hoping it would go
forgotten. It was, until the day her father invited her new husband to go
fishing in hopes of forming a relationship. Owen wore that shirt on the trip.

It
wasn’t funny at the time, but over the years had become an inside joke. She
wore it the first time Owen took her fishing, just to get a laugh. He’d said it
looked hot and the fishing trip turned into something else. Now it hardly made
an impression on him.

Nevertheless,
Rayanne kept trying. She didn’t mind the heat as much as the swarming gnats.
She hoped they weren’t flying into her mouth as she told him all about the
movie he missed the other night.

“Even
though the audience really enjoyed Becca’s remix and The Bellas came in third
at the semifinals,” she said, “Aubrey gets real mad, you see, and yells at
Becca.” Sitting portside on an ice chest in the stern of the boat, Rayanne
tossed her line and lure into the water again and watched it plop and disappear
under the waves. She paused for dramatic effect. “This makes Becca just up and
quit.”

Owen
didn’t respond. They’d been on the boat for a couple of hours without catching
a fish and she was getting bored. Now she was talking to relieve the monotonous
chirp of cicadas in the trees around them.

Toward
the muddy banks, a heron flapped up into the bright sunlight. The bird flew for
a distance and turned to cross the vast expanse of marshlands extending from
the far side of the lake, toward the cypress trees lining the lakeshore.
Rayanne’s gaze followed the bird’s flight for a few moments, before she
continued her story.

“So
then The Bellas regroup after spring break, with the notable exception of
Becca, of course. And guess what happens.” She turned her whole body to the
other side of the ice chest to look at him, knowing full well he wouldn’t
acknowledge her. “Chloe stands up for Becca and forces Aubrey to let her back
in the group.”

“You
ruined the ending,” Owen said without so much as a glance at her.

It
was the first thing he’d said in a good hour or so.

“Well,
you fell asleep on the couch and missed it.”

Rayanne
considered finishing the plot synopsis, but instead fished a granola bar from
the front pocket of her shorts, rocking the boat as she moved. She noisily tore
open the wrapper and peeled it to expose the yellow, grainy bar. She took a
bite and it crunched in her mouth. This seemed to get Owen’s attention; he
looked over at her. She could see the irritation in his face.

“You
want some?” She extended an arm, offering him the granola bar. His brow
furrowed and she shrank back.

“You
ruined the ending,” he said again.

“I
did you a favor. It’s not like you’ll ever stay awake long enough to finish it
anyway.” Like a scolded child, she tightened the wrapper around the remaining
bar and returned it to her pocket. She really wanted to lighten his mood, but
didn’t know how.

After
several moments of quietly listening to water slosh against the side of the
boat, she thought of something else to say. “I can’t believe anyone lives out
here on this lake. Maybe we should head to the south end, you know, by the
town.”

“I
like it here. Nobody’s around.” Owen reeled in his line, then cast it again. It
made a high-pitched whizzing sound as the lure flung across the water and
smoothly glided under. Twenty feet in front of him, a faint swirl twisted the
surface and a ripple moved in a line toward the bank.

Something
was nibbling, but Rayanne didn’t care.

“We
haven’t seen another boat in hours.” She stood up and stretched her legs. The
boat waddled side to side as she moved. He didn’t respond and simply reeled in
his line. She listened to its soft click as she watched her own line bob up and
down on the waves. It was almost hypnotic, and she stifled a yawn. She needed
him to say something or she would fall asleep. Turning her head, she held her
hand above her eyes to block the sun.

“Did
you talk to my dad about being a salesman for his dealership? He says you’d
make good money and there’s benefits.”

She
watched her husband cringe, and realized it was probably the worst subject she
could’ve brought up. However, it forced a reaction.

“I
don’t want to sell cars,” he said. “I’m not going to ask your father for a
job.”

“He
wants to hire you. You’d be good in sales.”

Owen
recast his line, but wouldn’t turn to look at her. “I’m not selling cars for
your father.”

“He’s
only offering to help, and we could really use the—”

“This
is a fishing trip,” he said, “not a talking trip.”

She
waved a hand at him, motioning him to be quiet. “I hear something.” She leaned
forward. “You hear thumping?”

“You’re
imagining things.”

She
heard it again, a faint sound coming from the west. Rayanne stood and peered at
the horizon. After a moment, as the thumping grew louder, Owen lowered his
pole.

It
sounded like the pulsing bass from someone’s stereo. The sound steadily grew
louder, followed by the hum of an outboard motor revved to full power. Down the
lake, they saw a motorboat approaching. It raced closer to Owen’s boat, then
turned and passed in front and sped alongside. Driven by a shirtless teenage
boy with tattoos on both arms, his back, and across his shoulders, the boat
slowed. Still, his body ink was largely a black-and-green blur. He screamed
something at Owen as they passed. The other teenagers, two boys and a girl,
laughed.

Rayanne
couldn’t make out what they’d said over the blaring music. Coming around for
another pass, the teens screamed again, then took off. Their wake rocked Owen’s
boat, tangling two of his fishing lines. He erupted into a fit of commotion,
knocking over his tackle box, further rocking the boat and almost knocking
Rayanne overboard.

