Predator in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  In the silence of the hunt, I thought about Eli Hutt: a man the head ranger Mitch had seemingly trusted, who it turned out had been working with the killers. Hell, he was one of the killers. First one bad guy and now three. I shook my head and wondered how big this sadistic operation was. The word motive kept jumping into my mind. What kind of motive would create such a scheme? Were all these guys just in it for the cruel, sick pleasure of causing harm?

  Then my mind raced back to what Ange had found in the sunken dinghy. A bag of coke. Money. Money and the protection of it. That had to be the motive. It explained why they’d killed the Shepherds, and it explained why they were trying to off us as well. We were getting in the way of their longstanding business.

  Maybe you can offer your damn gator jerky to the devil, I thought as I pictured Eli’s broken body. He might give you a fine piece of real estate right on the lake of fire.

  Maybe Mitch was also working with them. Maybe this rabbit hole went deeper than we could’ve possibly imagined upon first glance. Regardless, I was determined to get to the bottom of it. And the only way to do that would be to track and take down the big fat killer who’d tried to wring my neck yesterday and burn me to death today.

  After two hours of trekking through the unfriendly terrain, we reached a small patch of dry land covered in high cypress trees. The sun had risen, burning off the morning fog with ease and bleeding through the canopy surrounding us. My clothes were still wet and muddy. They caked to my body as the temperature quickly soared, and beads of sweat began to form on my exposed skin.

  “Stay here,” Billy said. They were the first words he’d spoken in over an hour. He motioned toward a vine-covered water oak tree beside us and added, “I’m gonna climb up and have a look around.”

  I slid off my backpack, unzipped the main compartment, and grabbed my monocular.

  “Here,” I said, handing it to him.

  He nodded, then wrapped the string around his neck and rose up into the tree like a professional climber. I took a quick look around, drank from my canteen, then grabbed my GPS and sat phone. Powering up the GPS, I saw that we’d traveled just over four miles through the swamps.

  While Billy climbed, I made a quick call to Ange. Even though I knew it wasn’t a lethal wound, I was worried about Jack and I wanted to make sure he was alright.

  “Where are you?” Ange asked. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’d be better if I hadn’t been part of a swamp rage airboat collision.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. The killer got away from us, but we’re on his trail. How’s Jack?”

  “Oh, you know that crazy islander,” Ange said. “He was begging for us to turn around and go help you the whole ride back. He’ll have a decent scar, but no serious damage. Grazed by a forty-five—he’s one lucky beach bum.”

  I gave her a quick rundown of what had happened after we’d taken off after the killer. She quickly asked what she could do to help. She was at Flamingo and could be across Whitewater in her Cessna in minutes if need be.

  “You alright, Ange? You sound almost worried.”

  “Worried? Why should I be? My newlywed husband is marching through a dangerous swamp, tracking down a well-known serial killer, with a complete stranger as his companion.”

  I paused a moment.

  “Ange, this isn’t exactly my first time in a dangerous situation. You of all people know that.”

  “I do know that. I’d just feel a lot better if I was at your side.”

  She was right. No matter how many times I’d tried to protect her over the years, she usually ended up being the one to save me.

  I sighed and said, “We’re miles away from a suitable LZ for the bird. And there are no nearby tributaries wide enough to get a boat up. I’ll call you as soon as we reach one. I promise.”

  “Alright, well, in the meantime I’d like updates on your position. Coordinates wherever you guys make camp tonight.”

  “As you wish,” I said, quoting a favorite movie of ours.

  She laughed and reminded me that if I wanted a buttercup, I should’ve checked the local mall. She was more of a Lara Croft.

  After a few I love yous, we both hung up.

  “See anything?” I said, glancing up at Billy.

  He was holding on to a thick branch and leaning out, peering through my monocular.

  “Not yet,” he replied.

  I took the time to make a second call.

  “Anything come up on the prints?” I asked Scott Cooper when he picked up on the second ring.

