Death By The Riverside Part 42

"You too, Micky. Please don't get hurt any more than you already are."

"Cordelia," I said, for perhaps the last time. "I love you."

"I know," was all she replied. For an instant her hands held my face and she touched her lips to mine.

Then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness, leaving me with only the lingering fragrance of her warmth. But the chill of the night rapidly overtook it and I knew we had to keep moving.

"Come on. Let's go," I said.

"Where? Where's Cordelia?" he asked.

"Follow me. In position," I answered both his questions. "And be quiet."

Their cars were parked behind the barn. That was why I hadn't seen them when I drove up. There were four cars still here. None of them costing less than fifty grand, including a vintage Rolls, probably Korby's. No keys in any of the cars, not that I thought there would be. Cordelia will be all right and there are keys in Karen's car, I told myself.

Unfortunately for the Rolls, its gas cap was easy to open. The cap on the Mercedes was also easy to pry loose. I told Th.o.r.eau to stand watch. I dumped the rags and the hay on the ground and poured gasoline over them, saturating the pile as much as I could. By tying some of the rags together, I made two separate lengths each about five feet long. I stuffed the end of one into the open gas tank of the Rolls. The same for the Mercedes. By overlapping the rest of the rags, and when I ran out * 270 *

of rags, hay, I managed to make a thirty-foot fuse. It was Y-shaped with the rags from the two cars meeting, then continuing in one line to where I was standing.

Dawn was coming. My hands and the light Mercedes seemed to be glowing faintly, but they were only reflecting the first dim light from the horizon.

"Go on over to the trees, near the front of the barn," I told Th.o.r.eau.

"When this thing blows, run for the road as fast as you can. Wait, rub some dirt on that red s.h.i.+rt." Bright red, the perfect color for morning light.

"This is one of my favorite s.h.i.+rts," he argued.

"Do it!" I hissed at him. He rubbed some dry gra.s.s on his chest. I didn't have time to argue. I hoped there would be no one looking in his direction. "Get going," I said. He didn't need to be told twice.

I took a lighter out of my jacket pocket. Every good girl detective carries razors and lighters. And tampons, but I hoped not to have to use one of those.

I flicked my Bic and the hay caught fire. I turned and ran away as fast as I could. I wasn't interested in seeing my handiwork. I was about halfway back along the side of the barn when there was a tremendous roar and the sky flashed and crackled with an orange glow. When I reached the front of the barn, I spotted Th.o.r.eau huddling behind a tree a few yards in front of me.

The guard should be heading this way now, I mentally calculated.

If luck ran our way, Milo and second goon boy would use the back door and we could all avoid any unpleasant meetings. I ran on, trying to keep as many bushes and trees between me and the house as I could.

I motioned Th.o.r.eau to keep running. I hoped Cordelia was okay.

I was really beginning to hate rich people and their fetish for endless yards. There had to be two hundred oaks on the estate and it looked like I would get to run by every one of them before I got to the road. Th.o.r.eau continued loping in front of me, his s.h.i.+rt seeming to get redder and redder with each pa.s.sing tree. The sun was coming up, though I knew it couldn't be coming up as quickly as it felt.

We got to the long open section of the lawn. Th.o.r.eau was bright red in the middle of it when I left the trees. I risked a quick glance back to the driveway. I didn't see Karen's car. She had made it, I cheered silently.

* 271 *

"The car's gone," Th.o.r.eau yelled back at me.

Idiot. Shut up. Hopefully Milo and boys were too busy behind the barn to hear anything except the sound of that Rolls-Royce going up in smoke.

I was catching up to Th.o.r.eau in the flat. Wait to wring his neck until you get in the car, Micky, I told myself. We had another fifty or seventy-five yards before we got to the road. There was another line of trees and shrubs, so I couldn't see the pavement, but I knew the car was there. Th.o.r.eau was only about five feet in front of me. I would pa.s.s him and get the front seat beside Cordelia, I told myself smugly.

Then I tripped. I couldn't figure out how I had tripped on this immaculately smooth lawn, until I tried to stand up. Pain shot through my leg and I realized that I had been shot.

I limped a few steps. I would never make it to the road in time without help.

