Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [138]
“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.
65
Black Brake Swamp
PARKER 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