Page 84 of Broken Bayou
Travis finishes in his truck and returns to me, holding a clear plastic bag in his hand.
I push against Eddie, dig my feet into the ground, thrash, and yell, “Stop!” But nothing works. Eddie continues to hold me, and Travis slips the bag over my head. I suck in a wild breath, and the bag sticks to my face. I scream and kick, twist my head from side to side. I see Eddie looking down at me. I keep my eyes on his, pleading. Then I feel one of Eddie’s hands let go of my shoulder, and in the next instant, something about the bag changes. I’m lightheaded, but I can taste it, fresh air. I gasp deeper. Darkness creeps in, and a second before I fall unconscious, I hear Travis say, “Help me in the shed, Eddie. Our little Emily is going to get one more friend after all.”
It’s dark. That’s my first thought. My second thought is I’m moving. A loud truck engine roars around me. My knees are crammed into my chest, and my arms are folded in front of me. Screaming pain runs up my spine. I try to move my arms and can’t. I try to move my legs. They’re stuck as well. And then panic hits. I gasp and choke and feel the plastic bag on my face. Searing, claustrophobic heat surrounds me as I realize where I am. What I’m in. I scream, but the sound dies inside the barrel. I try to push off from the bottom, but my legs are wedged in front of me too closely to move them. Hot, blinding panic washes over me. I’m going to die in here. I have to get out. But the space is so small and cramped that I can’t move my body. My breaths come fast and shallow. My throat constricts. I feel myself losing consciousness.
The next time I open my eyes, everything is still, quiet. I can’t hear the truck anymore. I lean my head back, look up. A sliver of morning light greets me. There’s a crack above my head, between the barrel lip and the lid. It’s not secured. Then I hear voices. Travis and Eddie. Somewhere close by.
“Set her on the levee,” I hear Travis say.
The barrel moves. I hear Eddie grunting as he works it side to side. His strength is uncanny, and I wonder if he had to help Travis with the other barrels as well. I also wonder what part of the bayou we are on. But the answer fills my head quickly: the deepest part.
Adrenaline burns in my veins. I work my right hand slowly, maneuvering my shoulder into a contorted position in order to make space as Eddie continues to move the barrel. My hand wiggles upward, and I reach for the plastic bag on my head, clawing it until I rip it free. I inhale a deep, scalding breath and will myself to stay conscious.
Something metal is perched on my chest. I lower my chin as much as I can to see it. One of Eddie’s dolls and, next to it, a giant bolt. This doll is even less complete than the one in the bedroom. It’s a metal skeleton made of screws and sharp pieces of metal. Sharp enough to cut the plastic bag over my head so I could breathe. Eddie wants to help me.
I raise my eyes to the lid again and an idea starts to form.
“Eddie,” I whisper. My throat is dry, my voice scratchy.
The barrel stops moving. “Eddie,” I say again. “I have something for you.” I see a shadow near the lid. Morning air floods in. I smell my sweat and vomit on the front of my T-shirt, but there’s another smell now. The warm stench of the bayou. “I know you want to help me. I want to help you too.” The lid scrapes open a sliver more. “Good job, Eddie. Good—”
“That’s far enough,” Travis says, and I clamp my mouth shut. He’s right over me. The shadows on the edge of the lid shift. “What the hell? Goddammit, Eddie. You put the lid on wrong.” The lid pops back into place, and I’m plunged into complete darkness. I fight back my scream.“Where’s the bolt?” His voice is muted and sounds like it’s coming to me through a tunnel. The bolt is in here with me.
“What the hell are you doing?” Travis yells.
Something bangs into the side of the barrel with a deafening sound. Then I feel it start to tip, and I can’t hold back my scream. The barrel wobbles, then falls over and slams into the ground with a sickening thud. My shoulder cracks onto the metal side, and an excruciating pain travels down my arm. The breath is knocked out of me as the lid shoots off the top. Then the barrel starts to roll. My head knocks against the side. I bang against the inside as it rolls, and I try to brace myself for what’s coming. When it does, my survival instincts don’t disappoint me.
I hold my breath as I hear a giant splash and warm water floods into the open top. I wriggle my arms free and reach for the opening over my head. My fingers clamp onto the rim, and I pull myself through the opening. The barrel falls away from my body. Then I’m floating, my head above water. I gasp and kick until my bare feet find the mush and muck of the bank, and I stand, dripping wet, my left arm hanging at an odd angle. I wipe water from my face. Another body is on the bank, next to another barrel. Rita. And Eddie is running for me at full speed, toward the edge of the bayou. Behind him, Travis raises his gun.
“Eddie, stop!” I scream as he reaches the edge.
The gunshot cracks through the morning heat, and Eddie’s lumbering body careens into mine and knocks me flat on my back. Winded and struggling to breathe, I push against Eddie’s body. He’s still breathing. I struggle to free myself using one arm. Travis is walking toward us. I’m not going to get out in time. Then I remember what Eddie had in his waistband. What he retrieved after Doyle was shot.
I wedge my hand into Eddie’s waistband and move it across Eddie’s clammy skin until I feel the familiar grip of my handgun. Travis looks down at Eddie’s back with me pressed underneath him. Something flashes across his face, almost like sadness; then it’s gone, and he turns his now glazed and empty eyes on me. The eyes of a sociopath.
“I could have saved you,” he says. His eyes dart back to Eddie. “But they got involved. It’s really too bad. You were a beautiful prop.”
I keep my gaze on him, breathe, as I slowly pry my gun from Eddie’s waistband.
“Travis.”
He raises a single finger to his lips, like his sister in the picture Mabry drew. The sides of his mouth curl into a smile, and I don’t wait for him to speak again. There’s no more time.
I wrestle the gun free and fire. The shot misses. Travis opens his mouth, stunned. I fire off a second round. His shoulder whips back, and he screams. Travis regroups, raises his gun toward me, but I’ve already started to pull the trigger again, and I have no intention of stopping until this gun is empty. My third shot lands square in his chest. He drops his weapon. My fourth hits his stomach. He falls to his knees. I fire until there are no more rounds. My ears ring. Travis is on the ground, not moving.
I lower my shaking arm. Tears slide down my cheeks. I lie there in the bayou sludge, frozen underneath Eddie’s weight, staring into Travis’s dead eyes until I hear sirens approaching. Men are shouting. Someone yells at me to toss my weapon. I toss it. They hoist Eddie off me. Paramedics check my left arm, yell for a stretcher. I lie motionless as the chaos swirls above me, my cheek resting on the bank, my eyes fixated on the brown muddy water of Broken Bayou as it flows past me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Fort Worth, Texas
Six months later
I look through the windshield at the one-story, 1970s-style brick building in front of me. Two flags wave next to it: the American flag and the Texas flag, the Texas flag slightly bigger. Giant towers with satellite dishes affixed to them shoot up into the muddled sky on either side of the building. The KTFW studio is just as I remember. Only, today, I won’t be interviewed by Harper Beaumont. She has graciously stepped aside in order for a guest host to do the honors.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one more time. It’s not as bad as I thought. I actually slept last night. My body has healed since that night in Broken Bayou. My bones are strong again. But my mind still reels. Thankfully, I’ve found a trauma therapist. She’s helping me navigate this new road I’m on. I still have nightmares. I wake up out of breath, pounding my pillow, trying to escape. And I accept this is part of it. Part of the healing.
I glance at the duffel bag and thermos in my back seat. Another part of the healing. As is the box of Legos also on the back seat.
