Chapter 12
H ayes gripped the rail of the airboat as it skimmed through the narrow cut of water, sawgrass slapping at the hull, the engine growling loud enough to rattle his teeth.
The Everglades stretched out in every direction—lush, humid, and deceptively serene.
But Hayes had learned that peace in the Glades was a lie.
It was a place that swallowed things—storms, secrets, and sometimes people.
Keaton throttled down, and the boat glided to a near stop. The engine settled to a murmur, just enough to hold them steady in the sluggish current. Up ahead, a sliver of dry land jutted out, mangroves twisted into a low canopy around a weather-beaten shack.
Hayes had seen it before—once, with Chloe and Fletcher. But this time, something felt different.
“Dewey and Silas are mapping out all the shacks they know of in the Everglades,” Fletcher broke the silence. “The Seminoles keep track of them, and we don’t touch them. Many of them were built over a hundred years ago. Some long before Calusa Cove was more than a tiny fishing port.”
“My deputies have come out, searching some of them, with the help of the Seminole tribe, looking for drugs, arms, anything illegal going on back here,” Dawson said.
“But we can’t be everywhere all the time.
The Coast Guard has been conducting more spot checks on boats entering and exiting Calusa Cove.
They’ve made a few arrests of smugglers and pirates, but since what happened with Massey and his operation, and then with Trinity, things have been quiet. ”
Keaton adjusted his sunglasses. “I don’t see any movement. Looks peaceful.”
“That doesn’t mean shit,” Dawson muttered. “He could be watching us from behind a tree right now.”
“Hell,” Fletcher added, “he could’ve rigged the whole damn clearing with booby traps over the last couple of days.”
“I was just here and nothing went boom.” Hayes scanned the area.
The last time he’d been here, Cole had been twitchy, his conversation laced with distrust and the kind of survivalist edge that never quite left a man who’d seen too many bad years.
However, there was a softness to Cole. A desire to immerse himself back into civilization, or at the very least, walk the tightrope between the two worlds.
“Let’s go in slow,” Dawson said. “No surprises.”
“I don’t believe he’s our guy, but something still doesn’t feel right.” Hayes glanced over his shoulder. “Cole might be a broken man, but how many of our brothers have we seen like that?”
“Not the point,” Dawson said.
They tied off the boat, stepping into knee-high grass and thick heat. The air was dense with that wet-earth smell, and the faint buzz of insects filled the silence like white noise.
Hayes took the lead, staying just behind the tree line, careful not to crowd the open space around the shack. He could still picture the table around the side, scattered with maps, hand-carved wooden objects, and that manila folder with a photo inside no one had gotten a good look at.
“What’s our play if he bolts?” Keaton asked, voice low.
“He won’t,” Fletcher said. “He didn’t run the last time, and he thinks we want to hire him.”
“That was before we knew his wife cheated on him,” Dawson pointed out. “And before we connected the timelines. He could’ve killed at least four of the early victims and the two right here in Calusa Cove. That’s motive and opportunity.”
Hayes stopped a few feet from the porch. The shack’s door hung slightly ajar, a slice of darkness inside. No movement. No sound. Just the kind of stillness that made his spine itch.
He turned back to the others. “We go in soft. Keep your hands visible. He’s an ex-Marine, and he’s wired tight. We don’t spook him unless we have to.”
Fletcher nodded, hand resting just near his holster. “Let’s find out if he’s home.”
Hayes took the last few steps up the warped stairs and knocked on the doorframe—once, twice, loud enough to carry but not enough to sound aggressive.
“Cole?” he called. “It’s Hayes Bennett. We just want to talk.”
No response.
He exchanged a glance with Dawson, who stepped up beside him, hand hovering over his weapon.
“Cole,” Dawson added, voice firm, “if you’re in there, we’re coming in.”
Still nothing.
Hayes pushed the door open.
The air inside was warm and stale, heavy with the smell of wood shavings, sweat, and something faintly metallic. The carved figures were displayed on a rickety shelf—dozens of them now. Owls, mostly, but other animals, too. Each one set out in perfect rows.
But it wasn’t the carvings that made Hayes’s stomach twist.
It was the table in the corner.
The same manila folder lay open—but this time, the photo inside was clearly visible.
And it was Chloe.
Hayes stepped into the shack first, followed by Dawson, Keaton, and Fletcher, all quiet, all on alert.
