A man emerged from the thickets cursing after becoming entangled on a thorny dewberry vine at the water’s edge.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“It’s my friend. We were huntin’ hogs and he tripped. Damn palmetto root. I think his foot’s broken. I can’t carry him all the way back to the truck. I was thinkin’ maybe you could take him in the boat and I could meet you wherever you put in.”
He studied the hunter. Mid-thirties, square jaw, clean-shaven. A stranger. But a lot of people traveled from all around south and middle Georgia to hunt Woods County. He was certainly dressed appropriately. Crew-neck shirt beneath a fluorescent-orange vest. Camouflage pants covering stumpy legs. Mud-encrusted boots. Black gloves.
“Can he walk?” he asked.
“Barely,” the hunter said, panting, trying to catch a breath. “But I think I can get him here if you’ll help me get him into the boat.”
“Go ahead. I’ll come over.”
The hunter retreated into the woods.
He shifted the two coolers, tackle box, and spare gas tank toward the stern, then reached for the paddle and inched the boat toward the clearing where the hunter had just stood.
He beached the bow and climbed out to wait on shore.
A couple of minutes later the hunter he’d just talked withapproached, supporting another man dressed almost identically. The other man appeared older, larger, and even with the first man’s help he had a tough time walking, crying out several times as they plowed through the underbrush. He waited by the boat until they emerged from the thickets, then moved forward to help.
The hunter with the bad foot seized him by the hair.
His neck arched back.
Pain seared down his spine.
Another hand came across his face. He felt cold cloth and smelled something sickening, like fish guts dried in the sun. His eyes locked onto the hunter’s. Steel-gray with a swirl of indigo, casting a gaze of pleasure that terrified. The grip tightened. The smell turned dizzying. His knees softened, then buckled. He crumpled to the soft soil and stole a final glance upward.
Then the light faded.
HE FISHED THE WALKIE-TALKIE FROM HIS BACK POCKET ANDreported, “Got him. Move in.”
Though it wasn’t visible, at the mouth of Brooks Creek he knew another boat was drifting into position, its occupant there to keep watch with an unbaited line cast into the brown water, walkie-talkie ready in case a warning was needed. He yanked off his black leather gloves, exposing latex ones. His associate did the same. Together they lifted the old man and placed him in the skiff. Then they splashed water on the bank, the sodden soil smoothed with dead palmetto fronds erasing any trace of their presence.
He climbed over the old man’s body into the skiff and sat astern. His associate followed but stayed near the bow. He paddled the skiff into the pool and, using the landing net, scooped the apple core from the water. He looked fleetingly to see if a good bite might be left, but the old fool had devoured the pulp down to the seeds. He stuffed the core into the old man’s mouth, then maneuvered the skiff into the creek toward the lake.
He negotiated the protruding limbs and drifted toward the creek mouth. His other associate was now in sight and he stared toward the boat. A discreet signal confirmed that everything was fine. He tossed the paddle aside and cranked the skiff’s fifty-horsepower outboard.
The engine shot to life. Rpms increased.
Oil billowed out in a noxious cloud.
Another hand signal ordered his associate toward the bow to prop the old man upright on the center seat. To keep the limp body high his associate supported the old man’s head from under the chin, crouching down in front. He looked behind once more, again assured by his other associate that no eyes or ears were nearby. Seeing all at the ready, he twisted the outboard into gear.
The boat shot forward toward the pool.
His associate supported the old man, keeping him steady.
The outboard hummed at full throttle.
The limbs rapidly approached, the old man’s head directly in their path. In the instant before the two met, he popped the throttle to neutral and rolled out of the stern.
The tepid water felt good.
A welcome rinse for the sweat and grime that had cooked his camouflage fatigues since dawn.
He surfaced shoulder-deep and swept back his gray-streaked hair. His eyes dried and focused just as his associate released the old man’s skull, which slammed into the overhanging branches, the body pounding into the transom, reverse momentum sending what was a few seconds before somebody’s husband, father, and grandfather tumbling into the creek.
