Death Shoots a Birdie (23 page)

“What?” Lark demanded.

“It split.”

Lark bent forward. “What split?”

“The canoe. A crack just opened up in the bottom. We’re taking on more water.”

“Are we sinking?” asked Cecilia.

“We can’t sink,” insisted Lark. “Not here.” Hysteria edged her voice, matching Rachel’s feelings inside. Even knowing they could swim in the canal didn’t quell the panic filling up her veins.

The sun was sinking in the west. In another hour they would be late getting back. In another two or three hours it would be dark.

“Let’s try and stay calm,” Rachel said. “The others will be missing us soon, and they’ll send out a search party.”

“Who?” said Lark. “Dwayne? Or Fancy?”

Lark was right.

“Paddle toward that battery over there.” Rachel pointed to the east. “It has lots of trees, so it should keep us afloat.”

“We can’t just sit out here waiting for someone to find us,” said Cecilia. “We’ll be eaten by an alligator, if the biting flies don’t finish us off.” She slapped at a buzzing insect, and reached for the bug spray.

“Do you know the strength of an alligator’s jaw is three thousand five hundred pounds per square inch?” asked Dorothy.

“Thank you for sharing,” said Lark. “I could have lived without knowing that piece of information.”

“But,” Dorothy continued, “the muscles that open an alligator’s mouth are relatively weak, so an average person—even you, Cecilia—can hold an alligator’s mouth closed simply by grabbing their snout.”

They reached the battery before Dorothy could continue her science lesson, and Rachel grabbed onto a shrub. Keeping one foot anchored in the canoe, she placed one foot lightly on the battery. The water was up to her calf in the canoe, and there wasn’t much time to get everyone ashore. “Dwayne did tell us we could walk on these.”

“Provided we keep moving, dear,” said Dorothy.

“Okay, then Lark, you go first.”

“Me? Let Dorothy go first. She’s the science nut.”

“Fine. I’ll go first.” Dorothy pushed forward. Using Rachel’s shoulders, she stepped onto the battery, and Rachel’s foot on land submerged up to her ankle.

“Keeping moving,” said Rachel. “Lark, you go behind her.”

Lark caused the battery to sink even more.

“Head toward the trees,” said Rachel, but Dorothy was already headed that way.

Cecilia rummaged around in the wet bag, and came up with two pairs of binoculars draped around her neck. “These are worth too much to let them go down with the ship.”

“Whatever,” said Rachel. “You need to go.”

Cecilia headed off, her arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. Rachel took a last look at the canoe, then she pulled her foot free and immediately sank into the bog.

Walking on the “trembling earth” was like walking inside a blowup ride at a carnival, except it was wet. The ground sank and shook with every step. The trees and vegetation swayed. And if she paused, even briefly, she started to sink. At least there was no time to worry about what creatures they might encounter.

“Stay as close to the trees as possible,” Dorothy shouted. “That’s where the battery is the firmest. We’ll head toward the cypress dome.”

Rachel was happy to let Dorothy take charge. According to Dwayne, the oldest and tallest cypress trees grew near the middle of the batteries, where they eventually formed forests, which made solid land. With Dorothy headed in the right direction, Rachel could struggle to stay on her feet. The young cypress and blackgum trees crashed inwards as she fought for her footing on the gnarled twist of vines and grasses under her feet. What sounded like an army of animals scurried out of their way of their procession. Rachel squirmed at the thought of snakes. Finally, she screwed up her courage to ask Dorothy what was out there.

“I’m not sure, dear. Marsh rabbits, or rats, maybe?”

Rats!
Rachel picked her feet up higher and scampered more quickly toward solid ground.

“It’s too bad the light is fading. There are several species of carnivorous plants that live in this swamp, and lots of other species—snapping turtles, bobcats, raccoons.”

Rachel had a hard time reconciling a raccoon with its Zorro mask and her present surroundings. They seemed more suited to Elk Park.

As the women neared the tall cypress, bats emerged from the Spanish moss to feed on insects, swooping so close to their heads, Rachel thought she could feel the beat of their wings.

