Текст книги "The Bone Tree"

Автор книги: Greg Iles

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Текущая страница: 43 (всего у книги 58 страниц)

Harold looked discomfited by this news, but then he shrugged and said, “You’re paying the fare, you make the rules.”

“Can we make it there and back in two hours?”

“Probably so. Long as we don’t run into company.”

“Is that your boat in the back of your pickup?”

“Yeah. And we’d better get moving, before this rain lets up.”

“I’m ready.”

“One more thing,” he said, his face hardening.

Caitlin raised her eyebrows.

“You got a gun?”

She nodded.

“What kind?”

“Nine mil. In my purse.”

“Okay. I feel better already.”

“Do you have a gun?”

Harold looked embarrassed. “All I got’s a .22 rifle, for shootin’ snakes and such. I had to pawn my pistol. But we’ll be all right with your nine.”

“Okay, then. I’ll come out to your truck a minute after you leave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harold Wallis walked back to the counter, bought a pack of cigarettes, then sauntered out into the rain as if he had nothing to do for the rest of the day. A man in the far booth watched him for a few seconds, then went back to his coffee.

Caitlin folded the map and slipped it into the side pocket of her purse. Then she looked at Terry and gave her a confident smile. “Don’t worry, okay? Just drive around for a while, walk through a couple of stores. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Terry Foreman looked like she was about to cry. “You’d better be.”

“Two hours from now, you and I are going to be headed into the history books.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“Well, I do. And I sign the checks.”

“Great.” Terry got up so that Caitlin could get out of the booth.

Caitlin shouldered her purse and walked to the door without looking back.

She could hardly contain herself as she trudged through the rain toward the beat-up truck with the knifelike brown pirogue jutting from its open bed. Harold Wallis was already inside, and blue-gray exhaust puffed steadily from the tailpipe. With a silent prayer of thanks, Caitlin climbed into the truck.

CHAPTER 67

DRIVEN BY PANIC, I crossed the Mississippi River and reached the police barricade at the intersection of Auburn and Duncan Avenues in record time, topping a hundred miles an hour on short stretches, weaving in and out of traffic like a PCP-crazed fugitive on COPS. Thanks to a radio call by Chief Logan of the Natchez police, no police cars tried to stop me. I don’t think half the drivers I passed even saw me until I’d blown past them.

My well-known face was enough to get me past the Natchez cops at the Duncan Avenue barricade, but it takes Kaiser to get me past the FBI agents and up to the Abrams house. A bright red fire engine is parked in the driveway, its crew spraying water on the face of the house, which still seems to be standing. As we move closer, I spy Annie and my mother sitting on the Abramses’ front porch, watching the firemen work. Kirk Boisseau leans against one of the porch columns, his pants scorched, his face lined with pain. James Ervin is sitting against the column at his feet, his face covered with soot.

“Daddy!” Annie cries, leaping off the porch and running to me.

I lift her into my arms and squeeze tight. Beyond her, I see tears running down my mother’s face.

“Kirk feels really bad,” Annie says in my ear. “But he was awesome.”

She pulls back and begins chattering with eyes so bright and alive that I can only stare. “The house isn’t messed up too bad. The fire department was so close, and the sprinkler system worked just like it’s supposed to. The back looks bad, all black, but the fire chief already said the damage is mostly superficial.”

“Sam Abrams is going to have a heart attack,” I murmur, looking past her at Mom again.

“Tell Dad how Kirk saved you, Gram!” Annie cries. “Come here, Kirk.”

Hugging my mother, I wave at my old friend. After patting Ervin on the shoulder, Kirk limps toward us.

“He got burned bad on his leg,” Annie goes on. “But he pushed Gram back through the door when Spider-Man threw the bomb.”

“Spider-Man?” I ask in confusion.

“The guy who threw the bomb was wearing a Spider-Man mask. Kirk said it was a Molotov cocktail.”

I lower her to the street and reach out to take Kirk’s hand.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I should’ve reacted quicker.”

