He hadn’t even known Jessica before the blackout, though he had seen the two of them together around campus because they were roommates and close friends. Jessica was from Los Angeles and not the outdoorsy type at all, unlike Casey. When the three of them left New Orleans on bicycles, he wouldn’t have bet on her coping with it if he had known all that was going to actually happen. But, as it turned out, he had actually spent a lot more time with Jessica than with Casey. While the two of them paddled the canoe together for days in their search for Casey after she was taken, they had been together twenty-four/seven. Jessica had overcome her fears of the dark and the mysteries of the deep woods and swamps that were so alien to her prior life. She had dealt with seeing snakes and alligators in the wild at close range, and the constant nighttime assaults of mosquitos they both had suffered. She had eventually caved in on her refusal to eat animal products, and had partaken of the fish he’d caught and grilled in the fire, but that was mainly driven by a lack of alternatives rather than choice. Grant had respected her preferences, only offering to share his catch rather than trying to force it on her.
And each night in the woods, Jessica had slept curled up next to him, sometimes the two of them even ending in each other’s arms before waking, though it went no further than that. That it didn’t certainly wasn’t because he was not attracted to her, but he had been so worried about Casey that thinking of Jessica that way was not the first thing that entered his mind. Now he wondered how he would feel when he was finally reunited with them both and there was no longer the awful worry that one of them might be dead. Would he be as enamored of Casey, or would his attraction to Jessica grow stronger? Would Jessica even be interested in him in that situation, or had she simply clung to him because he was all she had at the time?
Jessica hadn’t really mentioned Joey other than a few times during the first days when they were on the bicycles and all still together. Grant figured it was because she was never really in love with him, and it must have been mostly a physical attraction between them. Also they both liked the party lifestyle in the Big Easy when they had free time away from class. Now that everything had changed, he figured she was not going to be happy to see Joey when he showed up at the boat with his sidekick, Zach. Or would she? Grant had never really understood women. Compared to all of the women he’d known, the wildest rivers were far easier to read. He curled up by the dying coals of the fire with those thoughts, and fell into a deep sleep. But before doing so, he first drank as much water as he could down. He wanted to make sure he did not oversleep, and the extra water would be better than an alarm clock to guarantee he would soon need to get up.
When he slid the kayak back into the river two hours later, with dawn still at least three hours away, he felt rested enough. He would take another nap sometime in the afternoon. Steady progress until daybreak found him far down on the lower reaches of the Bogue Chitto. The forest here was almost exclusively bottomland hardwood, and numerous sloughs and dead lakes entered the river from both sides. He reached the Pearl River later in the day, slept two hours after doing so, and then made another push until well after dark. He was deep in the Honey Island Swamp along the East Pearl now, and looking for a patch of dry land so he could sleep again, when he came to the entrance to a large oxbow lake. Looking into it, Grant was startled to see anchored right in the middle a big wooden fishing boat of the type usually seen in coastal waters. There was no light or candle or any other sign the boat was occupied, so Grant cautiously approached to get a better look, paddling around it on the port side. He noticed the name Miss Lucy painted on the stern. He was about to turn and continue back down the river when he noticed something else. Someone had painted graffiti all over the back of the white pilothouse. Grant assumed the boat had been abandoned and some refugee had probably camped aboard, leaving their name or some other message when he or she left. He wouldn’t have cared, but he was nearly delirious from lack of sleep and for some reason he was curious to see what it said. He had to come alongside the rail to get close enough to read it in the moonlight, but when he did his grogginess instantly vanished, and he was aboard the boat in a flash, after tying the kayak alongside.
