Deadly Catch (17 page)

“Not funny, Mac. You be careful.”

“Oh, so you care?”

“Yes, I care. You owe me a steak dinner.”

Before daybreak I was up and dressed in a set of my Marine Corps camo utilities, called “fatigues” by the other services. They would be cool enough and should provide some protection from any mosquitoes and sand gnats that wanted to feast on me. I cranked the truck and drove east on Highway 98 for several miles, then turned north onto 319, retracing the route Kate and I had taken on our visit to Wakulla Springs. I passed the Wakulla turnoff and stopped in the little town of Crawfordton to grab a large coffee and a couple of sausage biscuits at a fast-food restaurant. I studied the map Kate had marked as I wolfed down my breakfast. I continued north for another three or four miles, then turned west onto the Forest Service road traced in yellow marker.

The dirt road wound for several miles through stands of tall pines and an occasional island of bald cypress growing in the lower areas. The road gradually narrowed until bushes were clawing both sides of my Silverado. After a mile of paint scraping, the road dead-ended where three sections of old telephone pole were sunk into the ground, blocking what was left of the road. A rusting, bullet-riddled sign on the middle pole read:
No Motorized Vehicles Beyond This Point.

I checked my watch: a quarter to eight. I turned the truck around and parked to one side of a small clearing that looked like it might hold five or six vehicles, providing most of them were VW Beetles or MINI Coopers. I gathered my pack and other gear from behind the seat, saddled up, and hit the trail, such as it was.

According to Sara, she and Maddie and Brett had disregarded the sign and ridden four-wheelers along this portion of the trail. She couldn’t remember just how far they’d traveled before they were forced to abandon them where the trail flooded out. There hadn’t been much rain lately, so I was hoping for the best. I didn’t relish slogging miles through a watery pathway with moccasins and alligators for company.

Gator Bay wasn’t your conventional “bay,” like an inlet of a gulf or ocean. This type “bay” was an area of higher ground isolated by swampland, creeks, or rivers, about twenty-five thousand acres in all. There were few accessible ways in or out of the wilderness area, and getting lost was a real possibility. I was glad I had my map and compass. The shotgun slung over my shoulder and the machete hanging from my belt upped my comfort level somewhat, too.

An hour later I was still treading on dry ground. I’d seen what could’ve passed for a side trail a few minutes back. I remembered Sara not being certain which trail they’d taken after parking the illegal four-wheelers and setting out on foot. I kept going, thinking that if I didn’t hit water or find another side trail soon, I’d double back and try that one. I wished now I’d invested in a GPS.

Another half hour, and the trail began to squish under my feet. A couple of hundred yards farther, and I was ankle-deep in water. That’s when I spotted a small clearing of higher ground just off to the left. There was evidence of low brush having been tramped down, and I noticed several broken branches. If the water level had been higher when Sara had been here, this would’ve been a good place to park and hide the four-wheelers.

I fished the compass from a pocket, aligned it on my map, and took a reading. The trail was heading more or less due north at this point. Grand Gator Lake lay more to the northwest, and Little Gator Lake a half mile farther on. Little Gator was where Sara said they’d made camp. From the distance I estimated I’d already walked, there would have to be a trail heading in that direction not too much farther ahead. If not, I’d have to backtrack and try the side trail I’d passed.

I pressed on, keeping my eyes peeled for snakes. I didn’t think gators would be a problem along the trail, but cottonmouths were a definite possibility. An occasional squirrel barked in the distance, and birds chattered and flitted in the thick brush on either side of the trail but mostly kept out of sight. So far, mosquitoes and gnats hadn’t pestered me enough to break out the bug juice.