“Don’t be stupid, man. You did great. I’m just glad you’re alive. You obviously went far beyond the call of duty.”

“He did,” Mom says. “He was wonderful.”

“I’ll second that,” John Kaiser says from behind me.

As I turn back to Kaiser, my cell phone rings. I take it from my pocket and check the LCD, then stop. The screen reads JORDAN GLASS.

“Dad, listen,” Annie says, pulling on my arm.

“Hang on, babe.” Jordan must have tried to reach Kaiser and failed, then decided to try me. But if my memory serves, she ought to be winging her way to Cuba now, or at least headed to the airport. I press SEND and say, “Hello? Jordan?”

“Penn, yeah, it’s me.”

“What’s going on? Are you trying to reach John?”

Kaiser moves around in front of me, his eyebrows raised.

“No, I wanted you. I’m worried about Caitlin.”

Thirty yards to my right, a window shatters and falls to the ground. I whirl and see a fireman aiming his hose into the new opening in the house.

Kaiser is still looking hard at me, but I signal for him to be patient.

“After we finished with the Lusahatcha sheriff’s people, we split up at an Athens Point gas station. A girl from the Examiner had driven down, and she was supposed to drive Caitlin back to Natchez. Her name was Terry. But as I drove toward Baton Rouge, something told me I ought to be sure they’d done that. So I started calling Caitlin.”

“She didn’t answer?”

“No. She could have been busy, of course, but I had a funny feeling. I kept calling, and her phone started kicking me straight to voice mail. I tried five more times before I called you. Have you heard from her?”

“No. I’ve assumed she was on her way back.”

“What’s the cell reception like between Athens Point and Natchez?”

“Good, most of the way. Couple of dead spots.”

“Maybe that’s it. Or maybe she switched off that phone for some reason. But when I started thinking about her being out of range, I thought of that swamp. We had no reception at all at ground level—only in the chopper. And . . . well, I know how badly she wants to find the Bone Tree. I made her swear that she wouldn’t go back until Carl or Danny could help her, but I don’t know. . . .”

“I do. Do you remember the last name of the girl she’s supposed to be with?”

“Terry, that’s all I know. She works in marketing at the paper.”

“Okay, that’s enough to work with. Do you need to talk to John? He’s about five feet away from me.”

“No, listen. I called you because I don’t really have the right to tell John what I know about Caitlin. She has a lead that nobody else did. Henry had found a poacher who claimed to know where the Bone Tree was. The guy didn’t show today, but he sent a map that supposedly showed the tree’s location. Long story short, Caitlin still has that map, or at least a photo I shot of it. Also, she’s not only after old bones from those cold cases. Frank Knox apparently hung on to some kind of document that he used as insurance against Carlos Marcello. It was supposedly written in Russian, and it was supposed to have been kept inside that tree at some point. You know Caitlin. She’s not about to let somebody else get down in there and find that stuff before she does.”

“No, shit. But how could she get back into the swamp?”

“That I don’t know. But if there’s a way—”

“She’ll find it. Thanks, Jordan. I’ll call you if I reach her. You do the same.”

I hang up without waiting for a good-bye, then dial Caitlin’s office.

Kaiser lays his hand on my forearm. “What the hell was that about? Where’s Jordan now?”

“Headed to the New Orleans airport.” I give him the quickest summary I can, omitting any mention of Frank Knox, but my narrative is terminated by a chipper female voice saying, “Natchez Examiner.”

“This is Penn Cage. I need to speak to Jamie Lewis, immediately.”

While the call is transferred, I tell Kaiser that Caitlin might be trying to get back into the swamp.

“This is Jamie Lewis.”

“Jamie! I need to know which female employee Caitlin took out of marketing today, and I need her cell number right now.”

“Ah . . .”

“This may be life or death, Jamie. Don’t fuck around.”

“It was Terry Foreman. She hasn’t come back yet. It may take me a minute to get her cell number.”

“Hurry.”

Kirk, Annie, my mother, and Kaiser close around me as I wait for the number, then dial it. The worry in my mother’s eyes looks deeper than I would have expected, but Annie’s face is almost bloodless.