He looked over the sketch map and knew exactly where Cat Island was. He had been there and to the other barrier islands in the Gulf Islands National Seashore as part of his research project on the coastal tribes that used them as hunting grounds long before the French explorer d’Iberville arrived in 1699. Cat Island was far enough offshore to be relatively safe from most people on the mainland, and he could see why Casey’s uncle would choose it, but what did the other part of the note mean: “De boat lock”? Larry had intended it for Scully; that was obvious from the choice of spelling. Grant climbed the steps to the pilothouse. Even in the dark, enough moonlight shone in that he could see the bullet holes, shards of broken glass, and blood stains. He looked at the controls and found a switch with a key inserted. Turning it on resulted in a loud warning alarm. He pushed the button beside it and heard the starter turn the engine somewhere down below. It spun vigorously, with what seemed like plenty of speed to crank it, but nothing happened. He tried again and again with the same result. He went back to the main deck and found the hatch to the engine room, but it was dark as pitch down there. Reaching into the kayak, he pulled out his bag and got one of his butane lighters, then found an old marine supply catalog in the boat’s main cabin, tore out some pages, and rolled them tightly into a makeshift torch. When he returned to the engine room, he could see the metal hulk bolted firmly to the wooden supports beneath it, but he had no idea what to do to get it running. He looked for loose wires and other obvious problems, but saw nothing. What he did find, though, told him that Joey and Zach had been here, too, in this exact same spot; or, if they had not, then it was a strange coincidence, indeed. Crumpled up on the floor panel to one side of the engine was the wrapper from a granola bar. He wouldn’t have noticed it but for the fact that it was his favorite variety, and it was sold only by the Whole Foods Market. Grant always picked them up at the location in New Orleans not far from his apartment, and several boxes of them had been in his store of supplies at the cabin. It was unlikely that the fishermen who owned this boat shopped there, and Grant was ninety-nine percent sure that either Joey or Zach had dropped the wrapper while sitting here staring at the same uncooperative engine that he could not figure out.
Grant pondered the implications of all this, wondering just what had happened here. What was the deal with all the bullet holes that riddled the pilothouse? When exactly did Casey’s uncle or dad paint that note and map on the side of the cabin? Grant knew they would not have done that if Joey and Zach had gotten here first, because Joey would have made up some story to the effect that he and Scully were never coming. And whether they bought that story or not, he doubted they would simply leave right away. No, this had to mean they left before Joey and Zach arrived. That Joey and Zach had been in the engine room meant they’d read the note, too, and were trying to get the boat started. They obviously failed to do so, but they still had the Johnboat and outboard, so they must have continued on, probably planning to go to Cat Island to catch up. Grant resolved to do the same. He was no diesel mechanic, so there was no point in wasting more time here. He could reach the island in the kayak, maybe even in a couple of days if he could just somehow maintain the grueling pace he’d set for himself.
Climbing back into the kayak, he paddled away in the dark, wondering what the story was behind the fishing boat, and why it was there in the first place. The large dead lake met the description of the spot where Scully had said the catamaran was anchored. But he hadn’t mentioned any other boats, so the Miss Lucy had to have arrived after he and Casey’s dad had left her uncle there and started upriver in search of the cabin. Grant couldn’t figure it out, but thinking about it all gave him something to do as he paddled.
He reached another bridge in a little over an hour, and passing under the high twin spans, he knew it had to be Intersta
te 10. Knowing he was now only a few miles from the coast, he pushed on until daybreak found him on a long, straight stretch of river that afforded a view of more than a mile. As he continued south, the increasing light revealed the shapes of houses set back from the east bank, and the low span of yet another bridge on the horizon ahead. He knew it had to be Highway 90, the southernmost road paralleling the coast between Gulfport and New Orleans. He had taken his canoe out at the boat landing there years ago, at the end of the one trip he’d done from the cabin to the coast just to see where the river went.
