The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller (6 page)

Rayanne
paused, studying him a moment. “No, of course not.”

“Then
what? What do you want?”

“I’m
not ready.” Her eyes teared up again. Not so much from sadness as simply saying
the things she had wanted to say for so long. “I can’t. Not yet.”

This
made him laugh. “Well, you let me know when you’re ready then.”

“It’s
not like that.”

“Really?”
he asked. “Or are you waiting for the next weekend Darryl and I are registered
for a $100,000 bass tournament.”

“This
had nothing to do with that.”

“There’s
fifty-one other weekends we could’ve done this, and you insist on commandeering
the one weekend that—”

“Stop
it.” Rayanne turned on her heel and rushed away from him, to the rear of the
truck. “You and Darryl. You and Darryl. If I never hear Darryl’s name again for
the rest of my life, it will be too soon.”

“Get
used to it because he’s clearly all the family I have left.”

“Great.
Then he can put up with your bad mood.” Rayanne acknowledged the insolence with
a darting, hateful glance. “Just change the damn tire and let’s get out of
here.”

She
climbed into the truck and slammed the passenger door. It took him half an hour
to change the tire. When he returned to the cab, Rayanne handed him a bottle of
water.

“Thank
you,” he said, and they drove in silence back to Willow.

9

Rayanne
opened her eyes at first light. She was aware that she had dreamed again.
Cowering in the corner of two block walls, she found her arms wrapped tightly
in a straightjacket. She was fighting to free herself. She didn’t want to be
back in the solitaire room. She was better now. She had to get out. She twisted
her head, searching for a way. There was light above, from a single window,
where a white bird was fluttering. It struck the glass. Rayanne shook the vague
images from her mind and sat up in bed. She wiped the sweat from her forehead
and looked around the motel room. She was alone.

After
a hot shower, she found a yellow, long-sleeved shirt in her suitcase and
slipped it on. The brown “Fish Naked” T-shirt lay on top of the clothes. She
really wanted to go home and wash everything and put this whole trip behind
her.

Dressed,
she stepped outside carrying her bags and walked through the motel parking lot.
Main Street stretched before her, and she saw her husband’s black Chevy parked
in the Texaco station. Owen was probably talking to the mechanic about a new
tire. She didn’t feel like talking to him. Not yet, anyway.

She
strode across the street with her bags slung over her shoulder, and entered the
corner diner. A redheaded waitress behind the counter greeted her.

“Mountain
Dew and an iced tea, no ice,” she replied.

“Bring
me a menu,” Rayanne said as she found a booth and set down her bags.

The
place was buzzing with locals in for early morning coffee. The town sheriff sat
in a booth across from her, and Rayanne remembered him from yesterday,
directing traffic along the interstate. Their eyes met.

Dressed
in the tan trousers and short-sleeved, button-down shirt of the Willow
Sheriff’s Department, he looked well into his fifties. Tufts of swept-back
white hair protruded beneath the sides of his cowboy hat. Still, he was clearly
in shape and was a man who commanded respect by his very appearance. Rayanne
smiled at him and he tipped his hat.

As
the waitress moved from behind the counter bringing her a menu, Rayanne saw
Owen enter the diner. The door chimed as he walked inside. He plopped down
across from her in the booth.

Focused
on the menu, Rayanne pretended not to notice. Her dark hair was tangled and she
kept toying with it, twisting the ends and combing the knots out with her
slender fingers. The waitress placed two glasses on the table: one with
Mountain Dew, the other with iced tea, no ice. Rayanne nodded at her, motioning
the woman to give them a minute. The waitress smiled, acknowledging her, then
turned and left.

Owen
picked up his glass and took a sip as Rayanne’s face remained hidden behind the
menu. After a moment he set down his glass and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry
about the blow-up back there at the truck,” he said in a hushed tone. “And I’m
sorry about last night too. You know I didn’t mean it.”

Rayanne
put down the menu. “Owen, I don’t like the direction we’re headed.”

“Me
neither.” He stared at his Mountain Dew. “That morning I walked in the
bathroom, saw you lying there in the tub, blood dripping from your arms …”

Rayanne
blinked. “I know,” she whispered.

He
leaned forward. “We’re both dealing with it, you know. You’re not in this
alone.”

“Owen,
please …” She hesitated, sipping her tea. It wasn’t the drink she really
wanted, but then nothing about this trip had gone the way she wanted. Since
that was the case, she decided to go for it. “Let’s put last night—and this
whole trip—behind us.”

“You
keep saying that, but we don’t. We’ve never even talked about him—”

“Don’t.”

“Since
the funeral.” He paused, looked down at the table, then mumbled, “It’s been two
years.”

“Stop.”

Owen
hesitated. “We can’t keep pretending like it never happened.”

