Alligator (27 page)

Rye felt for his rifle. He didn't want to shoot unless he had to. If he planned on going after the alligator, he'd better save his bullets. He sighted on the snake just in case and, making as little noise as possible, took one step backward. The snake watched, but didn't move. Rye crept back slowly and carefully, keeping his rifle aimed directly at the snake.

Behind Rye a magnificent tropical tree was silhouetted against the night sky. Its splendid outstretched branches were heavy with purple flowers, and its smooth pale bark almost glowed in the half light. On the ground around the tree was a large circle of black where the grass had been burned away by the poison of its sap. Rye kept backing up; his eyes were on the coral snake, watching carefully for any movement that might mean danger. The drooping branches cast no warning shadows in the twilight. Rye didn't see the tree until he had backed into it.

A branch pierced his arm, and he swung around, startled by the sudden sting of pain. He checked his arm, and was relieved to see it was only a small scratch. He removed a splinter of wood that was caught under his skin, keeping his eyes on the snake. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the image of the tree he had glimpsed when he turned around, and it urged him to look up at the tree again.

"Machineel!" Rye cried out in horror. "My God! Machineel!"

The pain didn't come immediately. At first it was only a prickling sensation on his arm, more like a sunburn than anything else. It began to build slowly. His skin felt slightly warm, then hot; the heat grew in intensity, burning his skin until he felt he was on fire. Searing pain spread out from his wound and crept across his body, pulling the living flesh from his bones.

Rye began to run as if he could get away from the poison that was eating at his body. The howling pain stopped him almost immediately, and he dropped to the ground, being burned alive.

There was a movement in the grass. The coral snake was poising to strike. Rye's arms were trembling, and his vision was blurred; still, he raised his rifle to his shoulder, fighting to keep alert. He aimed carefully. The image kept shifting back and forth, up and down; it was no longer possible to tell what was real. Finally he just squeezed. The snake was blasted up into the air, then fell back to the ground, dead.

The pain was rolling in on Rye in waves, and with it came the thought that he was dying. He wanted to scream out that it was impossible; he was never going to die.

Rye was barely able to control his body any more. Violent tremors ran through his limbs, and his muscles melted under the pain. He could feel the rifle slipping from his fingers. Rye clamped down on it, fighting the agony, and turned on the tree as if he could kill it, too. He pulled and emptied the rifle; then, releasing his will, he gave in to the pain.

Thick clouds completely obscured the moon, leaving the swamps in total blackness. Lee made a torch out of a dried branch so that he could see. Then he began to build a fire. He made a small tepee of branches, shoving the driest pieces of wood to the center. His fingers were trembling as he struck a match. He held it to the kindling, touching the dried needles and twigs with the fire in several places. They cracked and sputtered, but didn't catch. He lit another match and, crouching over the wood, gently blew at the tiny flame, nurturing it until it caught and glowed into fire.

He waited to make sure the fire didn't go out, then walked to the shore and filled a bucket with water. After carefully placing the bucket on the fire, Lee piled extra wood around it, then went back to the skiff for a blanket. He cut the blanket into several strips, throwing the pieces into the heating water. Then he pulled off his shirt and threw it in as well. He checked the fire once more, and picking up another blanket and torch, he headed inland.

The extreme darkness made Lee's progress through the woods difficult, and it took him almost five minutes to reach the place where he had found Rye earlier.

Lee hadn't been out on the water more than an hour before he turned back. He didn't make a conscious decision; just one moment he was poling forward and the next he turned the skiff around and headed in the opposite direction. He hadn't even asked himself why, instinctively knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

By the time Lee got back to Rye's camp, it was completely dark. It took close to an hour to find Rye, and once he did, he had to lose even more time going back to get protection for his hands.

It was close to nine o'clock before Lee stood over Rye and held the lantern up to get a better look.

Rye's condition was very bad, but he was still alive. His body was completely covered with enormous blisters. Huge sheets of his tortured skin hung white and ragged away from his arm where the pustules had broken and the poison had eaten the flesh away. Sweat poured off his face and made it glow an eerie silver in the lamplight.

Working quickly, Lee threw the blanket over Rye and rolled him into it. He gently lifted Rye into his arms and, careful to break as few blisters as possible, carried him back to camp.