The air was suffocating and stale, the heavy scent of sawdust clinging to the walls. The space wasn’t cluttered, like one might expect. It was tidy, and the cot in the corner was carefully made, like a Marine had been taught.
Tools were placed neatly across a small workbench. Chisels, wood glue, rags. Nothing overtly threatening. Nothing obviously criminal, only suspicious.
Especially the image of Chloe. That didn’t make sense.
Dawson’s low whistle broke the silence. “I don’t like this one bit.”
Hayes didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not with Chloe’s photo staring back at him.
It wasn’t candid. It was clipped from a printed article.
A profile piece from her early FBI days.
He recognized it immediately—he’d seen the original on her desk once when he’d gone to visit her.
But here it was, face-up on Cole Delaney’s table, beside a cluster of detailed Everglades maps with coordinates circled in red ink.
Fletcher leaned over the folder. “This doesn’t look good.”
“No,” Keaton agreed. “It looks like premeditation.”
Dawson’s hand hovered near his weapon, more out of instinct than threat. “Let’s keep looking. See what else he’s got tucked away.”
Hayes’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to believe it, but everything here looked bad. Really bad.
They fanned out, checking corners, lifting the cot, but there wasn’t much to examine. Nothing screamed serial killer—no trophies, no blood-soaked souvenirs. However, in a locked ammo crate, they discovered additional folders. Some old surveillance photos. Notes in someone’s tight, tidy handwriting.
Dawson flipped through them. “What the hell is he doing out here?”
Footsteps crunched outside.
All four men froze.
Hayes shifted toward the door, signaling the others. Dawson moved to the side, out of sight. Fletcher stepped behind a beam. Keaton waited near the window.
The creak of the porch boards gave way to a shape—lean, tall, and cautious.
Cole Delaney. He stopped cold when he saw Hayes in the doorway.
“I knew you’d be back, eventually,” Cole said, his voice gravelly. He wasn’t armed. Just a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a tired, wary look in his eyes.
“Mind telling what this is all about?” Hayes asked with a wave at the table, his tone measured. Calm.
Cole walked in slowly, carefully, like a man who knew better than to make sudden moves around men like them.
“I know what this looks like,” he said, glancing around.
His eyes landed on the open folder. He sighed, not surprised.
“I was hoping to know more…to be able to explain it…before you saw that.”
“You’re going to need to do more than explain,” Dawson said, stepping into view. “You’ve got a folder with a federal agent’s face on it, maps with coordinates near recent murder sites, and enough knives to make a hunter nervous.”
“I carve wood,” Cole said, holding Dawson’s gaze. “I’ve got blades because I carve. And those maps? I’ve been tracking areas where bones have been found for the last year.”
“Bones? What bones? And an entire year?” Keaton scoffed. “Why?”
“Because no one else seemed to be doing it,” Cole snapped, then caught himself.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant that out here, we see things.
Boats where they shouldn’t be. Broken branches in places no one hikes.
I started keeping records after I found bones near Red Water Creek when I first arrived in town.
I found more way up past Deception Pass.
” He waggled his finger over the papers.
“Six spots in all, about fifty miles from here.”
Dawson narrowed his eyes. “You reported those bones?”
“Just the first set.”
“And who did you report them to?” Dawson asked with a tight jaw.
“I used the radio. Channel 16. I was sent over to another channel to speak with a local. No one followed up, or they didn’t take me seriously.”
“If that was the case, why didn’t you contact me.”
“Last time we met, I wound up in your station house for the night.” Cole snorted. “Besides, I was military police. I know how jurisdiction works, and this isn’t yours.”
“Not the point,” Dawson muttered.
“Maybe, but you made it clear you didn’t want any trouble from me.
Anyway, I started tracking on my own, figuring that if I found something solid, I would take it somewhere else.
I got obsessed. I’ll own that.” He looked at Hayes.
“I get I’m paranoid, and to be honest, I kind of like living out here on the fringe, but I’m aware it’s taking hold of my better judgment.
I figured that out when those two and the agent showed up a few days ago.
” He rubbed the back of his neck. “The things that I saw on my last two tours, well, they messed me up, but I’m not your guy. ”
Hayes folded his arms. “And the photo of Chloe?”
Cole hesitated, jaw working. “I cut it out of a newspaper someone left at the marina. I’d seen her a few times before. I thought…if I could find a pattern, maybe I could give someone smarter than me a clue.”
“That’s still a hell of a stretch,” Fletcher muttered.