sign. A thick red arrow below the letters pointed down the dirt road. Even on low beam, the headlights turned the fog into a blinding mirror and they crept through the forest on the winding, rutted road for almost two miles before the rustic main building of the lodge suddenly jumped out at them through the haze.
Quarter to five.
Walt Sunderson, a heavyset Swede with a florid complexion and a thick red moustache that dropped down almost to his jaw, stepped out on the porch of the log cabin. He was dressed in overalls and a thick flannel shirt under a padded Arctic jacket.
'Abe Stenner?' he called out, the word sounding flat and without resonance in the thick grey condensation.
'Yes, sir,' the detective said, getting out of the car.
'Just missed him,' Sunderson said in the melodramatic cadence peculiar to the Swedish. 'Darby hauled outta here ten, fifteen minutes ago. I got your boat ready, though, and a map of the marshes and blinds. Won't take you hardly any time at all to get rigged out. You can unpack when you get back. Don't even have to lock your car.'
'That's right civilized,' St Claire said, shoving a wad of tobacco under his lip with his thumb.
'Got plenty hot coffee, you betcha, ready for you in a thermos. Hope you like it black?'
They both nodded. Although Stenner preferred a pinch or two of sugar in his, they were eager to get started. Stenner and St Claire retrieved two shotguns in black leather cases from the trunk. St Claire was wearing a fur-lined ammo vest, its slots filled with 12-gauge shotgun shells. Stenner stuffed another box of rounds in one of the pockets of his army field jacket while Sunderson got the quart thermos. He led them down a long, narrow floating deck.
'Careful, fellas, can't see a thing in this soup.'
'Is it always this thick?' St Claire asked.
'Not in the daytime.'
The boat, a ten-foot, flat-bottomed skiff with a thirty hp motor riveted to the stern, lolled in the still water, barely distinguishable in the darkness and mist despite the heavy beam of a one hundred-watt floodlight nearby. Sunderson checked the floor of the skiff and, scowling and muttering to himself, went to a small shed at the end of the dock. He came back with a coil of heavy rope looped over his shoulder.
'Could have sworn I put an anchor and chain in your boat last night,' he said. 'I'll hitch up this line for you. There's lots of trees and stumps out there, you won't have any trouble finding something to tie up to.'
'That'll be fine,' Stenner said, clambering aboard behind St Claire, who had taken the stern and tiller. They set off into the windless, oppressive darkness, their faces and jackets dripping with condensation before they had travelled fifty yards.
'Kinda eerie,' St Claire said, following the beam of a small headlight mounted on the bow.
'Ah, 'death, to feel the fog in my throat, the mist in my face',' Stenner said softly.
'Didn't know you were a poet, Abel,' St Claire chuckled.
'I'm not. Robert Browning was.'
They fell silent and the boat moved slowly up the narrow creek, the motor gurgling behind them. Stenner held a small map trying to figure out where they were. Twenty minutes later Stenner could see another boat vaguely through the damp, shifting, strands of mist. It was tied to a fallen tree.
'Two of them,' Stenner whispered as they approached the blind.
The two hunters were dressed in camouflage suits and had thrown their life jackets into the stern of the boat. Neither one was Darby. Rushes swished along the sides of the skiff as St Claire guided it towards the blind. One of the men, who was tall and dissipated-looking, was taking a long pull from a gallon jug, holding it high in the crook of his arm and tilting his head back, letting the amber fluid run easily into his mouth. A large black lab with friendly eyes sat on the seat beside the other man and ruffed when he saw them coming through the fog.
'Morning,' the man beside the dog said cheerfully. He was a short fellow, bordering on fat, with a jowly face that became almost cherubic when he smiled.
'Morning,' Stenner said as St Claire reversed the engine and angled in beside their boat. The drinker lowered the jug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
