Crooked River(79)
A harsh electronic voice came from above. “Stop your vehicle.”
Pendergast, if anything, accelerated, plunging into a low, swampy stretch, mud splattering against the windows.
“Stop or we’ll fire.”
Gladstone, terrified, crouched down, hands over her head.
The heavy vehicle abruptly swerved at the same time that a burst of gunfire sounded from above: a rapid pop-pop-pop. Gladstone screamed as the Rover sideswiped a tree. Another burst of gunfire, this time with a loud hammering sound in the rear of the vehicle, glass flying everywhere, leaves and branches shredding around them in the glaring light. In the backseat, Lam emitted a gargling scream.
Pendergast jammed on the brakes and the SUV slewed sideways to a stop. Gladstone turned back only to see Lam torn apart by gunfire, a sight so horrific that she froze. Pendergast seized her, throwing open the door and hauling her out. He turned and leaned back in, pausing briefly over Lam’s mutilated body before grabbing her again and pulling her away from the scene. As he towed her into the brush, a muffled thump sounded behind as the Rover caught fire, flames leaping up even as the car settled, sizzling, into the muck. The forest lit up a lurid yellow.
Holding her hand, Pendergast pushed forward into a dense tangle of cypress trees. The chopper seemed to have lost them; its spotlight beam was swinging through the trees in a searching pattern.
Pendergast slowed, moving deliberately, still holding her hand as a warm rain began to fall: light at first, then getting heavier. The helicopter’s spotlight was moving around in a more distant location and she had the sudden hope they had lost their pursuers completely. He led them into denser vegetation, the cypress trees giving way to a mangrove swamp cut by narrow, winding channels of water a foot deep. They continued as quietly as they could, wading through the watery maze. Gladstone forced away the image of Lam’s body, making an intense effort to control her panic and focus on moving as quietly as possible.
At a cul-de-sac, Pendergast halted. He reached into the water and pulled up handfuls of mud with which he began coating himself, gesturing for her to do the same, in particular her blond hair. The muck smelled foul, fishy and rotten, but she complied, covering herself as thickly as she could manage. Then they turned and continued moving. But now, the thudding of the rotors was returning, the chopper widening its search pattern. No: it was hovering. Pendergast paused and they peered through the foliage. Men were roping down from the stationary chopper. In the downpour, they looked like aliens, with gray-green helmets sporting multiple stalklike goggles, and bulky body armor bristling with weapons.
Pendergast, gesturing for absolute quiet, turned and they headed away into deeper water, crouching low and pushing into the narrowest lanes among the mangroves, scrambling at last under a bundle of roots and wriggling themselves into a small pool within the densest vegetation. Pendergast leaned toward her and whispered, “Immerse yourself, just your head above water. Apply more mud.”
She did as ordered, sinking into the warm water and smearing more foul mud over her head, even though the rain seemed to wash it off almost as quickly as she applied it.
Just as Gladstone began to think they might have evaded their pursuers, she saw flashlight beams cutting through the mangrove trunks. And then the lights vanished. She strained, trying to hear. Flickers of red, like fireflies, darted through the trees, and she heard a splashing sound of approaching men. She felt Pendergast’s hand stiffen. He leaned to her, mouth at her ear. “Laser sights. Hold your breath. Under the water.”
She took a deep breath and submerged herself in the dark, murky water. She held her breath until she could hold it no more, then tried to angle her face to expose as little as possible above the surface while she gulped in air. As she came up, brilliance flooded her eyes.
“Don’t move!” cried a voice. “Raise your hands!”
She slowly rose and, a few moments later, Pendergast did likewise. Her eyes were dazzled by the sudden glare of spotlights, but could make out, backlit, half a dozen figures carrying heavy weapons.
“Come out!”
They worked their way out of the stand of mangroves. The men surrounded them. One searched Pendergast, taking his gun, a knife, other things from his person.
“Hands on head. Move.” The soldiers pushed them from behind and they proceeded out into the deluge. Ahead, in an island of sawgrass, the helicopter had eased down, whipping the grass into a frenzy.
“To the chopper.”
With their hands on their heads, they waded out of the channel and toward the helicopter. As they approached, the cargo door opened and a woman appeared. She gazed at them for a moment, then said: “Mr. Pendergast. How unlovely to see you again.”
46
IT WAS A DARK, quiet, rainy evening. The police barricades and bad weather had left Captiva Island feeling almost deserted. Turner Beach was still closed and the investigation had driven away most of the usual tourist traffic. A storm was rolling in.
North of Turner Beach, back from the water, sat the Mortlach House. Its whimsical Victorian lines stood against the dark sky. No lights gleamed in its tall windows, and no murmur of voices came from within. It stood among the sleeping dunes, and a curious no-man’s-land of saltwort and sea grapes separated it from the sprawling waterfront properties that began farther to the north. The only sound was the regular susurrus of breakers along the beach, and the occasional car crossing Blind Pass Bridge.