Something else beyond the bridge suddenly caught his eye as he gradually closed the distance. At first, he didn’t realize what it was—a large triangular object that rose up out of nowhere to be silhouetted against the sky, taller even than the top of the bridge. Then, the object started slowly moving horizontally behind the foreground of bridge, sliding from right to left, the way that the river appeared to bend. It was in that moment that he realized that what he was looking at was a sail! The boat beneath it, though, was hidden by the tall grass in the bend. The boat was quickly gaining way and moving faster, despite the light westerly breeze that barely rippled the surface of the river. Grant dug in with the paddle blades in an all-out sprint to try and make the bridge before the sail disappeared, but even as he started, he knew the effort was hopeless in this cheap, pudgy kayak that was never designed for speed. He saw the sail diminish with distance as the boat wound its way down those last reaches of river through the marsh.
By the time Grant reached the bridge, the tall grass reduced his horizon from the low vantage point of the kayak, so that he could see nothing beyond the channel immediately ahead. Was the sailboat he’d just seen the catamaran he had been so desperately trying to reach? Was he that close to catching up to his friends, only to be thwarted by a fair wind that carried them away just as he came into view? Grant didn’t know, but he did know that he still had a long way to go. He carried on until he reached the mouth of the river and saw the open waters of the Sound stretching away into a blue horizon. He landed on a narrow strip of beach and stood scanning that endless vista for a sail, but saw nothing. The boat was long gone, if it had even been real. He began to doubt himself, wondering if it had merely been a mirage brought on by his fatigue.
Cat Island was way too far away to see from here. He would have to navigate parallel to the coast for many miles to the east before reaching a suitable jumping off point for the crossing. He knew he could make it out there in the kayak, but not today. He would have to sleep first, or he would collapse from exhaustion. He would leave sometime during the night, and would hope to be within sight of the island to begin the passage when daylight came again tomorrow.
SEVENTEEN
Scully reached the entrance to the oxbow lake where the Casey Nicole was supposed to be anchored late in the afternoon, after two days and most of two nights in the canoe. He had stopped little, the pain in his leg bearable as long as he kept it in the shade below the edge of the gunwale. The resin was still doing its job, and the gash had not opened up or bled again since he’d first applied it, but it was extremely tender and he had to be careful to remember not to bump it. All along the long journey down the Bogue Chitto and the East Pearl, he remained hopeful that he might catch up to Grant, if it were indeed he who had taken the kayak from the boat shed by the river. But though he kept his eyes peeled and stayed alert for any sign, he never found any other evidence that Casey’s friend was ahead of him. Despite that, whether Grant was ahead of him or not, he still had ample reason to push hard, as he was greatly worried about the safety of his best friend, Larry, as well as Larry’s brother and the two girls. He was convinced that Joey and Zach were crazy, and knew they were liable to do anything. He knew that because they had the motor, it was impossible for him to get there first, but nevertheless, the sooner he did get there, the better.
When Scully paddled into the lake hoping to see the sleek Polynesian-inspired catamaran he had helped Larry build, he was surprised instead to see a big wooden fishing trawler anchored in its place. Scully had half-expected to find the catamaran gone, with no way to predict what would happen when Joey and Zach showed up, but the presence of this other big boat anchored in its exact spot puzzled him. He approached it cautiously, the lever-action carbine leaning against the thwart in front of him as he eased the canoe closer. It was a working vessel; that much was obvious at a glance, as it had none of the shiny and expensive fittings of a yacht or cruiser. It was built roughly, in the old way, with traditional plank-on-frame construction like so many boats he’d spent time on while on the islands. The blue and white topsides were probably painted with ordinary house paint, and the brush marks and runs in the finish indicated it had been sloppily and hurriedly applied by a crew with better things to do than worry about appearances.
