The Cypress Trap: A Suspense Thriller Read Free Page A

She
froze, seeing the black van on the street outside.

 
     
    3
     
    Rayanne
watched the black van roll slowly down Main Street. It hesitated in front of
the Texaco, blocking her view of Owen at the gas pump across the street. She
rushed from the counter, toward the large front windows. Peering out, she
placed a hand on the pane and studied the van.
    Mud
specked the sides and windshield. Paint had chipped away in jagged oval flecks
that made the vehicle look diseased. The windows were tinted, and whoever was
inside had slowed to barely a crawl. Someone was watching Owen, she thought.
Her open palms hit the glass, pounding on the window. She needed to warn her
husband.
    The
waitress came up behind her. “Here’s your drinks.”
    Rayanne
turned, startled. Her eyes widened, and the waitress cocked her head.
    “You
okay, honey?” she asked, smacking her gum and holding up two Styrofoam cups.
“You look paler than a corpse.”
    Rayanne
shook her head and turned to face the windows. The van was gone.
    “What
is it, honey?” The waitress set the drinks on a table beside Rayanne and
reached out a comforting hand.
    “I
don’t know.” Rayanne focused on the road. She looked as far down the street as
she possibly could. “Do you know who owns that black van?”
    The
waitress stepped beside her and peered out the window. “I don’t see no black
van. Can’t think of nobody in town who owns one. Now, white trucks, that’s a
different story. You ever noticed how many people own white trucks these days?
I mean, when did white become a color?”
    “Thank
you,” Rayanne said abruptly. She gave the waitress five dollars and left the
diner with her two drinks.
    Crossing
the street, Rayanne made her way back to the service station. Owen was talking
to a heavyset man wearing greasy overalls and a backwards ball cap. She
interrupted them.
    “Owen!”
She almost yelled his name, and could hear the panic boiling in her throat.
    The
men stopped talking and stared at her, clearly waiting for her to say
something.
    “Yes?”
Owen took the nozzle from the Chevy and returned it to the pump.
    Rayanne
looked at the mechanic and then at her husband. She wanted to say that she saw
the black van again. She was positive it was following them. Positive there was
something wrong here, very wrong. But she thought about what Owen would say to
that, how he’d respond.
    So
she handed him a Styrofoam cup. “I got you a Mountain Dew.”
    “Great.
Thanks.” He took it from her hand.
    “I
got an iced tea,” she said.
    Owen
turned to the mechanic. “So how do we get to the lake?”
    The
man in the overalls scratched his chin as if thinking about it. Raising an
eyebrow, he shrugged. “You’re on the south end of the lake here, and all the
ramps I can think of are on private property.”
    Rayanne
waved and turned to the truck. “That settles it. We’ll find another lake,” she
said.
    Owen
raised a hand, signaling her to wait a second. “There’s got to be public
access.”
    “Ain’t
no parks on this lake.” The mechanic looked away, and his face brightened as if
he suddenly had an idea. He looked back at Owen and Rayanne. “But I think you
can get on it from the north end. There’s a boat ramp on some government land.”
    Rayanne
barely let him finish. “Oh, we wouldn’t want to trespass.”
    “Ah,
ma’am,” the mechanic said, “it’s a wildlife sanctuary. No one goes out there
but a few bird-watchers, maybe.”
    Owen
grinned at Rayanne. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
    The
mechanic pointed toward the street ahead. “You take Main Street outta town, to
the county road and stay on it six, seven miles north. When you see a windmill,
head left and take that road to an old boat ramp—if it ain’t washed out.”
    “Washed
out?” Rayanne didn’t like it. “Owen, let’s find another lake.”
    Her
plea fell on deaf ears. Owen thanked the mechanic, shook his hand, and then
hopped into the truck. Rayanne