Witching Moon (6 page)

He'd been here twice before, for his job interview. And then when he'd started work.

The first time the old man had flown him to Jacksonville from southwest Texas and put him up overnight at the Holiday Inn.

The next morning at nine o'clock sharp, a stoop-shouldered old man wearing a dark suit and white shirt had ushered him into Barnette's paneled den with its comfortably worn leather furniture. The lord of the manor had offered him coffee, which he'd declined. He'd settled for a glass of water as Barnette had asked him pointed questions about how he saw the present and future of Nature's Refuge. Apparently he'd passed the test, because a special delivery letter had arrived at his home in Big Bend National Park the next week.

He'd been elated to get the job. Now he was having second—and third—thoughts.

The door was opened by the same servant who had ushered him into the house the first time.

Stepping across the threshold, Adam took a moment to adjust to the dim light as he breathed in the aroma of lemon-scented furniture polish. On the surface, it seemed like nothing had changed since his first visit here five months ago.

“This way, sir.” The old man gestured toward the hall.

“I didn't ask your name last time I was here,” Adam said.

The butler or whatever he was called looked surprised. “I'm James.”

“So what have you heard in town about the goings-on at Nature's Refuge?” Adam asked.

The man's eyes went wide—for just a second, then turned guarded. “Nothing, sir,” he answered.

Adam smiled at him and waited a beat before saying, “Well, if you change your mind about talking to me, you know where to find me.”

James didn't reply, and Adam didn't push it. He wasn't going to interrogate Austen Barnette's house staff. Not yet, anyway. But maybe after the man thought about it, he might have something to say later.

Adam proceeded down the hall past a parlor where a maid was dusting the furniture. The room was as he remembered it—quietly opulent, with a permanent aura of cigar smoke that grated on his nerve endings. It wasn't the only shock to his system. As always, it was difficult to picture himself, the son of an auto mechanic and burglar, in such a setting.

The mansion's owner was sitting in the same old-fashioned swivel desk chair where he'd been on Adam's last visit. But the man looked like he'd aged a couple of years in the past few months. There was more white in his salt-and-pepper hair and more sag to his wrinkled skin.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Adam said.

“Nature's Refuge is important to me. I'm always available to speak to my head ranger.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Sit down.” The old man gestured toward the chair across the room.

Adam sat. Beside it on the table was a silver tray with a cut glass tumbler and a pitcher of water.

Barnette picked up his own beverage of choice, coffee served in a delicate china cup, and took a sip.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, setting down his cup and clasping his hands in his lap.

Adam studied his employer carefully. He seemed composed, yet there was an undercurrent below the surface of that calm. Was he worried about something and unwilling to make the first move? Or was he truly waiting for information about the park?

“The sheriff came to see me this morning,” Adam began.

Barnette's raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Did he find out something about Ken White?”

“No. He was just checking in. But it was interesting that he picked this morning to show up.” He waited a beat, waiting to see if Barnette would rise to the bait. When the old man remained silent, he continued. “We had an incident last night that I think you ought to know about.”

“What?”

“I like to walk through the park at night—just to check on things. Last night, I came across some trespassers.” Quickly he gave an account of the strange group who had invaded the park the night before, keeping his description to the drugged smoke and the dancing participants. “When they discovered I was watching them, somebody shot at me,” he concluded.

“But you escaped unharmed.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments, forcing Adam to direct the conversation once more.

“I got the feeling from Delacorte that you've had problems like this in the park before,” he said.

“Not in the park!” Barnette answered.

“Not that anyone told you,” Adam answered, giving the old man an out.

His employer nodded.

“Now we might assume that Ken White stumbled onto the same kind of thing I did, but he didn't happen to get away.”

“I hired you because you're an excellent park ranger, and you have a reputation for solving crimes. Like that smuggling operation you shut down in Big Bend. And that cattle rustling gang in Montana.”

