The Gates of Evangeline (33 page)

T
he sky is a misty gray when I pull up to the boat launch. The threat of rain only strengthens my conviction that Mike's intentions are pure evil—who would take a small child fishing in this weather? No people, no boats in sight, but I do observe a beat-up station wagon parked nearby with a hitch on the back. That's got to be them. Thank goodness I left Leeann back in the kitchen. I don't know what I'll find here, but it could be something no mother should ever have to see.

I step from the car, expecting a barrage of nasty sensations to strike as they have before, but there's nothing. Nothing but my own rising dread. The air sits thick and heavy in my lungs, making it hard to breathe. Am I too late? What now? I've got nothing to aid me except memories of what I've already experienced.

I jog over to the station wagon and peer inside, hoping for some clue about where Mike might have gone. There's a car seat in the back littered with orange crumbs and Goldfish crackers. I shudder, remembering my vision, and check the front seat. No telltale maps, but on the passenger side of the car, I spot fishing tackle. Which means by the time they got out of this vehicle, Mike was no longer telling Jonah they were going on a fishing trip.

Jonah must've been conscious on the drive over—he was eating Goldfish, evidently. Did he sense something bad coming, or was he used to bad things happening every time he was alone with his mother's boyfriend? I remember the first time I came here. Even before I'd seen Evangeline, this terrible place drew me in, showed me its secrets. I felt what Jonah must've felt, a crack to the back of the head, panic, no air. I told Detective Minot that he drowned, that his abductor threw him into the water while he was still living. If I'm right, Jonah might not be dead yet. He could still be out there, on that boat.

Leeann once told me her son saw angels. If ever there was a time for heavenly intervention, I think, it's now. I run back over to my Prius. The old Deveau rowboat protrudes from the back, too large to fit properly into the trunk and backseat. I'm not sure this thing is even seaworthy, but it's my only option. Heaving the front of the vessel onto my back, I drag the boat to the launch area. Every step is a struggle, but I don't care. Leeann's child is out there. Adrenaline is giving me the extra push I need. I run back for the oars and strap on a life jacket, pausing for just a second to peer out at the dark, motionless water of the swamp. I shiver.

Nowhere left for me to go but in.

•   •   •

R
OWING IS HARDER
than I thought. The boat wobbles precariously when I get in, and even after I've righted her, she seems to have a mind of her own—a sign, no doubt, that I'm completely incompetent at steering. Branches, half-submerged in the relatively shallow swamp water, scratch at the sides of the boat as I slip by. It's unnervingly quiet, nothing but the occasional bird and the gentle
shhh
of parting water. I recognize this place, the brown water and swirls of green scum. I know the dead leaves, the eerie gray light, the rotted branches curling like fingers. I dreamed it.

I catch a flash of movement in some weeds. My heart pounds, expecting the worst: a small boy bobbing facedown. Instead, I see watchful green eyes peering up at me, a bumpy snout. The only time in my life I will ever be relieved to see an alligator.

About fifty yards out from the launch area, I have choices to make. The swampy water funnels into different channels, narrower pathways broken up by oddly jutting fingers of shoreline and islands of weeds and bowing trees. Where do I go? I'm at a loss. Why, oh why, must my intuition fail me now? Have I really endured these disturbing visitations for nothing? I stop rowing and listen. The silence, I realize, is more than just creepy. Mike's in a motorboat. If he were nearby, I would hear him. Unless he's shut off the motor.

Think this through. Why would he stop?

He could've stopped to throw Jonah in the water, of course. I've been here a good fifteen or twenty minutes without hearing a motor, though, and throwing a child overboard shouldn't take that long. He'd want to get away as quickly as possible, wouldn't he? If Mike is like most pedophiles, he's a coward, too weak-willed to resist his own urges, equipped with an endless propensity for self-justification. Detective Minot said he's had a previous run-in with the law. I suspect Mike's getting rid of Jonah as a practical matter, afraid the boy will expose him.