"Th.o.r.eau," I called. He had just reached the cover of the trees. He turned back, looked at me, then at something behind me. He wavered for a second, but only a second. He turned and ran, leaving me behind.

I staggered into the trees, waiting for the final bullet in the back or in the head. But it didn't arrive. Not yet. I wasn't going to make it to the road. Cordelia's free, that's all that matters. And so is that jerk.

I thought about sitting down and just letting the goons catch me. No more running uselessly from fate.

d.a.m.n it, no! I wasn't going to make it easy for them. Besides, someone had to be around to object at Cordelia's wedding. I ripped off my jacket and wrapped it around my leg. I had been shot in the thigh.

I didn't want any blood dripping on to the ground and leaving a trail.

Instead of heading for the road, I turned for the swamp. The edge of it was only about ten yards away. I could hide for a long time in that mora.s.s. If I was lucky.

I half-rolled, half-slid down the slope into the bog. I hoped I didn't leave too much of a b.l.o.o.d.y trail. Bracing against a pine tree for support, I hauled myself up. Using my good leg and trees for balance, I limped into the shadows of the swamp. I found a gra.s.sy knoll and crawled to the top, hoping to see the road. There was a gap in the trees, lighter with the encroaching dawn, but I couldn't be sure if it was the road or not.

I shouldn't be lingering here on this high ground. Still, I stared at the * 272 *

gap. One more minute and I have to leave, I told myself. There was the briefest flash of red past the opening, then it was gone.

She had made it. Cordelia was safe, I exalted. Finally, one person that I hadn't let die.

I limped off the high ground, the mud sucking wetly at my feet.

Blood had soaked through my jacket and was running down my leg.

I smeared it into my pants to keep it from dripping onto the ground.

At least it was my own clothes that I was destroying this time. It was getting colder. No, it was getting warmer with the sun coming up. I was getting colder. I was wet and muddy and b.l.o.o.d.y and had to use too much energy just to keep going.

I was guessing that they would a.s.sume I would try to make it to the road. So I headed toward the river, painfully making my way through the dense undergrowth and treacherous mud holes.

One good thing about being shot in the leg was that it stopped everything else from hurting. The drop-something-very-heavy-on-your-foot school of headache cures.

I found some relatively dry ground and gingerly let myself down.

My leg needed attention. I slowly undid the jacket, trying not to make it bleed any more than it already did.

Daylight was filtering in, penetrating even this dense tangle. Light enough for me to examine my leg. It wasn't so bad, merely a flesh wound, I told myself. But what do I know about medicine, the voice of reality answered. I could be bleeding to death. I tried not to think about that.

I took the razor out of my jacket pocket and cut off one of the jacket sleeves. Then I cut the sleeve into two halves, lengthwise. These halves I wound tightly around my leg, splitting the tail end of the top one and tying it off. That would have to do. I put the b.l.o.o.d.y jacket back on.

I heard voices off in the distance. I had to keep moving. I hobbled toward the river, away from the voices. Every twenty feet or so, I had to stop, clutching whatever tree was handy in an attempt to take weight off my one supporting leg. Still, it wasn't long before I could feel fatigue trembling in my muscles. I had to find some place to hide and rest. I veered farther into the swamp. I had been traveling parallel with One Hundred Oaks Plantation toward the river. Now I was angling away * 273 *

from it, toward the river and the place where Barbara and I had been held. So long ago, it seemed.

The ground was getting wetter as I walked. Soon I was wading in water mid-calf to knee level. I was beginning to s.h.i.+ver from the cold water. And I was making too much noise splas.h.i.+ng through the water on one leg. I tentatively put my weight on the damaged leg. Pain shot through me. I gritted my teeth and put a little more weight onto the leg.

Muscles strained against the tightness of my makes.h.i.+ft bandage.

I took a few experimental steps, supporting as much of my weight as I could by holding on to trees and branches. The pain didn't get any better. But it didn't get any worse. Maybe I can do this. I have to do this, I told myself. No maybes.

I took a few more careful steps through the deepening water. Then another step with my good leg, but there was nothing to land on. The quivering mud gave way to a void. I went down into the water, under for a second, unable to see or feel anything but the dark water. I flailed my way to the surface, spitting and coughing, trying to get the water out of my nose and mouth.

