Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [150]
“You must get up, Captain,” came Pendergast’s soothing voice. She realized that she had fallen yet again.
The curious emphasis on her title roused her somewhat and she struggled to her feet, managed a step or two, and then felt herself crumpling again. Pendergast continued to half hold, half drag her along, his arms like steel cables, his voice soft and soothing. But then the mud grew deeper, sucking at her legs almost like quicksand, and with the effort of staggering she felt herself merely sinking forward into the mire.
He steadied her and with a great effort she managed to free one leg, but the wounded leg was now deep in the muck and throbbed unbearably at every effort to move it. She fell back into the swamp, sinking almost to her thighs. “I can’t,” she said, gasping with pain. “I just can’t do it.” The night whirled crazily about, her head buzzed painfully, and she could feel him holding her upright.
Pendergast glanced around quietly, carefully. “All right,” he whispered. He was silent for a moment, and then she heard him softly tearing something up—his suit jacket. The dark swamp, the trees, the moon were all turning around, and around… Mosquitoes swarmed her, in her nostrils and her ears, roaring like lions. She sank back into the watery muck, wishing with all her might that the clinging mud was her bed back home, and that she was safe and warm in Manhattan, Vinnie breathing quietly beside her…
She came to as Pendergast was tying some sort of crudely contrived harness around her upper arms. She struggled for a moment, confused, but he put his hand on hers to reassure her. “I’m going to pull you along. Just stay relaxed.”
She nodded, comprehension slowly dawning.
He slung the two strips of the harness over his shoulders and began to pull. At first, she didn’t move. Then the swamp slowly released its sucking embrace and she found herself sliding forward over the water-covered muck, half bobbing, half slipping. The trees loomed overhead, black and silver in the moonlight, their interlocking branches and leaves above forming a speckled pattern of dark and light. Weakly, Hayward wondered where the shooter was hiding; why they had heard no further shots. Five minutes might have passed, or thirty; she lost all sense of time.
Suddenly Pendergast paused.
“What is it?” Hayward groaned.
“I see a light through the trees.”
72
PENDERGAST LEANED OVER HAYWARD, EXAMINING her closely. She was in shock. Given the sloppy, mud-drenched state of her person, it was difficult to tell how much blood she had lost. The moonlight slanted across her face, ghostly white where it wasn’t smeared with dirt. Gently, he pulled her up to a sitting position, loosened the harness, and propped her back against a tree trunk, camouflaging her position with a few fern leaves. Rinsing a rag in the murky water, he tried to clean some of the mud from her wound, pulling off numerous leeches in the process.
“How are you doing, Captain?”
Hayward swallowed, her mouth working. Her eyes blinked, unable to focus. He felt her pulse; shallow and rapid. Bending over to her ear, he whispered, “I have to leave you. Just for a while.”
For a moment, her eyes widened in fear. Then she nodded and managed to speak, her voice hoarse. “I understand.”
“Whoever is living at Spanish Island knows we’re here; they undoubtedly heard the shots. Indeed, the remaining shooter may well have come from Spanish Island and is awaiting us there—hence the silence. I must approach with great care. Let me see your weapon.”
He took the handgun—a .32—examined the magazine, then slapped it back in place and pressed it into her hands. “You’ve got four rounds