Skunk Musk
Cut Pine Needles
Drawings of Insects
Pictures of Mary Beth and Family
Insect Books
Fishing Line
Money
Unknown Key
Kerosene
Ammonia
Nitrates
Camphene
Something that Sachs had mentioned when she was searching the boy's room came back to him.
"Ben, could you open that notebook there, Garrett's notebook? I want to look at it again."
"You want me to put it in the turning frame?"
"No, just thumb through it," Rhyme told him.
The boy's stilted drawings of the insects flipped past: a water boatman, a diving bell spider, a water strider.
He remembered that Sachs had told him that, except for the wasp jar--Garrett's safe--the insects in his collection were in jars containing water. "They're all aquatic."
Ben nodded. "Seem to be."
"He's attracted to water," Rhyme mused. He looked at Ben. "And that bait? You said it's for bottom feeders."
"Stinkballs? Right."
"Saltwater or fresh?"
"Well, fresh. Of course."
"And the kerosene--boats run on that, right?"
"White gas," Ben said. "Small outboards do."
Rhyme said, "How's this for a thought? He's going west by boat on the Paquenoke River?"
Ben said, "Makes sense, Lincoln. And I'll bet there's so much kerosene because he's been refueling a lot--making runs back and forth between Tanner's Corner and the place he's got Mary Beth. Getting it ready for her."
"Good thinking. Call Jim Bell in here, would you?"
A few minutes later Bell returned and Rhyme explained his theory.
Bell said, "Water bugs gave you that idea, huh?"
Rhyme nodded. "If we know insects, we'll know Garrett Hanlon."
"It's no crazier than anything else I've heard today," Jim Bell said.
Rhyme asked, "Have you got a police boat?"
"No. But it wouldn't do us any good anyway. You don't know the Paquo. From the map it looks like any other river--with banks and all. But it's got a thousand inlets and branches flowing into and out of marshes. If Garrett's on it he's not staying to the main channel. I guarantee you that. It'd be impossible to find him."
Rhyme's eyes followed the Paquenoke west. "If he was moving supplies to the place where he's got Mary Beth that means it's probably not too far off the river. How far west would he have to go to be in an area that was habitable?"
"Have to be a ways. See up there?" Bell touched a spot around Location G-7. "That's north of the Paquo; nobody'd live there. South of the river it gets pretty residential. He'd be seen for sure."
"So at least ten miles or so west?"
"You got that right," Bell said.
"That bridge?" Rhyme nodded toward the map. Looking at spot E-8.
"The Hobeth Bridge?"
"What're the approaches to it like? The highway?"
"Just landfill. But there's a lot of it. The bridge's about forty feet high so the ramps leading up to it are long. Oh, wait.... You're thinking Garrett'd have to sail back to the main channel to get under the bridge."
"Right. Because the engineers would've filled in the smaller channels on either side when they built the approaches."
Bell was nodding. "Yep. Makes sense to me."
"Get Lucy and the others there now. To the bridge. And, Ben, call that fellow--Henry Davett. Tell him we're sorry but we need his help again."
WWJD ...
Thinking once again of Davett, Rhyme now offered a prayer--though not to any deities. It was directed to Amelia Sachs: Oh, Sachs, be careful. It's only a matter of time until Garrett comes up with an excuse for you to take the cuffs off him. Then to lead you to someplace deserted. Then he'll manage to get a hold of your gun Don't let the passing hours lull you into trusting him, Sachs. Don't let your guard down. He's got the patience of a mantis.
... chapter twenty-eight
Garrett knew the waterways like an expert river pilot and steered the boat up what seemed to be dead ends yet he always managed to find creeks, thin as spiderweb strands, that led them steadily west through the maze.
He pointed out river otter, muskrat and beaver to Sachs--sightings that might have excited amateur naturalists but left her cold. Her wildlife was the rats and pigeons and squirrels of the city--and only to the extent they were useful in helping her and Rhyme in their forensic work.
"Look there!" he cried.
"What?"
He was pointing to something she couldn't see. He stared at a spot near the shore, lost in whatever tiny drama was being played out on the water. All Sachs could see was some bug skipping over the surface.
