CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Someone crossed the bridge to the island animal sanctuary,” yelled Hiro running toward the men.
“She knew where it was,” said Cooper. “I took her out there a few days ago and introduced her to the animals. It’s her.”
“Go! Everyone, go!” yelled Ham. “If Pablo finds the animals out there, he’ll kill them all.”
The animal island sanctuary…
Night had not fallen over Belle Fleur so much as risen from it, seeping out of the black water and the knotted roots until the island seemed afloat inside a single enormous shadow.
Beneath the cypress canopy, Spanish moss moved without wind, and every pale strand leaned toward the unconscious girl being carried deeper into the sanctuary.
Bianca hung limp between two white-tailed deer, her arms looped over their narrow backs while a procession of raccoons steadied her dragging feet, a skunk in the lead.
Her face was bloodless in the moonlight. A barred owl glided above them, silent as a passing thought, choosing the path before the others reached it.
All around them, the island sanctuary for the animals at Belle Fleur rearranged itself. Ferns uncurled across the trail they had used. Cypress knees thrust higher from the mud like the teeth of a buried jaw. Vines descended in slow green ropes, erasing every gap through which a man might follow.
“Bianca!” Pablo’s voice tore through the distance.
It came once from the ruined dock, then again from the palmetto grove, furious and frightened, each cry smaller than the last beneath the immensity of the trees.
The animals answered him in borrowed voices. A flock of herons exploded from the western marsh, making the reeds thrash as though a body fled through them. Far to the east, foxes yipped in Bianca’s cadence, turning her name into a broken plea.
Pablo swung toward each sound. His flashlight slashed across trunks, eyes, water, and mist, never resting long enough to understand what it saw. Behind him, his driver muttered that they should return to the car, but the island swallowed the words before they traveled three feet.
“Boss, we should go back to the car. There’s something unnatural here.”
A broad-backed alligator slid across the trail ahead, its hide lacquered silver by the moon. Pablo fired near it, and the muzzle flash showed dozens of smaller shapes watching from the brush. When darkness closed again, the alligator was gone, but the trail had become water.
The driver stepped backward and felt something cold settle around his ankle. He looked down too late. One of the great boas lay braided through the buttonbush, its patterned body indistinguishable from leaf rot and moon-flecked mud.
The coil tightened and the man vanished from the path with a single choked cry. Branches snapped low to the ground. His hands clawed twin furrows through the muck while the boa drew him toward the bayou with patient, muscular certainty.
Pablo wheeled and fired into the darkness. Three shots punched the night apart. One tore bark from a cypress, one scattered ibis from a dead tree, and one struck the water where the driver’s pale hand had been.
Then there was only the bayou closing over itself. Rings widened between the lilies. A loosened shoe floated up, slowly turned its empty mouth toward Pablo, and drifted beneath a curtain of duckweed.
“Bianca!” Pablo screamed again. “I will kill you, you little bitch!”
The island returned the name from six directions, some echoes deep, some shrill, one whispered directly behind his ear. He spun so violently that he nearly fell.
He did not know the shots had carried beyond the island. Across the channels, the search team stopped as one beneath the hammering rotors of insects and turned toward the brief orange wounds in the trees. Radios crackled. Boots entered the shallows.
The animals knew. Egrets lifted above the canopy and marked Pablo’s position with a circling white crown. Frogs fell silent along every safe route, while those nearest him called louder, a wet chorus drawing the team toward his rage.
Deeper inland, the deer carried Bianca beneath an arch of live oak roots into a hollow no map admitted existed. Fireflies gathered over her like green sparks from a hidden altar. Where their light touched her skin, the bruises beneath it seemed to darken and confess.
A black bear waited in the hollow, scarred across the muzzle and old enough to remember chains. It lowered its head to Bianca’s chest, listened to the frail rhythm there, then breathed against her hair. The raccoons covered her with dry reeds and magnolia leaves as Semu gently touched her cheek.
Above them, owls lined the branches in a motionless parliament. Snakes looped from limb to limb. Bobcats crouched where roots breached the earth, their eyes fixed not on Bianca but on the dark passage behind her.
No human word passed among them, yet a judgment moved through the hollow. It traveled in the tapping of talons, the tremor of whiskers, the delicate tongues tasting the same bitter scent Pablo had left on the girl. Belle Fleur had recognized cruelty, and recognition had become law.
