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Terry Dodgson loved to hike and the Everglades were his favorite place to do it.
He’d wandered into a complete no man’s land. Still swampy, but uncharted. No boardwalk, no park signs, no rangers. Just him and the great outdoors. No traces of civilization, no tampering, no people. As far as he could tell, no one had preceded him. He was probably not the first vagabond to ever come this way. But it was a pleasing illusion, just the same, and the natural environment supported his fantasy one hundred and ten percent.
In one day, he had seen swamps and beaches, forests and lakes, butterflies, herons, egrets, ibis, storks, alligators, large turtles, and more birds than he could identify in a lifetime. He had read there were more than a thousand different species birders could spot out here. All that identification seemed like a lot of work though—and for what? He preferred to simply drink it in. Enjoy.
Terry fancied himself a great navigator, but this far from civilization, even he could become lost. He had a compass and, if worst came to worst, a cell phone. He was not at all sure, however, that Google Maps could save his bacon today. He was a good long way from the nearest cell tower.
His father used to hike with him, once upon a time, but his father had been taken much too early. Throat cancer, and the man had never smoked, not even a pipe. Sometimes it seemed like nothing made sense in this world. Losing his father had been the worst experience of his twenty-two years, but he liked to think that every time he took himself outdoors, just him and the world, nothing but a backpack of essentials—he was remembering his father. He was living the life his father wanted for his son.
In a very real way, of course, his father wasn’t gone at all, not as long as Terry stayed active, kept moving, kept hiking. Held on to the dream. Didn’t let himself get swept up in the all-too-mundane world of day jobs and mortgages and keeping up with the Joneses. His father had given him a strong sense of identity. He knew who he was. He wasn’t some cardboard excuse for a man—he was independent, someone who knew what he wanted, who didn’t want anything not worth having, and who didn’t let others stand in the way of what mattered.
That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Knowing who you are? After you’ve got that down, all the other questions are easy to answer.
He checked his watch. Almost five. He didn’t mind being out late. It was going to be an all-day hike, and he had a tarp in his backpack he could use for a lean-to. If he was going to spend the night out here, though, it might be smarter to head back. Exciting as it was to break new ground, it would probably be smarter to camp closer to civilization, where there was some vague notion of law and order and he might be able to find help if he needed it.
Okay, one last look before he turned around. Maybe a few photos. He took out his phone and focused on the horizon.
He zoomed in to bring the faraway wonders of the world close.
Wait a minute.
He looked at the horizon, then glanced back at the phone screen, his handheld binoculars.
There was something strange on the horizon. And unless he was very much mistaken—something manmade.
A house? Cabin? Whatever it was, it was not tall and the colors were muted, as if the shelter was meant to blend into the surroundings.
Was it possible someone lived out here? Literally in the middle of nowhere? He didn’t see how anyone could survive here long, in the swamp, so far away from everything. Getting supplies would be so hard it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.
Except perhaps for someone who did not want to be found. Ever.
He hesitated in mid-step. The smartest move would be to turn around and make tracks, as quickly as possible. There was something seriously unsettling about this entire situation. If someone wanted this badly to not be found, it was probably best to leave them alone.
And yet...
What would his father do? Turn tail and run?
Hell no. His father would see what in blazes was going on out here.
But slowly, one footstep at a time. Moving cautiously...
A few minutes later he had a clearer view. It was a cabin, slapped together with the cheapest possible building materials. Nothing to brag about, but it probably kept the rain off. Couldn’t be more than a room or two in there. Maybe a kitchenette.
Was anyone home?
He took another step closer. Slowly. Quietly...
He was in the cabin’s front yard, not that it was much of a yard. No mowing or edging took place here, which was just as well, because there was no grass. Just brush. Dirt. Mud.
He didn’t hear anything. He didn’t see a soul.
There was a foul stench though. Even ten feet away he could smell it. Just as well he hadn’t eaten much.
Another step closer. Then another...
And that’s when he saw it.
The yellow paint on the gable above the front door was the first thing to trigger a memory. He’d read something in the papers. Not recently, maybe a month or two ago. A story about a missing boy...
The number over the front porch cemented it. 1980.
He knew what this place was.
He stepped onto the porch. No windows, but the door was slightly ajar. He stepped toward it. Gently, he pushed the door a little wider...
He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He felt certain his father would approve of this decision.
He realized what was causing the stench.
Run, Terry, he told himself. Move those legs.
Run!