“This is Terry,” says a young female voice.

“This is Mayor Penn Cage. I need to speak to Caitlin. Immediately.”

“Oh. Uh . . . she’s doing an interview right now. She told me not to disturb her until it’s over.”

“Drop the lie, Terry. Jordan Glass called me, worried sick. Are you with Caitlin?”

She hesitates only a moment. “No, sir.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Not really. To be honest, I’m scared myself. Caitlin told me not to worry, but I’m not used to this kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff? Did she go back into the swamp?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How could she do that?”

“A black guy was going to show her where it was.”

This answer throws me. “A black guy? Was it Carl Sims?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Was he a deputy?”

“Oh, no. No way. He was just a guy at a gas station. The Crossroads Café. He was some kind of fisherman or something.”

Oh God . . . “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“There was only room for two in the boat. Seriously. It was the littlest boat I ever saw. He called it a pee-row, I think. It was a Cajun boat.”

“A pirogue?”

“That’s right.”

“Where are you now, Terry?”

“I’m still at the Crossroads Café. That’s where she told me to wait for her.”

“Have you tried to call her?”

“Yes, sir. I can’t reach her.”

I close my eyes and try to stay calm. “I want you to stay right where you are, in case she comes back. If she contacts you by phone, call me right away. I’m coming straight down there, and I’m going to get the police involved. They’ll probably come by the station to talk to you.”

“Oh, God. I knew she shouldn’t have gone with that guy. I’m so sorry—”

“It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped her. Tell the police everything you remember. Even the smallest thing could be important. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I was just trying to help Caitlin.”

“I know. You sit tight. We’re going to find her, Terry.”

As soon as I click off, my mother asks me to explain the situation, but I’m too freaked out even to summarize it.

“I’ll go with you,” Kaiser says. “I’ll bring in Bureau assets.”

“I won’t turn down FBI agents, but if you’re going to protect Sonny, you need to keep questioning the other Double Eagles.”

“I know. I intend to. But I’m going to try to expedite some air assets down there. I’ll also call ahead and inform the Highway Patrol you’re going to be coming through, but don’t kill yourself.”

“Oh, Lord,” my mother intones. “There must be some other way.”

“Daddy, is Caitlin really in trouble?”

I clench my daughter in a tight hug. “She’s just exploring in the woods, babe. She’s fine, but I want to make sure she doesn’t get lost. I’m going to find her. You take care of Gram while I’m gone.” Reaching to my right, I squeeze Kirk Boisseau’s hand.

The marine shakes his head and says, “You don’t think I’m staying here, do you?”

“Hell, yes. You’ve done enough for one day.”

“You need to get to an ER,” Kaiser tells him. “And don’t worry about the Cage ladies. They’re going to have a steel curtain around them.”

Before Kirk can argue, Kaiser’s cell phone rings, and he answers with such authority in his voice that everyone falls silent. I give him a quick salute and start to move past him, but he grabs my arm and holds me in place. When I try to pull away, he tightens his grip, forcing me to look into his face, which has gone pale.

“Forget that,” he says sharply. “Forget the bombs, forget the crowd, forget everything. Get into that cellblock and get Sonny Thornfield out of there.”

Bombs?

“I don’t give a damn about an escape! Get Thornfield secured!”

“What happened?” I ask, after he slaps the phone against his thigh.

“Some kind of explosive attack on the courthouse. And since the courthouse is attached to the sheriff’s department, they had to evacuate it. I’ve got to get over there.”

“What in God’s name is going on?” my mother asks.

Kaiser drops my arm. “Call me from the road, Penn. Let me know what you need.”

“I will.”

After giving Annie and Mom a final hug, I sprint toward the police barricade, speed-dialing Carl Sims on the way.