Maybe he's trying to weigh down Jonah's body. That could take twenty minutes. I quickly dismiss the idea, however. A body that's been deliberately weighed down would discredit any stories of an accidental drowning. He wouldn't be that dumb, would he?

I'm starting to despair. Mike's boat must be out here, just beyond my hearing, and if I can't even hear his motor, how can I possibly find the right spot?

There's one more possibility, one that gives me hope. Maybe Mike heard someone coming, another boat. Maybe he killed the motor to avoid detection.

Water Patrol has to be on the alert by now. Maybe they're out there, searching, and Mike is hiding, waiting for his chance to dispose of this child. I look around. Plenty of places to hide in the swamp. With all the trees and brush, it wouldn't be hard to duck down a little waterway and wait for someone to pass by.

I take a few strokes with the oars, and suddenly, without warning, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. There, floating in the water beside my boat, is a single orange Goldfish cracker. Soggy but not yet totally dissolved.

It's you,
I think.
He cut the motor when he heard YOU
.

We're not far from the boat launch—he could've heard my car pull up. He's probably been listening all along, listening to me struggle with the boat, listening to me curse as I tried to row. He's waiting me out. He's close.

It's just me and Mike.

You will NOT be afraid,
I tell myself.
Look who he chose to prey upon. A three-year-old. A young mother. Mike Findley is no big, bad man—he's completely chickenshit. But you, Charlie, you are not.

The thick air gathers around me, warm and damp on my neck, like breath. I smell death, living matter decomposing in the turbid, stagnant water, and yet the swamp itself feels very much alive. Alive and watchful. Predatory. The quiet scares the hell out of me.

“Mike Findley, you sonnuvabitch, I'm coming for
you!”
In this desolate landscape, my voice is both startling and small. Even if I found Mike, what could one woman in a wobbly rowboat really do? But it's all I have left: strong words to camouflage my weakness.
“I
know what you've done, you sick bastard! I know what you've done!”

Fear can clear your head, focus you, enable you to act decisively and intelligently. Or it can make you stupid. When I hear something near a cluster of moss-draped trees off to my right—a rustling, then scraping sounds—I know that fear has made Mike stupid. I know I have a chance. I row toward the sounds, heaving my body into each stroke until my muscles burn.

There's a splash, and even in the seconds before I hear the rumble of a motor starting, I know it's Jonah. Jonah is in the water.

I row. Through the gloomy, humid air. Past tree roots, swamp grass, and branches. I collide with a log and the rowboat bounces off to the side, costing me precious seconds as I fight to get back on course.

From around the curve of trees, a boat zips out, engine roaring. The man at the helm turns to get a look at me, and in the seconds that our eyes lock, I forget to breathe.
This is what evil looks like.
A husky, pale-faced man with a shock of red hair. Jeans and an orange puffer vest. Not ugly, not handsome, not memorable in any way. A man you'd smile at politely in the grocery store and never think of again.

This is what evil looks like, and he's staring right at you.

His hand moves down toward the throttle in a quick, jerky motion, accelerating.
He's going to hit you.
He has speed on his side, and power. I can't possibly escape.

But I'm wrong. Instead of bearing down on me, the motorboat loops away, shoots deep into the belly of the swamps. Mike casts me a backward glance over his shoulder, and then he's gone, a coward through and through.

I let him flee. Don't waste any time or headspace on him. Instead, my eyes trace his path backward, trying to pinpoint the area he came from. I have to get to Jonah.

I row. Row, though my shoulder blades are on fire, my triceps leaden. Row, although I can't see where I'm going. No sign of where Jonah went in. I've read plenty of pool safety brochures in my day, and I know how quickly a child can drown. And that's in clear water without all this muck, not to mention gators. Time is not on my side.

“Jonah!” I think I'm in approximately the right location. The water doesn't look deep, but when I dip a paddle in, it doesn't touch bottom. Deep enough to kill a three-year-old.

My determination is rapidly giving way to panic. He has to be here. Has to be. But the branches, the leaves, the floating scum all conceal what lies beneath the surface.

“Jonah!” I call again.

Then, about twenty feet away, I spot something. A flash of white. His shirt.