  “No, but you’re not going to believe this,” he said enthusiastically. He paused a moment, like an actor stretching the suspense. “After the prints came up empty in the database, I decided to try and learn something about the knife. It’s obviously old and it’s well made, so it caused me to wonder. The markings on the hilt had been scratched off, but I got a few guys down at the forensics lab to examine it closely, and they found a partially worn set of initials. Turns out it has quite the history. It belonged to Brigadier General Joseph Finegan, an Irishman who fought for the Confederates during the Civil War. Finegan died in 1885 in Rutledge, Florida.” He paused a moment, letting it all sink in. “But that isn’t the half of it. That knife was stolen during a bank robbery over ten years ago in Fort Meyers.”

  “A bank robbery?” I said, stroking my chin. “They have any suspects?”

  “Yeah. Their faces were concealed while in the bank, but further investigation revealed that they were the Harlan brothers.”

  I thought for a moment, but the name didn’t ring any bells.

  “What can you tell me about those two brothers?”

  “There’s three of them, actually,” Scott said. “And I can tell you that they’re all supposed to be dead. The file says that while making their escape, they drove off the Wilson Pigott bridge, into the Caloosahatchee River. Their bodies were never recovered, not uncommon in this part of the country.”

  Billy dropped down from the tree, landing softly beside me. When I turned to look at him, I realized that he was watching and listening intently to my conversation.

  “And let me guess, none of the money they stole was ever recovered either?” I said.

  “Looks like the local authorities wanted to clean up the mess and move on as quickly and easily as possible. We both know how that goes.”

  “You got pictures of these guys?”

  “Have their mug shots and info on the screen now. The bank robbery wasn’t any of their first times getting into trouble with the law.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “About my height. Three hundred pounds. White skin, dark hair, double chins, faces like angry pit bulls.”

  He sighed. “Looks like you’ve got a few ghosts on your hands. Where you at now?”

  “North of Whitewater. A few miles west of Watson River. Following the trail of one of the brothers.”

  “Alright,” Scott said. “Keep me updated. And let me know when you need me to come down there and take care of business.”

  I laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get your suit dirty, Senator.”

  “Scratch that,” he said. “I’ll head down there, show you who’s still the boss, then I’ll take care of business.”

  That one caused my lips to transform into a smile. Scott was one of the most competitive guys I’d ever met. It had caused us to butt heads years ago, but our similar nature had soon led to a strong friendship.

  “You mind sending over their mug shots to my phone?”

  “Already done,” he said. “And I sent it over to Ange as well, which is good, ’cause it sounds like you probably don’t have service.”

  “Thanks for the help, Scottie,” I said.

  When I ended the call, I turned and saw Billy standing stoically and staring ahead into the swamp. I moved over beside him, offering him the other canteen of water.

  “What did he say about the Harlan brothers?” Billy asked.

 
; He unscrewed the cap and took a few swigs.

  “You know them?” I said, raising an eyebrow at him.

  “Their family’s been living here for generations. Can’t say anyone missed them when they died. Been over ten years.” He shook his head and added, “They were always a bad bunch. Moonshiners, poachers, thieves. Guess it figures they decided to add murderers to their resumes.”

  I took another drink myself, then stowed my GPS and sat phone.

  “You see anything up there?”

  He nodded.

  “He’s about a mile ahead of us. Moving pretty good for an injured guy. The mangrove forest opens up to the river of grass prairies and hammocks half a mile north of here.”

  “Any idea where he could be heading?”

  He shook his head.

  “No. But he’s keeping a relatively straight line. We’re running parallel to Watson. It flows a few miles to the east.”

