by Matthew Rief
“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you wet your pants.”
“Hey, they were already wet.”
She smiled.
“Well? You guys learn anything over at the station?”
Jack had been with Mitch and Pete over at the ranger station for the past couple of hours.
“Fire didn’t spread, but that island’s a wasteland now,” he said. “Not much left of Eli Hutt. They hauled the airboat back. It was pretty messed up. The killer’s airboat is done for, though. They said it was sunk in eight feet when they arrived.”
“That’s alright,” Ange said. “The Harlan brothers won’t be needing it soon.”
Jack paused a moment as Atticus wagged his happy tail against his leg.
“Harlan brothers?” he said with raised eyebrows.
Ange motioned toward the Baia’s galley.
“Come on down,” she said. “We should get Pete in on this too. We’ve got some good new intel.”
They called Pete, and the three of them headed back down into the galley. Ange showed them the mug shots and gave them a quick update on Logan and Billy.
“Damn,” Jack said as he looked over the photos. “These guys are even uglier up close.”
“No kidding,” Pete said, mentioning that they could be long-lost relatives of Jabba the Hutt.
They read over the rap sheets. They were long and contained incidents that dated back to when they were young.
Ange rubbed her eyes and leaned back into the seat around the dinette. It was getting late. She’d been staring at screens and downing coffee all day and her body was urging her to call it quits.
“What’s that?” Jack said.
Ange turned around and saw that he was staring at the laptop screen. The monitor was still playing the drone’s footage on a loop. The same thirty minutes of never-ending nothingness that she’d been watching over and over all night.
Ange stepped toward Jack and leaned in to look at the screen.
“What’s what?” she said.
Jack leaned forward, pointing at the screen.
“Ah, it’s gone now.” He looked down at the keyboard in confusion. Computers weren’t his thing. That was his nephew’s department. “Can you rewind this thing?”
Ange extended a hand, brought the footage back thirty seconds, then pressed play.
“Okay, pause it at 24:13 on the time stamp,” Jack said.
Fifteen seconds later, Ange paused the screen.
Jack stared closely, tilting his head slightly. Ange and Pete both looked closer too but couldn’t see anything unusual. Just a filthy river surrounded by a sea of green.
“You see right there?” Jack said. “Where the river forks?”
He pointed at the screen and Ange nodded. It still didn’t strike her as anything but ordinary. The Watson River branched off hundreds of times, extending like tangled tree roots up into the swamp.
Jack’s mouth dropped open and he narrowed his gaze even more. For a second, Ange thought that their conch charter captain friend had gone off the deep end.
Or maybe he hit his head too hard after getting shot.
Martha at the ranger station had given him some painkillers to dull the pain. Ange considered that delirium might have been one of the side effects.
She rose up, grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, then extended it to Jack.
“Here,” she said. “You’re probably dehydrated. And you should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
The bottle hung in the air right in front of Jack for a few seconds. If he’d heard her, he didn’t show it.
“Jack, you—”
“This could be it!” Jack smiled broadly, then laughed a little before wincing and placing a hand on his side. “Ah, that one hurt.”
“Okay, time for you to go to bed, crazy,” Ange said, no longer playing it subtle.
Instead of grabbing the bottle, he wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her in softly.
“Look, Ange,” he said. “This island right here.”
He pointed at a small island right beside where the river forked.
“Look closely at the northwestern shore,” he added.
She looked, more to humor him than anything else. There wasn’t anything there. It was just a normal island and a normal muddy bank. Then, she saw it.
“Holy crap,” she said. Now it was her mouth’s turn to drop open. “Is that what I—”
“Yes,” Jack declared. “That’s exactly what we think it is.”
The drone had been flying a hundred feet up, so the picture wasn’t perfect. But Ange focused in on the image and saw a figure standing right where the canopy line met the muddy shore. A human figure. It appeared in view for only a few seconds before jerking away, disappearing under the thick tree canopy.
Pete patted Jack on the back and said, “I knew you weren’t crazy. Well, not that crazy anyway.”
“Jack, how in the hell did you see that?”
“Got twenty-fifteen,” he said with a grin.
They played the short clip over and over, their faces glued just inches away from the screen.
“The question is,” Pete said, “where the hell is his boat? He’s nearly four miles up Watson. Fifteen miles from the nearest service and ten miles from the nearest road. Nobody just goes off hiking that far into this terrain. Nobody reaches places like that without a boat.”
“Is it possible he pulled it up onto the shore?” Ange asked. “Maybe we just can’t see it.”
“Most likely,” Jack said.
“You ever see someone in the Glades pull their boat up onto a mangrove-infested shoreline?” Pete said. “No. Nobody does that because it’s damn near impossible. They all tie off and let it float. The only reason that I can think of why someone wouldn’t do that in the damn near heart of the Glades is if they didn’t want to be seen. If they were in hiding.”
Ange nodded, thinking over his words intently.
“Makes sense,” she said. “And he hid from view just as the drone flew overhead.”
“Exactly,” Pete said. He shook his head and added, “I’m not sure what’s on this island, but I think we need to head over there and take a look.”
