Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [144]
A couple of men supported Tiny, one beneath each meaty arm, as he shuffled into his establishment and disappeared. Meanwhile, others in the crowd had seen Ventura and were talking and gesturing—and then began moving his way. They did not look happy.
Ventura reached over and pressed the automatic locks on the doors, which shot down with a click. The men circled his car in silence, their faces red and streaked with sweat.
Ventura cracked the window an inch. “What happened?”
Nobody answered. After a tense moment, a man raised a fist and brought it down on the hood with a loud bang.
“What the hell?” Ventura cried.
“What the hell?” the man screamed. “What the hell?”
Another fist came down and then, suddenly, they were pummeling the car, kicking the sides, swearing and spitting. Astonished and horrified, Ventura snugged the window tight and threw the car into reverse, backing up so fast those standing behind had to throw themselves to one side to avoid being run over.
“Son of a bitch!” the mob screamed with one voice. “Liar!”
“They were feds, asshole!”
“Lying bastard!”
Giving the wheel a frantic twist, Ventura threw the car into drive and gunned the engine, spraying dirt and gravel in a one-hundred-eighty-degree arc. As he accelerated, a rock smacked the back window with a dull thud, turning it into a spiderweb of cracks.
When he pulled onto the small highway, his cell phone rang. He picked it up: Judson. Shit.
“I’m almost there,” came Judson’s voice. “How’d it go?”
“Something messed up. And I mean messed up.”
By the time Ventura arrived at his neatly kept compound at the edge of the swamp, Esterhazy’s pickup was already there. The tall man stood next to the bed of the truck, dressed in khaki, unloading guns. Ventura pulled up and got out. Esterhazy turned toward him, his face dark.
“What happened to your car?” he asked.
“The swampers attacked it. Over in Malfourche.”
“Didn’t they take care of things?”
“No. Tiny came back with a neck wound and nobody had their guns. They wanted to string me up. I’ve got a big problem on my hands.”
Esterhazy stared at him. “So those two are still heading to Spanish Island?”
“It seems so.”
Esterhazy looked past Ventura’s rambling whitewashed house and wide, billiard-table lawn to the private dock, where Ventura’s three boats were tied up: a Lafitte skiff, a brand-new bass boat with a hydraulic jack plate and a Humminbird console, and a powerful airboat. His jaw tightened. He reached into the pickup bed and removed the last gun case. “It would appear,” he said slowly, “that we’re going to have to handle the problem ourselves.”
“And right away. Because if they reach Spanish Island, it’s over.”
“We won’t let it get that far.” Esterhazy squinted toward the sunset. “Depending on how fast they’re moving, they might be getting close already.”
“They’re moving slowly. They don’t know the swamp.”
Esterhazy looked at the bass boat. “With that two fifty Yamaha, we might just be able to intercept them when they cross that old logging pullboat canal near Ronquille Island. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Of course,” said Ventura, irritated that Esterhazy might even question his knowledge of the swamp.
“Then put these guns in the boat and let’s get moving,” said Judson. “I’ve got an idea.”
69
Black Brake Swamp
A BUTTERY MOON ROSE AMONG THE MASSIVE trunks of the bald cypresses, spreading a faint light through the night-darkened swamp. The boat’s spotlight cast a beam into the tangle of trees and other vegetation ahead, now and then illuminating pairs of glowing eyes. Hayward knew most of the eyes belonged to frogs and toads, but nevertheless felt herself growing seriously spooked. Even if the strange stories she’d heard as a child about Black Brake were legends, she knew the place was nevertheless infested with very real