Fever Dream (46 page)

“When I travel, I always look up the local pastor first. He never fails me, never.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Because the local pastor knows the folks. He knows the legends. But as a man of God, he is not superstitious. He isn’t swayed
by such things. Am I right?”

“Well, it’s true one hears stories. But they are just that, Pastor Pendergast: stories. I don’t pay much attention to them.”

“Exactly. Now this swamp, the Black Brake, is one of the biggest and most legendary in the South. Are you familiar with it?”

“Naturally.”

“Have you heard of a place in the swamp called Spanish Island?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not really an island, of course—more an area of mudflats and shallow water where the cypress trees were never
cut. It’s out in the middle of the swamp, virgin forest. I’ve never seen it.”

Pendergast began to scribble. “They say there was an old fishing and hunting camp there.”

“Quite right. Belonged to the Brodie family, but it was closed up thirty years ago. I believe it’s just rotted back into the
swamp. That’s what happens to abandoned buildings, you know.”

“Are there any stories about Spanish Island?”

He smiled. “Of course. The usual ghost stories, rumors that the place is occupied by squatters and used for drug smuggling—that
sort of thing.”

“Ghost stories?”

“The locals are full of talk about the heart of the swamp, where Spanish Island is located: strange lights at night, odd noises,
that sort of thing. A few years ago, a frogger disappeared in the swamp. They found his rented airboat drifting in a bayou
not far from Spanish Island. I expect he got drunk and fell off into the water, but the local folk all say he was murdered
or went swamp crazy.”

“Swamp crazy?”

“If you spend too much time in the swamp, it gets to you and you go crazy. So people say. While I don’t exactly believe that,
I must say it is an… intimidating place. Easy to get lost in.”

Pendergast wrote this all down with expressions of interest. “What about the lights?”

“The froggers go out at night, you know, and sometimes come back with stories of strange lights moving through the swamp.
They’re just seeing each other, in my opinion. You need a light, you see, to frog. Or it might be a natural phenomenon, glowing
swamp gas or something like that.”

“Excellent,” said Pendergast, taking a moment to scribble. “This is just the sort of thing I’m looking for. Anything else?”

Encouraged, Gregg went on. “There’s always talk of a giant alligator in the swamp. Most of the southern swamps have similar
legends, as I’m sure you know. And sometimes they turn out to be true—there was an alligator shot in Lake Conroe over in Texas
a few years back that was over twenty-three feet long. It was eating a full-grown deer when it was killed.”

“Amazing,” said Pendergast. “So if one wanted to visit Spanish Island, how would one go about it?”

“It’s marked on the older maps. Problem is, getting there’s a whole different deal, with all the mazes of channels and mud
bars. And the cypresses are thick as thieves deep in there. During low water, there’s a growth of ferns and brambles shooting
up that are well-nigh impassable. You just can’t go straight through to Spanish Island. Frankly, I don’t think anyone’s been
out there in years. It’s deep in the refuge, no fishing or hunting allowed, and it’s hell getting in and out of there. I would
strongly advise against it.”

Pendergast shut the steno book and rose. “Thank you very much, Pastor. This is all very helpful. May I contact you again if
necessary?”

“Certainly.”

“Very good. I’d give you one of my cards but I’m fresh out. Here’s my telephone number, if you need to call. I’ll be sure
to send you the book when it’s published.”

Getting back into the Rolls, Hayward asked, “What now?”

“Back to our friends in Malfourche. We have unfinished business there.”

T
HEY ARRIVED IN THE SAME PARKING LOT, AND
parked in the same dusty spot. The same group of men were still down at the docks, and once again they all turned and stared.
As he and Hayward got out of the car, Pendergast murmured, “Continue to allow me to handle the situation, if you please, Captain.”

Hayward nodded, slightly disappointed. She had been half hoping that one of the good old boys would step over the line so
she could bust his ass and haul him in.

“Gentlemen!” said Pendergast, striding toward the group. “We are back.”

Hayward felt a fresh cringe.

The fat one—Tiny—stepped forward and waited, arms crossed.

“Mr. Tiny, my associate and I would like to rent an airboat to explore the swamp. Are any available?”

To Hayward’s surprise, Tiny smiled. A number of glances were exchanged in the crowd.

“Sure, I can rent you an airboat,” said Tiny.

“Excellent! And a guide?”

Another exchange of glances. “Can’t spare a guide,” Tiny said slowly, “but I’d be right glad to show you where to go on a
map. Got ’em for sale inside.”

“Specifically, we’re hoping to visit Spanish Island.”

A long silence. “No problem,” said Tiny. “Come on round to the private dock on the other side, where we keep the boats, and
we’ll set you up.”

They followed the immense man around behind the structure to the commercial dock on the other side. Half a dozen sad-looking
airboats and bass boats sat in their slips. Pendergast, pursing his lips, looked them over briefly, selecting the newest-looking
airboat.

Half an hour later, they were in the fourteen-foot airboat, Pendergast at the wheel, moving into Lake End. As they came into
open water, Pendergast throttled up, the propeller making a roaring sound, the boat skimming across the water. The town of
Malfourche, with its shabby docks and sad, crooked buildings, slowly vanished into a light mist that clung to the surface
of the lake. The FBI agent, in his black suit and brilliant white shirt, looked ludicrously out of place in the cockpit of
the airboat.