Without thinking, I'm in the water. Have to get to him. The water's murky, and the cold shocks my system, but it's the
things
that get to me. Strange shapes and textures brush against me as I swim toward that white beacon. Something rough claws my leg. Branch? Gator? I don't stop to find out.

Grab the shirt. Just grab the shirt.

My hand closes around the sopping fabric, and I feel the weight of a small child's body straining against me. Thank goodness I'm wearing the life jacket. I grope frantically for the rest of him. Leg, torso, fingers, hair. I yank his dark head to the surface. Air. He needs air.

His eyes are closed, his body limp. I can't do anything for him out here in the water, and even if I could get us both back in the boat somehow—unlikely—the bottom of the rowboat is curved, not flat. Too shaky, too unstable for me to attempt any rescue measures. We've got to make it back to the dock.

I lean backward and let myself float. Slide my arms under his armpits and tilt him back against my chest, careful to keep his head out of the water. All I can think about as I start to swim are those first aid and CPR classes I took when Keegan was a baby.
You're so paranoid,
Eric said.
You always expect the worst.
And he was right. I expected the worst, and I tried to prepare for it. I imagined my son choking, drowning, ingesting poisonous substances, and I learned the ways to save him. In the end, I got the worst: a disaster I did not anticipate, an outcome I could not have changed.

But I can change this one. I can still change this.

Swim. Keep Jonah's face up. Don't let him swallow more water.

I can see the dock and the boat launch now, although still no sign of Water Patrol or the sheriff's department. I swim. It's no easier than paddling the rowboat but more instinctive. I try to ignore the unseen objects I'm scraping past, but adrenaline surges freshly through me each time my legs bump something large. God, I hope Andre was right when he said that gators are sluggish this time of year.

Swim. You can make it. You're not so far away. Keep swimming.

Eventually, my feet touch the concrete bottom of the boat launch. I drag Jonah out of the water and lay him out on the dock, flat on his back, like my last vision of him. His eyes are still closed, his skin cold.

“Jonah? Jonah, wake up!” I tap his shoulder, swamp water dripping from my face to his. “Cough, baby! Cough it up!”

He doesn't move. Only the water moves. Trickles from his hair, his clothes, his tiny cheeks. Pools around his body, staining the wooden slats of the dock. This is bad. Very, very bad. He's unconscious and doesn't seem to be breathing. No choice. I've got to do chest compressions. I peel up his T-shirt, my fingers fumbling with the wet fabric, and press my hand to the center of his scrawny chest.

One two three four five . . .

Thirty chest compressions delivered in rapid succession. I hope I didn't break any of his ribs. Know that it might not matter if I did.

I tilt his head back, trying to clear his airway.
Am I doing this right?
There's no time to doubt myself. Brain damage can occur after just four minutes without oxygen, and it's been much longer than four minutes. I scan for signs that he's breathing. No rising chest. When I place a hand near his mouth and nose, no breath. I press my hands to his neck, attempting to check his circulation. My fingers are so frozen, so numb from my swim, I can't feel anything. I grope his chest, searching for a heartbeat. Again, nothing.

Please help me.
I don't know who it is I'm looking to, what force I think can intervene here. I just know that I can't do this alone.
Help me save this little boy. I can't let him die. I won't let him die.

I pinch Jonah's nose. Cover his mouth with mine. Administer a couple rescue breaths. His chest rises as I breathe air into his lungs, but he doesn't resume breathing. I feel his neck for a pulse and get none.

Chest compressions, again. Two more rescue breaths. Another round of compressions.

What else can I do? This is all I have to give. My breath. My hands. My will to keep trying. Because this is someone's little boy, somebody's child, and I will
not
let Leeann suffer as I've suffered, I will not let a twenty-three-year-old girl, already so grossly betrayed, lose more than she has lost.

I. Will. Not.

The entirety of my being now lies in Jonah's small rib cage rising at my breaths, his pale chest depressing and expanding beneath the flat of my hand. Over and over, I count. I press. I breathe. Over and over. And still, that boy lying on the dock doesn't wake up.