In a messy sedan they tore from the town to the Tamiami Trail toward the Big Cypress National Preserve. From stands of hardwood hammocks through pinelands to sawgrass marsh, she looked out over a million acres of everglades. The road sliced it without mercy, a blight on natural wonder.
The call had come from a local cop who saw a van that matched their description outside of the Black Coal campground.
Ahead they saw cruisers, four of them. Distant sirens told more would come.
Saint stepped out into brutal heat so heavy she moved to fan it from her face so she could draw breath.
Sweat dripped as officers spread out.
Along the bank she saw a hundred waterbirds she did not know the names of, the arcs of them beautiful as she drew her gun and felt her skin sink between the grip. In her mind she might’ve tracked him alone. In reality it had taken fifty agents across eleven states pooling their investment and knowledge until a break came.
They moved together along land that fell into bogs they skirted with care as mosquitoes swooped. Saint did not move to bat them away as they crossed a timber footbridge and met a hiking trail.
A trooper raised his hand, pointed to a line of blood that led into plumes of muhly grass, four feet high, a sea of purple come fall.
They spread apart, a hundred yards between them as they waded, their guns ready for a man likely lying low. Saint knew the protocol, also knew he would kill again if they did not stop him.
She took measured steps into undergrowth forged from the runoff, the Gulf of Mexico flowing down a peninsula now rivers and streams. Lake Okeechobee and the waters that ringed Kissimmee, emptying into Florida Bay. Her grandmother had once told her that in the winter the grasslands were fields, unflooded for precious months like a rising submarine.
She was about to turn and check progress when she stumbled.
Saint cried out when she saw her.
Ashlee Miller lay face down.
Saint turned her over quickly.
Pumped her chest.
And screamed.