by BJ Bourg
She was right. Our usually quiet little town became a bustling boom town of adventure during the summer. It had certainly provided this place with an economical shot in the arm, but with larger crowds also came larger problems, and our four patrol officers were insanely busy during tourist season, as some of the locals called it.
We jostled along the gravel road for almost a mile. To our left, there were open meadows where oak trees had been planted in long, uniform rows. It appeared the idea had been to create a forest consisting exclusively of oak trees, but over the years, other species of trees had begun sprouting up between the majestic oaks and a widely diverse forest had emerged from the soil. To our right, a faded wooden fence—broken in places—separated the gravel road from the thick swamplands that extended toward the south.
Far away in that direction was a secret place called the Forbidden Swamps—and it was a place I would never forget.
CHAPTER 5
As we neared the end of the road to the Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Park, the surface became even more uneven and rough. It hadn’t rained in several days, which was a good thing. Otherwise, the holes would’ve been muddy and filled with water. While they would’ve been no match for my F-150 four-by-four, it was nice to have dry weather for a change. This had been a very active hurricane season and even the storms that hadn’t hit us directly had dumped several inches of rain on our town.
“The parking area’s right after that tree,” Susan said, pointing up ahead to a skeleton of a tree that stood just past the end of the wooden fence. Spanish moss hung like cobwebs from the bare branches. Unlike the surrounding trees, this one didn’t look healthy.
The end of the gravel road formed a T, dead-ending into the swamps to the left and wrapping around to a small parking area to the right. A gate blocked vehicular access to the trail and a sign warned that firearms were prohibited.
“How are they supposed to hunt?” I asked, indicating the sign.
“There’s a different access point for the hunting area,” Susan explained. “They don’t want hikers and campers getting shot, so they don’t allow hunters in this area.”
The hunting part made sense, but I was of a mind that every citizen should be allowed to arm themselves regardless of location. I had never arrived at a murder scene early enough to save the victim, so it was always my belief that individuals should do what they could to defend themselves against the two-legged animals who roamed the land. Much like David’s sling was to Goliath, a firearm is a great equalizer.
I parked to one side of the gate and stepped out. The breeze was nice, but hardly as cool as one would expect for November. I opened the back door and the dogs piled out, running over Grace in the process.
“Bad doggies!” Her eyebrows came together and her red hair seemed to catch fire in the sunlight. “Daddy, they hit me!”
I patted her head and helped her down from my truck. “They didn’t mean it, Pumpkin.”
Susan joined us on my side of the truck and stretched. Her face was beaming and she seemed relaxed. “It’s so nice out here.”
I nodded and took her hand. Grace had slipped around the gate and began following the dogs, who had already bounded down the trail. I glanced to my left as we made our way to the gate. There was a wooden structure displaying maps and facts about the area. Although they were in protective cases, the documents were faded and hard to read. I shook my head in disappointment. It was a shame this place had been allowed to dissolve into its current condition, but I would see to it that it got a facelift.
“I’m gonna come here on my days off and clean this place up,” I declared. “And then I’ll start advertising its existence to every tourist I see. I might even take out a billboard in town.”
“A one-man crusade to bring back the Waxtuygi Wildlife Nature Park, eh?” Her smile caused the dimple on her chin to deepen. I loved that dimple.
Just as we strolled past the locked gate along the path, there was a small clearing to the left where a badly weathered wooden structure stood alone and lonely. It was an outhouse building and it was in great need of repair. Some of the outer boards were beginning to rot and the roof was missing patches of shingles. I’d done construction work in a former life, and I knew I could easily bring it back to mint condition.
“This is such a nice area,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s a shame to let everything waste away?”
“I do.” She leaned toward me and rubbed my face with her right hand. “I love that you’re so passionate about it.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” I set my jaw. “I’m gonna bring my tools out here and fix this place up. And then I’m gonna take out an ad in the newspaper. I might even contact Laura Cavanaugh and ask her to do a news story. That would really drum up some interest in this place.”
Laura was a reporter with the local Fox 8 station in the city of La Mort. When she did a story, it usually garnered a lot of interest.
“You do that, Mr. Wolf,” Susan said idly, watching Grace and our dogs run along the trail ahead of us. The gravel had given way to hard-packed earth. While it was dry and solid now, one rain shower could change that in an instance.
After hiking for about a quarter of a mile, we saw a covered bridge up ahead that must’ve crossed a hidden bayou. Susan called out for Grace to stop before she had a chance to reach it. Our dogs had gone on ahead, but we didn’t want to risk Grace falling into the water.
Grace did as she was told and stood swaying on her feet until we reached her. Susan let go of my hand and held onto Grace as they crossed to the other side, their boots echoing on the hollow wooden boards. I stopped at the center of the bridge and looked out over the water, searching for an alligator. It was immediately apparent that a boat hadn’t been through here in decades. Lilies and other weeds covered the entire surface of the water, with the exception of a few slivers of open water here and there.
As I picked up my pace to cross to the other side, I began to wonder if alligators or fish could survive under such a wall of greenery. My question was answered almost immediately when I heard Grace holler up ahead. I jogged to the end of the bridge and turned right, where the trail followed the edge of the bayou.
“Gracie spotted an alligator,” Susan said, pointing toward the water. “It ran across the trail and disappeared under the lilies.”
“How big was it?”
“It was giant, Daddy!” Grace’s eyes were wide. “It was bigger than a bus!”
Susan and I laughed.
“Stay close to us,” I said to Grace. It was darker in this area and the dogs were out of sight. While I knew Grace would grow up to be a tough young woman, she was still too small to fend off a determined alligator—even if she was Susan’s daughter.
We continued along the trail, taking in all the beauty that surrounded us. When we’d gone almost a mile, I pointed in the direction the dogs had gone. Throughout the walk, they would disappear and reappear from time to time, and now they disappeared as we approached the primitive camping area. “We should camp out in the sticks one night.”
“That would be fun.” Susan grabbed my hand again and walked beside me. She began talking about a recent visit to her mom’s and dreams she had for adding on to her fighting gym.
I had listened intently at first, but my mind began to drift back to the previous week, going over every detail of the murder trial, trying to find areas whereupon I might improve. As Susan talked and I critiqued my performance in my mind, I watched idly as Grace wandered along the trail ahead of us. She stopped at one point and leaned over to pick up a stick. She reared back with her little arm and threw it as far as she could. It landed with a plop in the dirt about ten feet in front of her.
Coco, who had reappeared twenty feet in front of Grace, turned when she heard the sound. She knew instantly what it was. Grace was always throwing sticks for her to retrieve, and she didn’t disappoint. Like a flash, she rushed toward the stick and snatched it from the ground with her mouth. Instead of brin
ging it back to Grace, and in true Coco-form, she broke into a stumbling run down the trail, trying to catch up with Achilles, who was out of sight around a slight bend in the trail.
A smile played across my face as I watched our two-and-a-half-year-old daughter fight to catch up with them. She tripped on a stump and fell, but didn’t stay down long. She scrambled back to her feet and hollered, “Bad doggie!”
Susan and I laughed, but our laugh was cut short when we heard Achilles suddenly start to bark. There was a lot of bass in that bark. It was thunderous and vicious, not his curious or friendly bark. He didn’t use that bark often, but when he did, it spelled trouble.
“Gracie, stop!” Susan hollered as we each bolted forward. Grace couldn’t run very fast, but she was about thirty feet away and was closer to the bend in the trail than we were to her. Susan called out to her again. “Pumpkin, stop right now! Listen to Mommy!”
Grace, sensing it was a game, continued running forward, screeching gleefully as she did so.
Things seemed to proceed in slow motion from that point forward. As I ran, I could feel my heart pounding against my chest, could smell the swamp gases rising up from the bayou to my right, and could hear Susan’s authoritative voice trying to persuade Grace to stop running.
Susan and I were running neck-and-neck, but she was heading for Grace and I was heading for Achilles. I didn’t know what he had found, but it terrified me to think my daughter might be in proximity to whatever danger he’d uncovered.
We had just rounded the bend in the trail and Susan was closing in on Grace when the scene came into view. My beating heart leapt to my throat and I hollered for Susan to grab Grace.
“Get her out of here!” I called quickly, reaching for the Springfield 1911 that was shoved into the back waistband of my jeans. “Get her the hell out of here!”
CHAPTER 6
With my pistol drawn and extended out in front of me in a two-handed grip, I rushed past Susan and Grace and stopped several feet in front of them, blocking them from any danger that might be lurking in the campground.
I shot a quick glance over my shoulder and was just in time to see Susan snatch Grace from the ground. She whipped around and raced back in the direction from whence we’d come, holding her own pistol in one hand while cradling Grace in her other arm.
Turning back toward the campsite, I shouted a command for Achilles to heel. He continued barking and I hollered the command again. This time, he listened. In a flash, he was crouched beside me, glaring menacingly at the orange parachute hammock that hung between two trees fifteen feet away. A deep growl rumbled deep in his chest. Coco had taken up a position on my left side and she sat poised for action, making no sound and waiting for Achilles’ lead.
I told my dogs to stay and began carefully approaching the campsite. A gravel tent pad was positioned to the left side of the clearing and a gray tent with a red cover was pitched directly over the pad. Logs and branches—most of them pulverized and scattered around—appeared to have been previously stacked up around the perimeter of the tent before being destroyed. I scowled, wondering why someone would stack logs in that manner. Had the camper or campers been expecting trouble? Whatever their reason, it was clear to me what had caused the destruction—someone had shot the place up, and they’d done a thorough job.
Toward the right side of the campsite was a fire ring. I could smell the dying embers. The fire had to have been from last night. Two picnic tables had been put to use, with the nearest one being directly beside the hammock. Atop that table were two gallons of water and a roll of paper towel. The other table, which was located at the neighboring campsite about thirty feet away, wasn’t as neat. It appeared that the camper or campers had used the neighboring table for their meal, while keeping the closest table clean. It was possible they didn’t want to attract animals to their tent or hammock, and that made sense.
I tore my eyes from the table and turned my attention back to the hammock. I needed to search the tent, but I had noticed a body in the hammock, so I needed to check on that person first. The fabric was riddled with bullet holes and blood had pooled on the leaves and dirt beneath it.
I took a step closer and then glanced over my shoulder. I could no longer see Susan and Grace, but I could hear Grace fussing. She was begging to go back with her dogs. Her shrill voice carried on the still afternoon air and that worried me. If the suspect was still in the area, the noise might attract him to them. I needed to quickly assess the scene and catch up with them to provide added security for my family. I could return later with Amy and process the scene.
Keeping my eyes and my pistol trained on the tent, which had also been peppered with bullet holes, I continued my approach to the hammock, checking the ground in front of me before I took each step. So far, I hadn’t seen any spent shell casings or other evidence to point me in a direction.
I cast an occasional glance toward the thick trees that surrounded me, but I heard no noise and didn’t detect any movement. I wasn’t surprised. The killing hadn’t happened within the past hour. If it had, we would’ve surely heard the gunshots. If the killer was lurking in the trees at that very moment, he would have heard our approach and hunkered down. The fact that Achilles hadn’t turned his attention toward the woods did give me some form of comfort. If the killer was out there, my German shepherd would have sensed it.
The body sagged deep into the fabric of the hammock and I could smell the blood when I reached it. Now that I was closer, I could see that most of it was dry, with the exception of the very center of the pool on the ground. Since a pool of blood dries from the outside to the inside, the center would be the last to dry, and I could tell by the rate of the drying that this body had been here for hours, possibly since last night.
I also knew without looking that the person inside the hammock was dead. His or her engine had simply lost too much oil. I gently peeled back the fabric and saw that it was a man. There was an expression of shock on his pale face. I couldn’t be positive, but I imagined the paleness came from the lack of blood. He was about six feet tall and weighed around 200 pounds. A man of his stature needed about seven quarts of blood to live a happy life, and it appeared he had lost nearly every drop.
The entry wounds appeared to have been generated from the side of the hammock where I stood. I turned to look behind me, where the trail extended from left to right past the campsite. I picked my way in that direction and stopped when I reached the opposite side of the trail. While the campsite was covered in shadows, the trail was exposed to the sunlight. There in the tall grass that lined the opposite side of the trail, I caught a glint of light on a shiny object.
I leaned forward and nodded when a bright brass shell casing came into view. I glanced around the immediate area, penetrating the weeds with my eyes, and saw more bullet casings scattered about the grass. I shook my head and straightened, turning back toward the hammock and tent. It looked like a war zone, and I wasn’t looking forward to what I might find inside the tent.
I began making my way carefully toward the tent. I stopped when I drew to within fifteen feet and slowly turned to point my pistol at the trees behind me. My hair stood on end. I had the feeling someone was watching me. Was it real or was I being paranoid? Shuddering slightly, I moved toward my right to put a large tree between me and the opposite side of the trail. I then continued my approach.
I scowled when I reached the flap to the tent. It was zipped shut. If someone had been inside when the shooting started, they hadn’t even had a chance to unzip the flap when all hell had broken loose. Squatting on my heels, I slowly moved the zipper upward. Once it was high enough to enter, I moved the flap aside, keeping my pistol ready for any surprises.
It was dark inside the tent and I had to move forward on my knees to get a better view. Tiny beams of light shone in from the dozens of bullet holes that had riddled the fabric. Rather than help me visually, the bright spots distorted the objects on the inside and I had to use my hand as a shade
to see clearly.
There were two rucksacks, a pillow, some blankets, a sleeping bag, and a shot-up bottle of insect repellent. Nothing in the tent had been spared from the onslaught of bullets. I felt as though I had stepped inside a shooting gallery.
Disturbed by what I might find, I scooted closer to the sleeping bag. I took a deep breath, grabbed the top of the sleeping bag, and pulled it back. I sighed heavily and sat down on my haunches.
CHAPTER 7
I raced up the trail, resisting the urge to holler for Susan and Grace. I had checked my cell phone back at the campsite, but there were zero bars and I couldn’t call ahead to Susan. I didn’t know if the killer was still in these woods or not, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I needed to ensure that my family was safe and then I needed to get the posse out to the campsite.
Achilles and Coco had taken my action as a challenge and had left me in their dust. The last I saw of them, their tongues were flopping out the sides of their faces as their legs quickly increased the gap between us.
My heart pounded in my chest as I ran. I could hardly catch my breath, but I wasn’t about to stop. When I reached the covered bridge, I almost had a mini heart attack. I thought for sure I’d catch up to Susan and Grace by then, but they were nowhere in sight. I raced across the wooden bridge—my heels pounding heavily on the boards—and reached the other side within seconds. I strained to see down the trail, but saw nothing.
Desperate, I grabbed my phone and checked it while I ran, but it was no use. It bounced up and down too much for me to make out the tiny indicator at the top of the screen. I fumbled with the screen and managed to access my contacts. I slid my thumb across Susan’s name and pressed the phone to my ear. Nothing!