By the time Lee got back to the fire, the water was boiling. He laid Rye down, took the strips of blanket from the bucket, and, wrapping his hands in them for protection, tore off Rye's clothes. When he had removed them, he crouched over Rye, using the boiled shirt to carefully wash off the poison. Lee worked very carefully, making sure there wasn't an inch of Rye's body he missed, though he knew it was useless. Rye wouldn't even make it through the night.

Trancas paddled his canoe through the narrow channel and out into the open water. It was early for Trancas to be out, but past investigations of the area had shown a reasonable chance of good pickings, and he had been so anxious to start that he couldn't have slept another minute. So far he had found two pots, one of which wasn't even all that battered, and a rusty car motor.

Trancas couldn't believe the things people threw away, everything from frying pans to automobiles. Somehow this debris of civilization found its way into the backwaters of the swamps and Trancas's waiting hands. It was a sin how wasteful people were, thought Trancas, but their loss was his gain. He had built and furnished his house and completely protected his hummock with what they considered garbage.

When Trancas first came out to the swamps just five steps ahead of the law, he had been at a loss as to how he could hold out for a month. That was thirty years ago, and, except for a few brief forays into people's chicken coops, he had never gone back. He didn't even risk going near a town for supplies any more. He didn't have to. The towns just more or less sent them to him via their garbage.

Even so, his life was constantly in danger. He couldn't even begin to count the number of sheriff's men who had come in looking for him. How they discovered his whereabouts was beyond him, but he made sure he was well protected against sudden attack, and was always waiting for them when they came.

Cackling with pleasure, Trancas paddled his dugout through the morning mist. The dozens of pots and pans, rusty car fenders, bottle caps and beer cans that comprised just a small part of his collection rattled and clanked merrily.

The thick mist that hung everywhere obscured his vision, and it was not until he was close, perilously close, that he spotted the campfire. By then it was too late: The man on shore had seen him and was waving.

Trancas's body went rigid, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. They were all the same, he decided, thinking they could take him in as though he were anybody's fool. Well, he had lasted this long on smarts, and he planned on lasting a whole lot longer. Continuing to pole toward shore, Trancas reached out with his foot and surreptitiously pushed his rifle closer.

Jesus Christ, he thought angrily as he got a better look at Lee, now they were sending kids after him. This one didn't look to be much older than twenty-five or so. The way he was waving and calling out as if he could fool Trancas was close to insulting. Trancas listened carefully to what Lee called, then snorted with derision. The sick-man ploy was the oldest one in the book. Trancas was infuriated. He wasn't sure whether to give that man a lesson he wasn't likely to forget or to finish him off there and then. Or both. Trancas poled toward the hummock, eyeing Lee like an opposing gunfighter, his every move as calculated and as cool as a cucumber.

Lee watched from the shore as the little man came closer. He'd never seen anything like him before. Pickled like a herring, his skin green and dissipated from hookworm, his boat a floating junkyard that clattered and rattled eerily, Trancas loomed out of the swirling morning mist like the nightmare of a man in the final stages of the D.T.'s.

As he drew closer, Lee yelled out to him again, "Got someone who's sick—can you help?"

Trancas expertly navigated his boat into the hummock. Just before he reached shore, he leaped off the boat, pulled his rifle, and screamed, "Don't move, ya son of a bitch! If there's so much as a twitch outta you, I'll blast ya into so many pieces you'll look like birdseed."

"Take it easy, old man," said Lee, holding out his hands to show he wasn't carrying a gun. Lee's voice was calm and his manner assured. He was used to dealing with crazy people, having learned early that there was nothing to do but play along.

"Shuddup!" answered Trancas. "I'm doin' the talkin' around here. All right, up with your hands! Good, now turn around! That's right."

When Trancas saw Lee opening his mouth, he shoved his rifle into his back and screamed, "Shuddup, I said! I don't wanna hear another word outta that foul, lyin' mouth of yours. Get them hands higher! How much they payin' you to hunt me down?"

"Now wait a—"

Trancas shoved his rifle hard into Lee's back. "What's the matter, got cotton in your ears? I told you to shuddup. Killed one man, and I'll kill another. Don't make no difference to me. Name's Trancas. And don't pretend that don't mean nothin' to you. Now, where're the rest of your bloodhounds?"

Trancas looked around cautiously, then screamed, "All right, all of you, come out with your hands up and your mouths shut!" He looked around the campsite, hunched over his rifle, his head weaving from side to side like a moccasin. "Okay, boys, have it your way!"

