Crooked River(94)
He’d heard one could see the reflection of a gator’s eyes in a flashlight beam, but he was in no position to turn his on. It was the blackest of nights, the only light being reflected from the brightly lit facility. The water was only a foot or two deep; below that, another foot of sucking mud, which made moving difficult and exhausting.
He slogged about a half mile from the road perpendicular to the facility, then made a ninety-degree turn and continued toward it. At any moment, he expected to feel fangs sink into his leg, or hear the sudden thrash of water as an alligator ambushed him. He glimpsed, from time to time through the cypress trunks, a flicker of lights of the guard station. Soon he had drawn almost even with it—and then, to his surprise, came up against a chain-link fence. A channel had been cleared on the far side, providing access for an airboat, probably operated by the guards at the gate. Incredible to think they had fenced a facility that was already isolated in a deep swamp in the middle of nowhere.
He took out his flashlight and—keeping the beam low—examined the fence, being careful not to touch it. He spied three wires along the top, running through insulated clips. The fence was electrified and, no doubt, alarmed as well.
He paused, thinking. A fence like this, running miles through a swamp, with dead trees, snags, birds, and animals, would probably generate a lot of false alarms. Not only that, but the storm was still picking up, the treetops swaying overhead. Even as he stood there, a smattering of heavy raindrops came down, hitting him in the face. He waded along the fence for another hundred yards until he found what he was looking for: a rotten tree standing close to the fence. He gave it a heave and, with a nasty mushy sound, it sagged into the fence, touching the wires. A few sparks popped.
Coldmoon retreated into the darkness, submerged himself in the water, and waited.
Sure enough: about ten minutes later, he heard the whir of an airboat and saw a spotlight pierce the murk. Two guards. They came to the leaning tree and illuminated it with their spotlight, accompanied by muttered cursing and the hiss of the radios. One of the men, wearing hip waders, got out and, using a hooked pole, pulled the rotten trunk free and shoved it over into the water.
After they left, Coldmoon continued walking alongside the fence, soon coming across another rotten candidate, this time on the far side of the fence. The wind was now blowing harder, along with gusts of rain, so the guards were unlikely to question why two trees fell onto the fence in quick succession.
Taking a piece of nylon parachute cord from his pack, Coldmoon climbed partway up the fence, looped the cord over the wires, then climbed back down. He then gave the cord a mighty pull, popping the wires out of their plastic clips, sparks flying in several directions. This time, he quickly climbed over the fence, avoiding the dangling live wires, then dropped down on the other side and gave the rotten tree a shove toward the fence. But this one wasn’t as rotten as the first, and he had a moment of panic when it refused to topple over. He laid his shoulder into it and, abruptly, the rotten upper portion broke off and came crashing down on the fence. He leapt aside, just missing getting clobbered.
The trunk ended up tangled in the wires. Coldmoon almost laughed—he couldn’t have asked for a better setup.
He headed on, slogging through the blackness as fast as he could move. In the distance, he heard the whine of the airboat returning to investigate. He wondered when he would encounter the next perimeter—and how hard it would be to penetrate that one.
He sure hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anybody.
57
THE BOAT LUNGED and bucked as the waves got steeper, the offshore wind rising near the coast of the Panhandle. The wind and tide were producing a steep chop, and it began to rain harder: big, heavy drops that felt like hail.
Perelman had the VHF turned to the weather channel, which had been regularly broadcasting ever more dire small-craft warnings, but now it announced general tornado warnings. He’d been forced to drop his speed even further, much to his passenger’s displeasure. It was pitch dark on the water, and Perelman’s boat had no radar. He just hoped the small-craft warnings had cleared the coast of boats. Only a crazy person would be out in this weather. If they could get into the protection of the river before the main force of the storm hit…he recited a quick Baruch HaShem in his head, and then another, thanking God for having gotten them this far. Just a little bit farther, please?
The booming of the water against the hull and the whine of the engine, combined with the hammering of drops on the windscreen and the howling of the wind, created an almost deafening noise in the cockpit. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. He glanced at the chartplotter. They were about six miles from Dog Island. Constance was still standing to his left, staring into the darkness with an implacable expression on her face, a real-life Joan of Arc.
Four more miles to go. The wind was really getting crazy. He throttled down again. At least this time Constance didn’t respond. To his immense relief he started to see a few faint lights from Dog Island, appearing and disappearing in the murk. The sea got worse as they headed toward the northern end of the island. Now the lights of Carrabelle came into view, smeared and blurry in the tempest. And then, rising to the west of the town, he saw the powerful beacon of the Crooked River Lighthouse, strong and clear, which flooded him with relief. They were almost there.
Entering Saint George Sound, he took a bearing off the light, heading to a point of land east of the lighthouse where his charts indicated the mouth of the Carrabelle River debouched into the gulf. God, it was a relief to see that lighthouse blinking away, steady as a rock, through the howling murk. But with the change of heading the sea was now almost broadside, pitching the boat from side to side and occasionally shoving it askew, the gray water sweeping across the enclosed bows and slopping over the gunwales. The cockpit floor was awash in seawater on its way out the scuppers. The VHF was still broadcasting tornado warnings to the north. If they could only get in the damn river and out of this brutal sea, they’d be safe. Or safer, at least.