“Yeah, well, it's easier to solve crimes when you have the background to work with. What do you and Delacorte know that I don't?”

Barnette stared at him. “What did the sheriff say to you?”

“Nothing helpful.”

“He knows his place in town.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that his family has lived in Wayland for a long time. They get along here.”

Adam looked at his employer, understanding another facet of his personality. He saw Delacorte as a servant—just the way he saw James. Adam's own skin was a different color, but he suspected he fell into the same category. Hired help.

So how to proceed now? He could be a good little servant and go back to the park and watch his back. But watch for what—exactly?

He decided on the direct approach. “Why don't you tell me what I should know about problems in Wayland over the past few decades.”

Barnette blinked. “That's a pretty open-ended subject.”

“Yes, sir, it is. I'm trying to understand the sociology of the town,” he said blandly.

Barnette shifted in his seat. “This is a good Christian community. I don't want outsiders coming in and judging us.”

“You wanted an outsider—me—to come in and solve your problems. That's difficult to do when you tie my hands.”

The old man thought about that. “I suppose your request is reasonable, but I don't want this discussion going any further than this room.”

Adam nodded, thinking that he could agree for now.

“All right. We've had problems with goings-on in the swamp. The trouble…uh…dates back at least a hundred years.”

Adam blinked. “That's a considerable amount of time.” He waited for more information. When it wasn't forthcoming, he asked, “What are you talking about exactly?”

“You want to put a label on it? I don't have a label.” Barnette stopped and fixed Adam with his stony gaze. “There's magic in the swamp. I'd like to think it's good magic. But sometimes it takes another form.”

The revelation was so unexpected that he waited several seconds before asking, “Can you be more explicit?”

“Like what you saw last night.”

“That wasn't magic. It was drugs.”

“Call it what you want. Did you feel like something strange was going on? Something you didn't understand?”

“Yes.”

“Well then.”

“I'm not equipped to investigate magic,” he said.

“You saw people. Find out who they are.”

“How?”

“The same way you identified those drug smugglers in fifty-plus square miles of desolate Texas park.”

Adam had no answer for the remark. He wasn't about to explain that he'd been operating last night with a hood over his senses. He needed more clues, and somebody was going to have to give them to him. Apparently, it wasn't going to be his employer.

Barnette gave him a dismissive look.

Adam knew that was his cue to leave. But he stayed where he was. “We should talk about Sara Weston,” he said.

“What about her?” Barnette asked, his voice sharpening so that Adam wondered what he'd conveyed in his own tone.

He wasn't sure how he was going to answer until he heard himself saying, “Is she in danger—going into the swamp?”

Barnette's gaze turned inward. “I hope not,” he said. “It would look bad for us if something happened to Granville Pharmaceutical's researcher.”

“Then why did you allow her to come here—now?”

“What do you mean—why now? Why not now?”

“You had a murder here less than half a year ago.”

“I thought it would be all right. I thought with you here, we wouldn't have any more incidents…” He let his voice trail off, then asked, “Are you questioning my decision?”

“No,” Adam lied.

“If she finds something important in the park, some plant that can cure diseases, then we'll get some great publicity. That will bring more visitors here.”

“And if she gets shot by the…people I saw last night, that's going to drive the crowds away.”

“I'm counting on you to make sure that doesn't happen,” Barnette snapped. “You need extra help patrolling the refuge?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so. I know you work alone. I know you find clues that other people miss.”

If I don't get killed first, Adam thought. Aloud, he said, “I'll do my best.”

“Keep me informed on what you find out.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, silently reminding himself that if Austen Barnette could pick and choose what he wanted to reveal, Adam Marshall could damn well do the same.

The meeting had been far from satisfying. It was a relief to leave the old man's private sanctuary and step into the sun again. He stood on the wide front porch, breathing in the fresh air, thinking about why he'd taken this job in the first place. He'd wanted to get out of Texas. He'd wanted a challenge. He'd liked the idea of being in charge of his own park. Now he felt like he'd made his decision with only part of the facts he'd needed.

