Dead in the Water (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 4) (20 page)

Cal sank into the swamp. He held his breath as he kicked around to locate the bottom. In a matter of seconds, he felt another big splash next to him. He figured it was Potter. The additional person struggling in the water created a sensation of turbulence. Cal found his footing and tried to stand upright. Though Cal couldn’t see anything, he suspected he was just tall enough to keep his mouth and nose above the waterline, though with Potter splashing about next to him, he couldn’t be certain.

As Cal bobbed up and down, he tried to make it out of the water. He heard Johnson and Sanders shouting about something, but he didn’t know what. Then as he sensed the bottom begin to slope upward, Cal couldn’t move. He felt more searing pain as something sharp clamped onto his leg and pulled him back toward the water.

Gators!

CHAPTER 37

JIM GATLIN TAPPED HIS PENCIL on his desk and checked his watch.
Why haven’t I heard from Cal? Weren’t my instructions to call me clear enough?
If Gatlin were a coach, he’d be considered a player’s coach, someone who is friendly with his staff and treats them like equals. It was times like these that he regretted having such a chummy disposition. They always felt like they could walk all over him.

One of the staff sportswriters walked into Gatlin’s office. “Everything OK in here, chief?”

Gatlin grumbled and shooed the reporter away. Then he flung some papers across the room and let out a string of expletives. “Why can’t anyone do what I tell them to do?” he yelled.

He picked up his cell phone and began dialing Cal’s number. “I’m going to teach that insubordinate punk a lesson,” he muttered to himself as Cal’s phone began to ring.

Five rings and no answer. The call went to voicemail.

He ended the call without leaving a message.

“Ahhhh!” he said.

He picked his phone back up and dialed Kelly to see if she’d heard from her husband.

“Hello?” Kelly answered.

“Kelly. Gatlin here. I’m looking for Cal. Have you heard from him?”

“No, I haven’t. I spoke with him about an hour ago and told him he better get home quick. Why? Is something the matter?”

“Yeah, I’m pissed. He was supposed to call me once he got on the road and I haven’t heard from him and can’t get him on the phone.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have cell coverage. He’s in the bayou, you know.”

“Don’t remind me. But if you hear from him, you tell him to give me a call right away.”

“Will do. And can you do the same for me?”

“Sure thing.” Gatlin hung up and banged his fists on his desk.
I’m gonna kill him—after I fire him!

CHAPTER 38

FRANK JOHNSON SLIPPED THE FLASK out of his pants pockets and took a swig as he watched Cal and Potter squirm for their lives while the half-dozen alligators closed in on their prey. His first venture into corporal punishment and torture invigorated him. His stomach usually churned over such blood sport, but not tonight. Tonight was about maintaining honor for his favorite college football team.

“You’re aren’t going to just leave them there are you?” Sanders asked. “I’m sure they’re convinced you’re crazy enough to come after them now.”

A smug grin spread across Johnson’s face. “If I pull them out now, they’ll think I’m weak.”

“Come on, Frank. This is crazy. I didn’t think you’d kill anybody over this.”

“You mean you wouldn’t do the same thing for Alabama if the roles were reversed?”

“Alabama would never pay players to shave points, so I can’t fathom your hypothetical question.”

Johnson seethed over Sanders’ comment. “Oh, pardon me, the great and mighty Alabama never would do anything like this. They’re so perfect and holy and all that is right in college football. We must all bow down and kiss Bear Bryant’s houndstooth hat. All hail the perfect angels from Tuscaloosa.”

“Now, calm down. I never said anything like that,” Sanders said. “I’m just sayin’ that Alabama doesn’t need to shave points to pay players.”

“So, they do pay players? You probably give them all free cars, don’t ya?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Johnson ambled toward Sanders and poked him in the chest with his index finger. “You’re not denying it.”

“Back off, Frank. And get those guys out of there before they get hurt.”

The splashing and struggling in the water intensified. Johnson shined the flashlight onto the water and counted the alligator eyes. He could only see five sets of eyes—and one body.

“Where’s Cal Murphy?” Sanders asked.

“I don’t know,” Johnson replied.

