Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

  “This is the way Wyatt and I were dressed when we left home yesterday morning,” Abba said. “Needless to say we haven’t had a chance to change.”

  “What do you suggest?” I asked.

  “Postpone the trip for a day or so,” he said.

  “Impossible for me,” Abba said. “I can’t take off from work that long.”

  “Nor can I,” Rory said.

  J.P. looked at me and said, “Wyatt? You got a plan B?”

  “Is there someplace close where we can buy what we need?”

  “There’s a little settlement about a mile from here: a few houses, a café, a general store, and even a liquor store. If your credit card’s big enough, we can get boots, jeans, hats, and supplies, and just about anything else we need there.”

  “Why not?” I said. “I just cashed a big ticket at the track. I’m flush right now, and I have a credit card I’ve only used once or twice. Let’s check out the settlement. If my plastic doesn’t ignite first, I’ll pick up the tab.”

  ***

  Back in the pontoon boat and heading back in the direction from which we’d come the previous night, we began to see many mostly ramshackle fishing camps on both sides of the wide channel. We hadn’t noticed them because it had been too dark when we’d floated past. When we rounded a sweeping bend in the river swamp, we got another surprise.

  Large, beautiful and obviously expensive houses occupied the banks of an expansive pond that had formed in the sweeping meander. They all had impressive docks occupied by luxurious boats. There was also a marina with a dockside restaurant, and a filling station, complete with a colorful Shell sign, for boats.

  “Does this place have a name?” Abba asked.

  “Not really, though the locals call it Richville,” J.P. said.

  “Those lavish houses and their manicured lawns look out of place for a swamp,” I said.

  “At least a million bucks apiece,” J.P. said. “Some rich developer must have bribed someone in power for the rights to put it here, and has made a fortune doing it.”

  “Must be nice to have that kind of money,” Abba said.

  As we drifted toward the public dock we heard the whomp, whomp, whomp of an approaching helicopter. It descended over the large houses and disappeared from sight behind the trees.

  “Ain’t no roads into Richville,” J.P. said. “People that own these houses have to boat in like everyone else, or fly in for the weekend in their private chopper.”

  “Tough duty,” I said.

  “Looks like they’re planning to have a grand old Halloween party from the looks of all the decorations,” Abba said.

  Abba was right. Carved pumpkins, scary witches, and frightening ghouls draped with fake blood, and spray-on cobwebs decorated the docks, luxury boats, roofs, and yards of the little settlement. A chill in the air, Spanish moss hanging from tree branches, and the mist rising up from the water helped enhance the effect of the creepy decorations.

  After J.P. had moored the pontoon boat, he led us up the boardwalk, past the filling station to a grocery and general store. A young woman dressed in denim pointed to the clothes aisle.

  “Hope they have jeans large enough for Rory,” I said.

  “They will,” J.P. said. “The place is sort of pricey, as you might imagine, but they have a little bit of everything.”

  J.P. was right about the jeans and the prices. I practically choked when I saw the sales tags. It didn’t really matter though because I had a totally unexpected thirty plus grand in my bank account. As we selected boots, clothes, backpacks, and supplies, the tab began to quickly add up.

  I must have had a constipated look on my face because J.P. asked, “You okay?”

  “Nothing like a little sticker shock to jolt you back to reality.”

  The total bill came to almost two thousand dollars, and I strongly considered taking a shot of Rory’s Southern Comfort he’d purchased at the little settlement’s well-stocked liquor store. As we motored away from the high-dollar settlement, I drank from a jug of lemonade instead.

  Clouds had begun covering the sky as we motored down the river, back to J.P.’s camp. Rory, Abba, and I arranged the packed ice chests, tents, and other equipment I’d purchased as we did. After drifting to the middle of the big pond, Abba glanced up at a flock of storks flying overhead.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “Wyatt must spin the blade,” Rory, looking like a giant logger in his new jeans and boots, said. “Where it points is the direction in which we should go.