"Water strider," he told her then sat back as they eased past. His face grew serious. "Insects're, like, a lot more important than us. I mean, when it comes to keeping the planet going. See--I read this someplace--if all the people on earth disappeared tomorrow the world'd keep going just fine. But if the insects all went away then life'd be over with way fast--like, one generation. The plants'd die then the animals and the earth'd turn into this big rock again."
Despite his adolescent vernacular Garrett spoke with the authority of a professor and the verve of a revivalist. He continued, "Yeah, some insects're a pain in the ass. But that's only a few of them, like one or two percent." His face grew animated and he said proudly, "And the ones that eat crops and stuff, well, I have this idea. It's pretty cool. I want to breed this special kind of golden lacewing to control the bad ones, instead of poisons--so the good insects and other animals don't die. The lacewing'd be the best. Nobody's done that yet."
"You think you can, Garrett?"
"I don't exactly know how yet. But I'm gonna learn."
She recalled what she'd read in his book, E. O. Wilson's term, biofilia--the affection people have for other types of life on the planet. And as she listened to him telling her this trivia--all proof of a love of nature and learning-- foremost in her thoughts was this: anyone who could be so fascinated by living creatures and, in his odd way, could love them couldn't possibly be a rapist and killer.
Amelia Sachs held on tightly to this thought and it sustained her as they navigated the Paquenoke, escaping from Lucy Kerr and from the mysterious man in the tan overalls and from the simple, troubled town of Tanner's Corner.
Escaping from Lincoln Rhyme too. And from his impending operation and the terrible consequences it might have for both of them.
The narrow boat eased through the tributaries, no longer black water but golden, camouflaged--reflecting the low sunlight--just like that French cricket Garrett had told her about. Finally the boy steered out of the back routes and into the main channel of the river, hugging the shore. Sachs looked behind them, to the east, to see if there were police boats in pursuit. She saw nothing except one of the big Davett Industries barges, headed upstream--away from them. Garrett throttled back on the motor and eased into a little cove. He peered through an overhanging willow branch, looking west toward a bridge that ran across the Paquenoke.
"We have to go under it," he said. "We can't get around." He studied the span. "You see anybody?"
Sachs looked. She saw a few flashes of light. "Maybe. I can't tell. There's too much glare."
"That's where the assholes'd be waiting for us," he said uneasily. "I always worry about the bridge. People looking for you."
Always?
Garrett beached the boat and shut the motor off. He climbed out and unscrewed a turn-bolt securing the outboard, which he pulled off and hid in the grass, along with the gas tank.
"What're you doing?" she asked.
"Can't take a chance of getting spotted."
Garrett took the cooler and the water jugs out of the boat and lashed the oars to the seats with two pieces of greasy rope. He poured the water out of a half dozen of the jugs and recapped them, set them aside. He nodded toward the bottles. "Too b
ad about the water. Mary Beth doesn't have any. She'll need some. But I can get some for her from this pond near the cabin." Then he waded into the river and gripped the boat by the side. "Help me," he said. "We've got to capsize it."
"We're going to sink it?"
"No. Just turn her upside down. We'll put the jugs underneath. She'll float fine."
"Upside down?"
"Sure."
Sachs realized what Garrett had in mind. They'd get up underneath the boat and float past the bridge. The dark hull, low in the water, would be almost impossible to see from the bridge. Once they were past they could right the boat and row the rest of the way to where Mary Beth was.
He opened the cooler and found a plastic bag. "We can put our things in it that we don't want to get wet." He dropped his book, The Miniature World, inside it. Sachs added her wallet and the gun. She tucked her T-shirt into her jeans and slipped the bag down the front of her shirt.
Garrett said, "Can you take my cuffs off?" He held his hands out.
She hesitated.
"I don't want to drown," he said, eyes imploring.
I'm scared. Make him stop!
"I won't do anything bad. I promise."
Reluctantly Sachs fished the key from her pocket and undid the cuffs.
The Weapemeoc Indians, native to what is now North Carolina, were, linguistically, part of the Algonquin nation and were related to the Powhatans, the Chowans and the Pamlico tribes in the Mid-Atlantic portion of the United States.
