“Look,” Violet whispered.
I turned, gazed back into the wood.
“Do you see it?”
A speck of orange light twinkled somewhere in the pines. It could’ve been a ship on the sound. It could’ve been ball lightning.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Pull your hood down so you can listen.”
Violet rolled her hood back and pushed her hair behind her ears.
Leaving the path, we struck out into the pines in search of the light. The suction of our boots in the mud seemed positively deafening and the light grew no closer. I had an awful premonition that it would suddenly wink out, stranding us in the pathless dark.
We walked on, faster now between the pines, and for the first time that orange luminescence seemed closer.
I took the .45 from the inner pocket of my rain jacket.
“I see it,” Violet said.
We crouched down in a coppice of oleander.
Tucked away in some live oaks at the terminus of a black creek stood a little wood lodge. A lantern or candle (some source of natural firelight) glowed through the only window. A boat was moored to the small dock.
“Is that it?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
We walked on. I was soaked with sweat underneath my raingear.
Within twenty yards of the lodge, I pulled Violet behind a tree and whispered in her ear: “Wait here and don’t move.”
I drew back the slide on the .45 and moved quietly toward the structure.
Halfway there I stopped to listen.
The wind had died, the silence absolute save the knocking in my chest.
I crept to the window but because the lodge had been raised several feet off the ground on four-by-fours I couldn’t see inside.
Three deliberate breaths and I walked around to the steps leading up to the front and only door.
At the top I glanced over my shoulder, saw Violet still hunched near the tree.
I put my ear to the door, listened.
Not a sound.
I grasped the doorknob and turned it as slowly as I could, a line of icy sweat trilling down my left side.
With the tip of my boot I nudged the door and let go.
It swayed partly open.
Hinges squeaking.
The only movement inside came from fireshadows on the walls and ceiling.
The furnishings were scanty—a ratty futon, card table bearing dirty plates, a bowl of pistachio shells, a jug of water. The place stunk of scorched eggs and spoiled fish. A candle, almost burned down to the brass, had been set on the windowsill, the sole source of light.
I steadied my hands, knelt briefly on the stoop to rest my trembling knees.
Then I stood, stepped through the threshold, kicked the door all the way open.
Sweet Jesus.
Movement in the right corner.
I swung around, nearly shot Beth Lancing, duct-taped to a folding chair, eyes gone wide with horror, head shaking, hair in shambles, cheeks marbled with bruises and mud.
Lowering the gun, I stepped toward her, reached to pull off the tape covering her mouth, but stopped.
“Beth,” I whispered, “J.D. and Jenna are safe. I’m here to take you home to them. Don’t scream when I take the tape off.”
Frantic nodding.
I ripped off the tape.
“Andy, he’s waiting for you.”
“What?”
“A man with long black—”
From the woods, Violet screamed my name.
Footfalls pounded up the steps to the lodge.
Before I could move, the door slammed shut.
45
I called out to Violet as I jerked on the door.
It wouldn’t open.
Outside Violet screamed.
I ran to the window, glimpsed a long-haired shadow sprinting into the woods. Taking the candle from the sill, I set it on the floor and busted the glass out with the handgun.
She said finally, “Tell me how he died.”
“Beth—”
“I want to hear it, Andy, and I want to hear it from you. But first, pass me that jug on the table. He gave me a few sips earlier, but I’m still so thirsty.”
I fetched her the half-empty jug. She took a long pull, then gave me the water.
I flicked off the cap and we sat down in the corner, passing the jug back and forth.