  I tore open a few protein bars, which we both downed quickly. Neither of us had eaten anything since the previous day, and navigating through the Glades works up your appetite quick. After taking a few more swigs of water, we gathered our gear and continued our hunt. It was a slow trek through shallow water and tangles of branches for half a mile before the canopies opened up, revealing a never-ending expanse of grass and sporadic clusters of hammocks. In the southern United States, and especially in Florida, the word hammock isn’t only used to define a swinging bed of fabric. It’s also to describe a fertile area that’s characterized by hardwood trees and deep humus-rich soil.

  Looking out over the landscape, it’s easy to see why Billy referred to the Glades as a river of grass.

  “It’s a sixty-mile-wide river,” he said while we trekked. “All the water you see is moving south. It’s a snail’s pace, though. Only a hundred feet or so every twenty-four hours.”

  Before stepping out of the foliage and into the grass, Billy bent a few pop ash saplings and cut them free with his knife.

  “Walking sticks?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  He splashed down into a shallow bog, moving right up to the outer wall of tall sawgrass.

  “This grass will cut you to shreds,” he said. He held out one of the sticks horizontally and pushed it against the grass, causing it to bow away from him. “Use the stick to keep it off you.”

  He handed me the other stick and we pressed on through the mud and thick grassland, following the faint trail left behind by our quarry. The hours dragged on and the temperature continued to rise as the sun migrated directly overhead. It was difficult to see over the tall grass, and everywhere we turned looked the same.

  In my time in the SEALs and the years I’d spent as a mercenary, I’d engaged enemies in every terrain under the sun. Dense jungles, arid deserts, freezing tundras. But the Glades are something different altogether. A special breed of never-ending swamps that gives a new definition to the term difficult terrain.

  It was the rainy season, and it was living up to its title. It poured in thick sheets for minutes at a time, soaking us along with our gear before moving on. The heat was stifling, and the humidity made it difficult to breathe. Mosquitoes swarmed like black clouds, along with an ensemble of other pesky insects including horseflies, sand flies or no-see-ums, and chiggers.

  I’d always preferred going to battle in unforgiving environments. Rough terrain and bad weather dampen morale, so if you can keep yourself together and embrace it, you have an advantage over your enemy. But it was different this time around, I reminded myself. The guy we were chasing not only embraced the southern Florida swamp, he called it home. He was the type of guy who was probably more comfortable right here in the heart of the Glades than anywhere else in the world. An anomaly. A modern-day Daniel Boone with a twisted murdering side.

  I couldn’t believe that he was managing to keep his distance from us. Especially considering that he was injured. I was sure that I’d shot him before we crashed, and Hank had said that he’d looked injured when he took off. But maybe he wasn’t injured. Maybe we were wrong. Regardless, we were chasing either the roughest man alive or some kind of demon.

  For what felt like the hundredth time since we’d started out that morning, I grabbed my bug spray and drenched what little of our skin was exposed. Without the hundred-percent DEET, I’d have been covered in itchy red spots just minutes into the trek.

  We kept silent for most of the day. Occasionally I’d ask him about a particular stretch of landscape or a unique plant that was foreign to me. We’d only known each other for half of a day, but I liked Billy. He didn’t talk a lot, which I’d take any day over someone who couldn’t stop running their mouth. He also didn’t complain. The entire day in the heat and the wet and the bugs, he never once complained.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon that we finally felt like we were closing in on the killer. Billy was a better tracker than I was, and he led us up onto a large hammock that was covered in cypress and water oak. As we moved into its interior, Billy pointed at a cluster of grapefruit trees. Their fruits were ripe, so we grabbed and broke into a few. The citrus liquid was delicious and fresh. I grabbed two more and ate while we walked.

  “I didn’t know grapefruit grew here,” I said.

  Billy nodded and swallowed a bite.

  “It’s not indigenous,” he said. “The plants were brought down by my ancestors. The Seminole tribe was forced to live here in the Glades after our land was taken.”

  He had a naturally stoic tone, but it turned agitated as he mentioned his tribe’s history. I didn’t know much about the native people of Florida, but I knew that, like most Native Americans, they were generally treated terribly by European settlers.