“Gimme that.” Sanders snatched the flashlight from Johnson’s hands and began to comb the water with the light in search of Cal. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

The thrashing died down for a moment before a big splash scattered water everywhere. Cal emerged from the water and let out a scream. “Somebody help me!”

Johnson remained unconcerned with the events playing out before him in the water. But when he heard a door slam behind him, he grew very concerned. He spun around to see a dark figure walking toward him. Johnson fumbled with his light until he trained it on the man.

“What are you fellas doing out here?” the man asked.

It was Sheriff Mouton.

***

Cal couldn’t shake the alligator off his leg. He came up for air and wasted it on a cry for help through the drenched sack before the alligator yanked him back into the water. With the water saturating the loosely fitting tape on his hands, Cal broke them free. He instinctively ripped the bag off his head and then shoved on the alligator’s snout to loosen his grip. It didn’t work.

Think, Cal. Think.

It wasn’t easy to think of anything creative in the moment. Primal fear dominated his thoughts. Hope began to fade as he winced from the pain in his leg, which he was all but certain was now broken.

How can I inflict the most pain to make this beast stop?

As Cal wrestled, he thought. He had nothing to smack the alligator on the snout, something he’d seen once on the Discovery channel. He couldn’t punch him underwater hard enough to induce him to let go. Then it hit him.

The eyes!

Desperate to take another breath, Cal focused all his energies on reaching near his foot to feel the alligator’s snout until he reached its eyes. He then jammed his thumbs into the alligator’s eyes. Immediately, the alligator released him.

Cal frantically swam toward the small shoreline. He glanced behind him to see another alligator trailing him. Cal beat the water with every ounce of strength he had left. He had to rely on his arms as his legs were worthless when it came to creating propulsion through the water. Though the alligator had only dragged him about thirty feet from land, Cal thought he’d never reach it. He feared the alligator would grab him again at any moment.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Cal reached the land and scrambled to his feet, hopping and stumbling toward higher ground. He clambered into the bed of Sanders’ truck and turned around to look at the scene by the water’s edge. Cal watched the alligator twist in the water after getting shot.

Sheriff Mouton trained his rifle on the water as Sanders waved a flashlight back and forth. Cal only counted five alligators, which seemed to be still for the moment. He noticed Potter had also escaped the water with no apparent injuries.

With everyone content that the alligators weren’t coming ashore, Sheriff Mouton turned to face Cal.

“Somebody better start talkin’—and fast,” Sheriff Mouton said as he waved his flashlight at the group.

Sanders chimed in first. Cal surmised it was in an effort to create the initial picture Sheriff Mouton would have and somehow help him avoid any accusations of wrongdoing. Cal was going to make sure that story didn’t stick.

“Cal and I came out here to make a little transaction with Frank over some information he wanted,” Sanders said. “Then Frank got a little erratic and tied these fellas up and tried to feed them to the alligators. He threatened to do the same to me if I didn’t help him.”

“Is that true, Frank?” Sheriff Mouton asked.

Johnson shielded his eyes from the glare of Sheriff Mouton’s flashlight. “Not exactly. We threw them into the water, but it was Sanders who forced me to help him.”

“That’s a lie and you know it!” Sanders shouted.

The interrogation erupted into a free-for-all shouting match between Sanders and Johnson. Potter jumped in and began yelling at both of them with his own interpretation of the evening’s events.

Sheriff Mouton squelched the argument by firing his rifle into the air. “Silence! I’ve had enough of these shenanigans for tonight. You’re all coming back to the sheriff’s office with me and we’re gonna sort this out.”

“Like hell I am,” Johnson said as he started running.

Sheriff Mouton started cursing and fired a warning shot into the air. It didn’t make Johnson pause. He tore through the woods like he was sprinting for the end zone.

“Go get in the truck,” Sheriff Mouton said to the remaining men. “There are some blankets in there to dry yourselves off with and a first aid kit to dress that wound. Sanders, Potter—one of you fix up Cal. I’ll be back soon. This shouldn’t take long.”

CHAPTER 39

FRANK JOHNSON SWIPED at his face with the back of his hand. The sweat beading up and rolling into his eyes burned. So did his chest as he panted for breath.