They were excellent farmers and were envied among their fellow Native Americans for their fishing prowess. They were peaceful to an extreme and had little interest in arms. Three hundred years ago the British scientist Thomas Harriot wrote, "Those weapons that they have, are onlie bowes made of Witch hazle, and arrows of reeds; neither have they anything to defend themselves but targets made of barcks; and some armours made of sticks wickered together with thread."
It took British colonists to turn these people militant and they did so quite efficiently by, simultaneously, threatening them with God's wrath if they didn't convert immediately to Christianity, decimating the population by importing influenza and smallpox, demanding food and shelter they were too lazy to provide for themselves and murdering one of the tribe's favorite chiefs, Wingina, who, the colonists were convinced, erroneously, as it happened, was plotting an attack on the British settlements.
To the colonists' indignant surprise, rather than accepting the Lord Jesus Christ into their hearts, the Indians declared allegiance to their own deities--spirits called Manitous--and then war against the British, the opening action of which (according to history as writ by young Mary Beth McConnell) was the assault on the Lost Colonists at Roanoke Island.
After the settlers fled, the tribe--anticipating British reinforcements--took a new look at weaponry and began to use copper, which had been used only for decoration, in making arms. Metal arrowheads were much sharper than flint and easier to make. However, unlike in the movies, an arrow fired by an unpulleyed bow usually won't penetrate very far into the skin and is rarely fatal. To finish off his wounded adversary the Weapemeoc warrior would apply the coup de grace--a blow to the head with a club called, appropriately, a "coup stick," which the tribe became very talented in making.
A coup stick is nothing more than a large, rounded rock bound into the split end of a stick and lashed into place with a leather thong. It's a very efficient weapon, and the one that Mary Beth McConnell was now making, based on her knowledge of Native American archaeology, was surely as deadly as the ones that--in her theory--had crushed the skulls and snapped the spines of the Roanoke settlers as they fought their last battle on the shores of the Paquenoke at what was now called Black-water Landing.
She'd made hers out of two curved support rods from the old dinner table chair in the cabin. The rock was the one that Tom, the Missionary's friend, had flung at her. She'd mounted it in between the two rods and bound it with long strips of denim torn from her shirttail. The weapon was heavy--six or seven pounds--but it wasn't too heavy for Mary Beth, who regularly lifted thirty-and forty-pound rocks at archaeological digs.
She now rose from the bed and swung the weapon several times, pleased with the power the club gave her. A skittish sound registered in her hearing--the insects in the jars. It made her think of Garrett's disgusting habit of snapping his fingernails together. She shivered in rage and lifted the coup stick to bring it down on the jar closest to her.
But then she paused. She hated the insects, yes, but her anger wasn't really directed at them. It was Garrett she was furious with. She left the jars alone and walked to the door then slammed the stick into it several times--near the lock. The door didn't budge. Well, she hadn't expected it to. But the important thing was that she'd tied the rock to the head of the club very firmly. It hadn't slipped.
Of course if the Missionary and Tom returned with a gun, the club wouldn't do much good against them. But she decided that if they got inside she'd keep the stick hidden behind her and the first one who touched her would get a broken skull. The other might kill her but she'd take one of them with her. (She imagined that this was how Virginia Dare had died.) Mary Beth sat down and looked out the window, at the low sun on the line of trees where she'd first seen the Missionary.
What was the feeling coursing through her? Fear, she supposed.
But then she decided that it wasn't fear at all. It was impatience. She wanted her enemies to return.
Mary Beth lifted the coup stick into her lap.
Get yourself ready, Tom had told her.
Well, that she had.
"There's a boat."
Lucy leaned forward through the leaves of a pungent bay tree on the shore near the Hobeth Bridge. Her hand was on her weapon.
"Where?" she asked Jesse Corn.
"There." Pointing upstream.
She could vaguely see a slight darkness on the water, a half mile away. Moving in the current.
"What do you mean, boat?" she asked. "I don't see--"
"No, look. It's upside down."