  “Stop!” Billy said, raising a hand. I froze just a step behind him, watched as he bent down and examined a small stretch of dirt. “He’s close.”

  I knelt down beside him and examined the ground. I could see boot prints, but there was more than one set and they were heading in different directions.

  “How can you tell?”

  He pointed, hovering his right index finger inches over the indentations in the dirt.

  “He’s trying to divert us,” he said. “To put us on a fake trail. It can mean only one thing: he’s grown weary. Or perhaps he’s reached his destination. But either way, I’m confident that he’s within half a mile of us right now.”

  Some destination, I thought.

  I looked around at nothing but dirt patches and thick hardwood jungle surrounded by endless marsh and dense grasslands. My money was on his first explanation. We’d moved fast and had caught up to him. If he was still close by, it meant that he was most likely planning to ambush us. I tried to put myself into his shoes, into the mind of a serial killer. If I was a serial killer on the run in the Glades with two men after me, I’d try and take them out when the odds were most in my favor. I’d attack them when they were most vulnerable. In the middle of the night, while they were in a deep sleep.

  I looked up at the sky. The sun was nearing the horizon. Within the hour, darkness would fall across the swamp.

  “We should set up camp,” I said.

  Billy looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I know you have ears, Logan,” he said. “I just told you that the killer’s close by. If we set up camp, he’ll know about it. Hell, he’s probably waiting for it.”

  “Exactly,” I declared. “I’ve underestimated this guy. Now, I want him to underestimate us.”

  He stared at me, then glanced away, his confusion fading slightly.

  “We’ve been chasing him all day,” I added, clarifying my plan. “It’s time we let this predator come to us.”

  SIXTEEN

  Angelina sat in the Baia’s galley, staring intently at the laptop screen in front of her. She’d spoken with Scott Cooper just an hour earlier and he’d sent over a file containing the mug shots and basic rap sheets of three men. Buck, Dale, and Jeb Harlan. All three were supposed to be dead.

  She lo
oked over their files, then turned her attention back to the charts and maps.

  So many incidents near this one river, she thought as she pointed to the mouth of the Watson River. One river among thousands of tributaries littering the Glades.

  She leaned back into the cushioned half-moon seat. Grabbing a chilled can of coconut water, she took a few sips, then set it beside her. As she drew her hand back, it grazed her backpack and she remembered that the coke was still inside. Rising to her feet, she stepped into the main cabin and locked it up in the safe. They’d decided to continue keeping the drug’s existence among themselves and not tell the authorities. Logan had thought it best, seeing as how they didn’t know how deep the trafficking operation went. Maybe the killers had someone on the inside of the law, covering them and taking a cut.

  When she sat back down in the galley, she thought about the powdery drug.

  Like Logan, she thought that the Harlan brothers must have been selling it, that they’d most likely turned to drugs out of desperation.

  But how did they distribute it? And how had they remained hidden all these years?

  They’d spent half an hour flying their drone over the river, filming and scanning everything in view. They hadn’t seen so much as a rustic tin roof. Not even the faintest sign of a long-term dwelling.

  She kept at it, going over maps and the footage they’d shot of the Watson River.

  Suddenly, Atticus stormed into the galley from the main cabin and rushed to the topside door. He wagged his tail and glanced back at Ange.

  “You hear something, boy?” she said, walking over and patting the top of his head.

  She listened intently for a few seconds and heard footsteps heading down the dock. Opening the door and stepping up into the cockpit, she saw Jack flip-flopping toward the Baia.

  “Any news?” she asked.

  His head popped up in surprise, then he relaxed a little.

  “Don’t scare me like that, sheesh,” he said. When he reached the port gunwale, he added, “Dial down the ninja assassin movements, will ya?”

  She laughed and helped him aboard, though he didn’t really need it. The bullet had only grazed him, and Jack looked as strong and wiry as ever.