one.
66
THE CHANNEL TIGHTENED, AND PENDERGAST shut down the airboat engine. The silence that ensued seemed even louder than the roar of the boat had been.
Hayward glanced over at him. 'What now?'
Pendergast removed his suit jacket, draped it over his seat, and slid a pole out of its rack. 'Too tight to run the engine--we wouldn't want to snag a branch at three thousand RPMs. I'm afraid we have to pole.'
Pendergast took up a position in the stern and began poling the boat forward along an abandoned logging 'pull' channel, overhung with cypress branches and tangled stands of water tupelo. It was late afternoon, but the swamp was already in deep shadow. Overhead there was no hint of sun, just enveloping blankets of green and brown, layer upon layer. Now the sound of insects and birds swelled to fill the void left by the engine: strange calls, cries, twitters, drones, and whoops.
'I'll take over whenever you need a break,' Hayward said.
'Thank you, Captain.' The boat glided forward.
She consulted the two maps, laid out side by side: Tiny's map and the Google Earth printout. After two hours they had made it perhaps halfway to Spanish Island, but the densest, most maze-like part of the swamp lay ahead, past a small stretch of open water marked on the map as Little Bayou.
'What's your plan once we're past the bayou?' Hayward pointed at the printout. 'Looks pretty tight in there. And there are no more logging channels.'
'You'll take over the poling and I shall navigate.'
'And just how do you intend to navigate?'
'The currents flow east to west, toward the Mississippi River. As long as we keep in the west-flowing current, we'll never get dead-ended.'
'I haven't seen the slightest indication of a current since we began.'
'It's there.'
Hayward slapped at a whining mosquito. Irritated, she squeezed some more insect repellent into her hands and slathered it on her neck and face. Ahead now she could see, through the ribbed tree trunks, a glow of sunlight.
'The bayou,' she said.
Pendergast poled the boat forward, and the trees thinned. Suddenly they were out on open water, startling a family of coots that quickly took off, flapping low on the water. He racked the pole and fired up the engine, the airboat once again skimming over the mirror-like surface of the bayou, heading for the heavy tangle of green and brown at its western end. Hayward leaned back, savoring the cooling rush of air, the relative openness after the cloying and claustrophobic swamp.
When the bayou narrowed again--too soon--Pendergast slowed the boat. Minutes later, they stopped at a complicated series of inlets that seemed to go every which way, obscured by stickweed and water hyacinths.
Hayward peered at the map, then the printout, and then shrugged. 'Which one?' she asked.
Pendergast didn't answer. The engine was still idling. Suddenly he swung the boat a hundred eighty degrees and throttled it up; at the same time Hayward heard a rumble coming from all around them.
'What the
The airboat leapt forward with a great roar, back in the direction of the open bayou, but it was too late: a dozen bass boats with powerful outboards came growling out of the dark swamp from both sides of the narrow channel, blocking their retreat.
Pulling his gun, Pendergast fired at the closest boat; its engine cover flew off. Hayward pulled her own weapon as answering fire tore into the propeller of their airboat; with a great
Hayward took cover behind a seat, but--as she quickly reconnoitered--she realized the situation was hopeless. They had driven into an ambush and were now surrounded by bass boats and skiffs, manned by at least thirty people, all armed, all with guns aimed at them. And there in the lead boat stood Tiny, a TEC-9 in his fat paws.
'Stand up, both of you!' he said. 'Hands over your heads, nice and slow!' This was punctuated by a warning spray of gunfire over their heads.
Hayward glanced at Pendergast, also crouched behind the seat. Blood was trickling from a nasty cut on his forehead. He gave a curt nod, then rose, hands over his head, his handgun dangling by his thumb. Hayward did the same.
With a growl, Tiny brought his boat up alongside, a skinny man in its bow holding a big handgun. Tiny hopped out onto their boat, the airboat yawing with his weight. He reached up and took the guns from their hands. Examining Pendergast's Les Baer, he grunted in approval and shoved it in his belt. He took Hayward's Glock and tossed it onto the floor of his boat.
'Well, well.' He grinned, deposited a stream of tobacco juice into the water. 'I didn't know you enviros believed in guns.'
Hayward stared at him. 'You're making a serious mistake,' she said evenly. 'I'm a captain of homicide with the New York Police Department. And I am going to ask you to put down your weapon or face the consequences.'
An oleaginous smile bloomed on Tiny's face. 'That so?'
'I'm going to lower one hand to show you my identification,' said Hayward.
Tiny took a step forward. 'No, I think I'll find it myself.' Holding the TEC-9 to her head, he groped in her shirt pockets, first one, then the other, helping himself to a couple of generous feels in the process.
'Tits are real,' he said, to a burst of raucous laughter. 'Fucking monsters, too.'