Across the lawn, he saw a man dressed in a plain white T-shirt and jeans working with a power saw, apparently replacing some of the wood siding on the wall of the detached garage. The guy raised his dark head and looked at him curiously. And he stared back, wondering if they had met.

Something about the workman was familiar, but he didn't know what. Maybe he'd seen him around town. He thought about walking closer. Maybe the guy was curious about the new head ranger out at the park. Maybe if they talked, he could get another perspective on working for Austen Barnette.

But something about the workman's posture kept him standing where he was.

After a long moment, the man lowered his head and went back to the siding, and Adam walked down the steps and back to his SUV, thinking he needed a better source of information about the hidden history of Wayland, Georgia. And he needed something else as well—a gas mask, which he was going to order from the Internet as soon as he got the chance.

AMY RALSTON LOOKED
up from her position behind the boat rental counter and watched her boss's long-legged stride as he came down the mulched path to the dock.

She was pretty sure that the sun shade over the window of the ticket booth hid her face, so she felt free to drink in the view of Adam Marshall. When he drew closer, she lowered her gaze and pretended to be sorting through receipts from recent customers.

It was impossible not to react to the man. He was nothing like the last head ranger. Ken White had been old—in his fifties at least. He'd had thinning hair and a pot belly. She had thought of him like a slightly gruff old uncle. She'd been sad when he'd gotten killed; she hadn't wanted it to happen.

Actually, she'd been more than sad. She'd been frightened by the implications.

After Ken's death, for a while, there hadn't really been anyone in charge at the park. Mr. Barnette had stopped by a time or two, getting driven over in that big black Cadillac of his. But he hadn't known anything about the day-to-day operation of the park. So he'd asked them to carry on with their jobs until he could get a replacement. It had worked fairly well, at least in the short run.

Then their new boss had arrived, and Amy had flipped over him. Not just her. All the female staff had a thing for him.

He knew it, too. But he kept things on a professional level. Unfortunately, because if he made a move toward her, she would be more than willing to do the dirty with him.

He was good-looking, with tanned skin, thick black hair, remarkable dark eyes, and a great body. But it wasn't just his looks that turned her on. There was something about him, something she couldn't define. You could maybe call it charisma.

The guy was a chick magnet.

“How's it going?” he asked, the question casual.

“Fine.”

He glanced over at the boats moored in the narrow channel that led to the park's main waterway. “How many tours are out?”

“Dwayne just took a family of four on the hour excursion. Rosie left a half hour ago with another party. And we have a married couple interested.”

She consulted her notes. “Mr. and Mrs. Carlton. I explained that we don't want too many boats out there at once. So they're coming back at three for the deluxe tour.”

“I'll take them out,” he said.

She looked up in surprise. Ken had been very conscious of his position as head ranger. And he'd made it clear that routine stuff was beneath his notice. He'd always given jobs like boat tours to the lesser members of the staff.

“Someone else can do it,” Amy offered.

“No. I like to keep in touch with every aspect of the operation.” He laughed. “Even feeding Big Jim.”

“Yuck.” That was definitely one chore Amy tried to avoid. Feeding their “pet” alligator meant handling big chunks of raw meat from the refrigerator.

 

“PART
of the job,” Adam said, before moving down the dock and pulling up the engine of a nearby boat to check the propeller for weeds, which were a perennial problem in these nutrient-rich waters.

In addition to feeding Big Jim, he'd already taken care of putting out grain for the waterfowl that the park fed regularly so the birds would be on hand for visitors to look at.

Feeding wildlife went counter to what he'd learned in the U.S. Park Service, of course. The philosophy was that if you gave handouts to animals, you turned them into beggars. He'd abided by the policy when he'd worked for the U.S. government, even when it had meant watching snowbound moose starve. But he also saw no harm in providing food for birds the tourists liked to see around Nature's Refuge.

