“No. Where are we?”
“Close to where you found that boy’s body earlier. We just comin’ at it from a different way, in case there’s still cops out here.”
Are we? she wondered. The pirogue soon glided out into a circular pool like the one in which she’d wrestled Casey Whelan’s torso into a helicopter’s rescue basket. But was it the same? Yes. . . .
An exhilarating shudder of recognition went through her. “We’re close to that game fence, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” Harold said. “You don’t see any deputies, do you?”
“No.”
“Hear anything?”
She listened for a moment. “No. Nothing.”
“Like I said . . . Sheriff Ellis don’t want anybody to find that tree.”
“Are you saying he already knows where it is?”
Harold shrugged. “I know he hunts over on Valhalla every fall.”
“How do you know that?”
“I done worked over there as a guide. I seen the sheriff cozying up to country singers and football players.”
“How far away is the hole in the game fence?”
“A little farther on. This rain will make it easier to get to by boat. When the water’s low, you got to walk the last fifty yards.”
Harold eased back on the throttle, then cut the motor altogether as they drifted into a narrow channel between two grassy tussocks.
“Look,” he whispered, and something in his voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
“Where?”
“You can’t see that hog?”
Caitlin froze as her eyes locked with the eyes of a wild hog even larger than the ones she and Jordan had seen by the road earlier.
“Is it dangerous?” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t get out of the boat if I was you. She might have babies close by.”
As Caitlin stared at the massive animal in the eerie silence, she heard a low whine from somewhere to her left. It sounded like a truck passing on a distant road. “What’s that?”
“Boat,” Harold whispered. “Somebody’s still down here.”
“What do we do?”
“Keep going.”
He restarted the trolling motor and left the two tussocks behind. As they hummed through the trees, she realized that the trunks of the cypresses were getting closer together.
A cracking boom like thunder echoed through the trees from somewhere to their right. Whirling, she saw Harold cock his head as though gauging distance and direction.
“Was that a rifle?” she asked.
“Yeah. Somebody’s shooting over at Valhalla. Probably took a deer.”
“How far away?”
He rubbed his chin with an audible scratching sound. “A mile. Maybe two.”
“Is it hunting season now?”
“Ute season.”
“Ute? What’s that?”
“That’s when little boys can hunt, but their daddies can’t.”
“Ah . . .” She felt embarrassed for misunderstanding him the first time.
Harold increased speed through the narrow channel. The tall wire fence appeared to the right of the boat. Caitlin experienced the disturbing feeling Jordan had spoken of, that they were at the edge of a prison camp. This afternoon Caitlin wasn’t sure whether she was on the inside of the fence or the outside. Suddenly Harold cut the motor, and the pirogue drifted to a stop.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Listen. Outboard again. That other boat’s closer now.”
“I don’t hear it. Where?”
He pointed at the fence. “It’s on that side.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you didn’t pay me enough for this gig.”
A tingle of fear and frustration went through her. “I’ll add five hundred to the pot. Let’s just get to that damned tree.”
Harold stared through the fence, seemingly weighing odds.
“Get your pistol out,” he said. “Keep it in your hand.”
Caitlin’s fear kicked up several notches. She let go of her phone and took the 9 mm from her pocket. As she did, she saw her Coach purse lying in two inches of water at the bottom of the pirogue.
“Cock it,” Harold said. “But be careful you don’t shoot me by mistake.”
Caitlin cycled the slide with a violent motion. The metallic snick of machined parts echoed off the trees and back over the water. Then she tensed both forearms, holding the gun the way Tom had taught her.
“What am I watching for?” she asked in a quavering voice.
“White men,” Harold said. “Maybe in a boat, maybe on foot. Maybe even on horseback. You never know what them crackers get up to.”
Caitlin shivered at this prospect. “What do I do if I see somebody?”
“Keep your gun lower. Yeah, like that. Out of sight. Let me do the talking. You a smart lady. You see it goin’ bad, you start pulling that trigger and don’t stop.”
“Okay.”
“Can you hit what you aim at?”
Caitlin remembered Tom teaching her how to shoot. “I can hit bottles on a fencepost.”
“Then you can hit a man. Just be on the lookout.”
Harold started the motor and continued up the channel. They followed the game fence for a couple of minutes, then Harold guided the bow onto a shallow slope of mud until they scraped to a stop.
Caitlin’s heart thumped in anticipation.
With the cold gun butt clenched in her hand, she scanned the surrounding trees while Harold tugged on a pair of knee-high rubber boots and climbed out. Wading into the dark water, he went to the game fence, took a pair of pliers from his jacket, and pulled open a four-foot-by-four-foot gap.
“What about the other hole?” she asked.
“Somebody might be watching that. Could be a game camera there, no telling. We gonna go through here to be safe. The Chain Tree ain’t far.”
He tugged the pirogue back into deeper water, then climbed in, started the motor, and steered them through the opening as sweet as you please.
“What would the white men do if they knew you put a hole in their fence?”