Jonathon King - The Blue Edge of Midnight

"Good, Freeman. Write it up and we'll add it to the package. The guy already confessed."

The detective in charge didn't want to hear about I.Q.s and broken homes and mothers who cut their own wrists.

"The guy was stalking women on boathouse row. Gettin' his jollies watching 'em bounce down the jogging path every morning. It gets to be too much for his pants to hold, he grabs one, she fights, he cuts her.

"His footprints are next to the body. Her shoe is by the parking spot where people saw him this morning. Only thing we're missing is the knife, which is probably in the river and DNA, which we ain't gonna get cause he never finished the rape.

"Whata ya mean it doesn't make sense, Freeman? The guy confessed. He keeps sayin', 'She was too pretty to live. She was too pretty to live.' What more do you want?"

Charges were filed despite my suggestion that we rethink the case. The lieutenant listened politely to me and said: "There's a sense of urgency with a case like this, Freeman. Sometimes you have to put it together quickly and act. You can't grind on every little aspect. That's the way it works sometimes."

I told him I thought we had the wrong man. Three weeks later he approved my transfer back to patrol. Arthur Williams went to prison. He may still be there.

I awoke with my finger on the dime-sized scar at my neck. I had been drifting most of the night between dreams and consciousness, caught between those two places and feeling like I didn't belong in either.

I got out of bed, lit the stove and then stood at my eastern window. An early light filtered in through leaves still dripping from the night rain. I heard the low grunt of an anhinga and spotted the bird swimming along small patches of standing water with just its head and long flexible neck showing. I watched him awhile as he stabbed into the water at fish and then I turned to start coffee. Padding across the room I stopped to pull on a pair of faded shorts and heard, or maybe felt, a soft thunk of wood against wood. The single vibration had shivered up from the foundation stilts, or maybe the staircase. I stood, listening, and heard it again. Paranoia got the best of me and I went quietly to my duffel bag and slipped my hand to the bottom, finding the oilskin-wrapped package and drawing it out. The warrant servers had indeed been careful. My 9mm handgun had been re-wrapped. The sixteen-round clip folded into the cloth so the two metals wouldn't scrape together. It was done carefully by men who knew weapons.

I undid the trigger lock and fed the clip up into the handle and held the gun in my right hand. I had not picked it up with purpose in over two years. I stared at the barrel. Despite the packing, a hint of brownish rust was oxidizing on the edges from the humid Florida air.

I felt the thunk again. This time it seemed too purposeful. I went to the door and opened it slowly with my left hand. At the base of the staircase, with his back propped against a stanchion of the dock, sat Nate Brown. The early light caught the silver in his hair. He had one bare foot flat on the deck and the other draped over into a sixteen-foot wooden skiff. With a subtle movement of that leg he thunked the bow against the dock piling.

"Ain't gotcha no alarm clock, eh?" he said without looking up.

I slipped the 9mm into my waistband in the small of my back and stepped out the door.

"I don't usually get visitors," I said, and quickly added, "this early."

I took two steps down and sat on the top landing. Brown remained where he was. He had a sawgrass bud in his left palm and was carving out the tender white part to eat with a short knife that had a distinctive curved blade. It looked too much like the blade I'd taken from Gunther's scabbard after the plane wreck and accidentally dropped into the mud of the glades.

"You ain't gone need that pistol," he said, finally looking up at me. I just stared at him, trying to see what might be in his eyes.

"I heard ya load it."

I took the gun from behind me where it was digging into my backbone and laid it on the plank next to me. In the rising light I could see the dark stain under Brown where water had dripped off his clothes. His trousers were wet through and there was a water line that changed the color of his denim shirt at midchest. Somehow he must have walked through the thick swamp from the west to my shack and found it in the dark. There had been no moonlight in the overnight storm.

"How about some coffee?" I finally said. "I was just making some."

"We ain't got time," he answered. The tone of authority that had struck me at the Loop Road bar was back in his voice. "We got to go."

I started to ask where, but he cut me off.

"It's the girl. The little one. You're gonna have to come git her."

Now I could see his pale eyes as he stood up and there was an urgency in them that seemed foreign to his face.

"The kidnapped girl? Where?" I said, unconsciously picking up my gun. "Where is she? Is she dead?"

"Yonder in the glade," Brown answered, barely tipping his head to the west. "She ain't real good. But she's alive."

"Who's with her? Is there anyone with her? Can we get a helicopter out there?" Now the urgency was in my throat.

"Ain't nobody with her now. An' ain't nobody now who can find her 'cept me. You're gonna have to git her," the old man said, his voice flat but still holding strength. "You alone. Let's go."

I walked back in the shack and laid the gun on my table and quickly dressed, taking an extra minute to pull on a pair of high combat boots I rarely used. I picked up Billy's cell phone and punched his number, got his answering machine and left a hurried message that I was heading out into the Glades with Brown and would call him back with details. I stuffed a first- aid kit into a waterproof fanny pack and strapped it around my waist. As I clomped down the stairs I put the cell phone inside too. Brown didn't object.

I climbed into the stern of the shallow skiff and Brown crouched on a broad seat built about a third of the way back from the bow. Using a cypress boat pole almost as long as the skiff itself, he pushed us down my access trail and onto the river.

"It'll be faster goin' up the canal with two," he said, heading upstream.

The old man seemed like a magician with the boat, poling and steering his way up my river at a speed that I could match only on my best days in the canoe. Sometimes he would stand erect, working the pole its full length but suddenly slip to his knees to duck a cypress limb and never miss his rhythm. I watched him bend down and noted the short leather scabbard on his belt where he'd holstered his curved knife. It was then that I remembered my 9mm. I'd left it on the table. I had also not thought to fasten Cleve's new lock on the door. I had not needed the gun for some time and I hoped I wouldn't need it now.

We got to the dam in twenty minutes, half my usual time, and I helped Brown hoist the skiff over. It was a flat-bottomed craft, made of marine plywood in a simple but efficient way. The techniques of both building and maneuvering such a skiff had been passed down through generations of Gladesmen. When Brown pushed off again I watched him as we slid past the spot where I'd found the wrapped body of the dead child. He never hesitated, never turned his head, either toward the spot in memory or away from it in avoidance. He just kept poling, his taut shoulders and back moving under the faded cotton of his damp shirt like the smooth muscles of a racehorse under its hide.

"I believe she will be fine" and "We'll be there directly" were his only answers to my questions about the girl.

I sat back in frustration and watched him. The sun was up full over the eastern horizon now, deepening the blue in the sky and slicing through the river canopy like light through cheesecloth. We passed the canoe park and I stifled an urge to call out to Ham Mathis at the rental shack.