The simple act of scattering duck feed had given him time to decompress after his conversation with Barnette. And he was hoping that a tour of the waterways would continue the process.

As soon as he'd left the old man's mansion, he'd thought about driving into town and demanding that Paul Delacorte put him in the loop. But he was almost sure he wasn't going to get any more answers from the sheriff than he had from Barnette.

And that wasn't the only reason for heading back to the park. He knew himself pretty well. He knew that going off half-cocked was a bad idea. He needed to calm down. And taking a boat out into the still, dark waters of the swamp was an excellent way to do it.

The tourists arrived at five of three. Barbara and John Carlton were a couple in their late forties, he guessed, from Denver. They had never been to this part of the country before, and they were excited by the prospect of a swamp tour. Adam collected fifty dollars from them, got out life jackets, then helped the couple into the front of the boat, while he sat in back at the tiller and started the engine. Most local residents who took watercraft into the swamp paddled. But that wasn't practical for tourist expeditions because it would add too much time to each trip. So all of the boats at Nature's Refuge were motorized.

They putted slowly away from the dock, then turned into one of the narrow channels that lead into the interior of the preserve. In front of them, the water was still as glass. Rotting peat made it cola dark, creating a natural mirror that reflected the vegetation crowding in on either side of the boat. The effect was like being in a magic tunnel of greenery where you couldn't tell up from down.

Magic
. Barnette had used that word. Probably he hadn't been referring to the scenery. But what had he meant?

Adam had thought of the Olakompa as a place that civilization hadn't been able to destroy, a refuge for the birds and animals that lived here. Now he wondered what secrets lurked beneath the dark waters. And really, the dimly lit, mysterious swamp was an easy place to become a believer in the supernatural.

And why not? A werewolf was a kind of supernatural creature. Perhaps his ancestors had sprung from a place very similar to this.

“It's like taking a trip into wonderland,” Barbara murmured, her voice hushed. “Is the park all like this?” she asked.

Her husband had gotten out his fancy camera and was busily snapping pictures.

Adam brought his mind back to the tour.

“No,” he answered. “We have these narrow channels. But they open up into what are called prairies, kind of water meadows. The higher elevations in the park are dry land. Well, higher is a relative term. We're about a hundred feet above sea level, in a natural depression. Some of the land is also boggy. And we have over seventy islands—I mean in the whole swamp, not just Nature's Refuge. The terrain makes for a variety of plants and animals.”

The mention of plants sent his mind zinging back to Sara Weston. He'd met her where the footing was dry. But if she'd come to the swamp, she must be here to collect some of the aquatic specimens like floating heart, arrow arum, pickerelweed, or golden club.

The channels could be confusing, if you didn't know your way around. She'd need a guide. And he was the perfect choice.

He went into a little fantasy, imagining them alone in a boat out in this vast wilderness, pictured himself helping her with her work, the two of them silent but very aware of each other. Sexually aware, like they'd been this morning. But now she wouldn't be wary of him.

She'd want him as much as he wanted her. She'd put her hand on his arm, letting him know. He pictured his gaze locking with hers, before he steered the craft into a shallow waterway where they could reach for each other without worrying about the boat tipping dangerously.

He held the tantalizing image for several heartbeats, then ruthlessly wiped it from his mind. He'd thought that giving a tour would relax him. Instead, he was wound up tighter than a kudzu vine choking the life out of a tree trunk.

Embarrassed, he shifted in his seat, glad that he was sitting behind his passengers and they were looking toward the front of the boat.

His eyes scanning the shoreline. It didn't take too long to spot what he wanted. He cut the engine, drifting toward the bank. “Look at that floating log,” he said, pointing.

As the boat eased closer, a small alligator lifted its head out of the water and stared at them.

Barbara started in alarm. John began snapping more shots.