  They watched as I gave the blade a spin, rotating as fluidly as a gyroscope before finally stopping.

  “That way,” Rory said, pointing.

  Two brown pelicans took flight when J.P. cranked the engine.

  “Hope this ain’t a wild goose chase,” he said.

  Abba and I weren’t so sure either. Rory walked to the front of the boat, Slick at his heels. He stood gazing ahead at the water passage we followed, hefting his broadsword and occasionally stroking its blade.

  The water passage we followed was more than a swamp, it was an arboreal jungle filled with giant cypress trees on both sides of the narrow waterway. Their bloated trunks, Spanish moss draping their limbs, were huge and ageless.

  “It’s beautiful,” Abba said. “What caused this swamp to be here?”

  “It’s a river swamp,” J.P. said. “Water level fluctuates depending on the rainfall. When the water’s high, it covers the little islands in between the meanders. When it’s not, the high ground stands a few inches out of the water and is covered with hardwood trees and aquatic plants that can tolerate occasional soakings.”

  “Quite an ecosystem,” Abba said.

  “There are river swamps all over the world. This one’s extra big because there are two rivers instead of just one. The Pearl and the West Pearl are miles apart but parallel each other. No way to map the damn thing because the channels change every time the place floods.”

  Feral hogs peeked at us from the thick underbrush of shore, unmindful of the alligators sunning on the bank. We’d left the main channel several times, following narrow and shallow chutes through the swamp.

  There was no roof on J.P.’s pontoon boat, the branches of the surrounding trees draping almost to the water’s surface. When Abba suddenly screamed, J.P. threw the motor into neutral and rushed to the side of the boat where she was kicking and squirming.

  Something was moving on the floor of the boat. Lucky and Slick had it cornered and were circling it, barking and growling. I could see it was a big snake.

  “Get away from it,” J.P. said. “It’s a cottonmouth.”

  Brushing past the two dogs, he slid the snake over the side of the boat with the paddle he was carrying. The snake was heavy and made a big splash when it hit the water. I watched as it swam away, finally disappearing into a pile of mostly submerged brush. Abba was still shaking, hugging herself as she bounced up and down on her toes. J.P. hugged her.

  “It’s gone,” he said. “No harm done.”

  “It dropped out of the trees, onto my shoulders. Scared the living hell out of me,” she said.

  “This thing’s got a canvas top. It’s not sunny but now’s as good a time as any to put it up.”

  Rory and I helped him raise the boat’s roof, and we were soon covered with a layer of canvas.

  “Do those big snakes live in trees?” Abba asked.

  J.P. shook his head. “No, but they can climb. When the temperature’s cool they like to sun themselves on the low-lying branches. The roof will keep them off of us if this chute doesn’t get too narrow and hang us up.”

  “What if it does?” I asked.

  J.P. dug into a wooden storage box, fished out a machete and tossed it to me.

  “If it gets any tighter and narrower, we’ll have to start chopping our way through and hope we don’t go aground.”

  “Not to worry, laddie,” Rory said. “My sword is all we’ll need.”

  To show us, he fell
ed a sapling with one stroke of the big sword.

  “Good, because I have a hunch we’re going to need you before the day is over,” J.P. said.

  Rory moved his lawn chair to the front of the boat, the sword resting across his knees.

  “Say no more,” he said. “Aila and I are ready for action.”

  “You name all the weapons you make?” J.P. asked.

  “Of course,” Rory said. “Though they aren’t all as magical as Exethelon, they’re all alive and thus require a name.”

  J.P. maneuvered the boat slowly and cautiously as floating limbs, and other debris became ever more prevalent. When the passage grew tight, Rory would stand on the bow of the boat and chop down the vegetation impeding us. Still not fully recovered from the incident with the snake, Abba sat shivering near the center of the boat.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Nothing a shot of Rory’s Southern Comfort wouldn’t cure,” she said.

  “I heard that,” Rory said. “Your wish is my command, fair lady,”

  I caught the silver flask he tossed to me, opened the lid, sniffed the contents, and then handed it to Abba.