It's only a step, you can get back a step, I told myself, to calm my rising panic. I grabbed at stray clumps of marsh gra.s.s. It seemed an eternity before my hands sank into oozing mud. I didn't even bother trying to stand. I half-dog-paddled, half-crawled until I got to a patch of ground that would hold me up. I lay, exhausted and trembling, unable to move, until the cold forced violent s.h.i.+vers through my body.

I expected at any moment to see one of Milo's boys grinning at me, with a gun pointed at my head. But all I heard were insect sounds, the morning song of birds, as if nothing had happened. Only humans mark death; the swamp didn't care if I lived or died. If anything, my death would be more useful to it than my life. I remembered too well the innocent and rapacious beetle that I had thrown off Barbara. I s.h.i.+vered again, this time from more than just cold.

I had to keep moving and find some place out of this wet muck.

I started crawling, inching forward, listening with every move to the mud and water sucking and dragging at me, trying to pull me back into their embrace.

Then my hand touched a fallen tree branch. It felt strong enough to support my weight. I pried it out of the muck. About the right length, * 274 *

too. I planted it upright in the mud and used it to pull myself to a kneeling position. It would hold my weight. I stood up carefully, using both the branch and a tree for support. I was able to tuck it under my shoulder and rest my weight on it. Not very comfortable, but it would do.

I was heading back toward One Hundred Oaks Plantation, but I had to get out of the wet and muck. The ground was slowly, almost imperceptibly slanting upward.

Even with my brand-new, handy-dandy crutch, I wasn't setting any speed records. If one of those thugs caught sight of me, I was swamp history.

Dawn had pa.s.sed by now. The sun was on its way to solid morning.

I would have preferred the darkness to hide in. Korby and the rest of his goon squad had to be back.

Maybe they thought I had escaped with Cordelia and Th.o.r.eau and they weren't even looking for me. Or maybe they figured that they had wounded me and that they didn't need to bother looking. I had left a puddle of blood where I had been shot and probably a few traces leading into the swamp, if they were astute enough to spot them. Or maybe they needed to leave this place in a hurry and searching for a wounded detective through a swamp wasn't high on their priority list, particularly after two prisoners had escaped by car.

Maybe. A bunch of maybes. I was still cold, wet, and bleeding.

The ground sloped upward and led to a small clearing. The clearing had been used as a dump site. There were plastic garbage bags strewn around, a number of them torn open by small (I hoped) animals. Korby and his friends didn't strike me as the kind of people who would be neat and take out their trash as they left. Maybe I would be safe here for a short rest period. At least the ground was high and dry and the trash bags would be useful.

I emptied one, then tore one large hole for my head and two smaller ones for my arms. I put it on. What the fas.h.i.+onable girl detective is wearing these days. I saw why these bags were left out here. Drug paraphernalia, the trash of Korby's operations, was dumped here. No cops in this swamp to dig through your garbage. I emptied three more bags. That done, I clumped over to a flat, unlittered spot and put one of the bags on the ground. I sat down on the bag and covered myself with the other two. I rested my back against a tree, hoping that some * 275 *

of the weariness and pain would seep out of me. I tried to keep awake and alert, listening for the distant wail of a siren that would herald my rescue. Or the gruff voice and broken twig that would mean they were still looking for me.

I must have dozed, though not for long. The sun was still close to where it had been in the morning sky, but I felt groggy and I couldn't remember what I had just been doing.

Keep awake, Micky. If Ranson shows up to rescue you, you'll probably have to tell her where you are. Ranson. Joanne. Remembering her made me wake up. I wondered if she would be able to rescue me.

d.a.m.n it, the last time I saw her I behaved like a petulant child. Don't die, Joanne. You need to yell at me for getting into this mess. Just don't die, I breathed a silent prayer.

A quick motion across the clearing caught my eye. A little field mouse chewing furtively on some garbage. Then a dark hand jerked out of the bushes and grabbed it. No, not a hand, the jaws of a snake.

The mouse squirmed, still eating as it was being eaten. But this wasn't the snake of my nightmares. It was an everyday snake that ate mice and that I could easily kill with my staff.

I s.h.i.+fted and one of my hands slid down, dangling at my side. It didn't touch ground. I knew the feeling. I knew what was next to me without even seeing it. Still, I angled my head to look, trying not to move anything else. I was suddenly very glad of the cold.

