Read Online Black Water Rising by Attica Locke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Attica Locke
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moving by a thin stream of moonlight through the clouds, Jay tries to feel his way. His ankle turns on a piece of uneven earth and gravity seems to grab him whole. He slips feet-first down the embankment. He quickly reaches for the nearest tree branch, but it breaks off in his hand, causing him to slip again on the soft earth. He manages to turn onto his stomach as he hits the ground, clawing the dirt to keep from sliding all the way to the black bottom. He can hear the bayou whispering softly, kissing the sides of the bank below him. He remembers the sound of her falling, rolling into the water.
If you didn’t know it was here, Jay thinks.
How easy it would be to make a mistake, a wrong turn.
He thinks of her. The screams, the gunshots. The confusion. A man dead, and her out here alone. Someone passes by, and afraid, she hides.
Just like he’s doing now.
Jay reaches for another branch, clinging tightly. He looks through the tangle of trees, checking for the car on the street. Its taillights are already fading in the distance. The car is back on its course, up Clinton Road and far away from Jay. He doesn’t know if the driver saw him, doesn’t know who it was or if they’re coming back, but he’s not waiting around to find out. He wants to get back to his car, to the main road, to the freeway and home. Fingernails digging in the dirt, Jay drags himself through the choke of weeds, moving an inch at a time.
He hears something above him, some movement in the brush. For a tense moment, he fears a run-in with a bayou rat or a rac coon. Then he hears footsteps crunching dead leaves and twigs and knows he’s not out here alone.
“I help you with something?”
It’s a man’s voice, no doubt about that.
Jay has no idea where he came from... or how long he’s been watching.
Caught, Jay crawls through the brush, slowly, pulling himself out of the grass like a snake. He’s lost one of his shoes, and his sock, soiled up to the ankle, is coming off at the heel. He scram bles to his feet, brushing dirt off his pants and what was once a clean shirt. The man, Jay sees, is older than he is, in his six ties maybe, and smaller, more compact. He’s black, in coveralls smudged with motor oil and grass stains and cut at the sleeves. He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He stares at Jay, his filthy clothes and missing shoe.
Jay opens his mouth to speak, faster than he can think of some reasonable explanation to come out of it. He stands in the dirt, mute and slick with sweat.
“You ain’t supposed to be back here, you know,” the man says.
Jay thinks of making a run for his car, but doesn’t want to make himself look any more suspicious than he already does. The man in the coveralls rocks back on his bowlegs, digging his heels in the dirt. He slides the cigarette from behind his ear and uses the head of the filter to pick something from between his two front teeth. He stares at Jay, eyeing his clothes, studying his every little move, trying to settle something in his mind.
“You a reporter or something?” he asks bluntly.
Jay is on the verge of correcting him, but stops when he catches the fleeting glint in the man’s eyes, the flash of perverse excite ment. For the first time, Jay notices a wheelbarrow parked by the chain-link fence, a shovel sticking out of it. He takes another look at the man’s coveralls, coated in grass stains.
The groundskeeper, Jay remembers, the one from the paper.
And according to the news article, the one who found the body.
“Can I get one of those?” Jay asks, motioning to the pack of Carltons peeking from the man’s front pocket. He’s stalling, of course, trying to buy himself some time, a moment to get his head around this. He wonders what the old man knows.
The groundskeeper purses his lips, upset that he’s being held to answer to some unspoken code, between black men or smok ers or both. He reaches into his coveralls and taps out a crumpled cigarette for Jay,
If you didn’t know it was here, Jay thinks.
How easy it would be to make a mistake, a wrong turn.
He thinks of her. The screams, the gunshots. The confusion. A man dead, and her out here alone. Someone passes by, and afraid, she hides.
Just like he’s doing now.
Jay reaches for another branch, clinging tightly. He looks through the tangle of trees, checking for the car on the street. Its taillights are already fading in the distance. The car is back on its course, up Clinton Road and far away from Jay. He doesn’t know if the driver saw him, doesn’t know who it was or if they’re coming back, but he’s not waiting around to find out. He wants to get back to his car, to the main road, to the freeway and home. Fingernails digging in the dirt, Jay drags himself through the choke of weeds, moving an inch at a time.
He hears something above him, some movement in the brush. For a tense moment, he fears a run-in with a bayou rat or a rac coon. Then he hears footsteps crunching dead leaves and twigs and knows he’s not out here alone.
“I help you with something?”
It’s a man’s voice, no doubt about that.
Jay has no idea where he came from... or how long he’s been watching.
Caught, Jay crawls through the brush, slowly, pulling himself out of the grass like a snake. He’s lost one of his shoes, and his sock, soiled up to the ankle, is coming off at the heel. He scram bles to his feet, brushing dirt off his pants and what was once a clean shirt. The man, Jay sees, is older than he is, in his six ties maybe, and smaller, more compact. He’s black, in coveralls smudged with motor oil and grass stains and cut at the sleeves. He’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He stares at Jay, his filthy clothes and missing shoe.
Jay opens his mouth to speak, faster than he can think of some reasonable explanation to come out of it. He stands in the dirt, mute and slick with sweat.
“You ain’t supposed to be back here, you know,” the man says.
Jay thinks of making a run for his car, but doesn’t want to make himself look any more suspicious than he already does. The man in the coveralls rocks back on his bowlegs, digging his heels in the dirt. He slides the cigarette from behind his ear and uses the head of the filter to pick something from between his two front teeth. He stares at Jay, eyeing his clothes, studying his every little move, trying to settle something in his mind.
“You a reporter or something?” he asks bluntly.
Jay is on the verge of correcting him, but stops when he catches the fleeting glint in the man’s eyes, the flash of perverse excite ment. For the first time, Jay notices a wheelbarrow parked by the chain-link fence, a shovel sticking out of it. He takes another look at the man’s coveralls, coated in grass stains.
The groundskeeper, Jay remembers, the one from the paper.
And according to the news article, the one who found the body.
“Can I get one of those?” Jay asks, motioning to the pack of Carltons peeking from the man’s front pocket. He’s stalling, of course, trying to buy himself some time, a moment to get his head around this. He wonders what the old man knows.
The groundskeeper purses his lips, upset that he’s being held to answer to some unspoken code, between black men or smok ers or both. He reaches into his coveralls and taps out a crumpled cigarette for Jay,
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