Fever Dream

When he pulled onto the small highway, his cell phone rang. He picked it up: Judson. Shit.

'I'm almost there,' came Judson's voice. 'How'd it go?'

'Something messed up. And I mean messed up.'

By the time Ventura arrived at his neatly kept compound at the edge of the swamp, Esterhazy's pickup was already there. The tall man stood next to the bed of the truck, dressed in khaki, unloading guns. Ventura pulled up and got out. Esterhazy turned toward him, his face dark.

'What happened to your car?' he asked.

'The swampers attacked it. Over in Malfourche.'

'Didn't they take care of things?'

'No. Tiny came back with a neck wound and nobody had their guns. They wanted to string me up. I've got a big problem on my hands.'

Esterhazy stared at him. 'So those two are still heading to Spanish Island?'

'It seems so.'

Esterhazy looked past Ventura's rambling whitewashed house and wide, billiard-table lawn to the private dock, where Ventura's three boats were tied up: a Lafitte skiff, a brand-new bass boat with a hydraulic jack plate and a Humminbird console, and a powerful airboat. His jaw tightened. He reached into the pickup bed and removed the last gun case. 'It would appear,' he said slowly, 'that we're going to have to handle the problem ourselves.'

'And right away. Because if they reach Spanish Island, it's over.'

'We won't let it get that far.' Esterhazy squinted toward the sunset. 'Depending on how fast they're moving, they might be getting close already.'

'They're moving slowly. They don't know the swamp.'

Esterhazy looked at the bass boat. 'With that two fifty Yamaha, we might just be able to intercept them when they cross that old logging pullboat canal near Ronquille Island. You know what I'm talking about?'

'Of course,' said Ventura, irritated that Esterhazy might even question his knowledge of the swamp.

'Then put these guns in the boat and let's get moving,' said Judson. 'I've got an idea.'

69

Black Brake Swamp

A BUTTERY MOON ROSE AMONG THE MASSIVE trunks of the bald cypresses, spreading a faint light through the night-darkened swamp. The boat's spotlight cast a beam into the tangle of trees and other vegetation ahead, now and then illuminating pairs of glowing eyes. Hayward knew most of the eyes belonged to frogs and toads, but nevertheless felt herself growing seriously spooked. Even if the strange stories she'd heard as a child about Black Brake were legends, she knew the place was nevertheless infested with very real alligators and venomous snakes. She poled the bass boat forward, drenched in sweat, walking the pole from the middle backward. Larry's shirt felt coarse and itchy against her bare skin. Pendergast lay on the front deck, maps spread out, examining them intently with the aid of his flashlight. It had been a long, slow journey, full of dead ends, false leads, and painstaking navigation.

Pendergast shone his light into the water and dropped a pinch of dirt from a cup overboard, testing the current. 'A mile or less,' he murmured, going back to the maps.

She poled, walked back to the stern, pulled the pole up, walked forward, stuck it into the muddy bottom again. She felt as if she were drowning in the greenish black jungle that surrounded them. 'What if the camp's gone?'

No answer. The moon rose higher, and Hayward breathed the deep, moist, fragrant air. A mosquito flew into her ear, buzzing frantically. She smacked it, flicked it away.

'Up ahead is the last logging channel,' Pendergast said. 'Beyond that lies the final stretch of swamp before Spanish Island.'

The boat nosed through a patch of rotting water hyacinth, the sour vegetative smell rising from the water and enveloping them.

'Turn off the spotlight and running lights, please,' Pendergast said. 'We don't want to alert them to our approach.'

Hayward switched off the lights. 'You really think there's a 'them' there?'

'I'm quite sure something is there. Why go to such lengths to stop us?'

As her eyes adjusted, Hayward found herself surprised at just how much light there was in the swamp under the full moon. Ahead, through the tree trunks, she could see a lane of shimmering water. In a moment the boat had slipped into the logging channel, now half overgrown with duckweed and hyacinth. The branches of the cypresses knitted together overhead, forming a tunnel.

Suddenly the boat stopped dead. Hayward lurched forward, using the pole to keep herself steady.

'We've snagged something beneath the surface,' Pendergast said. 'Probably a root or a fallen tree branch. See if you can't pole around it.'

Hayward pushed herself against the pole. The stern of the boat swung around, impacting heavily against a cypress trunk. The vessel shuddered and swayed, then came loose from the obstruction. As Hayward leaned into the pole, preparing to launch them back into the logging channel, she saw something long, glistening, and black slip from the branches overhead and fall across her shoulders. It slithered around the skin of her neck, cool and dry, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out in surprise and revulsion.

'Don't move,' said Pendergast. 'Not a muscle.'

She waited, willing herself to stay still, as Pendergast took a slow step toward her, then stopped and balanced