... chapter twenty-nine
The capsized boat floated into an uprooted cedar, extending into the river, and stopped.
The deputies waited a few moments. There was no movement other than the rocking of the shattered vessel. The water was ruddy but Lucy couldn't tell if the color was due to blood or was from the fiery sunset.
Pale, troubled Jesse Corn glanced at Lucy, who nodded. All three of the other deputies kept their guns on the boat as Jesse waded out and flipped it over.
The remnants of several torn water jugs bobbed out and floated leisurely downstream. There was no one underneath.
"What happened?" Jesse asked. "I don't get it."
"Hell," Ned muttered bitterly. "They set us up. It was a goddamn ambush."
Lucy hadn't believed that her anger could get any more consuming. But it now seized her like raw electric current. Ned was right; Amelia had used the boat like one of Nathan Groomer's decoys and ambushed them from the far shore.
"No," Jesse protested. "She wouldn't do that. If she shot it was just to scare us. Amelia knows her way 'round firearms. She could've hit Ned, she'd wanted to."
"Goddamnit, Jesse, open your eyes, will you?" Lucy snapped. "Firing from heavy cover like that? Doesn't matter how good a shot you are; she still could've missed. And on water? There could've been a ricochet. Or Ned might've panicked and swum into a bullet."
Jesse Corn had no response for that. He rubbed his face with his palms and stared out over the far shore.
"Okay, here's what we're doing," Lucy said in a low voice. "It's getting late. We're going as far as we can while there's still some light. Then we'll have Jim bring us some supplies for the night. We'll be camping out. We're going to assume they're gunning for us and we're going to act accordingly. Now, let's get across the bridge and look for their trail. Everybody locked and loaded?"
Ned and Trey said they were. Jesse Corn stared at the shattered boat for a moment then slowly nodded.
"Then let's go."
The four deputies started over the fifty yards of unprotected bridge--but they didn't walk in a cluster. They were in a long line so that if Amelia Sachs were to shoot again she couldn't hit more than one of them before the others got to cover and could return fire. The formation was Trey's idea, one that he got from a World War II movie, and because he'd thought of it he assumed he'd take the point position. But that was the spot Lucy Kerr insisted on taking for herself.
"You came damn close to hitting him."
Harris Tomel said, "No way."
But Culbeau persisted. "I said, scare 'em. You'd hit Ned, you know what kinda shit we'd be in?"
"I know what I'm doing, Rich. Give me a little credit, okay?"
Fucking schoolboy, Culbeau thought.
The three men were on the north shore of the Paquo, trekking along a path that followed the river.
In fact, while Culbeau was pissed that Tomel had fired too close to the deputy swimming out to the boat, he was sure the sniping had worked. Lucy and the other deputies'd be skittish as sheep now and would move nice and slow.
The shooting also had another beneficial effect--Sean O'Sarian was spooked and was being quiet for a change.
They walked for twenty minutes then Tomel asked Culbeau, "You know the boy's going in this direction?"
"Yep."
"But you don't have any idea where he's gonna end up."
"'Course not," Culbeau said. "If I did we could just go there direct, right?"
Come on, schoolboy. Use your fucking noggin.
"But--"
"Don't worry. We're gonna find him."
"Can I have some water?" O'Sarian finally asked.
"Water? You want water?"
O'Sarian said complacently, "Yeah, that's what I'd like."
Culbeau glanced at him suspiciously and handed him a bottle. He'd never known the scrawny young man to actually drink something that wasn't beer, whisky or 'shine. He drank it down, wiped a mouth surrounded by freckles and tossed the bottle aside.
Culbeau sighed. He said sarcastically, "Hey now, Sean, you sure you want to leave something with your fingerprints on the trail?"
"Oh, right." The skinny man scurried into the brush and retrieved it. "Sorry."
Sorry? Sean O'Sarian apologizing? Culbeau stared for a moment in disbelief then nodded them all forward again.
They came to a bend in the river and, being on high ground, they could see for miles downstream.
Tomel said, "Hey, look up there. There's a house. Bet the boy and the redhead've headed that way."
