“Catch this!” Jordan yelled. “There’s a knife in it!”
Caitlin’s head cleared as though she’d been slapped. Looking up, she saw a dull flash of metal and somehow snatched it out of the air. Jordan’s multi-tool. Flicking open the largest blade, Caitlin sawed through the three straps. Then she looked up and threw the knife back at Jordan. By the time the tool clanged against the bottom of the boat, she had kicked free of the life jacket. With that freedom came the memory that Tom had been shot in the shoulder on Tuesday night.
Which shoulder was the bandage on? The left.
Caitlin screeched in terror as something bumped against her leg, then scooted away. It hadn’t felt like a fish, unless it was a damned big one. A gar, maybe. Or a catfish.
“Caitlin!” Jordan shouted. “Get back in this boat and wait for the chopper!”
Caitlin shoved all her fear down into a deep hole, took a huge breath, then dived deep under the tree and kicked hard. When she felt mud, she rolled over and opened her eyes.
She could see amazingly well, but what she saw almost made her vomit. The corpse had no left shoulder. It had been eaten away. Likewise both hands. Fighting panic that scrambled in her chest like a crazed animal, she grabbed a limb that was jammed into the mud and tried desperately to remember her thoughts only moments ago.
Gray chest hair . . .
She couldn’t see any hair on the chest. As she stared, something long and dark passed between her and the body, then disappeared. Primal terror surged through every fiber of her being. She let go of the branch and drove her feet against the bottom, desperate to reach the surface. As she broke through to air and sunlight, the last thing she had seen finally registered in her cerebral cortex.
Black pubic hair.
At the crotch of what remained of the dead man’s legs, a thick thatch of black hair had been plainly visible. Caitlin had never seen Tom naked, but Penn’s father was seventy-three years old, and he had silver-white hair and a beard of the same color. No way was his pubic hair black.
Jordan had braced one hand against the gunwale of the johnboat and was holding out a small boat paddle.
“Grab it!” she cried. “Grab it, goddamn it!”
“It’s not Tom!” Caitlin shouted. “It’s not Tom!”
“Thank God. Now get your crazy ass back in here.”
She grabbed the paddle but found herself too weak to pull. Mose Tyler took the paddle from Jordan and hauled Caitlin to the edge of the boat with surprising strength. Then an eerie hissing sent adrenaline surging through her again. She jerked her head in every direction, looking for snakes or any other threat, but it was only the sound of fresh rain on the water. As her heartbeat steadied, Mose and Jordan reached down and dragged her up into the listing boat. When Caitlin came over the gunwale and collapsed onto the green metal bottom, she heard the heavy beat of approaching rotor blades.
“It’s not Tom,” she said again, relief flooding through her like a drug.
Jordan knelt above her and looked into her eyes like a doctor examining a patient. Apparently satisfied that she was not seriously hurt, Jordan said, “Not bad, little sister. Not bad at all.”
“Crazy is what dat was,” Mose said. “Craziest damn thing I ever saw.”
Caitlin felt a sudden panic, as in a nightmare when she’d lost something but didn’t know what it was. Then she knew.
The map.
She dug into her pocket and pulled out what remained: a soggy mess like wet toilet paper, faintly stained with blue ink.
“I lost the map,” she said. “Toby’s map.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Jordan said, squeezing her hand. “It’s nothing.”
TEN SECONDS AGO, KAISER took out his phone and summoned two agents to drag me out of the interrogation room. As pounding feet sound in the hall, I see Sonny Thornfield pick up the pen I used to create the puzzle pieces and begin writing on the large page.
“Look!” I cry. “John, look!”
The door crashes open, and two agents rush into the room. Kaiser holds up his hand long enough to look where I’m pointing, then walks to the metal table. After looking down at the page, he motions me forward.
With his trembling hand, Sonny Thornfield has written seven uppercase letters in the blank square next to Viola Turner’s name. My breath goes shallow as I read the childishly written letters:
TOM CAGE
Sonny lays down the pen and then looks up at me, his eyes filled not with triumph or revenge, but with some unreadable emotion.
“You happy now?” he asks hoarsely. “Is that what you wanted?”
I cannot voice the thought that has arced through my mind like a rocket against a black sky: Two nights ago, Brody Royal told me my father killed Viola. Now Sonny Thornfield has told me the same thing.
“Let’s go, Penn,” Kaiser says, signaling the two agents to help me out of the room.
“He’s lying, John,” I insist, as much to myself as to Kaiser. “How could he possibly know that?” I lunge at Sonny, but strong hands yank me back, and a thick forearm locks around my neck. “How could you know that unless you were there?” I shout.
Kaiser lays the flat of his hand on my chest. “Penn, I’m on your side, but you need to step out of this room.”
I start to protest when my cell phone rings. “Let me answer, John!”
Kaiser nods, and after a moment the agents release me. I pull my phone from my pocket and answer it. “Caitlin?” I ask, my arm and voice shaking.
“Penn! Can you hear me? Stay on . . . we’re airborne and climbing!”
My heart leaps at the sound of her voice. “I hear you!” I yell into the static. “Whose body was it? Was it Dad? Tell me now!”
“No! It wasn’t Tom! Repeat, not your father. It was a much younger man. The sheriff’s office down here thinks it’s one of those missing boys from Vidalia, Casey Whelan.”