My hand was resting about three inches from the head of a large rattlesnake. Its tongue was flicking in and out. Like the other snakes, it probably came here for the rodents that ate the garbage and had coiled up beside me for warmth.

I fought the urge to laugh hysterically. My first thought on seeing the snake was "Happy Birthday, Micky." Somewhere between yesterday and today, I had turned thirty. February twenty-ninth, a day caught in limbo between the twenty-eighth and March first. Today was the first of March. Somewhere in the night, I had grown older.

It looked like the swamp was going to win. Unless, of course, Milo or one of the goon brothers should show up right now. Then maybe I could throw the snake at him and the two of them could fight it out and leave me to my nap.

The snake flicked its tongue out, tasting the air. I wondered if it could feel my fear. I couldn't jump or roll far enough away to get out * 276 *

of striking distance, and trying to would only rile it up. I could hope it would go away, but since I was the warmest thing going, that didn't seem very likely.

I remembered my dad catching snakes. When one got too close to the house, he would catch it, sometimes using a stick, but if he had no stick, with his bare hands. He would grab it right behind the head so that it couldn't strike him. Then he would take it away from the house and let it go. "Snakes kill rodents and other things we don't like," he would explain.

Like lizards and rats. The snake's head was only inches from my hand. Easy, I told myself, as good as I am at grabbing crabs. Just don't let go.

I let out a breath and relaxed. I had to be faster than the snake.

Then I grabbed, catching the rattler at the triangle of its head.

It hissed and started thras.h.i.+ng its body, throwing the coils over my arm and into my face. I got a hold on its body with my other hand.

That stopped the worst of the thras.h.i.+ng. I kicked one of the garbage bags off me, then managed to open it with my good foot. I held the writhing snake over the bag and, as best I could, aimed its tail into the opening. I let go of the body and quickly pulled the bag up around the snake. I pushed myself into a kneeling position, ignoring the pain in my wounded leg. Then I let go of the head, at the same time lifting the lip of the garbage bag as high as I could. The snake thrashed wildly in the bottom of the bag, but I was out of its reach. I tied the top of the bag with a sc.r.a.p of string and put it down. The snake was still whipping about, but it wasn't going anywhere. I searched around until I found a long stick. I tied the string to the end of the stick so that the bag would dangle from it.

I had a weapon against Korby.

I looked back to where I had seen the first snake. It was still there, digesting the field mouse, the rodent face sticking out of the snake's mouth like some grotesque Halloween mask. It was a pygmy rattler. A perfect snake for what I wanted. Pygmy, or ground rattlers, are mean-tempered little napoleons without even a real rattle to shake. With the mouse in its mouth, it was easy to capture, even limping as I was. I put it in the bag with the rattlesnake. They could keep each other warm.

I was going out of the personal heating business. There was a hiss of greeting as the little snake landed on the big one.

* 277 *

I heard voices off in the distance, coming from the direction of the house. One of them sounded like Milo's. It was time to move on.

With my snake bag and crutch, I hobbled out of the clearing and into the undergrowth as quietly as I could. I was still heading in the direction of the river, although my main purpose was to stay out of sight and hearing of any of Korby's gang.

I wondered what time it was. My watch was smashed. It said three-eleven and I didn't think that very likely. Time seemed fluid, contracting and expanding at an arbitrary whim. How long had Cordelia and Th.o.r.eau been gone? Long enough to have found a phone? What if Korby had intercepted them? Could he have recognized the speeding BMW in time to have caught it and stopped them?

Was Danny back from Baton Rogue yet? What would she think of my message?

I heard voices through the trees. They sounded like they were coming from the clearing that I had just left. One of the voices was Milo's. The other one I couldn't be sure of, but it might have been Lafitte's. I stood still, wanting to go for better cover but unwilling to risk any noise. I hoped my snakes wouldn't choose now to thrash around in their plastic prison. I could make out some of the words.

"Well, I stopped them, didn't I?" said the voice that could be Lafitte's.

"How long?" Milo returned sneeringly.

"Long enough. Who let them get away in the first place?"

"Who told me how to tie them up?"

"If you had done it right, they would still be here."