Alligator (24 page)

Lee clawed his nails into the rock, but it was only temporary; he knew he couldn't hold much longer. Something moved in front of him. It seemed like a hand reaching out for him. He watched with a horrible fascination, unsure whether the hand was real or he had blacked out. As the hand came closer, Lee thought he heard a voice, urging him to grab hold. He wondered if it was the wind. When he heard the voice again, his instincts took over, and he let go of the rock to clasp the hand. It was Maurice's hand that reached for him and wrenched him back up onto the land.

Dawn broke over the hummock in innocent shafts of light, sparkling off the millions of droplets that clung to the trees and grass. The domed sky was a clear ice-blue, arched by a surreal rainbow. The morning was so calm and gentle, the sky so transparent and clear, it seemed impossible that there had ever been a storm.

But beneath the sky, the hummock lay in ruins. Only skeletons of trees remained. The shattered branches, stripped of their leaves, picked clean of their bark, reached up to the sky with bony fingers. Shredded clothes and blankets flapped ghostly from the broken limbs. Underwear and shirts did scarecrow dances, while bandages wrapped and unwrapped in the breeze like leftover streamers on New Year's Day. The body of a wild boar, its head split open, its entrails exposed, was pinned atop a cypress, making a barbarous totem pole. Beneath the cypress was the body of Sam, still speared to the ground. He looked stiff and unreal, half lying, half sitting on the ground, grinning ghoulishly up at the sky.

The shoreline was clogged with wreckage. Splintered boards, parts of motors, canned food, supplies were jammed up in the tangle of branches and roots that floated in the shallows. Maps lay in wet clumps at the shore. The Saurian, its hull shattered, its powerful propeller bent and twisted, lay just offshore, still trapped under the cypress.

Lee pulled himself out of the water and onto the deck of the Saurian. One look told him that the airboat was useless, and he gathered up the few supplies he could salvage. Beyond an axe, three rifles, and a knife, there was very little. He picked up a dented can of peaches and realized he was hungry. He searched in vain for a can opener. Finally he threw the can into the water and sat on the pilot's seat.

On the hummock he could see Maurice digging a grave for Sam. When Maurice had asked the rest of the men for help, they had laughed. Instead, they had begun circling the island, searching for what was left of their supplies. They moved slowly and painfully through the wreckage, like old men picking through garbage. Even worse than the huge welts and bruises that covered their bodies were the scars Lee had read in their eyes. They were glazed, zombielike eyes that no longer cared. Lee felt sick at the sight of the men revolving around the hummock, and turned away to continue his search of the Saurian.

Rye was at the shore, looking for his rifle, when he thought he saw something flash in the water. He ran closer, but it was only part of a skiff. Ever since dawn, he had been watching the water, looking for a shadow under the surface, a flickering in the weeds, something that would tell him that the alligator was nearby. He knew he was there; he could feel his presence. He'd laughed at Lee when he said the alligator was waiting for them, but now he was beginning to believe that might be true. All night long, while the storm raged around him, Rye had thought about the alligator, the intricacy of his den, and the way it was hidden in the canal. An animal that could do that had to be damn cagey. By morning, he was sure of it.

Rye began walking along the shoreline. He hadn't been walking more than a minute when he saw a huge swath cut through the sawgrass. He bent down and inspected it. Perhaps it was the wind that had cut into the grass; perhaps water had rushed across it during the storm. Almost anything could have done that, but he knew it was the alligator.

Rye shouted to the rest of the men, "I found a trail! He's been here!"

Nobody answered. Nobody even looked up. The men continued revolving around the island, sifting through the wreckage. For a moment, Maurice looked up from Sam's grave, but he returned to digging. It was more important.

Rye ran back toward the men. "What's the matter with you all!" he yelled. "Didn't you hear me? I said he was here!"

Finally Marris looked up. "He ain't worth it, Rye," he said. His voice was flat and expressionless.

Ben nodded in agreement. "Two men gone. God knows how many more if we go on."

"What the hell do you know about what's worth it." Rye cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled out to Lee, "Get that damn boat ready and let's go! I found the trail!"