Rayanne
sighed. “This whole trip was a mistake. It was a bad idea, and it’s my fault.”
She reached for her bags as she shifted in the booth toward the edge.

Owen
grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Rayanne, please. It’s been two years,” he
said.

She
tried to pull away.

He
tightened his grip. His voice was low, gravelly, like the Rottweiler’s growl.
“Everything that’s happened. It’s my fault.”

“Owen—”

“The
business failing. Losing our home. Connor.”

“No!”
Rayanne screamed, and jerked her hand away from his, brushing his glass of
Mountain Dew. It toppled with a splash and rolled off the table, shattering on
the floor.

The
crashing glass brought a sudden silence to the chatter in the diner.

Owen
turned his head, then slipped from the booth. He bent down and picked up glass
from the floor. Soda had spilled on her bags, and Rayanne moved them to the
seat.

The
commotion had caught the sheriff’s attention, and he slid out of his booth and
approached the table. “Is there a problem?” He lumbered more than walked and
looked as if he could be serious trouble if angered.

Still
picking up glass, Owen barely acknowledged the sheriff. “It was only an
accident.”

“We’re
just a little rattled, Sheriff.” Rayanne looked up at him as he hovered over
her husband, stooped on the floor. She noticed his badge with the name “R.
Petty” engraved in small letters. She smiled at him, thankful for the
distraction.

The
waitress came to the table with a rag and knelt beside Owen. She mopped up the
green soda from the floor as he put shards of glass in his open palm. Sitting
in the booth, Rayanne never took her eyes off the sheriff standing above them.

“Sorry
about the commotion, Sheriff … Petty,” she said to him. “My husband and I are
rattled, that’s all.”

He
stared at her. “Is there a problem?”

Rayanne
nodded. “We tried to go fishing and some kids started harassing us.”

“Some
kids?” He remained standing at the table as Owen and the waitress cleaned the
mess from the tile floor. Rayanne noticed the gun in his holster and the radio
attached to his belt.

“Teenagers,
really.” Owen stood up, holding several pieces of wet, broken glass. “Three
boys and a girl. They’ve got a pit bull.”

“It’s
a Rottweiler,” Rayanne said.

The
sheriff’s mouth moved slightly, as if he was thinking about it, before he said,
“Might be the Socash kids. A brother and sister.”

Rayanne
nodded. It didn’t matter, she thought. They were leaving anyway. She looked
across the table at her husband. “They’re a nuisance. They live in an old shack
on the north end of the lake.”

“The
north end?” The sheriff thought about it a moment. “It’s a big lake, but I
can’t think of anyone who lives up there. The Socash family lives on the
outskirts of town.”

Owen
sat in the booth, and the waitress took the glass shards from his hands. “The
kid’s name was Scut and he had a girlfriend named Dru,” he said. “I think we
were on their land or someth’n. There’s a trapper’s shack on it.”

“No,
that end of the lake belongs to the Corps of Engineers,” the sheriff said. “I
can’t think of anyone named Scut ’round these parts.”

“It
doesn’t matter,” Rayanne said, scooting out of the booth. “We’re leaving.”

The
sheriff tipped his hat again. “Well, I’m sorry you ran into trouble. I hope you
and your husband visit Willow again real soon.”

Rayanne
watched Sheriff Petty return to his booth as the waitress pushed against the
kitchen door.

Owen
took Rayanne’s hand. “Babe, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I
know,” she said. “Let’s go. I want to forget this whole weekend even happened.”

“Wait,”
Owen said to her. He lowered his head, still holding her hand. “There’s
something I need to tell you.”

Rayanne
shook her head. “Owen, it can wait. Let’s talk in the truck.”

“I-it
can’t wait. I did something,” he said. “Or, r-rather, I lost s-someth—”

“Owen,
please. I want to leave.”

“Already?”
came a familiar voice behind them.

Owen
turned around as Rayanne looked up and was surprised to see his buddy.

“Darryl!”
Owen said, getting up from the table. “You made it.”

10

Rayanne
watched Darryl push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and drop
onto the bench across from her. She knew he’d been her husband’s best friend
since childhood, and he never really seemed to change. Slender and
rumpled-looking, Darryl was somewhere in his mid-thirties. Today he wore a
blue-and-white, horizontal-striped, collared shirt that looked as if it’d been
washed one too many times. His blue Gators ball cap was equally faded; he
seemed to always be wearing it. Darryl removed the cap, scratched his scalp,
and returned the cap to his head.

Owen
plopped down beside him and motioned for the waitress to bring another menu.

Turning
to Owen, Darryl said, “I tried calling you back, but you never picked up.”

Owen
shrugged. “Cell phone’s not working.”

The
waitress returned to the table and left Darryl a menu.

