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Prologue Jamal

Prologue

Jamal

Last Sunday afternoon

No, save for one time when an idiot tourist lost a chunk of his ass to a gator because he didn’t realize the damn things could run upwards of thirty-five miles an hour, he really hadn’t come across anything especially disturbing to speak of.

Until now. He’d been out in his patrol boat on the main channels when the call came in from dispatch.

A concerned canoer on a predawn paddle had noticed some floating gear and supplies along the Nightmare.

The eight-mile stretch of waterway connecting the north and south Everglades was a narrow, overgrown tunnel of mangroves, roots, and vines.

It was impassible by powerboat, so he dropped his kayak and set out on the arduous trek.

People were often ill prepared for the amount of time—and work—it took to get from one end to the other.

Even a well-experienced outdoorsman such as himself found it tough going at times.

This afternoon, he encountered more than the usual number of large branches and, in a couple of instances, entire trees that had come down during a storm, blocking his way.

At some points the fallen debris was angled high enough that he could duck and float underneath, but others required him to actually get out of the boat and climb onto and over the tree trunk while pushing the kayak underneath before rejoining it on the other side.

What he couldn’t navigate over or under, he hacked his way through, the occasional alligator watching with disinterest.

He was about three miles in when he started to spot items tangled up in the roots—a life jacket, a paddle, a tank for holding fresh water.

He called out several times, announcing himself and listening carefully for any signs of life other than the bugs, snakes, and gators.

But there was nothing. It was, of course, possible that whoever these items belonged to was somewhere in the water beneath his boat, but there would be no telling that until low tide.

A small side channel caught his attention, and he maneuvered his way in. It was common for boaters to end up over here only to find it was a dead end. The place was strangely quiet considering the amount of wildlife.

“Hello?” he called out loudly. “Anyone out here?”

A few more feet in and he spotted it: a canoe tethered to a fallen tree trunk. It appeared to be draped in material—a tent, perhaps?

“Hello?” he called out again, making his way toward it. “Anyone there? I’m a ranger. Anyone need help?”

Still no response. The sound of the paddle in the water and his breath seemed to be the only sounds for miles as he edged closer.

It wasn’t until he was right up on the boat that he saw the material-covered shape inside—yes, definitely a tent, from the looks of it, covering something.

He took a deep breath, reached out, and lifted the nylon to see what was under it.

And just like that, his life changed. He had, at last, come across his first fatality.

He was grateful only that it wasn’t exactly gruesome—at least not in the ways he’d been warned about.

While the skin seemed a little mottled and ashy, she wasn’t bloated.

There were no missing limbs or, God forbid, head, for which he was very grateful.

But just because it wasn’t gory didn’t mean it wasn’t creepy.

The girl looked to be in her early to mid-twenties, with long golden-blond hair.

She was wearing khaki shorts and a blue collared shirt with a tour company logo on it.

Pale, slightly parted lips hinted at a row of perfect white teeth.

Her head rested on a faded orange life jacket, as if someone had taken it off and tucked it beneath her like a pillow.

He peered at the woman closely—if she weren’t so still, he might have thought she was only sleeping. But she wasn’t.

He could see she had on pink nail polish, and it struck him that it was the same shade his own daughter wore.

The comparison unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

It wasn’t that they looked alike; they didn’t.

His Ashleigh was younger, all long legs and track-runner confidence, her curls usually pulled into two high poofs that bounced when she walked.

This woman was smaller, her coloring different, her hair long and straight.

Still, something about her—some echo of youth or vulnerability—hit the same protective nerve.

She wasn’t his child, but she was somebody’s, and that was enough to make him all kinds of uneasy.

The tree canopy was so thick in this spot that even the satellite phone wouldn’t work—he’d need to paddle back out a bit to be able to call out or radio for assistance.

About a quarter of a mile downstream, he finally found a clear spot near a very rare, slightly elevated patch of land that allowed him to actually get out of the boat and stand.

He had the radio in his hand and was about to transmit when a rustle nearby caught his attention.

Mindful of the fact that he might have just wandered up on an alligator nest, he pulled the Glock from his holster and proceeded cautiously, picking his way through the razor-edged saw grass and palmetto until he was able to identify the location of the sound.

With finger poised near the trigger, he used his free hand to pull the greenery aside.

And then he stopped in his tracks, blood running cold as he looked down upon the source of the noise.

It was the dead girl. Again.

He glanced over his shoulder, as if she might have somehow snuck past him when he wasn’t looking.

“What the—”

Jamal never finished the sentence because when he turned back around, pale-blue eyes met his. And then they blinked.

“Please . . .” she whispered hoarsely. “Please, help me.”