“One of the twelve thousand gators we have in the swamp,” he remarked. “Decades ago, a lot of them were turned into shoes and handbags. Now they're protected.” He wondered if the couple would also like to know that there were thirty-seven species of snakes in the area, including five poisonous ones.

Probably not, he thought, hiding a grin as he guided the boat around a bend and into one of the more open areas, past clumps of water lilies and tall grass.

He saw a wood stork feeding near the shore and dutifully pointed it out, so John could label his pictures later.

Usually he enjoyed giving these tours. He'd always been interested in wildlife. And he'd done a lot of reading on his own. Maybe he'd been trying to figure out where the werewolf fit into the natural order of things.

He realized he'd been silent for several moments and came up with another piece of nature lore as he guided the boat into another narrow channel. “White-tailed deer come down to the water for a drink.”

“Don't the gators get them?” John asked.

“Rarely. They have almost no natural enemies.”

“Are there wolves around here?” Barbara asked.

“They were last seen here in the nineteen twenties,” Adam said easily. He didn't add that a wolf had been prowling the park for the past four months.

Barbara scanned the shoreline. “I'd like to see the deer.”

“Maybe on the way back. They rest during the day, then become more active late in the afternoon.”

“It's so amazing that this place survived into the twenty-first century,” John mused.

“It almost didn't. The swamp's ecosystem came close to being destroyed in the early nineteen hundreds by a company dedicated to turning cypress trees into telegraph poles and floorboards. They took out four hundred and thirty million board feet of cypress before the easily accessible timber ran out. President Franklin Roosevelt stepped in and converted a large part of the swamp into a wildlife refuge in nineteen thirty-seven.”

“He established Nature's Refuge?”

“No. Austen Barnette bought this area much later.”

The waterway opened up again, and he steered the skiff through a grove of cypress trees, following a muskrat who swam away from them as quickly as possible.

When he came around a curve, something odd caught his eye. Something that looked as though it didn't belong in the natural environment.

From time to time he found junk floating in the water. Paper cups. Plastic jugs. He always scooped them up and brought them back to throw into the trash.

But this wasn't in the water. It looked like a piece of yellow paper tied to the trunk of a young cypress tree, standing out against the dark bark. It wasn't a bright yellow. It was faded, so that he might have mistaken it for something else. It could have been here for months, he supposed, getting drenched in the rain and baking in the sun. He didn't know for sure because he hadn't been in this particular corner of the swamp recently.

He could feel his heart rate picking up. He wanted to think that he simply didn't like finding something man-made tied to a tree where no human artifacts should be. But he knew it was more than that. Last night he'd encountered drugged smoke and naked people out here. Today there was something strange tied to a tree. Had the party-goers marked their territory?

The Carltons hadn't spotted the thing. He could steer the boat on by, then come back later, when he was alone. Probably that was what he should do, but he wanted to know what the damn thing was—now.

Barbara and John looked in the direction where he was headed and spotted the anomaly.

“What's that?” the husband asked.

“I don't know. It looks like someone left it for a marker,” he added, plucking a phrase out of the air.

“Who would do that?”

“Maybe a poacher,” he improvised even as his mind clawed for answers. The official entrance to the park was through the front gate, but it was always possible for someone to come in the back way. One of many back ways, actually.

The Olakompa Swamp was over six hundred square miles. Austen Barnette owned only a small corner of the watery real estate, about three hundred acres. That wasn't much in the grand scheme of things. But it was plenty of room for the birds and animals who lived here plus various assorted trespassers.

Like the group last night, he was thinking as he leaned out to examine the object. It wasn't paper, but cloth. In fact, it was a crudely made bag of old fabric, tied together at the top with a piece of rough twine. It looked like there was something inside.

Nothing heavy. But enough material to puff out the yellow fabric.

He pulled the boat as close as he could get, but it wasn't close enough to snag the thing without endangering his passengers, and that would be unforgivable. So he tied up to a cypress knee, then started to climb out.