Chapter 32

 

Whatever psychedelic drug Mama Toukee had given him greatly enhanced his senses, including his night vision. It also, at least temporarily, altered his personality. Shortly after leaving the old woman's shack, he doffed all his clothes, even ditching his boots and socks. Not only did he not know why, he didn't even realize he had. Now, he moved through the forest like a wild animal, not slowing to a walk until he was a hundred yards from the guard post.

Rain dripped through the trees. and damp leaves beneath his bare feet sent spongy, tactile messages to his response-altered brain. Wiping hair from his eyes, he shook away water trickling down his face. As he listened to the dim rumble of distant thunder, another sound invaded his heightened senses—the persistent whop, whop, whop of a helicopter.

Bolting silently and effortlessly through the forest, he reached the small bluff overlooking the lodge in minutes. Crouching in the darkness, he stared at the clearing. Descending through haze and pouring rain, the chopper landed in front of the lodge. When two men jumped out, stooping to avoid the rotating prop, he recognized them as Humpback and Deacon John. The helicopter hovered momentarily above the lodge, and then disappeared in a flurry of blowing leaves and debris.

Beside the chopper pad, several fluorescent lamps cast an eerie blue light on the surroundings. He counted three men patrolling the clearing, each carrying automatic weapons. Barrels protruded from three canvas-covered foxholes. Two large cigarette boats lay moored in the cove. Nearby, another helicopter was anchored on a newly constructed landing pad. As he watched, a strong gust of wind flattened shrubs near one of the canvas coverings. He’d seen enough, and started down the hill to the rear of the lodge.

The lodge abutted a hill that elevated steadily toward the center of the island. There were no lights in the second floor of the building, every window dark and presumably locked tight. Except one. Someone had failed to close an upper window, and its white curtain flapped in the damp breeze. Shinnying up a convenient tree, he crawled out on an overhanging limb, his weight lowering him to the window sill where he almost lost his footing on slippery shingles. Grabbing the eave of the roof, he pulled himself into the room. Once satisfied he was alone, he opened the door and peeked into the hall. Only the steady thump of his heart and the rainy soliloquy on the lodge's wood roof disturbed the solitude of the hallway.

Pulling the door shut behind him, he tiptoed down the hall to his room. He found it empty, just as he'd left it, except for one thing. On the nightstand beside the bed was Bessie McKinney's cameo brooch. Until that moment, he hadn't realized he'd forgotten to take it with him. Something was strange about the brooch. Someone had attached a silver necklace to it.

Buck put the necklace around his neck, letting the brooch dangle against his bare chest, and then returned to the hallway, hoping to find Tiger before someone found him. The lodge was dark as he crept down the stairs to the rustic den, softly calling Tiger's name. Not finding the kitten, he checked the dining room, and behind the bar. Still no Tiger. His search led him to the kitchen.

“Tiger, you little rascal. I've looked all over for you.”

Tiger came out from behind the kitchen table and rubbed against his bare leg. Buck picked him up and stroked his head. They didn’t have long to commiserate. Someone else entered the kitchen, turning on the lights.

“What the hell?” the surprised man in uniform said.

Startled, Tiger bounded behind the stove. Before the surprised skinhead could react, Buck shoved him against the wall and ran out the kitchen door, upstairs to the open window. He shinnied back down the tree and hid in the bushes, assessing his next course of action.

The guard quickly alerted the troops. Howls of tracking dogs and shouts of men soon blended with the storm's cacophony. Lazy rain drops fell on Buck's bare shoulders. He waited several minutes before poking his head around the building and gazing across the illuminated front yard. Reasoning that many of the guards would be in the woods searching for him, he decided the best place to hide was in the undergrowth near the lake's edge.

When Travis' men finished searching the lodge and realized he wasn't there, he would return for Tiger. With no better plan in mind, he headed for the lake, soon spotting an armed man crossing the yard with a German shepherd on a leash. It wouldn't have surprised him to see the barrel of a 105 millimeter Howitzer protruding from a shoreline emplacement.

Torrential rain masked his path to the lake. He reached it undetected about a hundred yards from the site of the old marina. A newly completed walkway jutted far out into the water, its buoyant foam supports rocking in storm-raised waves. Giant cypress trees at the lake's edge blocked most of the falling rain, shielding him from the brunt of the storm as he skipped lightly over fallen brush, mud oozing between his bare toes.

Darkness and thick undergrowth would have left him uneasy except for Mama Toukee's magic smoke. Under its influence, he hurried confidently, not flinching when his foot brushed a large water moccasin. An alligator in his path slipped noiselessly into the murky depths of the lake. It didn't matter as he pushed through hanging undergrowth.

As he neared his objective, he wondered why security seemed to fall apart on this side of the island. Probably because there was no place for a boat to come ashore, cypress trees, quicksand and dense underbrush forming an effective barrier. He quickly discovered another reason. Stepping into a hidden foot loop, a trap yanked him high into the air. He struggled to extricate himself when the howls of hounds alerted him to two men exiting the undergrowth. Seeing him hanging from his ankle, three hounds stood on their hind paws, baying at him as he swayed in an arc above them. One of the men kicked a hound, frightening it and causing it to yelp with surprise.

“Shut up, dammit! We know he's up there.”

Shining a powerful beam up the tree, the other man focused on Buck's face. “Well lookit what we done found. A nekkid night crawler. Cut him down.”

Before Buck could brace himself for the fall, the man cut the rope with a single slash of his machete. He landed on his shoulder with a thud, soft earth cushioning his fall. The headlong plunge from the tree stunned him. He rubbed his aching shoulder as the man surveyed him with the light.

Still under the influenced of Mama Toukee's magic smoke, he covered his eyes as hounds howled and strained against their leashes. Despite his sore shoulder, his mind continued working smoothly. In one quick motion, he grabbed the leash of the nearest hound, giving it a hard yank, pulling the man with the machete toward him. Unprepared for the assault, the soldier lost his balance, sprawling in damp grass.

Grabbing the man's wrist, Buck punched him in the face. With strength he didn't know he possessed, he pitched him into the surprised arms of his partner. He sprinted along the shallow muddy bank of the lake, hurdling fallen limbs and cypress knees while remaining in a low crouch to avoid the hail of bullets above his head. A narrow opening appeared in the brake. Running faster, he lifted his knees higher as the lake deepened. When he reached the breach in the trees, he dived into black water of the lake. Plunging under, he glided beneath murky water until his lungs threatened to explode from the pressure. Surfacing, he swam frantically toward the center of the lake. When he reached open water, he stopped and glanced behind him, confident the two men hadn't followed.

Mama Toukee’s magic drug had begun to wane and he floated on his back, letting warm water relax his stiff muscles. The storm had finally passed, only scattered drops falling lazily into the lake. A spectral glow emerged between the clouds as the drone of a tiny electric engine invaded his solitude. A small boat appeared from behind the cypress trees and moved slowly toward him.

He slipped beneath the water, only his head above the surface, dragging his toes in the ooze. A powerful beam mounted on the front of the boat spotted him, and the small craft turned in his direction. Again he took a deep breath, managing a single powerful stroke before feeling a searing pain in his back. Whatever had him in its grasp wouldn't let go. Relentlessly, it pulled him toward the boat. One of the men had nabbed him with the vice-like pincers of a frog gig. After dragging him to the side of the boat, the man knocked him senseless with the butt of a shotgun. A strangely shaped cloud, floating silently above the lake, was the last thing he remembered seeing before slipping into unconsciousness.