Keep the Ghost

46. A return to the water

I climb over thick roots, angling for flat ground, never easing my focus. At times I brace against the four wheeler with my good leg, rising half out to balance as the ATV tilts, nose down, engine churning.

It takes until sunrise to reach the trees. Trunks stretch skyward, canopy of leaves forming a hundred foot high dome, this verdant bell enclosing me.

Except it's not a forest, like I hoped. A deep pool of water confronts me, surface silver, dotted with moss and unblossomed lilies. No puddle this time, but real water, deep enough to swallow the all-terrainer. It's not a forest at all; it's the heart of the swamp.

I watch the water. The surface is pristine, save the occasional ripple as fish break the barrier to snatch insects from their space on the plane. Dark roots curl from the muddy banks and into the water, thick pipes the antithesis of their cousins in Port Lavaca. Sucking water out, purifying, growing.

The air is wetter here and my clothes gather tiny droplets of moisture as I roll along. I travel at the edge of the water, keeping it on my right side to navigate. The shape of it can only be a river, but it seems to go nowhere in particular and has no order.

The path is interrupted by a wheel, tire rotting from its rusted rim, wedged between two roots. Next to it, a torn rag. A few signs of mankind, abandoned and worn.

I drive around, forced into a patch of thick mud that splashes on my shoes and jeans, coating my socks and cast.

By midday, I see a structure in the distance. It scares me, at first—I didn't imagine there'd be anything out here. All right angles and paint; shapes unknown to a swamp, things that don't belong. My wheels crunch along as I feather the throttle, creeping as best I can. It's the side of a cabin. A dirt road connects it to a few more.

I drive near the road, land leveling out as I get away from the water. Each of the houses sport a single large letter on one side, and seem empty. Some sort of rental cabins, all the way out here. Can't escape it.

As I scout, staying well away from the path, I see several of the buildings connect directly to the water. These have small boats tied to wooden piers that extend, rickety and crooked, to the river.

I kill the engine, pull the duffel bag from its place on the rack, open it, and take the handgun. This goes into my pocket, heavy metal dragging my shorts half off my hips.

The bags are set down in the soil. With the hiking pole in hand, I rise and move to the pier. My wrist aches with the effort of supporting my frame.

The boat is small, an unpainted aluminum shell with a small outboard motor mounted to the rear. A chain connects it to the pier and a padlock secures the circuit.

A small wooden shed stands a few feet away; I hobble to it. Two black wasps buzz from within when I force open the door; I ignore them and peer inside.

A can of gas rests on the floor and a few garden tools hang from the walls. Something skitters in the corner when the light reaches it.

No key.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I step back and turn to my left. An older man stands, fists clenched, a few feet behind me. He is taller than me, and stout, white beard covering his neck and cheeks.

My reaction is automatic; my hand dives to my pocket and retrieves the gun, which I level at his chest.

"Stand over there," I tell him, motioning with the pistol toward the grass, closer to his house. "I need the key to that boat and then I'll leave you alone."

The man doesn't move. His eyes shoot from my face to my hand, and he stares at the weapon for a second, dumbfounded. Then his eyes travel back to my face, startled mind realizing I am indeed a person, and am indeed pointing a revolver at him.

"Okay," the man says, thick white beard parting to release the words. "Okay, don't do nothing stupid."

"The key," I say, raising the gun from his chest to the center of his head. "Where is it?"

"Whoa, now," he says. "The key's over here, on the boat." He points at the little aluminum frame.

The pier is narrow, and I want to keep distance between us. I hobble to the side, stepping off the pier slowly, hiking pole leading my way.

"You get it," I tell him.

My hostage walks haltingly down the pier, then bends low and places a boot on the boat. It shifts in the water, knocking against the wood. He reaches under the single metal bench and pulls a small key and thin black magnet from its hiding place. When the two are separated he presents the key, held between stubby fingers.

"Walk back across," I say. "Stand over here."

He returns, taking slow steps across the pier. The man sweats, face red, lips moving as he mutters silently. He leans forward, keeping his distance, and drops the key into my hand.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Tom," he answers quickly, attempt at a pleasant inflection warped by the tension in his voice. "What's your name?"

"Don't have one," I say. "Tom, I'm going to take this boat into that water, and I'll be out of your hair forever. Just don't move for a minute."

I step backward, glancing back at the duffel bag, then at my captive. When I reach the bag, I drop the walking stick and lower myself to one knee. I keep the bag's contents out of view as I open the zipper halfway and stick my hand inside.

I don't count, only pinch off a little stack of hundreds. The bills are curled from the humidity, and the paper is soft in my hand, crispness gone.

When the bag is sealed and I'm a few steps closer to him, I speak. "Take this money. This is for getting a gun pointed at you—I know, it sucks. Then I want you to stand over there, about twenty feet away, for a few minutes while I get the boat started. I'll be able to see if you run. Once I'm gone, you can do whatever you want, okay? But it'd make me real happy if you didn't call the cops."

He remains still.

"Come on," I say. "I insist." I stretch out my hand and shake the bills at him.

Tom walks forward slowly, eyes still on the pistol in my hand. He reaches out and takes the money then shuffles back, fingers clutching the little stack of hundreds as he moves. When he's returned to his original position, he turns to face me and nods.

"Okay," he says. "I'll stand here. This good?"

"That's fine. I'm going to put this gun in my pocket so I can move my things. But, the safety is off, and it's ready to go, so don't come running down here."

"I'm not," he says. "I swear."

I stay on the pier while I work the key into the padlock, twisting hard to release its grip. The chain slides out from the steel loop, and each link sings as it runs across the side of the boat to land in a coil inside—a terrible, alien racket against the constant sound of crickets.

The half-full can of gasoline goes in first, followed by my backpack and the duffel bag. I lower myself until I'm sitting on the pier. With my left hand, I lift my bad leg over the boat.

I drop in, hands clutching the sides to balance myself. The craft only wobbles slightly, pitching against the pier and bouncing back. I scoot on hands and feet to the rear of the vessel, and eye the motor. I prime it, then tug the ripcord.

It whines to life, engine sputtering. The twist of a lever pushes me a few feet forward, and I turn the rudder to guide myself deeper into the water.

When I turn back to look, Tom has vanished. I take this as a sign and increase my speed; the nose tilts upward as I propel myself further into the swamp.