“Dropp’n
F!” he yelled as he collected the two poles.

Rayanne
got back up onto her feet. “It’s a big lake. Why don’t they party on the other
side?”

“He’s
lookin’ for a place to get some cooter puss.” Owen righted the tackle box with
the edge of his boot. “We’re probably in the way.”

Rayanne
watched him focus on the knotted fishing lines. Stepping over the ice chest,
she shuffled to the bow and stood beside him. She could hear the rap music in
the distance.

“So,
let’s get off the lake,” she said. She placed a hand on his bare arm. “Let’s go
fish one of those channels we saw earlier.”

“Water’s
too shallow. Looks like the whole lake’s down.”

“Then
ignore them.” She squeezed his arm tighter. “Don’t get worked up over this.
It’s still going to be a great weekend.”

“Babe,
would you stop saying that?” He jerked his arm away from her. “I’m not getting
worked up and you’re going to jinx us and it’ll start raining again.”

Owen
stopped detangling and looked at the lake. The thumping grew louder as the boat
of teenagers raced toward them, music blaring. This time the girl was driving
and the three boys were lined up along the side of their boat. As they passed,
they pulled down their shorts, exposing their butt cracks.

Owen
screamed at the kids. Stomping to the rear of the boat, he picked up the ice
chest and threw it in their direction. Ice, bottled water, and beer cans
spiraled out of it, splashing into the water as it arced across the waves. The
chest missed the teenagers’ boat by the width of a buoy, though, and fell on
top of the lake. It floated, bobbing, before finally submerging.

This
brought another roar of laughter and hoots from the teens when they made
another pass. Together, the boys raised their arms and flipped up their middle
fingers. Whooping, they sped away and their laughter faded with them.

Rayanne
watched them vanish on the horizon while Owen reeled in his other line and set
the fishing pole in the boat. “Of all the days …”

Rayanne
watched him unwrap his shirt from around his waist and slip his arms into it.
“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Packing
up.”

“We’re
leaving?” She looked back at the horizon. She couldn’t even see or hear the
teenagers anymore. “Owen, they’re just having fun. Don’t react, and they’ll
leave us alone.”

“It’s
getting late.”

Rayanne
wasn’t sure if he was angry or hurt or somewhere in between. Perhaps it didn’t
even really matter, she decided. She watched him unhook his lures and place
them into the tackle box, speedily and precisely, with such deliberate
efficiency, like a pouting toddler picking up his shovel and pail in the
sandbox. His face reddened, along with the back of his neck. He looked like a
wounded child when he got angry, she always thought.

She
wanted to hold him now, care for him, keep him close and hidden away. They
could forget about his unemployment and her father’s offer at the dealership
and the crazy teens on the lake. They could make love morning, noon, and night.
It could be their second chance, and it made her dizzy thinking about it.

But
before she could speak, to talk him down and soothe his hurt feelings, he told
her, “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Rayanne
sighed and watched him thrust the boat forward. She surveyed the expanse of the
lake. The teenagers were nowhere in sight. But they were out there.

And
she knew they’d be back.

5

Near
the shoreline, Owen cut off the outboard motor and glided the small bass boat
to the sloping concrete ramp. Rayanne, already on land, watched as he splashed
into the shallow water, marched onto the bank and over to the Chevy. When he’d
backed the truck and trailer down the concrete slope, he jumped out and waded
to the boat. He guided it onto the trailer, secured it, then sprang up the ramp
and into the truck. The Chevy pulled the boat and trailer out of the water and
he parked it along the dirt trail.

Rayanne
could only watch, feeling completely useless. “Sorry. I know Darryl is probably
more help than I am.”

“Yeah,”
he agreed. He was pulling a rolled-up sleeping bag and a large green canvas
tote from the truck bed.

Rayanne
approached him. “What are we doing?” she asked. “I thought we’d go into town—”

“We’re
camping,” he said in that same calm, careful voice.

His
lava-fuming-below-the-surface voice, she called it.

“Is
that a tent? I’m sure there’s a bed-and-breakf—”

“We’re
not going back into town.” He tossed the tent bundle onto the ground. The metal
poles inside clanked together. She stepped closer to him, and grabbed an end of
the tote. She pulled out a long, curved pole.

“Why?”
she asked.

“You
said you wanted to go fishing with me. Welcome to a fishing trip.” He inserted
one metal rod into another. “You don’t think Darryl and I stay at a
bed-and-breakfast, do you?”

Rayanne
paused. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Setting up the metal
frame, they each took an end of the tent fabric and stretched it out.

Then
Rayanne answered, her voice steady and unemotional, but not submissive. “Okay.
You’re absolutely right. We’re on a fishing trip and we’re going to camp out. I
can handle that.”

She
stretched the fabric across the metal frame, but realized it didn’t fit. Owen
came up beside her, taking it from her hands. He flipped it so the ends lined
up with the metal poles. When they were locked together, he set the pieces on
the ground and walked back to the large tote. A beep from the cell phone attached
to his belt interrupted him. He put down the bag and grabbed the phone.