He
glanced at it and set it down. “So, what happened to your phone?”

“It
just …” Owen looked down at his soda-splattered paper placemat. Then he glanced
at Rayanne. “It broke, that’s all.”

“Broke?”
Suddenly irritated, Rayanne put down her tea. “He threw it at a tree.”

Darryl
laughed. “Sounds like something he’d do.” Again he opened the menu, glanced at
it, and shut it. “I was expecting you to be at the lake, though, not antiquing
around Hooterville.”

“We
ran into some trouble,” Rayanne said coolly.

Darryl
smiled at her. “Good to see you, Rayanne.”

“Darryl.”
Her voice was more disappointed than anything else.

He
nodded and turned to Owen. “You’re not really leaving yet, are you? I just got
here.”

“I
thought you were fishing in some bass tournament,” Rayanne said, not trying to
conceal her annoyance.

Darryl
removed his glasses, held them up a couple of inches in front of his face, and
squinted. “I got stuck with a crazy partner. He was wearing a hard hat and
using a spin cast,” he said, cleaning the lenses with the edge of his shirt-sleeve.
“I gave up, and when I got Owen’s text, I jumped at the chance.”

As
he spoke, Rayanne’s expression turned from interest to derision. “Yeeaaah,” she
said sarcastically.

“Don’t
matter, anyway. The fishing tournament was a bust. So how’s the boat running?”

“Like
a charm.” Owen flagged down the waitress and ordered two eggs, sunny side up,
and another Mountain Dew.

Darryl
nudged him. “Are we taking it out?”

“Of
course. We got all day.”

Rayanne
interrupted them. “I thought we were leaving,” she said as she picked up the
check from the table and started to rise from the booth.

Owen
put a hand on her arm. “Babe, Darryl’s here.”

“I
can see that.” She slumped into the booth. “But what about last night?” she
asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

“Darryl
and I are going fishing,” he said. “You can come with us or you can stay here
and go antiquing through Hooterville.” He and Darryl both laughed at the joke,
then Owen called to the waitress to bring Darryl a cup of coffee.

Rayanne
couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Owen, you’re not seriously thinking
about going back there, are you? What about those teenagers?”

Owen
glanced over at Darryl, then at Rayanne. “I’m not getting bullied by some punk
kids,” he said. “Besides, the sheriff said they were lying. They don’t own that
land.”

“But
you know they’ll be back—”

“Really,
babe? They’re probably long gone by now,” Owen said, interrupting her.

The
waitress returned with a cup of coffee. Darryl took it from her and thanked
him. He then nodded at Rayanne. “Besides, Rayanne,” he said, blowing on his
coffee, “you say these are teenagers? We can handle a bunch of seventh
graders.”

Rayanne
fumed. “They aren’t seventh graders,” she said. “They’re very large and
mean-looking.”

“They’re
mean-agers,” Owen said, laughing. “And you handled them better than anyone else
I ever seen.” He turned to Darryl. “You should’ve seen her last night with the shotgun
…”

Rayanne
looked at him, then out the window. Her eyes seemed to glaze over. She watched
Owen and Darryl eat and talk for half an hour before the two men finally rose
and strolled out of the diner. She stared out the window, watching them head
through the parking lot. Darryl’s shiny new Toyota pickup was parked next to
Owen’s old black Chevy, and Darryl pulled a tackle box and pole from the bed.
Rayanne noticed that equipment looked new as well, but didn’t dwell on it.
Instead, she wondered what Owen wanted to tell her. It didn’t matter, really.
She didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t talk about the accident.

Having
set the tip on the table, Rayanne took a sip of tea, put down the glass, and
leaned back. The waitress returned with the change and Rayanne took it,
dropping the money into her damp purse. She grabbed the straps of her bags and
looped them over her shoulder, when she realized the waitress was staring at
her.

“Sweetie,
husbands are like pancakes.” The waitress stood with her hands on her hips,
shaking her head. “There’s no shame in throwing the first one out.”

* * * * *

With
their fishing gear secure in the truck bed, Owen and Darryl climbed into the
Chevy, Darryl taking the front seat.

“Your
wife seems mad,” he said as he fastened the seat belt.

“She’s
always mad about something.” Owen started the engine. “She’s been on me about
getting a job.”

“You
know, you should come work for me.” Darryl leaned back in the passenger seat
and grinned. He removed his blue baseball cap and scratched his head. “My
cheese sculpting company is booming. Really, really booming. I got more calls
coming in than I can handle. I could really use the help.”

Owen
shot him a dirty look as Rayanne opened the front passenger door. Seeing
Darryl, she closed it and climbed into the backseat. She slipped her bags from
her shoulder and let them fall onto the floorboard. She pushed the guitar aside
to make room on the seat. Owen was watching her with a surprised look on his
face, as if he didn’t realize she was coming along.