They think can pin this on me. I’m not going to jail because of some Alabama lowlife’s lies.

He’d almost convinced himself that the tale he’d spun for Sheriff Mouton was true. He would never try to feed two men to a pack of hungry alligators. Not him. That was what Alabama fans did. They poisoned trees. They desecrated stadiums. They shot each other when they weren’t angry enough about losing to a rival. But that wasn’t him.

He stopped to catch his breath and listen for anyone following him. The faint crunches of leaves and snapping of twigs echoed through the woods. He had to keep running.

After several minutes, he stumbled across one of the dirt roads that wound through the bayou and to some of the better fishing spots in the area. But he couldn’t stay there long. Sheriff Mouton would surely apprehend him if he stayed in the open. He dashed across the road and kept running through the woods, using the road as a guide. If he recalled correctly, Johnson suspected he would come to a main road soon.

As Johnson ran, he reflected on how he got to this point, running through the woods in the middle of the night like a criminal.
Just stop and turn around. Everything will be all right.
Johnson’s conscience nagged at him, but it couldn’t overpower the feeling that he was being lied to. The truth was he was going to jail unless he could get back to the main road, find a way to his jet and escape. Just fly to Mexico and blend in. Sell the airplane and live off the cash for a while. Or fly farther south after a few days and vanish for good. Those decisions weighed on his mind, but they could wait. He needed to get to the airfield first.

Several minutes later with his hunch proven right, Johnson staggered onto the main highway. Rain started to fall again, creating a slick film on the road’s surface. It wouldn’t be long before someone came along.

***

Gertie sat in her car and counted her tips before turning her car’s ignition. Eight dollars in tips. Between the football game and the threat of another storm, Café Lagniappe spent more money on keeping coffee warm than it made. She sighed as she turned on her windshield wipers and put her car in reverse.

As she eased down the road, her mind drifted toward Lanette Baker. No matter how bad things had been for Gertie lately, she didn’t have to endure the heartbreak Lanette had. Yet in some ways she envied Lanette. She wouldn’t mind packing up and just moving out of town. Maybe things would be different if she could start over with a fresh slate. But there was something about the bayou. It gripped her soul in strange ways. Her desire to leave clashed with her desire to stay. And no matter how long she pondered, dreamed and thought about leaving, she always stayed. Leaving the bayou meant missing out on the unexpected. She thought about her paltry tip haul and let her mind churn over the idea of leaving before she would ultimately decide against it. It was a futile exercise, but one she often embarked upon. But this time it came to a halt with the screeching sound of her brakes.

Gertie’s wipers worked furiously to clear the rain off her windshield, but it was plain to her what stood in the roadway ahead: a man waving a gun. It was Frank Johnson.

***

Out of breath, Sheriff Mouton arrived back at Devil’s Point several minutes later.

“I lost him,” he said as he climbed into his truck. He turned the ignition and the engine roared to life.

“What happened?” Cal asked. He fidgeted with the dress

“I followed him out to the road but before I could catch him, he flagged a driver down and was gone.” Sheriff Mouton stomped on the gas.

Sanders leaned forward from his backseat position in the cab. “I know where he’s going. You’ve gotta hurry.”

“Yeah, there’s only way he could escape the bayou—and that’s by air,” Sheriff Mouton said. “If he thinks I’m going to let him just fly outta here like that, I know tree stumps with higher IQs than him.”

Sheriff Mouton turned onto the main road and stomped on the gas. Cal reached over and buckled his seat belt.

“First time on a bayou manhunt?” Sheriff Mouton asked.

“What gave it away?” Cal said.

“Relax, son. This is my specialty. It makes me happier than a tornado in a trailer park. We’re gonna nail this bastard, just you wait.”

CHAPTER 40

GERTIE TRIED TO KEEP her eyes on the road instead of the gun Frank Johnson aimed at her. If only she’d left town ahead of the storm. She needed every dime she could scrounge up, but her tips tonight weren’t worth this. No amount was.

“Why are your hands shaking so much?” Johnson asked. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”