Ten minutes later I stopped in my tracks and listened. Voices ahead. I didn’t want company. No telling who I might run into out here, so I eased off the trail about twenty yards and squatted behind a clump of saw palmettos that offered good concealment. The chatter grew louder, and in a couple of minutes three hikers came into view. They looked to be college age, walking single-file, a girl with a ponytail sandwiched between two guys. All were humping backpacks. The girl was holding a cell phone to her ear, nodding and laughing at whatever was being said. Each wore shorts, T-shirts, and ball caps. The guy walking tail-end-Charlie and the girl carried walking sticks; the point man had a walking stick in one hand and a machete clutched in the other. I watched them pass out of sight, gave them another two or three minutes, and then eased back onto the trail.

There hadn’t been any other vehicles where I’d left my truck. Maybe they’d come in by a different route or had arranged for someone to pick them up. Never too proud to learn a lesson, I unsheathed the machete, cut and trimmed a sapling suitable for a walking stick, and slogged on up the trail. A minute later a large blackish snake slithered across the surface a few feet ahead and disappeared into the brush and trees. It might’ve been a harmless water snake, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to chase after it to find out.

The water was knee-deep when a few minutes later I spotted what looked to be a game trail to my left. I sheathed the machete, grabbed a small tree for support, and scrambled up the two-foot embankment. I leaned my walking stick against a tree, grabbed my map and compass, and shot a reading. The trail led roughly northwest. I checked my watch. I’d been hiking about three hours and figured I’d covered around five or six miles. Odds were good that this was the trail I’d been seeking.

The trail was narrow but less than ankle-deep in most places, with canopy overhanging so low in areas that I was forced to walk bent over. I craned my neck, eyeballing the overhead brush. I damn sure didn’t want to wind up wearing a water moccasin as a necktie.

My back was aching when the trail finally gave way to a view of a beautiful lake ringed by magnificent cypress trees growing in the shallows. Grand Gator. The lake was roughly oval, maybe a half mile across from where I stood, and a mile wide end to end. A couple of ospreys circled above, their keen eyes searching the obsidian water for lunch. A dozen or more herons and egrets stalked among cypress knees, ready to spear a meal of their own.

I checked the grass around me for unwanted critters, shed my pack and other gear, and sat down for a rest. I grabbed a water bottle and a two granola bars from my pack and feasted while I studied the nearby surroundings. There were signs of a few old campfires here and there and a frayed clothesline strung between two trees. The sun reflected off a couple of discarded beer cans. So much for the hiker’s creed of leaving nothing behind but footprints. According to Sara, she, Maddie, and Brett had walked left—west—to the far end of the lake, and then taken a trail that lay hidden behind twin live oaks on the north side that led to Little Gator Lake.

It wasn’t noon yet, so I pulled off my boots and pointed the openings toward the sun to dry. I aired my feet for a while and then fished a dry pair of socks from my pack. In a few minutes I heard the droning of a small airplane. When it came into view there were no visible markings on the wings or fuselage. I watched as it flew over the lake and disappeared to the west. Was someone out for a joyride this beautiful summer day? A student taking lessons maybe, or the law searching the wilderness for marijuana plots?

After spending the better part of an hour resting and watching osprey hover and dive for fish, I put my nearly dry boots back on, saddled up my gear, and headed for the western end of Grand Gator. Reaching the north side, I had no trouble finding the twin live oaks whose sprawling, moss-covered branches spanned a good forty yards combined. A few minutes of searching revealed a narrow trail leading north. The entrance was concealed by a saw palmetto thicket, but the trail was a hell of an upgrade to the one I’d used to reach Grand Gator Lake.

The footpath was only a couple of feet wide and led through a forest of virgin pines towering above an undergrowth of palmetto and other low-growing brush. This was prime diamondback rattlesnake country, so I eyeballed the trail ahead and to both sides for any sign of movement or “branches” that might have fangs at one end and rattles on the other. I was beginning to wish I’d taken the salesman’s advice at Redmond’s Sporting Goods and bought those snake boots he’d recommended.