Culbeau sighted through the 'scope of his deer rifle. About two miles down the valley was an A-frame vacation house, just about on the river. It'd be a logical hiding place for the boy and the woman cop to hole up. He nodded. "Bet they are. Let's go."
Downstream from the Hobeth Bridge, the Paquenoke River makes a sharp bend to the north.
It's shallow here, near the shore, and the muddy shoals are piled high with driftwood and vegetation and trash.
Like skiffs adrift, two human forms floating in the water now missed the turn and were eased by the current into this refuse heap.
Amelia Sachs let go of the plastic water jug--her improvised flotation device--and reached out a wrinkled hand to grip a branch. She then realized that this wasn't a very smart thing to do because her pockets were filled with rocks for ballast and she felt herself being tugged downward into the dusky water. But she straightened her legs and found the river bottom only four feet below the surface. She stood unsteadily and slogged forward. Garrett appeared beside her a moment later and helped her out of the water onto the muddy ground.
They crawled up a slight incline, through a tangle of bushes, and collapsed in a grassy clearing, lay there for a few minutes, caught their breath. She pulled the plastic bag out of her shirt. It had leaked slightly but there wasn't any serious water damage. She handed him his insect book and opened the cylinder of her gun then rested it on a clump of brittle, yellow grass to dry.
She'd been wrong about what Garrett had planned. They had slipped empty water jugs under the overturned boat for buoyancy but then he'd shoved it into midstream without getting underneath it. He'd told her to fill her pockets with rocks. He'd done the same and they hurried downstream past the boat, fifty feet or so, and slipped into the water, each holding a half-full water jug for flotation. Garrett showed her how to lean her head back. With the rocks for ballast only their faces were above the water. They'd float downstream on the current ahead of the boat.
"The diving bell spider does this," he'd told her. "Like a scuba diver. Carries his air around with him." He'd done this several times in the past to "get away," though--just like earlier--he didn't elaborate on why he'd been escaping and from whom. Garrett had explained that if the police weren't at the bridge they'd swim over to the boat, beach it, drain out the water and continue on their way, rowing with the oars. If the deputies were on the bridge their attention would be on the boat and they wouldn't notice Garrett and Amelia floating ahead of it. Once past the bridge they'd kick to shore and continue their journey on foot.
Well, he'd been right about that part; they'd gotten under the bridge undetected. But Sachs was still shocked at what had happened next--unprovoked, the deputies had fired round after round at the overturned boat.
Garrett too was badly shaken by the gunshots. "They thought we were under there," he whispered. "Fuckers tried to kill us."
Sachs said nothing.
He added, "I've done some bad things ... but I'm no phymata"
"What's that?"
"An ambush bug. Lies in wait and kills. That's what they were going to do with us. Just, like, shoot us. Not give us any chance at all."
Oh, Lincoln, she thought, what a mess this is. Why did I do it? I should just surrender now. Wait here for the deputies, give it up. Go back to Tanner's Corner and try to make amends.
But she looked over at Garrett, hugging himself, shivering with fear. And she knew she couldn't turn back now.
She'd have to keep going, play this crazy game out.
Knuckle time ...
"Where do we go now?"
"See that house there?"
A brown A-frame.
"Is Mary Beth there?"
"Naw, but they've got a little trolling boat we can borrow. And we can get dry and get some food."
Well, what did a count of breaking and entering matter after tallying up her criminal charges today?
Garrett suddenly picked up her pistol. She froze, watching the blue-black gun in his hands. Knowingly he looked in the chambers and saw it was loaded with six rounds. He clicked the cylinder into the frame of the gun and balanced it in his hand with a familiarity that unnerved her.
Whatever you think about Garrett, don't trust him ...
He glanced at her and gave a grin. Then he handed her the gun butt first. "Let's go this way." Nodding toward a path.
She replaced the weapon in her holster, feeling the flutter of her heart from the scare.
They walked toward the house. "It's empty?" Sachs asked, nodding toward the structure.
"Nobody's there now." Garrett paused and looked back. After a moment he muttered, "They're pissed now, the deputies. And they're after us. With all their guns and things. Shit." He turned and led her along a path to the house. He was silent for a few minutes. "You wanta know something, Amelia?"