"I can hardly see it," she said. "You've got good eyes."
"Is it them?" Trey asked.
"What happened? Did it capsize?"
But Jesse Corn said, "Naw, they're underneath it."
Lucy squinted. "How do you know?"
"Just have a feeling," he said.
"There's enough air under there?" Trey asked.
Jesse said, "Sure. It's high enough in the water. We used to do that with canoes on Bambert Lake. When we were kids. We'd play submarine."
Lucy said, "What do we do? We need a boat or something to get to them." She looked around.
Ned pulled his police utility belt off, handed it to Jesse Corn. "Hell, I'll just go out and kick it back into shore."
"You can swim that?" she asked.
The man took his boots off. "I swum this river a million times."
"We'll cover you," Lucy said.
"They're underwater," Jesse said. "I wouldn't worry too much about them shooting anybody."
Trey pointed out, "A little grease on the shells and they'll last for weeks underwater."
"Amelia's not gonna shoot," said Jesse Corn, Judas's defender.
"But we're not taking any chances," Lucy said. Then to Ned: "Don't flip it over. Just swim out and steer it over this way. Trey, you go over there, by the willow, with the scattergun. Jesse and I'll be over there on the shore. We'll have 'em in a cross fire if anything happens."
Ned, barefoot and shirtless, walked gingerly on the rocky embankment down to the mud beach. He looked around carefully--for snakes, Lucy supposed--and then eased into the water. Ned breaststroked out toward the boat, swimming very quietly, keeping his head above water. Lucy pulled her Smith & Wesson from the holster. Cocked the hammer. Glanced at Jesse Corn, who looked at her weapon uneasily. Trey was standing beside a tree, holding the shotgun, muzzle up. He noticed her cocked pistol and he racked a round into the chamber of the Remington.
> The boat was thirty feet from them, near midstream.
Ned was a strong swimmer and he was closing the distance quickly. He'd be there in--
The gunshot was loud and close. Lucy jumped as a spume of water shot into the air a few feet from Ned.
"Oh, no!" Lucy called, bringing up her weapon, looking for the shooter.
"Where, where?" Trey called, crouching and adjusting his grip on the shotgun.
Ned dove under the surface.
Another shot. Water flew into the air. Trey lowered the scattergun and started firing at the boat. Panic fire. The twelve-gauge didn't have a plugged tube; it was loaded with seven rounds. The deputy emptied it in seconds, hitting the boat squarely with every round, sending splinters of wood and water flying everywhere.
"No!" Jesse cried. "There're people under there!"
"Where're they shooting from?" Lucy called. "Under the boat? The other side of it? I can't tell. Where are they?"
"Where's Ned?" Trey asked. "Is he hit? Where's Ned?"
"I don't know," Lucy shouted, voice raw with panic.
"I can't see him."
Trey reloaded and aimed at the boat once more.
"No!" Lucy ordered. "Don't fire. Cover me!"
She ran down the embankment and waded into the water. Suddenly, near the shore, she heard a choking gasp as Ned bobbed to the surface. "Help me!" He was terrified, looking behind him, scrabbling out of the water.
Jesse and Trey aimed their weapons at the far shore and stepped slowly down the incline to the river. Jesse's dismayed eyes were fixed on the riddled vessel--the terrible, ragged holes in the hull.
Charging into the water, Lucy holstered her gun and grabbed Ned's arm, dragged him to the shore. He'd stayed under as long as he dared and was pale and weak from lack of oxygen.
"Where are they?" he struggled to ask, choking.
"Don't know," she said, pulling him into a stand of bushes. He collapsed on his side, spitting and coughing. She looked him over carefully. He hadn't been hit.
They were joined by Trey and Jesse, both of them crouching, eyes gazing across the river, looking for their attackers.
Ned was still choking. "Fucking water. Tastes like shit."
The boat was slowly easing toward them, half submerged now.
"They're dead," whispered Jesse Corn, staring at the boat. "They have to be."
The boat floated closer. Jesse slipped his utility belt off and started forward.
"No," Lucy said, eyes on the far shore. "Let it come to us."
The Empty Chair Page 26
