Chapter Forty
CHAPTER FORTY
I climbed out of the RV and moved back to the parking area. Walked over to the thicket of pine and hardwood trees that formed the curve I had seen in the hand-drawn map.
The dust and debris from the crash were settling, and my neck throbbed with pain. I stared out at the swamp. At the tendrils of branches to my right. Half of the trees had fallen down naturally or were rotten, and getting through them would be time-consuming.
I began moving, inching my way through the dense vegetation, foot by foot. The night was black, a waning crescent moon above. Insects bounced off my arms. Mosquitoes. Horseflies. The weather was cooling, but in the trees above, an orchestra of noises resounded.
My mother had taught me the songs of katydids and crickets. I heard both, along with the low vibrating croaks of bullfrogs, whose voices bounced off the palmetto.
After a half hour, the ground became muddy beneath my feet. I saw the bank of a river, first to the west, then curving north around me.
Take one step and pause.
Listen. Be silent.
The water in the preserve was suffocating in its ubiquity. The shoreline was flat enough for it to seep into the marsh grass and duckweed, soaking the ground without one even noticing.
I edged along the waterline, at times stepping furtively into three inches of water. At others, ten inches. In my memory, I saw the hand-drawn topographic maps in perfect detail, sensing the rise and fall of the land beneath my feet.
As I walked to higher ground, I counted off the distance from the shore, then adjusted to halfway back, my mind placing the squiggle of hand-drawn lines one below the other as I moved.
The two maps had an X drawn through them, each about twenty feet from the shore. If I understood the notations about elevation correctly, there would be some hole in the ground there, perhaps a natural divot where Mad Dog had hidden in the mud as a child.
Was he hiding there now, holding Frank hostage?
By 4 a.m., I had walked most of the map, moving in a quiet circular pattern, inch by inch, steering clear of the areas with the X until I absolutely had to, wanting to come up on that area last and furtively.
Finding higher ground, I caught my breath. The night was nearly devoid of light, and my footsteps were silent.
But something had been splashing in the water, and the rhythm of it felt purposeful, like a fish caught in a net.
Effort, then rest. Effort, then rest.
I counted in my head, waiting for the splash again. The area of noise in the water was ten yards from the shore. Directly back from that point, on land, was one of the Xs.
I held my phone to the ground so no light shone and set the timer for five minutes, the alarm noise set to a piece of music from my library.
Before I heard the splashing noise again, I drew my arm back like a quarterback and threw the phone through the night. It landed just as the splash sounded, perfectly concealing the noise of the phone settling into a dense grouping of sweet bay magnolia, halfway between the shoreline and the X mark.
I quietly stepped backward then, away from the water and into the thicket and higher ground. Stopped there and lowered my body so it was prone to the dirt.
Then I crawled back toward the water, moving slowly on my stomach, my hands pulling my body along and my stomach gliding over dirt berms and wet grass.
Sixty feet from the X.
Forty.
Twenty feet.
I froze.
Something was there.
Someone was there, the shape of a head barely visible in the night.
I moved closer.
Sixteen feet.
Twelve.
I stopped again, counting the seconds in my head. Then I scooched slower still, inch by inch through the mud, my body prone.
Ahead of me, the outline of the back of a man’s head became visible. If I was seeing him correctly, he was on his stomach, the back of his boots one body-length in front of me.
I counted. Ten seconds left. Five.
A light came alive, ten feet away in front of the dark shape. Then came music.
Older fans of Dixieland jazz would call the ring tone “Tiger Rag,” but most Louisianans knew it as the song the LSU Tigers play after every touchdown. LSU: the place where I’d gotten my master’s degree.
The shape in front of me rose up on its elbows and shot with a rifle. Bam. Eject. Bam. Eject. Bam.
“Tiger Rag” kept playing, and the phone skipped through the air.
I inched closer in the dark.
Four feet.
Two.
The man tossed the rifle and sat up, pulling out a handgun.
As he did, I leapt into a crouching pose and knocked the Glock from his hand. He dove for it, but I pushed him off balance and got to it first.
I swiveled around, and we were face-to-face.
Me, holding my Glock. And Ethan Nolan, pointing Frank’s weapon at my chest.
“Agent Camden,” he said.
My muddy hand gripped the Glock, and I moved into a crouched position.
“Where’s Frank?” I demanded, my finger on the trigger.
“Frank could be in a lot of places pretty soon.” Nolan motioned over his shoulder. “See that tower?”
I flicked my eyes toward the shore, my gun still held on Nolan.
Twenty feet away was a hunting blind, except this one was built into the Neches River. Reflective tape along the legs of the structure indicated the depth of the water.
Something was moving there. The sound I’d heard earlier.
“Can you see him?” Nolan asked. “Your boss? Tied up?”
I focused on Nolan, my left hand moving up to support the Glock in my right.
Firearms experts will tell you that striking first is essential because action beats reaction. They will also inform you that, statistically speaking, experienced criminals can point a gun and fire it in less than nine-tenths of a second. A solid eight seconds had already passed, and neither Nolan nor I had discharged.
“I thought you were the good guy,” I said. “The vigilante, holding us all accountable.”
His finger was on the trigger. If I fired, I would receive a shot to the chest in return a moment later.
“Well, you know how it is,” Nolan said. “Even Batman has to go dark sometimes.”
Behind Nolan, I heard the splashing sound again. A bubble popped in the water.
“I think Frank’s time is up,” he said.