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14
As Gatorand Baptiste glided silently through the murky waters of the Atchafalaya Swamp, the eerie atmosphere engulfed them. The night was alive with the sounds of wildlife and the rustling of leaves in the dense trees, casting shadows under the moonlight. Gator couldn’t shake the images that haunted him from earlier that day. His mind raced as he tried to process everything, and there was a nagging thought at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
“That’s it,” he muttered.
“What’s it?” Baptiste asked, his voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the unsettling ambiance of their surroundings.
“The bat.” Gator was thinking out loud. Realizing he should keep his thoughts to himself for now, despite the trust he had in his friend, he quickly dismissed it. “Ah... it’s nothing,” he said, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile.
Baptiste didn’t push for more information, much to Gator’s relief. He simply focused on steering the boat deeper into the darkest corners of the swamp, where hungry creatures awaited their next meal. The shadows danced on the water’s surface, playing tricks on their eyes, and the air felt heavy with secrets. Gator shivered, wondering if the swamp itself could sense the darkness they carried with them that night.
When they arrived at their destination, Gator said, “Here?”
Baptiste nodded and then Gator made a grunting noise mimicking the distress call of a juvenile alligator. He interspersed that with high-pitched chirping…another sound that would attract the attention of their scaly companions. Within minutes, several alligators started to emerge from the murky water, drawn to the sounds Gator was making. The eerie atmosphere of the moonlit swamp only heightened the tension as the creatures approached, their eyes reflecting the pale glow of the moon.
The sounds of the swamp at night – the distant hoots of owls, the rustling of unseen creatures in the brush, and the gentle sloshing of water – created an unsettling soundtrack as they prepared to complete their grim task. Both men knew the alligators were not only drawn to the sounds, but also the scent of fresh meat. And they were more than ready to provide it.
Gator took a deep breath, feeling a mix of dread and determination, as he and Baptiste began the process of disposing of Marvin’s body. They were well aware of the risks they were taking, but they were willing to do whatever it took to protect Sylvie, and Gator at the same time. The darkness of the swamp seemed to swallow up their secrets, as the alligators hungrily took care of the evidence.
As they made their way back, left with only a plastic bag and some clothes to dispose of, Gator exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. Baptiste maneuvered the boat, retracing their path through the swamp from where they’d come over an hour earlier. The ride back was silent, the weight of their actions hanging in the air, neither man finding the words to break the quiet.
Finally, when Baptiste guided the boat to the bank, Gator stepped off, his boots sinking slightly into the muddy shore. Glancing back at his friend, he remarked, “La vie d’un Joker, hein?”
Baptiste offered a rueful laugh, his eyes crinkling with a mix of weariness and camaraderie. “The life of a Joker,” he echoed. And with that, he disappeared into the night, the boat’s low hum fading into the chorus of the nocturnal creatures inhabiting the swamp.
* * *
As soon asGator stepped back into the house, his eyes fell upon the bloodstained bat. The floor was still covered in blood as well, and he knew he had quite a task ahead of him to get everything cleaned up by morning. Carefully, he began to wipe the blood off the birch barrel of the wooden bat. As he did, a flood of memories washed over him from his youth – times when he’d stand with his fingers gripping the chain-link fence at the park, watching Sylvie swing that very same bat. Her powerful strikes would send the ball soaring, seemingly bound for the horizon.
His gaze drifted away from the bat, settling on the black waters visible through the kitchen window. Gator shook his head slowly, closing his eyes as he contemplated whether the enigmatic Old Man River could help him unravel the intricate mystery he found himself entwined in. He couldn’t help but wonder if, for once, the river’s depths might not hold the answers he sought.
None of it added up. The bat belonged to Sylvie, yet Bruno claimed he had seen someone else entering the house, wielding it. Why had Sylvie been holding it when he had arrived? Had she picked it up instinctively? That could be possible. But then why would someone else have had it to begin with? What was Marvin’s purpose there? And who was the stranger Bruno saw fleeing the scene after Marvin’s murder?
“Damn,” Gator muttered, refocusing on the task at hand. He rummaged for cleaning supplies and something to mop up with, all the while racking his brain for any clue that might make sense. But nothing did.
He hadn’t given much thought to the gap between his arrival and Bruno’s. It wasn’t a significant amount of time, but in retrospect, it was too long for Bruno to have merely spotted someone running away from the backyard.
Why had the killer lingered at the scene? Surely, they would have fled immediately, long gone before Bruno showed up. Perhaps, amid the chaos, things had unfolded just as Bruno had described. Or maybe, in that same disarray, nothing had been as Bruno claimed. Yet Sylvie seemed to concur with his account, and Gator knew he could trust her. She was someone he had always been able to rely on, and just seeing her there when it all transpired solidified that trust.
He decided he wouldn’t figure it out tonight. It was only adrenaline keeping him awake, so he resolved to focus on cleaning up the mess. But still, his mind kept ticking away, relentlessly searching for answers.
15
Gator spentthe entire next day meticulously tending to Sylvie’s house, erasing any trace of the previous night’s violence. He methodically cleaned the blood from the floor and sanitized every surface, from the kitchen to the bathroom, and even down the hallway in case any traces had been carried through to there.
He was painstaking in his attention to detail, ensuring that no evidence would be left behind should anyone ever decide to investigate.
Though he couldn’t imagine why that would happen, Gator couldn’t help but wonder if Bruno would ever let something slip. Sylvie, he knew, could be trusted to keep quiet about the whole ordeal. After all, she had every reason to stay silent.
With the supplies he collected from the club, Gator set about repairing Sylvie’s front door, still bearing the damage from the shooting. Several Jokers club members, including those who worked in construction, offered to help. River, in particular, had been eager to lend a hand. Yet even though Gator trusted his brothers with his life, he opted to take the extra time to finish the repairs himself.
Baptiste, who would've been Gator’s first choice for assistance, was otherwise occupied with another appointment. Both men agreed that maintaining a sense of normalcy was crucial so as not to raise suspicion.
Finally, satisfied with his handiwork and the restored state of Sylvie’s home, Gator made his way back to his own house, his thoughts consumed by the woman he loved.
* * *
When he gotto his place, he was too tired to sleep so he sat in the dimly lit room, staring out the window as the sun sank below the horizon. The shadows cast by the fading light played tricks on his eyes, but his thoughts were consumed by the woman who had unexpectedly reentered his life. It had been twenty-four years since he had last seen Sylvie, but the feelings that stirred within him hadn’t diminished in the slightest. It was as if time had stood still, their connection forged in the fires of youth remaining unbroken despite the years apart.
