Crooked River

56

The road through the swamp was like a tunnel in the darkness, at the end of which Coldmoon could now see the cluster of lights of a gate and guard station. He would have to get around that.

Moving as silently as possible, trying to become his grandfather Joe’s ghost, he exited the roadway and slipped into the warm, swampy water. Mosquitoes rose up around him, whining in his ears. The air was fetid with the smell of rotting wood and swamp gas. He had seen the occasional alligator as he’d driven in, and he was all too aware there were also snakes and God only knew what else in back bayous like these. He hadn’t been especially afraid of poisonous snakes while growing up. With a little care, you could avoid rattlers. But that was before he’d been bitten by a water moccasin on his first assignment with Pendergast. Christ, had that been less than a month ago? At the time, he’d promised himself he’d never look at a swamp again, let alone go near one. There were no swamps in Colorado: that’s one of the reasons he’d requested the position. And look at him now.

He’d heard one could see the reflection of a gator’s eyes in a flashlight beam, but he was in no position to turn his on. It was the blackest of nights, the only light being reflected from the brightly lit facility. The water was only a foot or two deep; below that, another foot of sucking mud, which made moving difficult and exhausting.

He slogged about a half mile from the road perpendicular to the facility, then made a ninety-degree turn and continued toward it. At any moment, he expected to feel fangs sink into his leg, or hear the sudden thrash of water as an alligator ambushed him. He glimpsed, from time to time through the cypress trunks, a flicker of lights of the guard station. Soon he had drawn almost even with it — and then, to his surprise, came up against a chain-link fence. A channel had been cleared on the far side, providing access for an airboat, probably operated by the guards at the gate. Incredible to think they had fenced a facility that was already isolated in a deep swamp in the middle of nowhere.

He took out his flashlight and — keeping the beam low — examined the fence, being careful not to touch it. He spied three wires along the top, running through insulated clips. The fence was electrified and, no doubt, alarmed as well.

He paused, thinking. A fence like this, running miles through a swamp, with dead trees, snags, birds, and animals, would probably generate a lot of false alarms. Not only that, but the storm was still picking up, the treetops swaying overhead. Even as he stood there, a smattering of heavy raindrops came down, hitting him in the face. He waded along the fence for another hundred yards until he found what he was looking for: a rotten tree standing close to the fence. He gave it a heave and, with a nasty mushy sound, it sagged into the fence, touching the wires. A few sparks popped.

Coldmoon retreated into the darkness, submerged himself in the water, and waited.

Sure enough: about ten minutes later, he heard the whir of an airboat and saw a spotlight pierce the murk. Two guards. They came to the leaning tree and illuminated it with their spotlight, accompanied by muttered cursing and the hiss of the radios. One of the men, wearing hip waders, got out and, using a hooked pole, pulled the rotten trunk free and shoved it over into the water.

After they left, Coldmoon continued walking alongside the fence, soon coming across another rotten candidate, this time on the far side of the fence. The wind was now blowing harder, along with gusts of rain, so the guards were unlikely to question why two trees fell onto the fence in quick succession.

Taking a piece of nylon parachute cord from his pack, Coldmoon climbed partway up the fence, looped the cord over the wires, then climbed back down. He then gave the cord a mighty pull, popping the wires out of their plastic clips, sparks flying in several directions. This time, he quickly climbed over the fence, avoiding the dangling live wires, then dropped down on the other side and gave the rotten tree a shove toward the fence. But this one wasn’t as rotten as the first, and he had a moment of panic when it refused to topple over. He laid his shoulder into it and, abruptly, the rotten upper portion broke off and came crashing down on the fence. He leapt aside, just missing getting clobbered.

The trunk ended up tangled in the wires. Coldmoon almost laughed — he couldn’t have asked for a better setup.

He headed on, slogging through the blackness as fast as he could move. In the distance, he heard the whine of the airboat returning to investigate. He wondered when he would encounter the next perimeter — and how hard it would be to penetrate that one.

He sure hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anybody.