WALT HAD FINALLY MASTERED the art of driving with his left hand while monitoring the GPS tracker that he held in his right. He’d followed Forrest and Ozan along Highway 61 as it wound through the pine and hardwood forests between Natchez and Woodville, then watched them turn east toward Athens Point. When the cruiser passed the turn to Valhalla without slowing, Walt feared the worst. His secret hope had been that Tom had been moved from Sonny’s Old River fishing cabin to the hunting camp. But if Knox and Ozan weren’t stopping . . . then he was probably elsewhere.

The next time Walt looked down at the tracking screen, he did a double take. The cruiser had turned east off Highway 61 on a road about two miles past the turn to Valhalla. Maybe it led to some other destination on the camp property? He felt a fillip of excitement in his chest, but also concern. They might be nearing some hiding place unknown to anyone. In a matter of minutes, he might have to decide whether to try to rescue Tom himself or call for backup and hope for the best.

Walt made up his mind then and there that if the pair led him to Tom, he would go in with his pistol-grip Benelli shotgun and finish them once and for all. The time for talking was done. It was kill or be killed.

The question was, would he even get that chance?

THE GERMAN AUDI S4 can do 180 miles per hour, but my American version is computer-limited to 135. Despite a lightly falling rain, I’ve hit the maximum several times during the past ten minutes, especially on the long stretch where Highway 61 climbs from Adams County into Wilkinson. I’ve spent much of the drive on the phone.

Carl Sims quickly located Terry Foreman at the Crossroads Café. Reviewing the security footage there, Carl found video recordings of Caitlin speaking to a young black man inside the café, then getting into his truck in the parking lot. A Cajun pirogue was clearly visible in the back of his truck. A teenager eating in the café identified the black driver as Harold Wallis, a local fisherman, poacher, and sometime drug dealer. Carl told me that Caitlin didn’t look as though she was under duress at any point on the tape.

Carl also told me that Danny McDavitt was ready to do anything he could to help me locate Caitlin, but that Sheriff Ellis hadn’t yet okayed the use of his chopper. If the sheriff stalled much longer, McDavitt would take me over the swamp in his own fixed-wing plane.

I’ve tried to call Caitlin several times from the road, but she hasn’t answered once. As I roar past the private prison north of Woodville, Mississippi, my cell phone rings again. My heart leaps, but it’s only Kaiser again.

“What have you got?” I ask.

“Sonny Thornfield’s dead.”

“No. How?”

“They got him in his cell. Someone opened the cells during the mandatory evacuation. There goes our star witness.”

“Jesus, John.” I don’t remind him of my warnings that the extra time he took with Thornfield would put his life in jeopardy.

“Oh, and the meth Dennis planted was stolen from the evidence room during the alarm.”

Yet again, the Knox family is two steps ahead of us. “Was it obviously murder?”

“No. It looks like a heart attack, but I know better. At least one of Dennis’s deputies had to be involved, but that’s no surprise. We’ve got real trouble in this parish.”

That’s probably how Snake or Forrest learned of our special interrogation.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Kaiser. “I still need your help, though.”

“Tell me.”

“I need the Lusahatcha County helicopter in the air and searching for the truck Caitlin left that gas station in. Carl says the sheriff down there hasn’t okayed it, and he may have ties to the Knox family. I’m not saying he’s dirty, but he’s definitely hunted out at Valhalla. He might be as obstructive as he can about us searching that land.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“The sheriff’s name is Billy Ray Ellis. He’s eating lunch with some hunting buddies now.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m about to ruin his day. Good ol’ Billy Ray is about to feel the full weight and power of the federal government.”

I thank Kaiser and click off, then push the accelerator to the floor. The S4 eats up the miles like a starving beast, its Quattro drive holding me in the curves when most other cars would spin off the steep shoulders and into the trees below.

I reluctantly brake as I reach the outskirts of Woodville, Mississippi. The turn for Highway 24 East isn’t far ahead, but my cell phone rings yet again before I reach it.

It’s Carl again.

“Talk to me, buddy,” I tell him.

“Danny and I got the chopper! Agent Kaiser lit a serious fire under the sheriff’s ass. Billy Ray’s spittin’ mad, but we’re cleared to go into Valhalla if we need to. A judge is signing the warrant now. Right now we have to decide where to search. Do we run the roads and turnarounds? Or do we start searching the swamp first? We’d rather you make that call.”

