Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 05 - The Devil's Breath by Emily Kimelman

the headlights cutting through the thick darkness over the cement ramp and into the trees beyond. They were Everglade apple trees according to the file. Taggert’s body became tangled in them. The trees grew tightly together, their roots intertwining, growing over and around each other so that you could hardly tell which limb belonged to which tree. Each year when they shed their leaves they fell upon the bed of roots and over decades they formed a hammock. A place where deer and other wildlife lived, above the water of the Everglades. The trees fluttered in the wind, their leaves twinkling silver-green in the blue glare of my headlights. I stared into the darkness between the trunks; it looked impenetrable.
    I climbed out and Blue followed. The water was still and black, somehow even darker than the night around us. On its surface, lilies floated, their night blooms yellow and vivid against the inky water. The car engine and bright lights seemed to make the place into a theater, the engine’s rumble the murmur of the audience, waiting for something to happen. The frogs and insects’ calls the sound of the orchestra tuning up.
    I walked over to the cement ramp. There was no sign of blood, but then again, something as nutritious as that would not sit around for long in a swamp. A sound, a splash in the water, released a low growl from Blue and raised goosebumps across my skin. “It’s probably just a frog,” I said, but I felt eyes on me and backed toward the car. Blue hopped in first and I followed, closing the door blocking out the night sounds and cocooning me in rich leather and luxury.
    Turning back onto the long, straight, and unbelievablly flat road, I headed toward the city, my destination made obvious by the light pollution that haunted the horizon.
    #
    P ulling back into the gas station I found Sanjit’s son listening to his iPod and eating a hot dog. When he saw me the young man pulled off his headphones. “Hi,” he said with his mouth still half-full.
    “Hi, I was here earlier talking with your dad. He said that I could stop back in and pick up your security footage.”
    The young man, brown skin, tall and lanky, not yet grown into his broad shoulders or big feet, nodded and swallowed. Putting down the hot dog he stood and picked up the thumb drive his father had sold me earlier that night. “I put it all on here.”
    “You were here that night, right?” I asked.
    He nodded, his face falling. “Yeah, I feel real bad that I didn’t notice. But you know, the guy didn’t come in or anything. He paid with his card at the pump. How would I have known?”
    “It’s not your fault,” I said. “Trust me. There is nothing you could have done.”
    “But if I’d noticed, I could have called the police,” he said, his eyes widening with the truth of it. His pain was obvious and I didn’t know how to help him. There are all sorts of casualties, all sorts of pain that come from violent death that cannot be measured or foreseen.
    “You’re helping now,” I said, taking the thumb drive from him.
    “I hope you get the guy,” the kid said, his brow furrowing with anger.
    “Thanks again,” I said as I left, the bell on the door tolling my exit.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Night Out
    B ack in South Beach I parked the car in my spot and was crossing through the lobby when I heard and felt the humming of the bar. I followed the sounds and found myself in a room with tall ceilings, Liberace-style chandeliers, and young people gyrating. I pushed through the crowd to the bar and ordered a tequila from the woman who tended it. As I sipped the liquor, which burned me just right, I looked out into the crowd.
    Maybe they all looked so good through gentle, persistent encouragement from friends and family but I didn’t really believe that’s how humans worked. Those carved bodies spoke of hours of hard labor, sweat, heavy breathing, and pure will. If you couldn’t handle it, you left. Or became rich and then it didn’t matter