They would keep Bianca beyond his reach until daylight. They would guide the searchers close enough to find her when the island permitted it. But Pablo would not be guided out.
The plan spread outward. Nutria gnawed through the planks of the eastern footbridge. Wild pigs churned the southern trail into a sucking mire. A colony of bats abandoned the chapel ruins and poured toward Pablo in a river of wings.
He ran from them, cursing, his flashlight whipping across the swamp. Every turn returned him to the same lightning-split cypress. Every patch of moonlight held Bianca’s white dress until he approached and found only egret feathers pinned to thorns.
Once, he saw her standing between two trees. Her hair covered her face; her bare feet hovered above the water. He called her softly then, almost tenderly, and the figure opened into a hundred pale moths.
Pablo fired at them. The bullet’s red wake vanished into the canopy, and somewhere ahead a radio voice shouted. He froze. For the first time, fear entered him cleanly, without anger to disguise it.
Blue lights pulsed far across the marsh, staining the mist. Pablo stumbled toward them, but the lights slid sideways between the trunks. Fireflies had shaped themselves into false beacons, blinking in the patient cadence of rescue.
He followed until the ground narrowed to a shelf of roots above a deep black channel. On the opposite bank, a fox sat with its tail wrapped around its feet. It wore the driver’s keys around its neck, and when Pablo raised the pistol, it stepped backward into darkness.
Something immense shifted under the water. Not an alligator, not entirely . Its back broke the surface in a line too long for any creature Pablo knew, carrying lilies and moss as though a piece of the island itself had begun to swim.
He emptied the weapon into it. The channel erupted with mud, scales, and shattered reflections. The search team heard each report and changed direction, closing the circle he could no longer see.
Pablo pulled the trigger again. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. From every tree came an answering click: beaks, teeth, shells, claws against bark, thousands of tiny mechanisms preparing to close.
In the sanctuary hollow, Bianca stirred but did not wake. The bear placed one heavy paw beside her head. A doe bent to lick the blood from her temple, and the fireflies burned brighter, turning the hidden chamber into a green and gold dream.
The oldest boa emerged from the roots, wet from the bayou and carrying a strip of torn black cloth in its jaws. It laid the cloth at Bianca’s feet. The gathered animals lowered their heads, not in worship, but in agreement.
Outside, the island tightened around Pablo. The root shelf crumbled behind his heels. Across the channel, the fox returned, joined by a second, then a third, until a ring of amber eyes enclosed the water.
“Bianca,” he said one final time, but now the name was small and private. From somewhere impossibly near, her voice answered.
“Here,” though Bianca slept miles beyond him and had made no sound at all.
Pablo stepped toward the voice. The black water accepted one boot, then the other. Behind him came the searchers’ lights; before him, the bayou opened soundlessly, and beneath the surface something coiled around his shadow.
“This isn’t happening. I drank too much,” he muttered to himself. He tried to run but his legs were stuck, unmoving, unwavering. “This is a nightmare.”
“It is that,” came the deep voice in the darkness.
“It’s a trick,” he muttered, shaking his head, the empty pistol still gripped in his hand.
“It’s no trick. You entered a private sanctuary and the animals don’t like it,” said Gaspar. Luke stood beside his father, just a few inches taller but not as broad. Their whiskey-colored eyes glowed toward the man, the expression on their faces matching death masks.
“M-my niece. She wandered off and is in danger,” he said, attempting to lie to the two men. “Please, she’ll be terrified.”
“I don’t think it’s the animals she’ll be terrified of,” said Luke. “She’s quite happy being around the animals.”
Pablo stared down at the Boa wrapped around his legs.
To his left and right were Komoda Dragons.
In front of him, an alligator that seemed to stare straight into his soul.
In the trees, he saw the eyes of birds, bats, racoons, and other animals.
And just as the first light broke through the storm in the distance, he realized there was a wall of animals staring at him.
Elephants, giraffes, bison, and so much more.
“Wh-what is this place?” he muttered.
“The last place you’ll ever see,” said Gaspar. He nodded at the boa, then Alvin and the dragons. The screams of Pablo Garcia were drowned out by the call of the animals, ensuring that his voice, as well as his body, would be buried in the bayou.