Lee climbed off the Saurian and waded back to shore. Rye was waiting for him; his legs were slightly apart and his jaw was tense. He knew he was about to get an argument.

"We ain't goin' nowhere in that," Lee said, just barely keeping his anger under control.

"Then we'll take one of the skiffs," answered Rye.

"Only place we're takin' a skiff is back to Everglades City." Even the smell of Rye was making Lee's stomach convulse with anger.

All along the hummock the men were beginning to look up. It was the first interest they had shown in anything all morning. Even Marris drew closer so he could hear.

"I ain't goin' back," Rye said loudly.

"Suit yourself." Lee shrugged and began to walk away, though he knew they were far from being finished with each other. Rye called after him. "And neither are you."

Lee stopped. The need to confront Rye was even greater than his need to get away. "I wouldn't put no money on that," he said. He could feel his control starting to crack. He tried to hold on to it. When he and Rye had it out, it wouldn't be like this; the two of them would be alone.

Lee drew very close to Rye and hissed, "You can stay out here and die for all I care. Only sorry I won't be there to see it. Look around. That's your work. I'm goin' back with the rest. You killed enough people for today."

The men closed in around Rye and Lee as if they were spectators at a boxing match. The only difference was they were silent and their eyes were still glazed over with indifference. It made Lee want to get sick; he had seen people who looked like that before, in Viet Nam.

"You're not going anywhere," snarled Rye. "You're stickin' here with me." He knew if he could bait Lee, he could get him to stay. He couldn't bind a man like Lee to him by money, but he could by anger. "You promised to carry me and bring me back alive, not like that other client of yours. If you leave me out here, you'll be killin' me sure as you put a gun to my head. Let all these others be a witness to it."

Lee began to laugh, and when he saw the confusion on Rye's face, it made him laugh even harder. He wanted to unsettle Rye, to prod him toward understanding who was really in control. He wanted to watch as Rye slowly began to feel fear. Finally, he said, "You don't understand it at all, Mr. Whitman. You don't understand it at all. If I stay out here, it'll be for another reason entirely."

"And that's that?" Rye watched Lee closely, wondering how much he knew, and for the first time not sure how much there was to know.

"Well now," said Lee, "I'll just let you think on it yourself for a while. See what you come up with. Yes, sir, that's what I'll do. As for goin' out on the hunt, be ready to leave in an hour." Lee paused for a moment. Rye was off balance, and Lee enjoyed watching it more than he had enjoyed anything in the past three days. "There's one thing you are right about," he said, as he turned and began to walk through the circle of men. "That trail, it was the alligator."

Only six skiffs could be salvaged out of the ten, and less than half the supplies. Thompson had taken over and organized the men. They had quickly divided the supplies and boats; fifteen minutes later, they were gone.

Rye could still see the last two skiffs disappearing into the horizon as he sat on the shore. Lee was only fifty feet away, patching up a skiff as best he could. Rye couldn't see Maurice, but he was somewhere farther in on the hummock, making one last check for undamaged supplies.

Ever since Rye had talked to Lee, a disturbing thought had been eating at him. He was surprised it had never occurred to him before.

The implications of his having "known" Lizbeth hadn't really penetrated into his consciousness. It had not been a particularly significant event at the time, and he hadn't thought much about it afterward. She'd been rich and therefore something of a victory; she'd been pretty, which made it pleasant; but beyond that she was only one of a long list.

Thinking back from the distance of almost thirty years, he could remember very little about the whole thing. He remembered she told him she was a virgin, as if she were bestowing some great gift on him, and also an obligation. He remembered not believing her at the time, and not particularly caring much either way.

Shortly thereafter, he had left town. He vaguely recollected hearing she had to get married and that she was still carrying a torch for him. He remembered thinking at the time how strange it was that a person could make a lasting impression on someone else while hardly knowing they existed.

Rye hadn't thought about Lizbeth again until the day he came to Everglades and someone said Lee was her son. It certainly hadn't occurred to Rye that he might be the father, though all the clues had been there. Rye didn't think of the act of sex as having consequences; it seemed complete in itself.