Ange paused the footage once again and stared intently at the human figure. Yes, heading over to the island was the obvious course of action. But if it turned out to be the Harlan brothers’ hideout, she’d do a hell of a lot more than just have a look around.
SEVENTEEN
After ten minutes of scouring the island, keeping a sharp eye out for the killer, we found a suitable site. There was a clearing right beside a large gumbo-limbo tree with thick branches that sprouted out in all directions. While I went to work setting up our decoy camp, Billy gathered branches and began constructing our real camp ten feet up in the tree.
“Watch your step over there,” Billy said, motioning toward a muddy bog just twenty feet from the base of the tree. “It’s a sinkhole. Water erodes the limestone and creates a pocket that fills with mud and water. Some are big enough to swallow small off-road vehicles. I’ve seen it before.”
I made a quick mental note, then went back to work. In just a few minutes, I had the tent and sleeping bags in place. I collected rocks, placing them in a circle to form a firepit, then started up a fire using dried branches, moss, and a little help from my lighter. Once the fire was crackling and burning thicker branches, I helped Billy finish the shelter. Not that he needed my help. He was almost finished by the time I offered to lend a hand.
There was a decent-sized platform of pop ash branches with a thatched roof. We found a few young sabal palm trees nearby. Also known as cabbage palm, they’re the state tree of Florida, and we cut out a handful of long green fronds to use for bedding. After a few more finishing touches, the improvised shelter was complete.
I was thoroughly impressed by his survival skills. I’d never seen a better makeshift shelter, and he’d built it in just over an hour.
“Bear Grylls would be proud,”
I said.
I smiled slightly, but apparently Billy either didn’t get the reference or he was too focused on the task at hand to even notice my comment.
By the time we finished, the sun was dropping over the horizon, sending sporadic streaks of light through the foliage surrounding us. As the air cooled, the bug population increased dramatically. Fortunately, the smoke from the fire helped keep them away, and we still had plenty of lifesaving DEET left.
As darkness fell over the swamp, we ate a quick meal of Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs as they’re called. They were a common source of food during missions while I was in the Navy. The internal chemistry doesn’t require a heat source. All you have to do is add water, and within a few minutes, you have a hot meal. Though many people complain about their taste, I’d always enjoyed them. I think it’s because my dad had always packed them on camping trips when I was young.
I threw a few big logs on the fire, then we climbed up into our shelter in the gumbo-limbo tree. I had my Sig loaded up with a full magazine and holstered. To keep an eye out for the killer, I used my night vision monocular to scan the dark around us. Tangles of vines spun their way up the trunk and branches. The canopy was so thick that we could barely see the late-evening sky overhead. It would provide sufficient cover from the moonlight as we waited for our prey to make his move.
With the coming of the night, the marshy landscape around us transformed as an orchestra of sounds filled the air. Crickets, some of the loudest I’d ever heard, belted out chirps relentlessly. A handful of frogs joined in with croaks coming from all over the small island. Owls and various other birds provided occasional hoos and melodies. Toward the shore, we heard the occasional rustling and splashing of larger, more dangerous animals.
“The gators prefer to hunt at night,” Billy said, after a particularly large splash. “Too hot for them in the day. When the summer sun’s up, they spend a lot of their time in deeper waters to keep cool.”
After an hour, we decided to take short turns trying to get some sleep. After years of sleeping wherever I could, I’d developed the ability to catch some z’s just about anywhere. I’ve even dozed off while standing up a few times.
Two hours into our alternate watches, I awoke and felt a change in the air. Looking up at the night sky, I saw that it was even darker than it’d been before. What little silver light from the moon had trickled through the dense canopy earlier was now extinguished.
“We’re about to get wet again,” Billy whispered.
As if his words had summoned Mother Nature, roaring thunder shook the still air. Cracks of lightning followed, bolting down from the heavens and illuminating the darkness in sporadic flashes. It was just before midnight when black clouds swept overhead, covering most of the night sky. I felt the low-pressure air and heard a few warning raindrops slap against the leaves overhead, then all hell broke loose.
In much of the world, rain builds up steadily. In tropical environments, however, rain has a tendency to build up about as steadily as a shower when you twist the knob. One second you’re dry, the next you’re being drenched by a torrential downpour.
A waterfall of massive raindrops fell straight down, sliding off the leaves overhead and splashing into our bodies. The roof Billy had made worked nicely, but he’d been short on time and it was far from perfect. Within seconds, water started dripping down the bill of my Rubio Charters ball cap.
As quickly as the rains had descended, they were gone. The humid air returned as the clouds swept by, leaving the soaked earth and moving on to the north. I removed my hat, shook the water off, then wiped a combination of water and sweat from my brow. Gradually, the sounds of life returned around us and we resumed our shifts.
Just after 0230, I heard footsteps at my six. At first, I thought it could be a deer or a hog, but they were slow and heavy. Too heavy for any mammal in the Glades, and they didn’t crunch over the leaf-covered landscape below like a gator would.
