Chapter 30
THE TURNOFF’S HERE ON THE LEFT,” said Chambers, old map in hand, as Pendergast maneuvered the Spyder down the rutted road.
The car they were in was the worst possible to negotiate the dirt path that now faced them.
They had already been down some pretty awful roads.
It was crazy, Chambers thought, for Pendergast to risk damaging such a valuable vehicle, but the man seemed unconcerned about the scrapes, bumps, and bangs they would endure if they continued.
Pendergast pulled over to the side of the road at the turnoff. “May I see the maps?” he asked.
While Pendergast studied the maps, Chambers took stock of where they were.
The afterglow of sunset was already shining between the mossy trunks of bald cypresses and casting a golden sheen across the winding waterways of the swamp.
Even though it was dusk, the air was dead and the heat stifling. There was a faint whine of insects.
Chambers next turned his attention to the old Wichman road.
It was a badly eroded dirt track—clearly impassable to the Spyder—that wound away into the swamp, barely above the level of the water.
Even though it was washed out and potholed, it looked suspiciously free of weeds and grass.
There did not appear to be any fresh tire tracks on it, however, and a fallen tree a hundred feet down the road blocked further progress.
“Let us do a closer inspection,” said Pendergast, laying the maps aside. He got out of the car, and Chambers followed.
Pendergast walked over to the margin of the dirt road where it turned into the old track, at one point kneeling in his black suit, minutely inspecting the ground. Then he straightened up. “Our man is likely in there now.”
“You mean Wickman? How do you know?”
“I see evidence that a vehicle passed along this track quite recently. There has been a rather meticulous effort made to cover up its tracks to maintain a look of desuetude and abandonment.”
Chambers stared down the road. “Okay, Tonto—but what about that tree?”
“Ah, the conveniently fallen tree! Let us examine it.”
They walked down the road to where an uprooted, medium-size bald cypress had blown down over the road.
“I don’t see how someone could have used this road recently,” said Chambers doubtfully.
Pendergast smiled and pushed his hand among the dead branches, deftly moving it about. There was the rattle and click of a latch, and he then gave the tree a gentle push. It swung back on well-oiled hinges.
“Holy shit!” said Chambers.
“Indeed.”
Chambers eyed the road. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow in the Tahoe.”
Pendergast shook his head. “We must not use the road at all. It will surely be monitored.”
“So how do we get in?”
Pendergast said, “Pirogue.”
“Pirogue? You mean one of those Cajun boats? Are you serious?”
“I am quite serious. They’re the ideal mode of transportation in these swamps, being flat-bottomed, silent, and stable.”
“I’d much rather rent an airboat.”
“Airboats are noisy and would ruin the element of surprise.”
“So where are we going to rent a pirogue? There isn’t a rental place around here for miles.”
At this, Pendergast smiled. “On the way in, did you note the fishing camp we passed?”
“Yeah, I saw it. Looked pretty ramshackle, and I didn’t notice any pirogues.”
“There was a boat shed on the water, padlocked, which probably contains at least one, as they are essential watercraft for any fisherman in these parts.”
“So we’re going to steal it?”
“Expropriate it, Agent Chambers. Let us go.”
At this Chambers didn’t move, gazing steadily at Pendergast. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the only sound the whining of insects, Chambers said, “Pendergast, I think you’re forgetting something.
I’ve given you an awful lot of leeway—you know the reasons, and no more need be said about it—but I’m still the mentor here, and you the mentee.
Going in there at dusk, dressed as we are, out of radio contact, with no backup, is not only dangerous—it’s dumb-ass stupid. ”
“I apologize. You are right—in the heat of the moment, I forgot my place. But may I be given the opportunity to change your mind?”
“Give it your best shot. But we’re not stealing a pirogue and rowing into that swamp at night, hoping to catch a serial killer hiding in some ruined mansion.” He punctuated this by slapping a mosquito on his cheek. “No way.”
“The problem,” said Pendergast, “is that our man will not be there tomorrow. He will be gone. One top of that, all the evidence of his killings—and possibly even an imprisoned victim—will also be gone. We must go in now, or we will miss our chance.”
“And how in hell do you know all this?”
Pendergast merely pointed in the direction of the Wichman House. Chambers looked. Against the evening sky he could see a thread of smoke beginning to rise.
Pendergast said, “It appears he—or someone—has fired the mansion.”
They drove back to the old fishing camp.
And—naturally—Pendergast, who seemed able to conjure up tools and other bric-a-brac like a magician, pulled a bolt cutter from the trunk of the Spyder.