“Babe,
you can stay here and shop if you want.” He smiled, but looked more guilty than
genuine. “I mean, if you’re worried about a couple of kids harassing us and
all.”

“Just
drive,” she said, sounding lost.

* * * * *

Rayanne
sulked in the backseat as Owen turned onto Main and headed out of town. She
stared out the window, watching aging buildings pass, when she noticed a boat
shop on the corner. It was a small building, with a chain-link fence outlining
the property. A hand-printed sign stating “RENT ME” hung lopsided on the fence
and, behind it, parked among weeds and an assortment of worn tires, were
several old boats.

“Hey.
Wait.” Rayanne turned her head as they passed the building. “That looks like
the boat we saw yesterday.”

She
turned her head to look past the gun rack, out the rear window. Then she swung
around and placed her hands on the headrest behind Owen. She grabbed his
shoulder.

“I
think I saw that boat those teenagers were in,” she said again.

Owen
made a U-turn at the next intersection and headed toward the old building.
Crossing traffic, he pulled into the parking lot. Owen parked and hopped out of
the truck. Darryl and Rayanne followed.

White
gravel crunched under their feet as they approached five boats lined along a
chain-link fence. To the side, red and yellow kayaks sat in two rows, capped by
one dark green canoe. Rayanne noticed it as she came up beside Owen, who was
hunched down investigating a maroon ski boat that looked eerily similar to the
one the teenagers had been driving.

“That’s
the boat,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

The
door of a small sales trailer in the center of the property opened, and a
heavyset man came lumbering out, wearing a dark jacket and blindingly blue,
sharply ironed Wranglers tucked into polished cowboy boots. As soon as he let
the door slam shut behind him, he made his way down a series of metal steps
that vibrated with a low warble and actually shook the whole trailer. This not
only caught Rayanne’s attention, but apparently the attention of eight or nine
cats—she wasn’t sure how many as they leapt and meowed at the man’s feet. The
cats twisted and crossed in front of him, to the point that he almost stumbled.

Catching
his footing, he moved faster and motioned to Rayanne. “Can I help you with
anything today?”

Owen
turned to him as he approached. “You rent boats?”

“I
sure do,” the man said, smiling. He turned toward the Chevy and sized up Owen’s
bass boat behind it. After a moment, he turned to Owen with a puzzled smirk.
“You look’n to rent another boat this afternoon?”

The
cats had followed him, their tails raised high in the air. They were meowing
loudly and rubbing their bodies against his boots.

Owen
shook his head, probably in response to the question but also as likely at the
horde of crying cats. He motioned toward the maroon ski boat. “You rent this
one to some teenagers yesterday?”

The
man eyed Owen, gently pushing a cat away with his boot, only to have it
replaced with two more. He glanced at Rayanne and looked back at Owen. “No,
sir. We don’t generally rent to teenagers without their parents’ consent.”

“These
were older teenagers, maybe in their early twenties,” Owen said. “Three boys
and a girl.”

The
salesman shook his head. “No one like that came onto the lot yesterday.”

Owen
frowned. “Did you rent this boat to the parents of some teenagers, then?”

“No,
sir. If you must know, it was a war veteran and his son.”

The
salesman sighed and mopped his brow. It was already hot in the midmorning sun,
and between the heat and the cats congregating at his feet, he seemed to be
getting flustered.

“The
veteran was in a wheelchair and his son was taking him fishing for the first time
in ten years. Is there a problem?”

“No.”
Owen looked away from him and seemed to focus on the boat again. “Thank you for
your time.”

He
headed to the Chevy as Darryl followed, asking him what that was all about.

Rayanne
paused and bent down to pet a cat. It rubbed against her leg, and she
immediately recognized it, with its chunky body, plush gray coat and broad
face, to be a British shorthair. She playfully shooed it away with her foot and
it rolled onto its back and swatted at her. The man bent down and picked it up
in his arms.

“I’m
sorry,” he said as he ran a hand along the cat’s back. It looked up at him and
swatted his chin. The man dropped the cat and it landed on its feet. He rubbed
his chin. “I started out feeding one, and then before I knew it—”

“What
did the veteran’s son look like?” Rayanne was no longer interested in the cats.

“Excuse
me?”

“The
son. Did he have tattoos on his arm?”

“Yeah,
I think so.” He seemed to think about it as he still rubbed his chin. “In fact,
it was spider webs running down his arm.”

Rayanne
froze. “Spider webs?”

“Red
and black ink.”

That
proves it, Rayanne thought. That was Scut. She squinted at the salesman. “And
you said the older man was in a wheelchair?” Rayanne looked at the boat. She
stared at it for several seconds, until Owen honked. Then she thanked the
salesman and ran to the truck.