Slowly and silently, I shifted my body around and lifted my monocular up over my right eye. I’d recently upgraded to a new model. It was less grainy than the previous one I’d used and allowed me to zoom in farther. Staring into the thick brush around us, I heard a footstep again and focused on the large figure of a man standing roughly fifty feet behind us. He stood perfectly still, his glowing eyes locked on our trap of a camp on the ground below.
Wanting to wake Billy before our prey got too close, I nudged him softly. His eyes sprang open and he tilted his head slowly.
“He’s here,” I whispered. I motioned in the killer’s direction and added, “Your nine o’clock. Fifty feet. Right beside that stump.”
He shifted his body, angled his head, and focused his eyes. After just a few seconds of searching, he nodded.
“What’s the play?” he asked.
I thought for a second, then moved my head even closer to Billy’s right ear.
“We wait until he’s close,” I said. “We injure him, disarm him, then get him to talk.”
Billy nodded, grabbed his Springfield XD handgun from his waistband. I followed suit, gripping my Sig with my right hand and pulling it out.
Both armed, we fell perfectly silent and listened as the killer approached. His movements were impressively quiet for a guy his size. He stepped with ease over roots, under branches, and between closely knit trunks. It didn’t surprise me. If he was one of the Harlan brothers, it meant that he’d been living on the run, probably hunting down most of his food, for over ten years.
Billy and I kept frozen as statues. We were both ready, just in case the killer spotted us up in the tree, to take him out in an instant.
He moved right into the camp below us, his boots landing softly on the dirt with every step. He had his compound bow strapped to his back, and in his right hand, he clutched what looked like a sawed-off shotgun.
His eyes were glued to the tent as he shuffled slowly along the back side of it. I’d strapped the rain fly down, so he bent over, trying to catch a peek inside. Standing tall again, he lifted the shotgun, gripped it with two hands, and took aim. Just as we’d expected, this asshole was planning to take us both out in our sleep. With one pull of the trigger, he’d send a spray of lead pellets at over a thousand feet per second. Anything inside the tent would be riddled and mangled to pieces, including our flesh if we had been inside.
I raised my Sig slowly, aiming it straight at his hands. Lining up the sights, I let out my breath calmly and pulled the trigger. The 9mm round exploded from the chamber, flashing as the powder ignited and shocking the still evening air. It struck the top of the killer’s right hand, tearing through flesh and spraying out blood and bone. The round easily broke all the way free and rattled against the wooden stock of the sawed-off shotgun.
He yelled in pain as the weapon broke from his grasp, spinning and falling harmlessly to the dirt at his feet. He brought his mangled hand against his chest and bent forward, wincing and gritting his teeth as the pain shot through his body.
He jerked his body around, stared into the dark jungle surrounding him. His left hand was pressed against his right. Blood flowed out and his hand shook. The sound of gunfire had caused every bug and critter nearby to fall silent, allowing us to hear every sound the guy made.
“What the fuck,” he said, grunting the words out.
His head moved back and forth as he searched for his attacker. After a few seconds, he directed his gaze up. He stared straight at us for a few seconds. Billy and I both had our weapons locked right on him.
He grunted again, turned around. I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he was eyeing his fallen weapon.
“You move one inch toward that shotgun and my next target will be the back of your skull,” I said sternly.
He didn’t acknowledge me. He kept his head turned, facing his gun.
“You’ve got two barrels staring you down, Harlan,” I said. “Time to start talking.”
He snapped his head at the mention of his last name.
&n
bsp; “Cover me,” I whispered to Billy.
I slid my Sig into its holster and climbed down. Once my feet hit the dirt, I slid it back out and aimed it straight at the killer.
“That’s right,” I said. “We know who you are. You and your serial killer brothers are going down.”
He stared at me with intense, unflinching eyes. He was no longer wearing the bandanna. Grotesque burn scars covered most of his face, further fueling his evil persona.
I glanced down at the shotgun. I was confident that it wasn’t his only weapon. Any moment, I expected him to grab a stashed handgun and try to take me out. If he did, he’d be dead before his hand clutched the grip.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” he spat, desperately struggling for his breath. “You’re not the damn feds.”
“It doesn’t matter who we are,” I said. “All that matters is that you make a choice. You can either die right here in the dirt, or you can tell us where the others are.”
I wasn’t interested in taking down just one of the serial killers. I wouldn’t be satisfied until everyone involved was either food for worms or locked up behind bars. They’d been murdering for far too long and it was time for all of them to get a taste of their own merciless medicine.
He eyed me like a caged animal. I could feel the anger surging from within him. It resonated from his dirt- and sweat-covered face in waves of hate-filled rage.
He turned away from me, then said, “Fuck you.”
In the blink of an eye, he spun around and lunged toward me like a wild animal.
I fired off two rounds at the center of his body. Instead of hearing high-velocity lead striking soft flesh, I heard two loud and distinct tings. Metal on metal. Before I could shift my aim to his head, he was on me. It was more of a fall than a tackle as he collided into my body, sending us both tumbling to the dirt.
We rolled violently, cracking branches and thudding against trunks. He tried to wring my neck, but I kept him off me. His breath was foul, his stench ripe. Blood and saliva oozed from his mouth as we jerked to a stop. I glanced to my left and spotted the thick muddy pool of swamp water right beside the camp.