“The swamp, no question. She’s got a map to follow, and she wouldn’t hesitate.”

“I thought she lost her map when she dove on Whelan’s corpse.”

“She did, but Jordan Glass shot a picture of it before it was lost. But if this Harold Wallis is a poacher, he may know where the Bone Tree is anyway. That’s what she’s after. How much do you remember of Rambin’s map?”

“Enough to get us in the general area of where that X was.” There’s a static-filled pause. “But there’s a million or so cypress trees down there, Penn. The only way to find that tree without the map is to grid-search the whole area, tree by tree.”

“Screw the tree. We can search for Caitlin’s cell phone, if you have the equipment.”

“We’re already up and trying, but we haven’t found a trace of it.”

I look at the Audi’s nav screen and make a quick calculation.

“Carl, in two minutes, I’ll be on Highway 24 and moving toward you guys at close to a hundred miles an hour. Can you set down on the road in front of me? Will Danny do that?”

“He’ll do it. You still driving that black convertible?”

“Yep. I’ll have my headlights on.”

“We’ll see you in a minute.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Dropping my cell on the passenger seat, I slam the accelerator to the floor. The Audi’s rear end nearly slings out from under me as I start around a sweeping curve, but at the last instant the tires catch the wet pavement and the increasing G-force presses me back in the seat.

“Come on, Caitlin,” I whisper. “Call me. . . .”

CHAPTER 68

CAITLIN SAT IN the bow of Harold Wallis’s narrow pirogue, the rain shell of her jacket pulled tight around her as they trolled slowly under overhanging cypress branches. The steady hiss of rain on the black water was as familiar now as the stink of decaying vegetation. Beneath the hiss ran the hum of the trolling motor Harold had bolted to the side of the pirogue’s stern. Pirogues were usually powered by a human with a pole, but the boy had cleverly worked out a way to save himself a lot of labor.

Harold navigated the swamp much more deftly than Mose Tyler had earlier in the day. Perhaps it was his youth—and the better vision that came with it—but he threaded his slender boat through the tangled jungle almost noiselessly, leaving no trace of their passing. Only the hum of the trolling motor marked their passage.

Caitlin had brought along the little point-and-shoot camera she carried in her glove box in case of traffic accidents, and she’d already shot a mother alligator lying on a half-sunken log, four babies clinging to her back. The pirogue passing ten feet away hadn’t fazed the gator at all. This was her territory, not theirs. If Harold actually led Caitlin to the Bone Tree, she was going to wish she’d borrowed Jordan’s Nikon, but in that event, a hundred professional photographers would descend on this swamp. Today her tiny Casio would have to do.

In the pocket of her fleece jacket, Caitlin clutched her cell phone. She’d checked it every two or three minutes since they put in to the water, but the LCD had yet to register a single bar. This worried her a little, she wouldn’t deny that. Because Harold Wallis, while a companionable guide, had begun acting like a nervous point man on combat patrol five minutes after they put into the water. She’d considered calling Penn before they left Athens Point behind, but he would have forbidden her to go into the swamp without Carl Sims as an escort. Nor could she call upon Carl or Danny. They were already in serious trouble for helping her, and she didn’t want to jeopardize their jobs any further. Besides, she was armed, and Harold had his .22. She hoped that would be enough to drive off anyone who might have come out to the Bone Tree to remove whatever incriminating evidence lay inside it.

But the deeper they penetrated into the ghostly stands of cypress trees, the clearer her memory of Henry Sexton’s Bone Tree journal became. Not the legends of ghosts and demons riding through the fog-shrouded swamp, but the real men on horseback who’d surely prompted those legends, men who had killed for a dozen different causes, but always with ruthlessness, rage, or hatred. Today she was more likely to encounter angry rednecks riding souped-up ATVs rather than horses. The thought made her clench the pistol in her jacket pocket.

