The figure moved quietly through the tall salt grass, barely more than a passing shadow in the near-moonless night. Although the wildlife preserve west of Exmouth was invariably deserted, and the man was in a great hurry, he was nevertheless careful to be as quiet as possible: the only sounds were the swish of the dry grass as he passed and the faint sucking sounds when he traversed one of the frequent mudflats.
The trek was a long one—an hour and a half—but he had made it many times before and was used to the journey. He did not mind the darkness; in fact, he welcomed it.
At the boundary of the wildlife preserve he paused to shift his pack from one shoulder to another and look around. The tide was ebbing fast, and his night-accustomed vision could see that the receding water had exposed a labyrinth of pools, flats, marshy islands, and low swamplands. The land seemed cloaked in a watchful silence, although a steady wind was starting to pick up. He hurried on, more quickly than before—he’d have to be on his way back before the turn of the tide if he didn’t want to be marooned in these wastes.
Deep in the swamps, the tall grass grew denser until it seemed more jungle than marsh. But here, too, the figure knew his way. He was now following the faintest of paths, recognizable as a trail only to the most experienced eye. He’d given nicknames to many of the various landmarks he passed: an irregularly shaped tidal pool was the Oilstain; a heavily twisted clump of salt grass, dried-out and dead, was Hurricane. These landmarks helped him navigate. At Hurricane, he turned sharp left, still following the secret, near-invisible trail. He was almost there. The wind was now driving hard, filling the air with the dry rattle of stalks.
Ahead in the darkness, the grass became a wall he almost had to push his way through. And then, suddenly, he came into a small clearing, less than fifty feet in diameter. In the faint light of the obscured moon, he glanced around. The clearing was a riot of disorder. To one side was a huge trash heap, from which led a trail of garbage: chicken and fish bones, empty food cans, turnip tops. In the middle of the clearing were the smoldering coals of a fire. And across from the trash heap was an ancient canvas tent, torn and filthy with dirt and grease. Utensils and a few provisions were scattered around it: a frying pan, jugs of fresh water. Behind the tent, he could smell, rather than see, a steaming pile of dung. The camp was deserted—by all signs, very recently.
The man glanced around again. Then he called out quietly: “Dunkan? Dunkan?”
For a moment, all was still. And then a man emerged from the wall of salt grass on the far side of the camp. Joe was used to the sight, but even so it always sent an electric tickle of anxiety through him. The man was dressed in tatters: apparently a dozen or so rotting garments, their original use now unguessable, fashioned together and carefully gathered around his limbs almost like a sarong. He had wiry red hair and a monobrow, and a long, greasy beard was twisted into three points with strange fastidiousness. He was all hair and sinew, and he looked at Joe with wild eyes that nevertheless glinted with cunning and intelligence. A flint knife was in one hand; a long, rusted bayonet in the other. Clearly, he had heard Joe’s approach and had taken refuge in the grasses.
“What is it?” the man named Dunkan said in a voice hoarse from little use. “You aren’t supposed to come tonight.”
Joe let the pack drop from his shoulder to the ground. “You have to leave,” he said. “Right now.”
At these words, deep suspicion overcame Dunkan’s expression. “Yeah? Why?”
“That FBI man I told you about. He knows about you, he’s discovered your camp. I don’t know how, but he did. I heard him say so in the bar tonight. He’s coming here in the morning with the police.”
“I don’t believe it,” Dunkan said.
“Goddamn it, Dunkan, you have to believe it! It’s your fault. If you hadn’t killed Dana, none of this would have happened!”
Dunkan took a step forward, and Joe backed away. One of his hands slipped into his pants pocket and closed around the grip of a .22 pistol. Dunkan saw the gesture and stopped.
“Our brother had to die,” he said, eyes flashing. “He was trying to cheat me.”
“No, he wasn’t. How many times do I have to explain it? He put the jewels in a safe-deposit box until we could sell them. Nobody’s going to get cheated. There was no reason to get mad like that and kill him.”