Then an alligator bellowed in the distance, and from somewhere close by, Rachel heard a squeal.

Just when she thought things couldn’t get worse. Feral pigs.

Get a grip, Wilder.
That was a legend.

One of Dwayne Carter’s stories had been about pigs. How pigs had been turned loose in the swamp, and how over time they’d grown big and mean. The ending was that a man fed them “free” corn day after day, trapped them, and sold them at market. The moral was that “free” corn (a symbol for federal aid to farmers) cost the pigs (a symbol for the farmers) their lives (a symbol for freedom) . His punch line had been, “The bacon you save may be your own.” There weren’t any feral pigs in the swamp.

So what creature had made the noise?

At last the ground hardened, and sand replaced the spongy ground. The shadows grew darker as the sun dipped low toward the marsh and tinged the clouds overhead in shades of red and pink. Lark collapsed at the base of an old pine, and Rachel prodded her to get up.

“There’s no time to sit,” she said. “It’s going to be dark soon, and there’s no telling what Dwight and Dwayne have done to Anderson and Wolcott.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a phone booth,” said Lark.

Rachel reached for the cell phone in her pocket, and flipped it open. One small bar edged up the outside.

She punched the emergency speed dial.

“This is nine-one-one. Please state your emergency.”

“I need to speak with Detective Stone.”

“I’m sorry, you have reached nine-one-one dispatch. Please state your emergency.”

“We are lost in the swamp, our canoe has been sunk, and two men are being held captive.” Rachel waited for the dispatcher’s reaction and got none.

“Please state your name and location.”

“My name is Rachel Wilder, and I told you, we’re lost in the swamp. We’re in the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge, somewhere near Swamper’s Island. Two men are being held hostage, and Dwight Carter sank our canoe.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll need to slow down. Start over.”

“Please patch me through to Detective Stone,” she said for the second time.

It took two supervisors and a triple-telling of the story, but eventually Detective Stone’s voice pierced the static.

“Rachel?”

“Thank heavens.” She repeated the story a fourth time, filling him in on the events of their birdwatching trip—about following Anderson and Wolcott through the prairies, about the men’s intent to shoot the ivory-billed woodpecker, and about Dwight’s sinking their boat.

“Do you have any idea where you are?”

“We were in the Mizel Prairie heading south to south-east when the canoe sank. We’re on dry land now.”

“Stay on the line. I’m going to see if we can get a triangulation off your cell phone signal and pinpoint your location.”

It took close to five minutes before he came back. “You’re about two hundred yards from the main road, halfway between the shortcut to Swamper’s Island and the entrance to the Okefenokee Swamp Tour base. I want you to stay where you are. Stay in the woods and out of sight. We have help en route.”

“How long will it take?” asked Rachel.

“Thirty minutes or so.”

Rachel stared at the others. “Wolcott and Anderson might be dead by then.”

“They might already be dead. Just stay where you are! Do you copy that?”

“I copy that.” Rachel hung up and told the others what Detective Stone had said.

“Well, I vote we don’t wait here,” said Dorothy. “What if one of those Carter boys finds us? I think we should head back to the parking lot. It’s barely after six o’clock. Evan Kearns wouldn’t have left us.”

“Of course he would, Dot. He made it clear we were to be back on the bus at five.” Cecilia fluffed her hair. Mud streaked her face and her clothes, but she straightened the hem of her shirt and pulled up her socks. “You know the rules. If you miss the bus, then you’re on your own.”

Dorothy placed her hands on her hips. Her pants were soaked, and her long-sleeved light pink T-shirt looked tie-dyed with black. “This is different. It’s a swamp trip, and it’s nearly dark outside. Someone would have waited for us.”

“Can we just rest here for a few minutes?” asked Lark.

The others flopped down beside her, their backs to the tree. They sat in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts, each equally as frightened as she was, Rachel guessed.

“Get on your feet,” said a voice.
A male voice.