She was glad that most of the Double Eagles were in jail today. Of course, Forrest Knox remained free, as did his cousin Billy—not to mention the intimidating Redbone who served as Forrest’s right-hand man. Caitlin shivered at the memory of his flat, cruel stare the night she’d encountered him outside the Concordia hospital.

“You know where you are?” Harold asked softly.

Caitlin took the map out of her left pocket and studied it, then peered through the rain, trying to orient herself.

“No. Where are we?”

“Close to where you found that boy’s body earlier. We just comin’ at it from a different way, in case there’s still cops out here.”

Are we? she wondered. The pirogue soon glided out into a circular pool like the one in which she’d wrestled Casey Whelan’s torso into a helicopter’s rescue basket. But was it the same? Yes. . . .

An exhilarating shudder of recognition went through her. “We’re close to that game fence, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Harold said. “You don’t see any deputies, do you?”

“No.”

“Hear anything?”

She listened for a moment. “No. Nothing.”

“Like I said . . . Sheriff Ellis don’t want anybody to find that tree.”

“Are you saying he already knows where it is?”

Harold shrugged. “I know he hunts over on Valhalla every fall.”

“How do you know that?”

“I done worked over there as a guide. I seen the sheriff cozying up to country singers and football players.”

“How far away is the hole in the game fence?”

“A little farther on. This rain will make it easier to get to by boat. When the water’s low, you got to walk the last fifty yards.”

Harold eased back on the throttle, then cut the motor altogether as they drifted into a narrow channel between two grassy tussocks.

“Look,” he whispered, and something in his voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“Where?”

“You can’t see that hog?”

Caitlin froze as her eyes locked with the eyes of a wild hog even larger than the ones she and Jordan had seen by the road earlier.

“Is it dangerous?” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t get out of the boat if I was you. She might have babies close by.”

As Caitlin stared at the massive animal in the eerie silence, she heard a low whine from somewhere to her left. It sounded like a truck passing on a distant road. “What’s that?”

“Boat,” Harold whispered. “Somebody’s still down here.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep going.”

He restarted the trolling motor and left the two tussocks behind. As they hummed through the trees, she realized that the trunks of the cypresses were getting closer together.

A cracking boom like thunder echoed through the trees from somewhere to their right. Whirling, she saw Harold cock his head as though gauging distance and direction.

“Was that a rifle?” she asked.

“Yeah. Somebody’s shooting over at Valhalla. Probably took a deer.”

“How far away?”

He rubbed his chin with an audible scratching sound. “A mile. Maybe two.”

“Is it hunting season now?”

“Ute season.”

“Ute? What’s that?”

“That’s when little boys can hunt, but their daddies can’t.”

“Ah . . .” She felt embarrassed for misunderstanding him the first time.

Harold increased speed through the narrow channel. The tall wire fence appeared to the right of the boat. Caitlin experienced the disturbing feeling Jordan had spoken of, that they were at the edge of a prison camp. This afternoon Caitlin wasn’t sure whether she was on the inside of the fence or the outside. Suddenly Harold cut the motor, and the pirogue drifted to a stop.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Listen. Outboard again. That other boat’s closer now.”

“I don’t hear it. Where?”

He pointed at the fence. “It’s on that side.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you didn’t pay me enough for this gig.”

A tingle of fear and frustration went through her. “I’ll add five hundred to the pot. Let’s just get to that damned tree.”

Harold stared through the fence, seemingly weighing odds.

“Get your pistol out,” he said. “Keep it in your hand.”

Caitlin’s fear kicked up several notches. She let go of her phone and took the 9 mm from her pocket. As she did, she saw her Coach purse lying in two inches of water at the bottom of the pirogue.

“Cock it,” Harold said. “But be careful you don’t shoot me by mistake.”

Caitlin cycled the slide with a violent motion. The metallic snick of machined parts echoed off the trees and back over the water. Then she tensed both forearms, holding the gun the way Tom had taught her.

“What am I watching for?” she asked in a quavering voice.