Scully wondered where the owners were, and figured the boat had been taken from them by force. A boat like this represented everything to a commercial fisherman who owned it, and it was likely a family business. Whoever had brought it here had probably killed the owners, or took it after someone else had, because other than to seek refuge from a hurricane, there was no reason for it to be this far from the coast. Whatever had happened to those who had brought it here, it didn’t appear that they were on board; but he called out loudly before approaching more closely anyway. Hearing no answer, he circled around and saw the painted message on the aft side of the cabin. Scully knew immediately that Larry was the author of the message, and he also knew exactly what the phrase “De boat lock” meant, as it was clearly intended for him. So the boat had somehow arrived here after he and Artie had left in the Johnboat, but before Larry and his brother, the girls, and possibly Joey and Zach had left on the catamaran? And what of Grant? If it had been he that took the kayak, did he find his way here, too? It was a mystery, but Scully knew from Larry’s message that the big trawler had gotten here under its own power and would run again when he did what was necessary.
Scully tied off the canoe and hopped aboard, stepping closer to the cabin bulkhead to study the map Larry had sketched in paint. He remembered their stopover at West Ship Island, as it was their first landfall after sailing directly across the Gulf from the Florida Keys en route to New Orleans. He remembered passing to the north of this Cat Island that Larry indicated and he remembered thinking it appeared richly forested. Larry had chosen the rendezvous point wisely. Cat Island was far enough off the mainland to be inaccessible to anyone without a good boat, but it was close enough to this spot on the river that he could reach it quickly, just as soon as he got the diesel running.
Scully climbed the steps to the pilothouse to try the starter, just to be sure Larry had gone through with the steps he usually took to make a boat hard to steal. When he saw the bullet-riddled and blood-splattered plywood and the shattered windows, he was sure of his earlier speculation that the owners of the boat had died at the hands of whoever took it from them. He noticed thankfully that the damage was all above the control panels, though; the instruments, gauges, and switches were still intact. He switched on the key and pushed the starter, letting it turn the engine just long enough to tell him it was not getting fuel, and then he turned it off to avoid running the batteries flat. Scully grinned as he remembered some of the runs he and Larry had made back in the day, when it was still easy and the risk still worth it. They had perfected more than a few tricks of the trade, and each of them had so much experience on so many different types of vessels that there were few things nautical they were not intimately familiar with.
Scully found his way below to the engine room and the ship’s tool locker. With the hatch open, there was enough daylight streaming below to see what he was doing, but he knew he had to work fast, as he only had a couple more hours until sundown. Right away he found the misadjusted tension on the shut-off cable that made it appear from the cockpit that the kill switch was in the starting position when in reality the fuel shut-off lever was off. Scully quickly corrected
this with a screwdriver and went back to the controls. This time, when he pushed the starter button, the engine rumbled to life, sending vibrations through the whole boat. He adjusted the speed down to idle and it smoothed out, ran fine for another minute, and then suddenly died. He grinned again. Larry had made an extra effort to ensure this boat would be here waiting for him whenever he arrived. Unless one of the owners or someone else with experience in maintaining marine diesels came along, it wasn’t likely that a casual river traveler finding the boat would be able to motor away in it. He went back below and began the process of bleeding the fuel system, opening bleed screws at the fuel filter and injection pump and turning the engine over by hand to let the air bubbles out. Then he bled the injectors, going back and forth to the pilothouse to bump the starter and turn it over until all the air was gone and nothing but pure diesel was getting to the injectors.
When he returned to the bridge to try it again, the engine came immediately to life and ran consistently at all operating speeds. Scully left it running at idle and went back down to shut the engine room hatch and haul his canoe on deck. He did a quick walk around, looking for anything else amiss, and found no reason why the boat couldn’t make a trip to Cat Island. The heavy chain anchor rode was handled by a big twelve-volt electric winch. Scully found the power button for the winch and was relieved to find that it still worked. He ran it until the boat was straight up over the anchor, then used the engine to break it out of the mud. After he hauled the anchor the rest of the way up with another push of the button, the Miss Lucy was now floating free. Scully put her in reverse and backed away from the cypress trees she had drifted too close to, then shifted back to forward and circled around, pointing the bow towards the river and then turning south once he was out in the main channel.
Refuge: After the Collapse Page 19
