P. Parrish - Claw Back

“Let’s get out of here,” the bald guy said.

The other man grabbed a backpack off the counter, paused, then reached over Louis to snag a pack of cigarettes from the bunk.

As they left, the dark guy started to pull the door closed. The bald man slapped a hand against it.

“Leave it open. Maybe a gator will crawl in and eat him.”

Louis could hear them laughing until it was drowned out by the sound of the Jeep coming to life. It built to a roar as they revved the engine then slowly it faded to a low growl as they pulled out of the camp.

Louis strained against the rope. No give. His hands were going numb.

He looked to the open door, trying to estimate what time it was. He had signed out the Jeep at ten-thirty this morning but in all the twisting and turning trying to find this place he had lost track of time.

Sergeant Sweet…he was the only one who knew where he had gone. But there was no reason for him to sound the alarm if Louis didn’t come back. The Jeep was signed out for indefinite use.

Louis tugged at rope then laid his head back against the post.

It was quiet. A terrible, empty quiet.

The darkness had crept over him — the rectangle of light that defined the open door turned from green to gray then disappeared — and he thought it was because he was losing consciousness. But then, out of the blackness, came sounds.

The soft whir of a motor.

The creak of a rusty hinge.

Coughing.

Had the men come back? He strained to see something, anything, in the pitch black.

No, no…

Just crickets, frogs, and something else, a gator maybe.

Louis leaned back against the bunk. How long had he been here? He couldn’t tell anymore. It was the thick of night now and any hope he had of someone finding him was fading fast. It hurt to take a breath and he had to piss. He twisted his hands but the rope held tight on his wrists.

There was nothing to do but wait for the light. Maybe he could chew through the rope. Maybe if he yelled someone would be close enough to hear. Maybe…

He would die here.

He closed his eyes.

The rectangle of the door materialized out of the gloom. Dawn. His ribs and his lip throbbed. His parched throat felt like sandpaper and his whole body ached. Had he slept? He didn’t know because his mind felt as numb as his hands. The gnawing in his stomach wasn’t hunger anymore. It was fear.

He lay his head against the rough wood of the bunk, watching the details of the brush outside in the compound emerge in the frame of the doorway. He closed his eyes.

A sound. Close.

His eyes shot open. He jerked upright as far as the rope would allow.

An animal.

No! It was louder. And it was engine of some kind, he could tell now. It was getting louder. It was outside in the compound. Then, suddenly, it died and it was quiet.

Louis waited, his eyes riveted on the open door. A huge silhouette filled the doorframe.

“What the fuck?”

The voice was different from those of the two men who had left him here. Very deep, no accent. It took Louis a second to realize the man was holding a rifle. And it was aimed at Louis.

“Hey! Don’t shoot!” Louis yelled.

The rifle kept its bead on Louis’s chest.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’ve been here all night. Come on, untie me, man.”

“This is my camp, asshole. You broke into my camp.”

“I didn’t break in. Two guys jumped me.” No choice, he had to chance it. “I’m a cop, man. My ID is over there on the floor by the table.”

Slowly the rifle came down. The man scooped up the wallet, glanced at the ID inside and looked back to Louis. “What are you doing in my camp?”

“Untie me. I’ll explain.”

The man set the rifle by the door and pulled a large knife from his belt. He knelt by Louis.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said as he began to saw at the rope.

“All I want to do is take a piss.”

The rope snapped free. The man stepped back and picked up his rifle. Louis rubbed his wrists and holding his ribs, got to his feet. He walked unsteadily out the open door and unzipped his fly. When he was done, he looked back at the man who had come out to stand on the porch. He was a burly six footer with dark hair, dressed in old jeans and a denim shirt bleached almost to white. He had his rifle tucked under his arm and was looking at the police wallet. When his eyes came up to Louis they were hard.

“Louis Kincaid,” he said, pronouncing his name Lou-ee. “Okay, what’s your story Lou-ee Kincaid.”

Louis pulled in a painful breath and launched into a quick summary of the panther case. When he was finished, the man shook his head and smiled.

“So you figured that some hunters killed your cat and you came out here to bust us, huh?”

“I don’t know what I figured,” he said. “You got some water?”

The man didn’t move. “You know, it was stupid of you to come out here alone,” he said. “I could have shot you.”

“I know,” Louis said, patting his swollen lip. “I should have told Katy I was coming here.”

“Katy? Katy Letka?”

Louis looked up. “Yeah. Do you know her?”

“Yeah, I know Katy.”

Louis stared at the man — he was smiling at the mention of Katy’s name — as his fogged brain trying to make sense of this.

“You’re a friend of Katy’s?” the man asked.

“Yeah.” Louis hesitated. “Are you?”

“Shit, yeah.”

The man’s eyes swept over Louis then he turned and went to his swamp buggy parked under the trees. He returned with a canteen and held it out to Louis.

Louis took it and drank greedily.

“So tell me about these guys who jumped you,” the man said.

“Not much to tell,” Louis said. “Like I said, they were hiding out in the cabin and jumped me when I came in.”

“Someone’s been using our camp,” the man said. “I’ve been coming out here to check every couple days.”

“I don’t think these two are your guys,” Louis said. “They were on the run from something they did over in Fort Lauderdale. They didn’t seem too bright.”

The man nodded. “Whoever’s using my camp has been coming and going for months. We noticed it when we realized some canned food was missing.”

Louis took another drink of water, trying not to gulp. His head was slowly clearing.

“One of my buddies got a glimpse of him once, but couldn’t track him,” the man said.

“What did he look like?”

“Stocky, dark-skinned, long black hair. He just disappeared into the swamp. He seems to know what he’s doing out here. We call him the phantom. The only thing he leaves is cigarette butts.”

“Cigarettes? You know what kind?” Louis asked.

“No, but the butts are probably out in the trash.”

“Can you show me?”

Louis followed the man out to one of the small outbuildings and waited until the man unearthed a heavy black trash bag. Louis opened it, grimaced at the smell, but dug through it until he found a butt.

He squinted, unable to see a brand name on it without his reading glasses. “You see a name?” he asked, holding it out the man.

The guy came took it. “Viceroy.”

Louis let out a painful breath.

“That mean something?” the man asked.

“Maybe. The guy who abducted the panther smokes Viceroys.”

The man tossed the butt back in the trash and secured the lid. “Your ribs broken?” he asked Louis.

“I hope not.”

“Well, we better get you someplace where we can find out.”

Louis nodded and they started toward the swamp buggy. The seat was a good four feet off the ground and when Louis hesitated, holding his side, the man set his rifle in the back and helped Louis up into the seat.