“You
get a text message?” Rayanne asked him.

He
ignored her, clearly engrossed in typing a message on his phone.

She
stepped beside him. “Is it Darryl? How did he do in the bass tournament?”

“Why
don’t you gather some firewood?” he said without looking at her. “We need a
fire.”

Rayanne
smiled. “That sounds … romantic.”

Owen
stopped typing and looked at her. “Really?”

“Yeah,”
she said quietly, thinking about it. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,”
he whispered, and smiled at her.

She
watched him a moment, then returned the smile. It warmed her inside. “I’ll get
us some firewood.”

She
looked up at the cypress trees surrounding them. The woods writhed with
shadows, unseen birds and squirrels moving in the branches. Male cicadas droned
their rising and falling mating songs.

She
stared into those shadows a moment, and then marched forward. She could feel
Owen monitoring her every step.

* * * * *

Rayanne
followed the shoreline, passing several half-buried boulders among the thin
cypress trees. As she walked, she tried not to think about Owen or his foul
mood. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t help herself.

They’d
met some twelve years ago in Durham. He was attending Duke University on a
basketball scholarship, and it was love at first sight. Their life together was
almost magical, she thought. There was no other word for it.

They
married as soon as he graduated, then settled in Florida near his family. On
their honeymoon, he bought a Lotto Scratch-off ticket. He could barely speak
when he showed it to her in their hotel room. Unbelievably, it was worth over
five hundred thousand dollars.

With
the money they bought a house. She went to a veterinary school. He started a
construction company, building new homes. They were living the dream.

Then
the accident happened.

Rayanne
forced herself to stop thinking about it. She stared at the evergreens in front
of her, and grabbed a branch. Pulling it down, she felt its spindly, rough
leaves and the small, rounded, woody cones at the end. Releasing the branch,
she let it slap back up into the tree with a loud thwhaaaap that echoed through
the upper canopy.

For
some reason, it made her feel better and she turned her attention to the
ground. She collected several sticks along the way; some were rotten and others
dirty, with ants crawling in them. She placed the sticks in a pile to collect
later. Rayanne saw another large log a few feet away.

Stepping
hesitantly from the bank, she moved through the thick brush, toward the log. She
heard birds flutter in the trees, as if something had spooked them. Perhaps it
was her. But what if it was something else?

She
looked back at the lake. The tree-lined east bank gave way to a murky swamp
curving into the distance. Owen would’ve called it “Florida conservation,” she
thought. It seemed almost impenetrable, and Rayanne paused. She heard a rustle
in the brush.

About
fifteen feet away, a doe fed on grass growing in the sunlight near the water. A
fawn stepped beside her and reached its head around in front of its mother.
Pushing against the side of her face to move her head out of the way, the fawn
stiffened its legs.

Rayanne
smiled. She’d hoped to find deer. Moving as quietly as she could, she removed
her cell phone from her front pocket. She held it in front of her face and
snapped a photo. The soft click startled the deer. The doe turned her head,
spotted Rayanne, and froze, twitching her ears. A second later, both the doe
and the fawn leapt into the brush.

Rayanne
hated scaring them away, but turned her phone around to bring up the photo. She
stared at it, smiling at her flair for taking a good photograph. It was
postcard worthy.

Hesitating
at the water’s edge, she turned her head toward the trees to see if she could
still see the deer, when a mouth came out of the water. It snapped and Rayanne
jumped backward, dropping her phone. She scrambled onto the bank. Falling into
the grass, she looked back. The bony head of a large gator submerged under the
water.

A
few feet from the bank, the water boiled.

Bubbles
rose.

In
a moment the water’s surface became calm again.

Getting
to her feet, Rayanne snatched up her phone and sprinted into the woods. She ran
as fast as she could, crashing through thick palmettos. She didn’t know how far
she ran or for how long. Out of breath, she slowed. That’s when she saw the
dirt trail.

Two
ruts in the ground similar to the path they took from the main road that cut
toward the lake. Rayanne headed for the path, hoping it would lead her back to
the boat ramp.

When
she reached it, she walked for quite a while, not sure what direction she
headed. She hoped she was getting closer. She noticed the pine and oak trees
growing thicker around her, spindly arms that reached for her and scratched as
she pushed her way through. Hesitating, she knew she had to be going in the
wrong direction, moving farther away from the lake.

About
to turn around, she heard a high-pitched howl. It almost sounded like a woman
crying. It rang out again. Rayanne paused, listening. From her experience at
the animal shelter, she knew it wasn’t human. It had to be an animal.

A
trapped animal.

A
hurt animal.

The
wailing echoed in the trees around her and she pushed forward, stumbling in the
direction she thought it was coming from. The wailing grew louder, and Rayanne
stopped. She moved a pine branch away from her face and peered into the
clearing stretched out in front of her.

Some
fifteen, twenty yards ahead, an old cabin rested in the deep shadows of the
forest. Behind its darkened corners, beyond Rayanne’s sight, the hidden wails
rang out again. They grew louder, and she knew some animal was in trouble.

Stepping
from the cover of the brush, Rayanne made her way toward the cabin.