Except, he does believe it. There’s acceptance in his eyes.
Unfortunately, there’s also determination. The truth hasn’t made the slightest difference. He’s still resolved to put an end to us.
I try one more time to change his mind. To save him.
“I want you to know neither of us ever wished Dean harm,” I say calmly, “even after the way he treated us. And that night, I did everything I could to help him.”
The memory of Dean Sullivan’s last moments has, time and again, appeared in my path like a piece of broken glass. When it does, it stabs into the bottom of my foot, leaving me sick with pain and regret.
The same two questions always plague me.
If I’d shouted instead of standing in mute horror when I saw the alligator lunge, would it have given Dean enough time to escape its gaping jaws? Is there something more I could’ve done once the beast grabbed him?
When the reptile shot out of the water like a rocket-fueled missile, I thought I was hallucinating. It was the biggest damn gator I’d ever seen. At least fifteen feet and weighing what had to be three-quarters of a ton. A wily old swamp monster if ever there was one.
Maybe it’d been lured to the water’s edge by the commotion. Maybe it’d been the smell of Dean’s blood that drew it in. Or maybe it’d simply been bad luck. The wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong Louisiana yard dog waiting to pounce.
Regardless of how it happened or why, when it clamped down on Dean’s thigh, the force of its bite nearly severed Dean’s leg. Blood spurted. Flesh tore. In my nightmares, I can still hear the awful sound of Dean’s choked whimper, and I’ve often wondered why he didn’t scream his head off.
Maybe he was in too much shock? Maybe the pain had paralyzed his vocal chords? That’s all I can figure.
I ran for him, grabbing his outstretched hands and pulling with everything I had. But the soles of my rented patent leather shoes were slick. Getting traction was impossible. Falling backward, my hands slipping out of Dean’s desperate grip, I hit the spongy ground with enough force to bruise my tailbone. (I couldn’t sit right for weeks afterward.)
Scrambling to my hands and knees, I looked up to find terror, and the awful inevitability of the situation, written all over Dean’s face. In that moment, he wasn’t the dickhead jock who called me names, or the soulless rapist of teenage girls. He was a boy who knew this was the end of the line.
The giant wasted no time dragging him into the water. Dean fought the entire way, his hands ripping up roots and soil and vegetation. I ran after him, aiming to get a hand on him again. But I wasn’t fast enough. And Dean, for all his hulking football bulk, wasn’t strong enough.
Soon, boy and beast were in the swamp, getting farther and farther away from me with each passing second. I didn’t stop even when the water was up to my waist and I was in danger of being grabbed by another gator or bitten by a water moccasin. I didn’t stop until I was chin-deep and didn’t dare go a fraction farther.
Look away!my mind screamed. And oh, how I wanted to. But I couldn’t let Dean face his gruesome fate alone.
I never broke eye contact with him. Not once. So I saw the instant the reptile’s big body tensed. And knowing what would come next had stomach acid burning the back of my throat.
When the gator barrel-rolled, the night came alive with the awful sound of massive amounts of water being displaced. Great plumes of tea-colored liquid arced into the air, catching the light of the moon and sparkling like strings of diamonds.
Over and over again. Roll, roll, roll. So fast it was a blur. And with each passing second, the circle of blood floating atop the water grew like an oil slick. Until, eventually, the monster stopped.
Where there had been motion and chaos, stillness reigned. And Dean? Well, he was as quiet as the grave.
For good reason. He’d gone to his.
Scrambling backward out of the water, I crab-walked up on the bank, shivering despite the warmth of the night. Sitting there in the mud, all I could hear was the raggedness of my own breaths and the rapidchug-chug-chugof the runaway freight train that was my heart.
As quickly as it’d arrived on the scene, the alligator sank beneath the surface of the swamp, dragging Dean’s lifeless body with it. I knew it would tuck Dean beneath a submerged log, letting the water go to work on Dean’s flesh, making it tender enough to tear off in great, meaty chunks.
Closing my eyes, I tried not to envision it. But the images assailed me nonetheless. By the time I opened them again, I had to put a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
I have no idea how long I stayed there, watching the eddies atop the water expand and swirl. Time seemed to have no meaning. (I know now I was in shock.) But eventually I managed to drag myself to my feet and set about using a big, dead branch to obscure our footprints.
All I was able to think was,No one will believe me about what happened here. George Sullivan will go after Maggie May like he did that girl from St. Bernard Parish. I gotta save her.
Fat lot of good that did me, though. Here we are, ten years later. Still faced with George Sullivan’s wrath.
“Even if what you say is true,” he says now, “that doesn’t change the fact that Dean wouldn’t have been in that swamp if it weren’t for you two. Maybe you didn’t kill him outright, but you’re still the reason he’s dead. And I aim to get justice for my boy, right here and now.”
Here it is. The moment I hoped to avoid. The moment I hoped the truth could prevent.
I give it one last-ditch effort. “There’s a fine line between justice and vengeance, George.” I purposefully use his first name, making what I’m saying more personal. “If you do this, you’ll cross it.”