  “Maybe this will help,” I said.

  It was late in the day when we finally exited the narrow passage and entered a wider and deeper pond. J.P. killed the engine and threw out the anchor.

  “I’ve never been this far into the swamp,” he said. “I’m sure that not many people other than us ever have.”

  With the motor dead, the birds and other wildlife were the only sounds remaining. It felt, quite literally, as if we were in the middle of nowhere.

  “Hope you know the way back,” I said.

  “My phone’s GPS does,” J.P. said.

  “Then please don’t drop it overboard,” Abba said. “We’d never find our way back through this watery maze of wildlife and creeping vegetation.”

  The day was dreary, darkened by persistent cloud cover. Abba shivered and pulled a light sweater over her blouse. Rory helped J.P. find something to eat in the ice chest. They arranged mustard, mayonnaise, cheese, and bologna, along with a loaf of bread, on a folding table.

  “Better enjoy it now,” J.P. said. “We won’t be able to carry all this food and drink when we have to start walking.”

  “We’re lucky you’re with us,” I said. “Otherwise we’d be wandering around with no food at all.”

  “And definitely no whiskey,” Rory said as he saluted J.P. with his flask.

  “Thank Wyatt, not me,” J.P. said.

  “How far do you think we’ve come?” Abba asked.

  “Probably not far in a straight line,” J.P. said. “Unfortunately the chutes and meanders don’t trend in straight lines. I’d be lost as a goose if it wasn’t for the dagger pointing the way.”

  Exethelon must have been listening to the conversation because it suddenly began spinning like a top. We watched until it finally slowed to a halt.

  “What the hell was that all about?” J.P. asked.

  “It doesn’t seem to be pointing anywhere,” Abba said.

  “Give it another spin, Wyatt,” J.P. said.

  I reached for Exethelon. As if suddenly welded in place, it refused to move. The golden glow turned red and became hot to the touch, smoke beginning to rise up off the blade.

  “Rory, what’s it doing?” I asked.

  He didn’t need to answer. As we watched in awe, the magical dagger rose up off the floor of the boat as it rotated slowly. Thick gray vapor soon completely enclosed it into a cottony cloud that increased in size as it moved out over the water. We watched it move up a tiny creek that was feeding the main channel. J.P. shut the ice chest, retrieved the anchor, and then started the motor.

  “This is as far as we can go in the boat.”

  “What now?” Abba asked.

  “Tie up to a tree and then go the rest of the way on foot. Either that or turn around and go back to the house.”

  Chapter 23

  Tony watched as Eddie unfolded papers he’d removed from Wendell Swanson’s passport wallet and then spread them out on the bar.

  “What you got?” he asked.

  “A betting ticket, a page someone tore from a daily racing form, and an advertisement for a horse auction,” Eddie said.

  “I didn’t see anything except the passport and ticket to Belize.”

  “The wallet has a hidden pocket.”

  “Let me see the betting ticket,” Tony said.

  Eddie handed it to him, waiting as Tony spent a moment studying the information on the square piece of paper.

  “Well?”

  “It’s a four-horse trifecta box from a race that took place two days ago,” Tony said. “The same race that Lightning Bolt won,”

  “Makes sense,” Eddie said. “The page from the racing form is for that race. Swanson circled four horses. The same four horses in his trifecta. How much did he bet?”

  “His thousand buck trifecta cost him a cool twenty-four grand,” Tony said.

  “You certain about that?”

  “It’s printed right here on the ticket. Swanson boxed Lightning Bolt and the top three horses based on the morning line odds.”

  “He must have been pretty sure he’d win,” Eddie said.

  “Well, he didn’t,” Tony said.

  Eddie continued to study the page torn from the racing form.

  “Another long shot finished second,” he said. “Guess who owns the horse.”

  “Chuy Delgado?”

  “Close but no cigar. Angus Anderson.”

  “Damn!” Tony said. “Wendell’s old boss busted his trifecta. Bet that must have pissed him off.”