Trancas backed up slowly. Still keeping his rifle trained on Lee's back, he began kicking aside blankets and supplies, looking for the posse he knew was hiding beneath them. "Y'ain't gonna bring me back alive," he sneered. "There ain't enough men in all of Florida to do that."

Trancas warily backed to the tent, and was about to open the flap when Rye moaned. Like a cat that had turned a corner and come face to face with a giant dog, Trancas jumped into the air, terrified.

"Come outta there or I'll blast your ass clear through your mouth!" he yelled.

Lee was growing impatient. "There's a sick man in there!" he said, and tried to move away from the rifle.

Trancas shoved the barrel even farther into his back. "Easy there, boy," he warned.

"I said the man is sick. He had an accident and needs help."

Trancas mulled this over for a while. Of course it was just another of their tricks, but no one could accuse him of being cruel to an innocent man. "Prove it!"

Lee started toward the tent. "All right," Trancas screamed, "just stop where you are!"

"How the hell can I show you, if I can't move?"

Trancas pondered this for a moment. "Okay. Okay. But one false move outta you and..."

Lee threw open the flap of the tent and stepped back. Trancas kept his rifle trained on Lee while he peeked in. He could see Rye's enormous body lying in the sleeping bag. His livid face was covered with sweat, and his lips chattered violently. He did indeed look like a sick man, but Trancas had to be cautious. "How do I know that ain't just paint?" he asked weakly, realizing that Lee was telling the truth. Trancas walked away from the tent and slumped on a log. "So you ain't the law." He sounded crushed.

"You live some place around here?" Lee asked impatiently. Trancas waved the question away and stared out into space, crestfallen. "A place. A home. I gotta get this man out of the open or he'll die."

Suspicion returned to Trancas's face. His eyes narrowed. "I'll take you there on one condition. You have to be blindfolded."

"For Christ's—"

"That's right," said Trancas, proud of his caginess, "blindfolded. Both you and your partner."

"How the hell do you expect him to see anything? He's half dead."

"A man in my position can't be too careful," said Trancas. He cocked his rifle with a finality that ended further discussion.

The mist had disappeared, and the sun was beating down full force. Trancas had been snaking his canoe through the winding byways of the swamp for close to an hour, jabbering endlessly about his collection of junk. Lee was sitting in the bow, blindfolded; Rye lay between them on the floor.

Suddenly Trancas fell silent, and Lee felt the canoe swing in toward shore. "Can I take off my blindfold?" asked Lee.

"Sshh!" Trancas's voice was urgent. He looked around wildly, as if a bounty hunter lurked behind every bush, a posse behind every tree. "What are ya tryin' to do, git me killed?" When he was reasonably assured that no one had heard them, he paddled into shore.

Lee whispered angrily, "Will you let me take it off? I can't lug two hundred pounds of dead weight through the woods blindfolded."

"Ya should have thought of that before ya come out here!" Trancas returned.

Tensing his muscles in case he had to make a leap at Trancas's gun, Lee pulled off his blindfold. Trancas didn't even seem to notice. He looked around one more time, then slipped out of the canoe. Stealthily, he crept along the shoreline, poking his rifle into patches of grass and clumps of bushes, until he was finally satisfied his security hadn't been breached. "All clear!" he yelled.

Lee heaved Rye over his shoulder, then followed Trancas down a tortuous path through the underbrush. All along the way the treasures of a lifetime were stacked, heaped, scattered, and piled: one hundred tin Lucky Strike boxes, the drum of an old still, oxidized almost beyond recognition, a pair of black silk shoes with red cloth roses on the toes, the left side of a Persian lamb coat, enough parts to build fifteen cars of eclectic make, three moldering refrigerators, a bulldozer, one hundred and five Mason canning jars, two washing machines, stacks of magazines (the most recent on top, and dated December 28, 1932), ten pairs of men's overalls, sizes forty-two through fifty, one rubber wet suit and snorkle, the cheek piece of a long rifle, a Buehler "Little Blue Peep" auxiliary sight, two Redfield International Military Big Bores, two Hawaiian short-sleeved shirts, an ashtray from the Miami Hilton, a gas-powered lawn mower minus the motor, a spirit heater, litigation in the case of
Pasternak
v.
Pasternak
, fifteen mismatched men's socks, a roll of cerulean-blue wallpaper, one chipped toilet and sink, a bathtub missing its right front leg, three pairs of ladies' panties commemorating Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and a B&O boxcar circa 1937.