But what if it were true? Or if Lee believed it were true? All along he'd felt that Lee had some special grievance against him, and it never made sense that this was simply because he'd screwed Lizbeth. After all, the kid didn't come from outer space; he probably did some good fucking around himself.

But the other thing. Yes, sir, he knew about being a bastard himself; it could mean a great deal to a man. There was something so demeaning about starting out in the back seat of a Ford. The world could treat you like a fool and a beggar and you could take that, but you had to believe that your conception at least wasn't just an accident. Your beginnings needed to have significance, even if the rest of your life didn't.

Rye watched Lee packing up the skiff and tried to see if he felt any differently toward him. He decided that he didn't. Even if he were Lee's father, it was merely a trick of nature. He felt no responsibility toward him. Of course, a man like Lee wouldn't see it that way. He would figure that it linked them and put them under an obligation to each other. And to Lee, that thought would be repellent.

It suddenly occurred to Rye that Lee might have brought him out in the swamps to kill him. Now that there would only be Maurice around, he wouldn't have to worry about witnesses. Well, if that was the way Lee wanted to play it, he'd play it that way too. He'd just keep his eyes open. He knew a lot about handling a gun, and while he'd never shot a man yet, he could if he had to.

Maurice felt edgy. The three men had left the hummock at midday, and since then none of them had said a word that wasn't entirely necessary. As he looked out at the setting sun and the alligator trail that stretched toward it like a huge runway, he could feel potential disaster hanging over the skiff as thick as the air. The swamp seemed to echo it, with its vast emptiness spreading out all around them. Maurice could see Rye and Lee wading through the water along the trail, checking to make sure the alligator hadn't doubled back on himself. They walked several feet from each other, with their eyes ahead, but they both had rifles, and they held them with a deliberate casualness.

When they had been a large hunting party, the desolateness of the swamps had had less of an impact. The group had, by its very numbers, brought civilization with them. There was always the roar of the motors, the jokes, the drinking, the card playing, the two-way radios, and the stories of home. But now, with only three men, and the silence of hatred on two of them, any joy in the adventure was gone. It had been smashed by the storm as surely as the bottles of liquor and the tanks of gasoline.

Yet, at the same time, Maurice felt good. He knew he had saved Lee's life, and he'd risked his own to do it.

Maurice had never felt so divided in his feelings before. He'd seen two men die, one of whom he'd known for ten years. He'd probably spent more time with John than he had with his wife. He may not have liked John, but he knew him well, and his death left a large gap.

It seemed impossible to Maurice that he had survived. He'd never thought of himself as a survivor before. If he'd gotten through some rough scrapes, it was always due to the intervention of others. All his life he'd avoided things with any degree of risk, knowing that when put to the test he'd be sure to fall short. Ever since he could remember, he'd been told he was a loser, and he'd accepted the assessment as a fair one. He'd closed himself off from his wife, knowing that if she hadn't come to that judgment yet, she would soon enough.

Only one man, Maurice's Uncle Stan, had shown any belief in him at all. It was many years ago, and it lasted for only a week.

Lying back in the skiff, the cooling shadows of dusk falling all around him, Maurice began to think about his Uncle Stan.

Maurice remembered him as a burly, red-faced man with a fat, puttylike nose with pores the size of potholes. Though he had a perfectly respectable job as a typesetter in the outskirts of Chicago, Uncle Stan was considered the black sheep of the family. For one thing, he was a bachelor, and he combed his hair over his bald spot. He always drank a bit too much and laughed a little too loud, serious infractions of the rules according to Maurice's family.

When Maurice was ten, his uncle made one of his rare visits. He must have quickly assessed the situation, because the next morning, in a last-ditch attempt to save the boy, he proposed taking him on a two-week fishing trip to Canada.

Maurice had lasted only one week. From the moment the train pulled out of the station, over the hills of Virginia, across the plains of Illinois, through the forests of Minnesota and the grain fields of Manitoba, Maurice cried for his parents. Neither the pine trees, nor the Indians, nor the freshly caught walleyes deep-fried in lard, could console him.