Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

“Crooked River. Let me check that.” A moment later he said, “It’s a river up in the Panhandle, near the town of Carrabelle.”

She could hear the grinding of an engine in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m getting onto a shuttle. Crooked River — what the hell’s there?”

“There’s something else. That reporter Smithback — recall him? — heard talk among his captors of a convoy of trucks.”

“Yeah. The M813s.”

“He overheard a tip that a convoy matching this description had been seen near a place called Tate’s Hole, or perhaps Tate’s Hall.”

“Tate’s Hole... Wait, I’m looking at a Google map of the Crooked River now... Son of a bitch, it’s Tate’s Hell! Tate’s Hell State Forest — up the Crooked River. It’s right here. What else did that reporter say?”

Sitting in the backseat of the Uber, Constance tried to recall the exact words. “He said... Johnson’s Fork. The trucks were seen turning into Tate’s Hell, west, past Johnson’s Fork.”

More background noises, Coldmoon murmuring to someone. Then he got back on. “I don’t see any ‘Johnson’s Fork’ on the map. The crazy river twists all over the place, but there’s no Johnson’s Fork.”

Constance called up Tate’s Hell on her own cell phone. It appeared to be endless swampy forest, through which the Crooked River flowed.

“Got it!” Coldmoon said triumphantly. “Johnson’s Fork.”

“Where?”

“Ten miles past Carrabelle to the north, just beyond Bucketmouth Crossing.”

Constance peered at her screen again. She found Bucketmouth Crossing — literally a mere crossing of two small roads — but beyond that she saw no named places, just another twisty fork in the river, this one shaped like a dangling sausage.

“I still don’t see it,” she said.

“Trust me — it’s that fork to the west. Look, I’m going mute; I’ve got to rent a car. Hold on.”

Constance looked at her cell phone map but could see nothing in that expanse of swampy forest — as one would expect — with a few old logging roads and some docks along the river.

“Back on,” said Coldmoon. “Waiting in a line. I’ve got a few more minutes.”

Constance continued scrolling through Google Maps, looking for something, anything, in that forest.

“Hey,” Coldmoon said. “See that big flat-roofed building next to the river? About fifteen miles northeast up the river from Carrabelle. It’s the only big building in that whole region.” He covered the phone again, spoke to someone else. She heard him say “four-wheel drive.”

Constance found it. It was a compound of some kind in a clearing, surrounded by a wall with gates and a few docks and warehouses on the riverbank.

“What is it?” she asked. “A factory? Looks abandoned.”

“Says here a sugarcane processing plant. Or it was. Bonita Sugar. Went out of business years ago.”

Constance searched the web. “Here’s something. Yes, you’re right. The plant was using a banned chemical for sugar processing, substituting cheaper sodium hydroxide for calcium hydroxide. The state shut it down in 1967.”

There was a silence on the other end of the phone. Her driver now spoke. “Okay, here we are, lady. Back at the house.”

She looked up, startled. They were in the driveway, the Mortlach House looming up again. The driver had turned around. “Lady?”

“I’m getting out,” she said.

She closed the door, and the car took off with a spray of sand. “Agent Coldmoon?”

Now his voice returned, excited. “You did say sodium hydroxide — right?”

“Right.”

“I was just looking through this list of trace chemicals found on the feet. