Altar of Eden

by James Rollins

  Lorna’s voice grew cold, distancing herself as much as possible from the memory. “Tom had already passed out in the back of the truck by the time they came. They pulled me out of the rear bed. Had me on the ground before I even knew what was happening. I fought, but they pinned me down. They had my jeans down to my knees, tore open my blouse.”

  “You don’t have to go there, Lorna.”

  She seemed deaf to him. “I couldn’t stop them. I still remember the bastard’s stinking breath, fuming with alcohol. His laughter. His hands tearing at me. I should’ve been more careful.” Her voice cracked, and she visibly trembled.

  “They were predators,” Jack said. He pushed against the guilt he heard in her voice. “They probably scouted regularly around that makeshift clinic. With women already half drugged, they found easy marks. Who would report an attack? These were women sneaking off for a secret abortion at an illegal clinic. Their silence was practically guaranteed. The bastards probably plied Tom with cheap moonshine so he’d be out of the picture. Leaving you alone and vulnerable.”

  “But I wasn’t alone.” She turned to him, her eyes shining in the darkness.

  Jack had arrived at that exact time, skidding to a stop on his motorcycle in the parking lot. He spotted them at the edge of the woods on top of Lorna. A blood rage had filled him at the time. He flew into the group of them, but he tempered his fury with calculation. With three against one, he needed to make an example, to unleash such a savage attack that it would cow the other two. He ripped the bastard off of Lorna, twisted his arm until bone snapped and a scream followed. He then pounded the man, half animal in his savagery, breaking the bastard’s nose, his cheekbone, knocking out his front teeth.

  Still, he had the wherewithal to tell Lorna to run, to get in the truck and hightail it out of there. He didn’t know how many others were out there, if they had any friends nearby who would be drawn by the fight.

  While he fought, Lorna had hesitated by the truck, hovering by the door. He’d thought she was paralyzed by fear.

  “Get moving, you stupid bitch!” he had screamed at her, words he still regretted, both for their cruelty then and for the consequences that would follow.

  She had jumped into the cab and, with a roar of the engine, flew off. While beating the man under him to a bloody pulp he watched her fishtail out of the parking lot and onto the narrow winding road that led through the bayou. At the time he didn’t know his brother was passed out in the open truck bed. Only later, after the accident, did he learn the truth. She had lost control in the dark, miscalculated a turn, and ended up plowing into a tree.

  The airbag saved her.

  Tom was found fifty feet away, facedown in the water.

  LORNA RECOGNIZED THE haunted look in Jack’s eyes. She remembered little after the accident. The next days had been a blur to her.

  In the end, the fallout of that night was typical of Louisiana justice. Deals were struck behind closed doors. She was convicted of a DUI, though not alcohol-related as everyone suspected following the tox screen on Tom’s body. He had a blood-alcohol level four times the legal limit. Her DUI was based on her impairment while under the effect of a sedative, a detail kept out of the newspapers to spare her parents any additional humiliation.

  Jack had also testified behind closed doors as to why she had been driving. At the same time he was also up on assault charges.

  She was ashamed that she never really knew what had happened to him after that. He had simply vanished.

  “Where did you go?” she finally asked. “After the courthouse?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “The man I beat up, the one that attacked you, he came from a well-connected family.”

  Lorna sat stunned. She struggled to shift her view of the past to match his words. Shock, then anger, burned through her. “Wait. I thought no one knew who he was.”

  During the attack, she hadn’t gotten a good look at her assailant. And out in the backwoods, people kept their mouths shut.

  “I was railroaded,” Jack explained. “Looking back now, I recognize that they feared prosecuting me outright. It would expose the attempted rape—a crime that in the backwaters is often dismissed as boys being boys, but no one wanted to test that theory. And besides, you hadn’t been raped, so why stir the pot?”

  Jack must have felt her go cold next to him. “Those were their words,“ he said, ”not mine. Either way, the case never went to trial. Still, they couldn’t just me let go. His family had pull. Mine didn’t. We had a long history of trouble with the law. As you might remember, Randy was already locked up for assaulting a policeman. They made veiled threats against his life if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t keep my mouth shut. So I was given a choice: go to jail or join the Marines.”

  “That’s why you left?”

  “Had no choice.” He kept his eyes purposefully away. “And to be honest, I was happy to leave. I was the one who sent you flying away in that truck, ordered you to leave. How could I face my family? And when I did return home after two tours of duty, I found it easier to remain silent. To let the dead rest in peace.”

  Lorna understood that all too well. Even at her house, the matter was never discussed openly again by her family. If you didn’t talk about it, it didn’t happen.

  They sat for a long spell in silence, but it was no longer as heavy, or as haunted. Footsteps finally interrupted.

  Jack’s second-in-command joined them. She had been introduced earlier. Scott Nester was from Arkansas and still carried a bit of hillbilly drawl in his voice, but his attitude was all professional.

  “Sir, we still haven’t raised anyone at the farm on the radio. How do you want to proceed? I can call the chopper to have them head out there.”

  Jack stood up, the warmth and intimacy evaporating as he assumed the mantle of responsibility. “The farm was told to evacuate. Maybe that’s why no one’s answered. Have you been able to confirm that they left?”

  “I have Kesler still making calls.”

  From Jack’s expression, he was still weighing whether to call in the chopper. She wasn’t sure that was a good idea. She lifted her hand. “That much noise from a helicopter, the blaze of its searchlights . . . if the cat’s nearby, the commotion might drive it off. We could lose this opportunity.”

  Jack considered her advice, then checked his watch. “We should reach the farm in another five minutes. The chopper can’t get there much faster. Still, Scotty, go ahead and call the pilot. Make sure he keeps that bird’s engine hot. We don’t want—”

  He was cut off by the pounding of boots. Another agent ran up. He looked barely older than a teenager.

  Jack faced him. “What is it, Kesler?”

  “Sir, I just fielded a call about the farm.”

  “Did they evacuate?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know, sir.”

  Jack stared hard at the man, willing him to calm down.

  He took a gulping breath. “After making several calls, I received one back. From the local chapter of the Boy Scouts. According to the call, a group of scouts was headed to the farm this morning, to camp there for the week.”

  Lorna’s heart sank into her belly.

  “No one’s heard from them since.”

  Chapter 15

  Stella ran across the elevated boardwalks toward the campsite. Children’s screams continued to burst out, sharp and sibilant, but they were now punctuated by the deeper shouts from scoutmasters and chaperoning parents.

  Her bare feet slapped against the boards, followed by the harder pounding of Garland Chase’s boots. He swore a blue streak next to her, a walkie-talkie pressed to his lips.

  “Get everyone over to the camp!” he hollered.

  More fleet of foot, she reached the cleared section of old-growth forest first. Lanterns were strung on lines. A few campfires glowed. Tents dotted the open ground in an array of colors and sizes, from an old army-surplus pup tents to elaborate gazebos purchased from the local REI. There were also pil
es of kayaks, fishing gear, and empty sleeping bags strewn about like the skins of shedding snakes.

  She ran up to one of the scoutmasters, a robust fellow whose belly strained his khaki uniform. His face was a sweaty crimson. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  The screaming rose from the far side of the camp, but it seemed to be already subsiding.

  “Just some spooked kids,” the scoutmaster said with a scowl. “They were out gathering firewood. Claimed they saw a swamp monster. Came running back screaming bloody murder. After all the campfire ghost stories, it was like throwing gasoline on fire. Got all the kids running and hollering, half in real terror, half in play.”

  Gar swore under his breath. He had his shotgun clutched in one hand, the other rested on a knee as he leaned over, huffing and gasping from the sprint. “Goddamn kids . . .”

  “Sorry,” the camp leader said. “We’ll get ’em back under control. Put 'em all to bed. There won’t be any more trouble.”

  One of the scouts arrived. Redheaded and freckled, he looked to be around eighteen. Probably an Eagle Scout acting as the scoutmaster’s assistant. He dragged an eleven-year-old boy by an elbow. “Here’s one of the kids causing all the trouble.”

  The boy wore swimming trunks and a Gryffindor T-shirt. His eyes were huge, glassy. He trembled with fright—not because he was in trouble. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the forest.

  The scoutmaster grabbed his chin and made the boy face him. “Ty, look at the ruckus you’ve caused with your silly story. Do you want me to send you home right now? What would your parents think about that?”

  The boy strained against the grip holding him, near panic. Whatever had happened out in the swamp, this kid believed it was a monster.

  Dropping to a knee to get eye level with him, Stella reached over and freed the boy from the older men. She kept hold of his shoulders. “Ty, tell me what you saw.”

  He again glanced toward the forest, then to her. “I didn’t get a good look.” His voice was a scared whisper. “It was all white. Saw it leap over the water and back into the woods. We hightailed it out of there.”

  “Probably just a deer,” Gar said with a dismissive sneer. “Little bastard’s just scared of the dark.”

  The boy’s shaking grew worse at Gar’s threatening manner. Stella scowled, silently telling the bastard to shut up. The boy had seen something. But what? She remembered catching a fleeting glimpse of something herself in the woods, a ghostly shape that seemed to capture and hold the moonlight.

  “It was big,” the boy said. “Lots bigger than a deer.”

  “How big?” she asked.

  “Like a . . . I don’t know . . .” He swept his arms wide. “Least as big as a small car.”

  Gar snorted and shouldered his shotgun.

  Stella stood up. A coldness ran through her. Without missing a beat, she turned to the scoutmaster. “I want you to gather all the children and head over to my house.”

  She pointed to her parents’ two-story log cabin. Built stoutly of cypress logs, it had ridden out Katrina safely. She wanted everyone under cover, not out in the open.

  “What are you talking about?” the scoutmaster asked. “Why?”

  She took a deep breath. Earlier in the day, she had taken the call herself about a big cat loose near the coast. The details had been sketchy, except for one detail. The cat was said to be huge. She did her best to keep panic out of her voice.

  “There’s been a report of a large jaguar loose in the bayou,” she said. “Escaped from a shipwreck along the coast, far from here, but let’s not take any chances.”

  The scoutmaster looked stunned. “Why wasn’t I told about—”

  By now, Gar’s team had arrived. The men came puffing up, rifles in hand. Gar seemed to draw strength from their numbers. He lifted an arm. “Now let’s all calm down. I heard about that report, too. Big cat or not, there’s no way a jaguar covered that much ground in a single day. So let’s not get all riled up just because some kid jumps at his own shadow.”

  The scoutmaster looked unsure. The camp was his responsibility.

  “I’ll send some of my guys out to take a look,” Gar assured him. “If there’s anything in the woods, they’ll find it.”

  His men grinned, readying their weapons.

  “You do that,” Stella said. “But I’m still moving the campers over to the cabin.”

  Gar looked ready to argue—then simply shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go with you. Make sure there’s no other trouble.” He glared at the boy, then turned and ordered his men to sweep the neighboring forest.

  Stella swung back to the camp leader. “Get all the children together. As quickly and quietly as possible.”

  He nodded. In a matter of minutes, children and adults were gathered into neat groups. En masse, they set off across the farm, traversing the boardwalks. Kids chattered excitedly. Adults looked worried or annoyed.

  Stella led them, with Gar trailing behind. As much as she despised the man, she appreciated his shotgun at her back. She kept watch on the forest to either side. Nothing seemed amiss. Bullfrogs croaked, fireflies flickered, and mosquitoes buzzed and dive-bombed. Still, she felt a prickling along the nape of her neck, as if something were staring at her out of the dark forest.

  She was relieved to clamber up the stairs to the family cabin. The home was large, and though it would be cramped, it should hold everyone. Her parents met her on the porch.

  “What’s happening?” her father asked. “What’s all the commotion?”

  Stella related what she knew.

  With a crinkled brow of concern, her mother wiped her hands on her apron, then waved to the children. “Let’s get everyone inside. I can make a big batch of hot chocolate.”

  Stella kept to the porch as a parade of children filed into the house, following her mother like a gaggle of goslings. Many faces were pinched with worry, while others grinned at the excitement of it all.

  Her father joined her. “You made the right call, Stell. Peg will get those young’uns settled. But what’re the odds that cat really is out there?”

  Gar climbed up to the porch. “Don’t matter none. My boys are scouting the woods. If that cat’s out there, they’ll take care of its sorry ass.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Hell, it’s only a damn cat.”

  As if summoned by his words, a shape dropped out of the dark forest on the far side of the ponds. It landed on one of the boardwalks and stood dead still, crouched low to the planks, practically filling the space. Its eyes reflected the moonlight, staring straight at them.

  “Holy Mother of God . . .” Stella’s father gasped out.

  Gar fell back a step, while scrambling his shotgun to his shoulder.

  “Don’t!” Stella warned.

  Gar fired. The blast deafened, smoke flowed from the barrel. It was a stupid potshot, a panicked knee jerk. There was no way he could hit the cat at that distance. Gar expelled the smoking cartridge and one-handedly pumped in another load. But he was already too late.

  The beast’s long tail swished once in agitation, then in a burst of muscle, it swung around and dove back into the forest.

  “Everyone inside,” her father said. “Gar, call your men back. We need every weapon here to protect the kids.”

  Out in the woods, a spat of rifle blasts cracked. A single bloodcurdling scream followed. The three of them remained frozen on the porch. The dark forest went silent. Even the frogs had gone quiet.

  Gar kept his cheek pressed to the butt of his shotgun.

  “Joe!” Stella’s mother called from inside.

  “Into the house,” her father ordered.

  As they began to retreat, a new noise sliced through the quiet: a sharp whining. It came from the other side of the house, where the farm’s dock and fuel station jutted into a deepwater channel.

  “An airboat!” Stella said.

  Someone was coming.

  Hopefully with lots of guns.

  U
NCLE JOE WADED across the great room of the cabin through a sea of children sitting on the floor or huddled in small groups. Wide eyes stared at him. Scoutmasters called out questions, but he was deaf to them. He focused on the large stone fireplace that filled the back wall. To either side, wide windows looked out toward the rear of the house, toward the docks.

  He led his daughter and the sheriff’s son across the room.

  Gar headed to one window with his walkie-talkie at his lips, shouting for someone to answer him.

  Were any of his men still alive out there?

  He and Stella moved to the other window, taking up a post shoulder to shoulder. Inside the cabin, they could no longer hear the whine of the airboat. He reached the window and stared out. There was no sign of the boat, only the lights of the dock reflecting off the black water.

  What if it wasn’t headed here?

  He had no way to radio out. After the storm, they’d been having trouble with the shortwave, a common problem whenever the temperature ran through such extremes. Humidity condensed inside the equipment, wreaking havoc with their reception. The warning call had barely been audible. The radio had shut down completely after that. He’d been meaning to fix it but hadn’t gotten around to it.

  He studied the waterway, the only channel into or out of the farm.

  The canal was narrow and twisted, but he’d had it dredged deep enough to accommodate the larger tenders that ferried cruise-ship passengers to the farm. To either side, the forest had been groomed to look especially picturesque. The underbrush had been cleared to accentuate the size and majesty of the old-growth cypresses. Flowering plants, strategically placed, added to the beauty, as did the manicured beds of water lilies along both shorelines.

  “There!” Stella burst out and pointed.

  A sharp light bloomed into existence far down the channel, flickering between trees.

  “Two of them!” Stella said, noting a second glow. “They must be heading here!”

  “Stay by the window. I’ll go down to the dock.”

  “Daddy, no. At least wait until they’re closer. And take Gar with you.”

  He hesitated. The first airboat appeared around a bend in the canal. It sailed in a smooth arc, propelled by the giant fan at its stern. Its searchlight speared straight at the cabin, blinding them. He lifted a hand to shield against the brightness.