"What?"
"I was thinking about this moth--the grand emperor moth?"
"What about it?" she asked absently, hearing in her memory the terrible shotgun blasts, meant for her and this boy. Lucy Kerr, trying to kill her. The echoes of the shots obscured everything else in her mind.
"The coloring on its wings?" Garrett told her. "Like, when they're open, they look just like an animal's eyes. I mean, it's pretty cool--there's even a white dot in the corner like a reflection of light in the pupil. Birds see that and think it's a fox or a cat and it scares them off."
"Can't the birds smell that it's a moth and not an animal?" she asked, not concentrating on the conversation.
He looked at her for a moment to see if she was joking. He said, "Birds can't smell," as if she'd just asked if the world was flat. He looked behind them, up the river again. "We'll have to slow 'em down. How close you think they are?"
"Very close," she said.
With all their guns and things.
"It's them."
Rich Culbeau was looking at the footprints in the mud of the shore. "The trail's only ten, fifteen minutes old."
"And they're heading for the house," Tomel said.
They moved cautiously up a path.
O'Sarian still wasn't acting weird. Which for him actually was weird. And scary. He hadn't snuck any hits of 'shine, hadn't been pranking, hadn't even been talking-- and Sean was the number one motormouth in Tanner's Corner. The shooting at the river had really shaken him. Now, as they walked through the woods, he swung the muzzle of the black soldier rifle around fast at every sound from the brush. "Did you see that nigger shoot?" he said finally. "Must've put ten slugs in that boat in less than a minute."
"Was pellets," Harris Tomel corrected.
And instead of challenging him and trying to impress them with what he knew about guns (and acting like the all-purpose asshole he was), O'Sarian just said, "Oh, buckshot. Right. I should've thought of that." And nodded like a kid in school who'd just learned something new and interesting.
They moved closer to the house. It looked like a nice place, Culbeau thought. A vacation house probably-- maybe some lawyer's or doctor's from Raleigh or Winston-Salem. A good hunting lodge, full bar, nice bedrooms, a freezer for venison.
"Hey, Harris," O'Sarian asked.
Culbeau'd never known the boy to use anybody's first name.
"What?"
"This thing shoot high or low?" Holding up the Colt.
Tomel glanced at Culbeau, probably also trying to figure out where the weird part of O'Sarian had gone.
"First one's right on the money but it'll kick higher than you're used to. Drop the muzzle for the next shots."
"Because the stock's plastic," O'Sarian asked, "so it's lighter than wood?"
"Yeah."
He nodded again, his face even more serious than earlier. "Thanks."
Thanks?
The woods ended and the men could see a large clearing around the house--easily fifty yards in all directions without even a sapling for cover. The approach'd be tough.
"Think they're inside?" Tomel asked, kneading his gorgeous shotgun.
"I don't-- Wait, get down!"
The three men crouched fast.
"I saw something downstairs. Through that window to the left." Culbeau looked through the 'scope on the deer rifle. "Somebody's moving around. On the ground floor. I can't see too good, with the blinds. But there's definitely somebody there." He scanned the other windows. "Shit!" A panicked whisper. He dropped to the ground.
"What?" O'Sarian asked, alarmed, gripping his gun and spinning around.
"Get down! One of 'em's got a rifle with a 'scope. They're sighting right at us. Upstairs window. Damn."
"Gotta be the girl," Tomel said. "That boy's too much of a faggot to know which end the bullet comes out."
"Fuck that bitch," Culbeau muttered. O'Sarian was easing behind a tree, hugging his 'Nam gun close to his cheek.
"She's got the whole field covered from here," Culbeau said.
"We wait till it's dark?" Tomel asked.
"Oh, with little miss tit-less deputy coming up behind us? I don't think that'll work, now, Harris, will it?"
"Well, can you hit her from here?" Tomel nodded toward the window.
"Probably," Culbeau said, sighing. He was about to start ragging on Tomel when O'Sarian said in a weirdly normal voice, "But if Rich shoots, then Lucy and th'others'll hear. I think we oughta flank 'em. Go around the side and try and get inside. A shot'd be a lot quieter in there."