“White men,” Harold said. “Maybe in a boat, maybe on foot. Maybe even on horseback. You never know what them crackers get up to.”

Caitlin shivered at this prospect. “What do I do if I see somebody?”

“Keep your gun lower. Yeah, like that. Out of sight. Let me do the talking. You a smart lady. You see it goin’ bad, you start pulling that trigger and don’t stop.”

“Okay.”

“Can you hit what you aim at?”

Caitlin remembered Tom teaching her how to shoot. “I can hit bottles on a fencepost.”

“Then you can hit a man. Just be on the lookout.”

Harold started the motor and continued up the channel. They followed the game fence for a couple of minutes, then Harold guided the bow onto a shallow slope of mud until they scraped to a stop.

Caitlin’s heart thumped in anticipation.

With the cold gun butt clenched in her hand, she scanned the surrounding trees while Harold tugged on a pair of knee-high rubber boots and climbed out. Wading into the dark water, he went to the game fence, took a pair of pliers from his jacket, and pulled open a four-foot-by-four-foot gap.

“What about the other hole?” she asked.

“Somebody might be watching that. Could be a game camera there, no telling. We gonna go through here to be safe. The Chain Tree ain’t far.”

He tugged the pirogue back into deeper water, then climbed in, started the motor, and steered them through the opening as sweet as you please.

“What would the white men do if they knew you put a hole in their fence?”

Harold laughed softly. “Hang me on one of them hooks they got in their skinning shack. They’d skin me like a buck, then mount my head on the wall.”

Caitlin shuddered at the dark undertone in his laughter. Numbing fear competed with the electric anticipation she felt as they neared the object of her quest.

“How far are we from the tree now?”

“Couple minutes, no more.”

Sweat had broken out beneath her jacket. Every cypress tree they passed seemed larger than the one before, and the air grew dark and close beneath the overhanging limbs.

“You want to hear a scary story?” Harold asked.

“Hell, no.”

Harold chuckled softly. “You know what a mandrake is?”

Caitlin thought she remembered some John Donne from college that referred to a mandrake. Go and catch a falling star. Get with child a mandrake root, tell me where all past years are, or who cleft the devil’s foot.

“It’s some kind of plant, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. My granny used to fool with some witchin’—charms and stuff like that. Voodoo from New Orleans. She said a mandrake will scream when you pull it out of the ground, and the scream will kill anybody who hears it.”

Caitlin rolled her eyes at this quaint superstition, and a little wave of relief rolled through her.

“Granny said you have to harvest the mandrake a special way.” Harold peered into the dimness ahead. “You tie a dog’s tail to it, then run away. When the dog runs after you, he pulls up the plant. Then you can go back safe and get it.”

“What made you think of that story?”

“Granny made Granddaddy bring her out here one time. She said the real mandrake only grew where the seed of a hanged man spilled on the ground.” He paused a beat. “You know what I’m talking about?”

Caitlin thought about it for a few seconds, then grunted in the affirmative.

“Granny knew some boys had been hung out here, see? More than one with his clothes off. And some people say they cut them boys’ manhood off. The ones hung from the Chain Tree anyway. So Granny figured there would be mandrakes growin’ under it.”

Caitlin gripped the pistol tighter. “That’s enough. You’re creeping me out.”

“Hey, I’m scared, too. I wouldn’t even be here without you payin’ me that money.”

Instinctively, she pulled open her jacket and checked her phone. Still no reception.

“There it is,” Harold said, a note of awe in his voice. “Just like I told you. Man alive, look at that.”

Caitlin jerked up her head. Before her stood the near-mythical object of so many fruitless searches. Just as the legend said, the Bone Tree towered more than a hundred feet over the water, its lower branches joining the crowns of other trees to form a tangled canopy. The fibrous bark of the massive cypress looked like the leathery skin of some great creature, not dead but only sleeping. At its bottom, the trunk divided into leglike partitions that plunged into the muddy tussock that supported the tree. What lay inside that vast trunk? she wondered. Were Elam Knox’s bones really wired to the inside wall of its organic cave?