  “And ruined his chances of retiring in Belize. He’d have won close to a million bucks if the race had ended the way he picked it.”

  “He should have stuck with a sure thing and bet on Lightning Bolt to win,” Tony said.

  “Leopards don’t change their spots. Wendell saw his chance to retire like a king in Belize and took a swing for the fence.”

  “And blooped a stinker to short center field instead.”

  “Enough already with the baseball cliches. What do you make of it?” Eddie said.

  “Maybe it was Swanson’s idea and not Frankie’s to put shoe polish on Lightning Bolt’s blaze.”

  “You should ask him.”

  “It’s on my list,” Tony said.

  “It could mean Swanson was in on Frankie’s little scam. If so, it might be the reason he was murdered. What do you think?”

  Big Sam sauntered up to the bar before Tony had a chance to answer Eddie’s question.

  “Thought you boys were on your way out the door. Need more beer?”

  “I’m floating,” Tony said. “Got anything to eat?”

  “You’ll find the best po’boys and muffulettas in town, dressed or undressed, right here at Big Sam’s.”

  “That’s a powerful claim considering you’re talking about the best in all of Nawlins. Can you back it up?”

  “No brag, just fact. Try one. If you don’t like it, then it’s on the house.”

  “And your oyster po’boy?”

  “The best.”

  “Talked me into it. Bring me one of those po’boys, and I’ll take you up on your bet.”

  “Make mine a muffuletta,” Eddie said.

  “You won’t be disappointed,” Big Sam said.

  Eddie and Tony were soon working on their sandwiches as Big Sam watched with a smile.

  “Well?” he finally asked.

  “Best oyster po’boy I ever ate,” Tony said. “My own mother couldn’t have made one any better. I’ll have to start coming here for lunch when I’m in the neighborhood.”

  “Ditto for me,” Eddie said. “I have to admit, this is the best muffuletta I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  “Served on fresh Italian bread with sesame seeds.”

  “Love the olive salad, and all the salami and provolone. It’s great.”

  Tony wiped his mouth with a napk
in after washing down his last bite with cold Abita. He shoved the notice of the horse auction across the bar to Big Sam.

  “Know anything about this?” he asked.

  “Course I do,” Big Sam said after scanning the clipping from the newspaper. “Sallisaw quarter horse sale. A big regional event that’s held every spring up in Oklahoma.”

  “Ever been?”

  “Lots of my customers go every year. They know how to raise good quarter horses up in Oklahoma.”

  “What about Wendell Swanson? Do you know if he ever went?”

  “Before Mr. Anderson fired him, the two of them never missed it. Wendell had a good eye for horses.”

  “How long ago was that?” Eddie asked.

  “That he was fired?”

  “Yeah,” Tony said.

  “About three years. Probably the same sale as the date of this notice.”

  “Let me see that?” Tony said, taking a closer look. “Wonder why he was holding onto a notice of a three-year-old sale?”

  Big Sam shook his head as he turned to leave them alone. “No idea on that one. Yell if you need another beer.”

  “Must have been important to him to hang on to the sale notice all that time,” Eddie said.

  Tony reached for his cell phone. “Let me just check it out.”

  Tony spent the next five minutes on the phone. Eddie could tell by his frown that he wasn’t gleaning much information.

  “What?” Eddie asked when he’d hung up.

  “Secretary I talked with wouldn’t give me the time of day. She did mention one thing that’s kinda interesting.”

  “What?”

  “She told me the quarter horse auction three years ago set an all-time sales record. One Oklahoma bred horse went for more than a million bucks.”

  “Sounds like a lot for a quarter horse.”

  “Don’t know. What’s important is the name of the horse that sold for the million bucks.”

  “Tell me,” Eddie said.

  “Thunder Bolt.”

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Eddie said.

  Tony didn’t reply to Eddie’s comment, calling to Big Sam instead to bring them their tab. After handing the little man another hundred and telling him to keep the change, Tony downed the last of his beer and started for the door.