Which was just what Culbeau was about to say.
"That'll take a half hour," Tomel snapped, probably pissed at being outthought by O'Sarian.
Who remained at the top of his uncrazy form. The young man clicked the safety off his gun and squinted toward the house. "Well, I'd say we gotta make it take less than half an hour. Whatta you think, Rich?"
... chapter thirty
Steve Farr led Henry Davett into the lab once again. The businessman thanked Farr, who left, and nodded to Rhyme.
"Henry," Rhyme said, "thank you for coming."
As before, the businessman paid no attention to Rhyme's condition. This time, though, Rhyme took no comfort from his attitude. His concern for Sachs was consuming him. He kept hearing Jim Bell's voice.
You usually have twenty-four hours to find the victim; after that they become dehumanized in ilie kidnapper's eyes and he doesn't think anything about killing them.
This rule, which had applied to Lydia and Mary Beth, now encompassed Amelia Sachs's fate too. The difference was, Rhyme believed, that Sachs might have far fewer than twenty-four hours.
"I thought you'd caught that boy. That's what I heard."
Ben said, "He got away from us."
"No!" Davett frowned.
"Sure did," Ben offered. "Old-fashioned jailbreak."
Rhyme: "I've got some more evidence but I don't know what to make of it. I was hoping you could help again."
The businessman sat down. "I'll do what I can."
A glance at his WWJD tie bar.
Rhyme nodded toward the chart, said, "Could you look that over? The list on the right."
"The mill--is that where he was? That old mill northeast of town?"
"Right."
"I knew about the place." Davett grimaced angrily. "I should've thought of it."
Criminalists can't let the verb "should have" creep into their vocabulary. Rhyme said, "It's impossible to think of everything in this business. But take a look at the chart. Does anything on it seem familiar to you?"
Davett read carefully.
FOUND
AT THE SECONDARY CRIME SCENE-MILL
Brown Paint on Pants
Sundew Plant
Clay
Peat Moss
Fruit Juice
Paper Fibers
Stinkball Bait
Sugar
Camphene
Alcohol
Kerosene
Yeast
As he gazed at the list he said in a distracted voice, "It's like a puzzle."
"That's the nature of my job," Rhyme said.
"How much can I speculate?" the businessman asked.
"As much as you'd like," Rhyme said.
"All right," Davett said. He thought for a moment then said, "A Carolina bay."
Rhyme asked, "What's that? A horse?"
Davett glanced at Rhyme to see if he was joking. Then said, "No, it's a geologic structure you see on the Eastern Seaboard. Mostly, though, they're found in the Carolinas. North and South. They're basically oval ponds, about three or four feet deep, freshwater. They could be a half acre big or a couple of hundred. The bottom of them is mostly clay and peat. Just what's on the chart there."
"But clay and peat--they're pretty common around here," Ben said.
"They are," Davett agreed. "And if you'd found just those two things I wouldn't have a clue where they came from. But you found something else. See, one of the most interesting characteristics about Carolina bays is that insect-killer plants grow around them. You see hundreds of Venus flytraps, sundews and pitcher plants around bays--probably because the ponds promote insects. If you found a sundew along with clay and peat moss then there's no doubt the boy's spent time around a Carolina bay."
"Good," Rhyme said. Then, gazing at the map, asked, "What does 'bay' mean? An inlet of water?"
"No, it refers to bay trees. They grow around the ponds. There're all sorts of myths about them. Settlers used to think they were carved out of the land by sea monsters or witches casting spells. Meteorites were a theory for a few years. But they're really just natural depressions caused by wind and currents of water."
"Are they unique to a particular area around here?" Rhyme asked, hoping that they'd help narrow down the search.
"To some extent." Davett rose and walked to the map. With his finger he circled a large area to the west of Tanner's Corner. Location B-2 to E-2 and F-13 to B-12. "You'll find them mostly here, in this area, just before you get to the hills."
Rhyme was discouraged. What Davett had circled must have included seventy or eighty square miles.