Rachel started to scramble up, then realized it was someone talking from the other side of the trees. Inching forward, she peeked through the thin trunks and realized she stood at the edge of the water separating the mainland from Swamper’s Island. Two flashlight beams cut through the dusk, pointing a trail toward a rickety bridge. Dwight and Dwayne Carter shoved Victor Wolcott and Nevin Anderson ahead of them through the woods on the opposite side. Once they crossed the bridge, the women would be right in their path.

W
e have to get out of here,” said Rachel, scrambling back to the others.

Lark sat up straighter. “Why? They’re on the other side of the water, and Detective Stone told us to wait here.”

“You don’t understand. There’s a bridge right there, and the Carter brothers are headed straight for it.”

It didn’t take any urging to get the others onto their feet. The light was dwindling, and the men’s voices were growing louder.

Rachel struck out in the direction of the road, branches tearing at her ankles. The others followed, pressed so close at times she could feel hot breath on her neck and feared one of them might knock her over and trample her into the ground. Despite its lack of cover, reaching the road was a huge relief.

“Which way do we go?” whispered Lark.

“I
think
”—Rachel emphasized the word—“that the turn off to the swamp tour headquarters is that direction.” She pointed to her right.

“Then I say we go the opposite direction,” said Lark.

Dorothy and Cecilia agreed.

Rachel nodded. “Just remember to stay close to the side of the road and be prepared to duck out of sight.”

This time Rachel took up the rear. She could hear the rumble of the men’s voices, and see an occasional flash of light, but so far the women appeared to be in the clear. After about a quarter of a mile, headlights appeared on the roadway headed in their direction.

The women leaped for the ditch, and flattened themselves on the ground.

“Do you think it’s Detective Stone?” Cecilia asked.

Rachel glanced at her watch. “No, but it’s not apt to be Fancy, either. She’s probably back at headquarters and would be headed the other way.”

“Let’s flag them down,” said Dorothy. She stood and stepped onto the road before Rachel could stop her, waving her arms over her head in the universal sign for “Stop.”

The car slowed. It was a small green Honda. Katie Anderson sat behind the wheel.

“Thank heavens, someone we know,” said Cecilia pushing herself upright.

Lark jumped forward and yanked open the passenger-side door. “What are you doing here?”

“I came down to pick up my daddy,” she said, a hesitation to her voice. “Is something wrong?”

“You might say that,” said Dorothy, climbing into the back seat. Cecilia and Lark clambered in after her, leaving Rachel the front.

Katie pulled her purse into the middle. “Climb in.”

“Your dad’s in a lot of trouble,” said Rachel. There wasn’t time to break the news slowly, so Rachel blurted it out, explaining what had happened out in the swamp. “We’ve called Detective Stone, and he’s due here soon, but . . .”

Katie didn’t seem too worried. “Dwayne would never hurt my daddy.”

“Did you not hear a word she said?” asked Lark. “He has him at gunpoint.”

“It’s not what you think.”

Rachel didn’t like how calm she was acting. “Is there something we should know?”

Reaching out for Katie’s arm, Rachel’s hand struck Katie’s purse. It gaped open, and she could see the cold edge of a steel film reel. A stab of fear shimmied from her heart to her throat. It was Katie who had taken the film, Katie who had pushed the threat underneath her door.

“How is it not what we think, Katie?” said Rachel.

Katie snatched up the purse and stuffed it under her legs. Her foot pressed on the accelerator and they lurched forward. “Daddy’ll understand when he hears about the treasure.”

“You think he’s going to understand being marched by gunpoint through the swamp.” Rachel was putting two and two together. “Dwayne’s your baby’s father, isn’t he?”

Katie startled. “How did you know I was pregnant?”

“I overheard you arguing with your mom. But then, you knew that, didn’t you? At the time I thought you were carrying Paul Becker’s child.”

Katie giggled. “That old fart? Not that he didn’t try. I wasn’t interested.”

“You and your mom were fighting about your going to Sonja Becker. I thought you wanted child support, but you were after the film.”

“Sonja Becker hates birdwatching about as much as my mother hates golf. It paid the bills, that’s all. I figured she would happily give me the film if she had it, and I was right. It just turned out she didn’t.”

“Did Dwayne kill Becker?”

“No, that was his idiot brother.”