Dead to Rights by Jack Patterson (fiction book recommendations .txt) 📕

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked as the motor whirred and whined in a higher pitch than moments before. “I told you not to bring that thing. In ten years, those phones’ll be worse than crack. People are already so addicted to ‘em that—”

“Shut up, Jay. I’m a Pickett County Deputy, and Sheriff Sloan requires that we keep our phones with us at all times in case of an emergency. And apparently there’s an emergency.”

“It better be a dang good’un to interrupt our Saturday mornin’ fishin’ trip.”

“Would you shut up? It’s my wife.”

“That ain’t no emergency. Geez, what’s your problem?”

Drake remained frozen in the bottom of the boat, which was rocking slightly more now due to the small wake rippling across the water. Yet to Drake, it felt like a tsunami was headed his way, one filled with waves of accusation and guilt. He needed to avoid detection and get to solid ground before anyone could suspect him of murder. Short of paddling with his hands while hanging both his arms outside of the boat, he didn’t have any options. He pondered the tactic for a brief moment before concluding that he’d rather not have an alligator chew his arm off.

Just lay still. They’ll go away. Everything is gonna be all right.

Another osprey flew overhead and unleashed a series of shrill calls. Drake took shallow breaths as panic washed over him. His heart beat so hard and fast he was certain it was audible. Yet almost a minute passed without him hearing a word from the men in the other boat.

Are they gone?

Drake hadn’t been this scared since the first time he lined up to receive a kickoff on the Pickett County football team as a weak-kneed freshman. His coach told him if he could avoid the first wave of tacklers, he’d run right past everyone one else for a touchdown, which is exactly what happened. He’d been avoiding hits and running past people ever since, all the way to the NFL and the Seattle Seahawks where he earned NFL Rookie of the Year honors and led the league in rushing two out of the past four seasons.

Drake’s stomach knotted up as he heard the nearby men’s mumbling voices again. All he wanted to do was take his coach’s advice again: avoid the first wave and outrun everybody else. It was sound advice, though difficult to execute while floating on a boat in the swamp.

He tried to quell his desire to sit up and peer again into the fog to determine just what type of danger he was in. But he couldn’t resist any longer.

When Drake sat up, he looked in the direction of the boat, and his eyes widened. The boat was headed straight for him.

“Look out, Jay!” the deputy shouted.

Jay slammed the boat’s trolling motor into reverse, squelching their momentum and avoiding a collision. The men’s boat backed away slowly as Drake locked eyes with the deputy.

“Isaiah Drake? Is that you?” the deputy asked.

“Tate Pellman?” Drake asked.

“In the flesh.”

“Boy, am I glad to see you,” Drake said.

“You gettin’ some bites this mornin’? Or just escapin’ them paparazzis and the bright city lights?”

“Sometimes you just need to get away from it all.”

“I heard that. It’s what me and Jay are doin’. You remember my little brother, don’tcha?”

Drake nodded cautiously. “I think so.”

“I was five years behind you guys, so I was a little dude when you left town,” Jay said.

“You grabbed the tees after kickoff, didn’t you?” Drake asked.

Jay nodded. “Sure did.”

Tate and Jay’s boat drifted closer to Drake’s. Their bass boat towered above the water with their chairs perched high. Drake grew concerned that they could see down into his boat. He shifted his feet to cover the gun and finger.

“Well, sorry to interrupt your solitude,” Tate said. “I’ll let you get back to it. Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, too,” Drake said. He slowly let out a sigh as Jay jerked the trolling motor in the opposite direction and led them away.

Tate’s phone rang again, drawing Jay’s scornful ire.

“I swear you must put on a dress when you get home,” Jay said.

“I’m gonna feed you to the gators if you don’t shut your trap. This is an official phone call.”

Their voices faded in the swamp along with their boat.

Drake waited until they were out of sight before he relaxed and lay down again. His mind whirred as he ran through a litany of scenarios as to how he could get back to dry ground.

He decided to sit up and nearly tipped the boat over as he turned to his left and noticed Tate and Jay’s boat emerging out of the fog again.

“D-Train,” Tate called out, using Drake’s nickname from his Pickett County stardom. “I almost forgot to ask you what the fish are hittin’ on this mornin’.”

Their boat stopped a few feet short of Drake’s. Drake looked down as the short choppy waves rocked his johnboat again.

“D-Train? You all right?” Tate asked.

Drake looked up and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m good. What did you ask again?”

“I was wonderin’ what the fish are bitin’ on this mornin’. Got any suggestions? What are you catchin’ ‘em with?”

Tate leaned forward and peered into Drake’s boat.

“I sure hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but what’s a NFL star doin’ in a boat like this? I figured you’d at least have somethin’ all tricked out.”

Drake shrugged. “Tryin’ to be smart with my money. I just finished my fourth season and not a free agent yet. I won’t make the big bucks until later the end of next season.”

“My goodness, D-Train, you ain’t even got a motor.”

“Well, I—”

“Or a paddle,” Jay chimed in.

“What the—”

Drake put his hands up in the air. “Look, I know this seems strange, but—”

Tate stood up and squinted as he stared at the bottom of Drake’s boat. “What’s that by your foot, D-Train? You mind movin’ your leg so I can see that?”

“What? Oh, this?” Drake held up