Little Gator Lake was a sight to behold. Maybe a third the size of Grand Gator, the water was a clear, pristine blue with a white sandy bottom, a sure indication of being spring-fed. Almost circular, most of the southern half was clear of trees and grass, with a narrow strip of sugar-white sand rivaling what I’d seen of the beach along Five-Mile Island. Tall stands of cypress and grasses dominated the northern end, providing good cover for fish and other amphibious critters. Any gators living in this lake would be drawn naturally to that side for their food source. I could see why Maddie Harper had been so fond of this place; Brett Barfield, too, but I still suspected there was more than the scenery that drew him here so often.

I followed the shore westward until I came to a cleared area not far off the lake. Near the middle was a fire pit circled with several limestone rocks the size of unabridged dictionaries. Where there are springs, there’s limestone. Someone had most likely plucked these from the lake bottom. I thought of the autopsy report. Had someone bashed Maddie Harper in the head with one of these very rocks?

The clearing would be a fine location to make camp, but this was no joy trip. No sense inviting trouble, so I decided to pitch my tent where it would be harder to see if other hikers or pot farmers happened to be in the area. I moved away from the lake and searched the edge of the surrounding woods. I soon found a small natural clearing with enough brush around that would make it difficult to spot unless a person just happened to stumble onto it. I unloaded my gear and used the machete to clear away enough brush so that the tent would easily fit with room to spare on all sides.

Twenty minutes later the tent was pitched. I walked down to the lake and looked back toward my bivouac. I’d chosen well; the brushy area looked natural with no sign of the tent. I wouldn’t be making a fire, so I didn’t bother gathering wood. I’d packed light: jerky, granola, and a couple of candy bars. I had plenty of water and a flask of good scotch. Home sweet home.

A little before three that afternoon I was hoofing it around to the north shore of Little Gator Lake. I left the walking stick back at camp. I had the machete on my belt, and my shotgun slung upside down over my right shoulder. A quick flip up, and it would be in position to fire from the hip. There were still about four hours of daylight left, but I’d brought along a pocket-size flashlight just in case.

Finding the titi thicket was a breeze, but it took nearly fifteen minutes of tramping up and down and sticking my head into the thick brush before I finally spotted the trail. I worked my way into the titi looking for an occasional branch or limb that had been cut and tossed aside, making just enough room to squeeze through the dense tangle. Making matters worse was the thick canopy, turning bright afternoon into twilight. The ground was wet and spongy, over my ankles in places, but the dry spell spared me from wading through any knee-deep swamp. I did my best to not think about snakes.

The bugs that had left me alone most of the day finally rang the dinner bell. I swatted at swarms of mosquitoes buzzing around my head. That only seemed to draw more to the feast, so I pulled out the bug juice and slathered it on every bare inch of skin I had except my eyeballs. Dripping sweat soon took care of that.

I kept following the trail, made harder now by my stinging eyes. It seemed like I’d been humping the titi swamp all day before I finally saw sunlight filtering through the thicket ahead. In a few more minutes I was out of the swamp and standing at the edge of a forest of huge pines.

I pulled a paper towel from the stuffed baggie I’d brought along for nature’s call, tore off a strip, and stuck it onto a branch where I’d come out of the titi. I wiped my burning eyes with the rest of the towel and checked my watch. Ten to four. It had taken a half-hour to get through the thicket. I walked along the brush line edging the pine forest looking for any obvious pathways into it. After a few minutes I found what looked to be a game trail and started in. I’d taken maybe ten or twelve steps when my boot froze in midair.

Tripwire!

I’d seen plenty of them during the fight for Fallujah. The mujahedeen were experts at booby-trapping buildings using tripwires attached to IEDs. Too many good Marines had been blown away by them.

I eased my foot down and stepped back, then took a knee to get a closer look. It was thin stainless wire, light gauge. I’d seen the same type before, and recently. Unless I was mistaken, this was leader wire, used mostly for king and Spanish mackerel fishing. I’d watched Lamar make several leaders from a large roll for the Gillmans’ store. That didn’t implicate Lamar, but Brett Barfield’s family was in the fishing business, and I damn well knew he’d been here.