“That was easy,” Hayward said.

“Indeed,” Pendergast replied, glancing across the surface of the water. Then he looked at her. “You realize, Captain, that
they had prior news of our arrival?”

“What makes you think that?”

“One might expect a certain hostility to wealthy customers arriving in a Rolls-Royce. But the level of hostility was so specific,
and so immediate, that one must conclude they were expecting us. Judging from the message gouged into my car, they believed
we were environmentalists.”

“You did say we were birders.”

“They get birders here all the time. No, Captain: I’m convinced they thought we were environmental bureaucrats, or perhaps
government scientists, masquerading as birders.”

“A case of mistaken identity?”

“Possibly.”

The boat skimmed the brown waters of the lake. As soon as the town had vanished completely, Pendergast turned the boat ninety
degrees.

“Spanish Island is west,” said Hayward. “Why are we heading north?”

Pendergast pulled out the map Tiny had sold him. The fat man’s scribblings and dirty thumbprints were all over it. “I asked
Tiny to indicate every route into Spanish Island that he knew. Clearly, those fellows know the swamp better than anyone else.
This map should prove most useful.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to trust that man.”

Pendergast smiled mirthlessly. “I trust him implicitly—to lie. We can safely discount all these routes he has marked. Which
leaves us a northern approach. That way we can evade the ambush here, in the bayous west of Spanish Island.”

“Ambush?”

Pendergast’s eyebrows shot up. “Captain, surely you realize the only reason we were able to rent this boat at all was because
they planned to surprise us in the swamp. Not only did someone notify them we would be coming, but it seems he or she also
fed them some sort of story designed to arouse their ire, with instructions to intimidate or perhaps even kill us if we try
to go into the swamp.”

“It might just be a coincidence,” said Hayward. “Maybe the real environmental official is just now arriving in Malfourche.”

“I might be concerned about that if we’d arrived in your Buick. But there can be little doubt they were expecting two people
fitting our descriptions
. Because the look on their faces as soon as we stepped out was one of absolute certainty.”

“How could anyone have possibly known where we were going?”

“An excellent question, one for which I have no answer. Yet.”

Hayward thought for a minute. “So why did you antagonize them like that? Act like a whiny city slicker?”

“Because I had to be absolutely sure of their enmity. I needed to be completely certain they would mismark the map. This way
I’m confident of the route we must take. On a more general level, an aroused, angry, and suspicious crowd is far more revealing
in its actions than one that is mixed or partially friendly. Think back to our little encounter, and I think you will agree
that we learned a great deal more from that angry crowd than we would have otherwise. I find the Rolls to be most useful in
that regard.”

Unconvinced, Hayward was disinclined to argue the point and said nothing.

Taking one hand from the wheel, Pendergast removed a manila folder from his jacket and passed it to Hayward. “Here I have
some Google Earth images of the swamp. Not altogether helpful, because so much is obscured by trees and other growth, but
it does seem to reinforce the notion that the northern approach to Spanish Island is the most promising.”

The lake curved around and—in the distance ahead, emerging from the mists—Hayward could see the low, dark line of cypress
trees that marked the edge of the swamp. A few minutes later the trees loomed up before them, draped in moss, like the robed
guardians to some awful netherworld, and the airboat was swallowed up by the hot, dead, enveloping air of the swamp.

Black Brake Swamp

P
ARKER WOOTEN HAD ANCHORED HIS SKIFF
about twenty yards into a dead-end bayou at the northern tip of Lake End, over a deep channel cut where the bayou met the
main body of the lake. He was fishing slowly over a tangle of sunken timber with a Texas-rigged firetail worm, casting in
a radial pattern in between sips from a quart bottle of Woodford Reserve. It was a perfect time to fish the back bayous: while
everyone else was off chasing the environmentalists. In this very spot last year he had landed an eleven-pound, three-ounce
largemouth bass, the Lake End record. Ever since then it had been almost impossible to fish Lemonhead Bayou without competition
lashing the water on every side. Despite the frenzy, Wooten was pretty sure there were some wise old big ones still lurking
down there, if only you could fish them at a quiet moment. The others all used live bait from Tiny’s, the party line being
that wise old bass knew all about plastic worms. But Wooten had always taken a contrarian view to fishing. He figured that
a wise old bass, aggressive and irritable, would be more likely to strike at something that looked different—to hell with
the mousees and nightcrawlers the others used.

His walkie-talkie—obligatory when in the swamp—was tuned to channel 5, and every few seconds he’d hear an exchange among
members
of Tiny’s posse as they positioned themselves in the west bayous, waiting for the enviros to show up. Parker Wooten would
have none of it. He’d spent five years in Rumbaugh State Prison and there was no way in hell he was ever going back. Let the
rest of the yahoos take the rap. He’d take the bass instead.

He cast again, let the bait sink, and then gave it a little tug, bumping it off a sunken log, and started reeling in, twitching
the tip. The fish weren’t biting. It was too hot and maybe they’d gone to deeper water. Or maybe what was needed here was
a firecracker with a blue tail. He was still reeling in when he heard the faint roar of an airboat. Shoving the rod into a
holder, he picked up his binoculars and scanned the lake beyond. Pretty soon, the boat came into view, skimming along the
surface, its lower section lost in the low haze drifting over the water, the vessel’s flat bottom making a rapid slapping
sound. And then it was gone.