When they cut the lock on the shack, there, as Pendergast had predicted, sat a nice clean pirogue, painted in camo, with paddles.
They dragged the boat quietly down to the water and got in.
“Do you know how to paddle this sucker?” said Chambers.
“You may recall I’m New Orleans born and bred,” said Pendergast. “May I ask the same of you?”
“You take the bow and navigate. I’ll take the stern.”
They pushed off and began paddling. A pencil light appeared in Pendergast’s hand—again, as if by magic—and he perused one of the maps as Chambers paddled.
Pendergast finally rolled up the map and pointed at their heading, then picked up his paddle and added his powerful stroke to their forward motion.
“If we are not hindered, we will be there in ten minutes.”
Now they were gliding swiftly along, passing among the trunks of cypresses, branches heavy with Spanish moss.
They soon came to an old drainage channel choked with water lettuce, alligator weed, and lily pads.
Chambers could see the thread of smoke was getting denser, turning into a black, twisting spire against the dying sky.
They passed an alligator, only the snout and eyes above water, motionless as it watched them slide by.
At the speed they were now moving, they were leaving behind the clouds of mosquitoes.
Pendergast had apparently memorized the map, since he no longer checked it but simply pointed from time to time in the direction they should go.
In the breaks of the tree cover, Chambers could see the pillar of smoke getting heavier, and he wondered if they were going to make it before the old place burned up.
Fortunately, the houses in these parts were so damp and moldy that they sometimes refused to burn—they just steamed.
The channel now silted up completely, and Chambers could hear the soft sound of mud sliding along the bottom. They used the paddles to pole their way into deeper water and resumed their forward momentum. But half a mile farther, the open water once again shoaled up into mud.
“I’m afraid we must disembark and wade,” said Pendergast.
With distaste and misgiving—keeping a keen eye out for cottonmouths and water moccasins in the failing light, and recalling just how fast alligators could move even in shallow water—Chambers got out, feeling the warm mud sucking up to his knees as his feet sank in the mire, squeezing out a flurry of swamp bubbles that rose in a sulfuric miasma.
Son of a bitch—he was ruining not only a good pair of shoes but also a decent suit.
It gave him only scant comfort to see Pendergast ruining his own clothes, far more expensive than his own.
They managed to drag and slide the boat across the muddy stretch.
Where the channel resumed, they got back in.
They were closing in now. Chambers could see, rising above the trees, the dark gables of the old Wichman mansion, draped with vines.
A dull-orange glow could be seen at the base of the right wing.
As they came around a bend, an arm of the bayou opened into a broad expanse of water, and an old boathouse came into view, its concealing shroud of vegetation backlit by flames, leaning perilously in the twilight.
The mansion stood behind it on a rise of dry land, the cypresses giving way to sweet gum, live oaks, and a rank, overgrown lawn.
Chambers could clearly see the fire that was consuming the right side of the ramshackle manse, the flames starting to climb up the sides and out the roof, the windows glowing orange against the dusky twilight.
Chambers aimed the pirogue for the embankment to the right of the boathouse and gave a strong, deep stroke.
“Belay that!” Pendergast cried suddenly, reversing his own paddle and thrusting the pirogue sideways. There, in the murky water, floated a naked arm, white as ivory in the dusk. Before Chambers could say anything, Pendergast had slipped his paddle over the thing and drew it to the side of the boat.
“No, wait—”
Pendergast reached over and grabbed it with his hand, drawing it upward and examining it closely, paying particular attention to the severed area. He gave a loud sniff and then released it back into the water.
“Remarkably fresh. We’ll collect it later—no doubt the conflagration will keep any carnivores at bay.”
He dug his paddle into the water, and they once again stroked toward the embankment—but before they could get very far, the pirogue nudged something soft, floating just under the surface. A body.
“And here’s the rest of it—I believe,” said Pendergast, pulling out his light and shining it on the body—missing an arm. There was a strange uncertainty in his voice. He used the paddle to turn it over, then played the light over a ghastly white face.
“Good God, it’s Wickman!” Pendergast said in astonishment.
“What the hell?” Chambers stared. It was unmistakably Wickman: the same Irish setter face and long nose as in the photograph Kroker had shown them at the funeral home.
Pendergast pushed the body roughly away with his paddle. “Someone got to him before us. We must get into the house before it goes up in flames—and all the precious evidence with it.”
A few more strokes brought them to the embankment, the bow of the pirogue sliding up on the grass.
“Oh heavens; what stuff is here?” Pendergast cried abruptly, his light now shining on something in the shallows.
Chambers turned to look—and saw yet another body, naked, also missing an arm, which bobbed gently in the water a few yards away.