Brodie, up on the bench behind the airboat’s stick, peered into the press of branches and leaves. The ranger had to be on this tributary; the other channel quickly dead-ended, and she wasn’t on the river where they’d found the kayak. She’d have been paddling before they’d chased Jenner to the water; it was unlikely he’d have caught up with her, so where was he? Maybe they’d gone in different directions.
What had Jenner been looking for on the farm? They’d got out of the boat shed—why didn’t they just run? Brodie needed to find him, learn just what the hell he was up to.
But they’d catch him all right. A man can move pretty easily through the mangroves on the water, but the forest was an impenetrable tangle of branch and root and sapling and shrub: no way could Jenner get through on foot. He had to stay on the water.
Brodie spat. He could’ve used Tony, but Tony wasn’t there—fled or dead now, he figured.
He doubted the cops were already at the farm—he’d have heard the sirens, maybe seen them crossing the bridge over the channel. His money and his passport were already secure—Brodie could leave his rental car at the farm. The cops would be piecing burned flesh together for months, and they’d never know whether or not they’d found any bits of Mr. James Brodie of Mendocino, California.
As soon as they found Jenner, got him to talk, Brodie would be on his way. Get rid of Jenner; the girl, too, if they found her—she didn’t matter so much, as she didn’t know his name. Then kill Tarver.
It was all still doable. He could do it. He could get away free now—free and rich.
He pushed the stick forward and the airboat jumped a little, then slipped downstream. He was surprised at how far back they’d come—the current was sliding them along.
Brodie turned and glanced downriver; the dock and boathouse were in sight.
And suddenly, so was Jenner—the unlucky bastard had chosen to move at just the wrong moment. He was creeping around the spit of forest that separated the river from the channel the girl had taken.
He said nothing to Tarver, and looked back at the bank in front of them, pretended to look for the girl. But he nudged the stick slightly forward, revved the engine, and let the airboat move faster.
Less than a minute later—a quick swooping turn, a couple of gunshots to show Jenner they’d spotted him—and they had him. Tarver dragged him up onto the boat, kicked him in the ribs to help him focus, and then, while he lay there winded, tied a noose of yellow nylon rope around his neck, tying the loose end to one of the seat stays.
Jenner lay on the floor of the boat, unable to move.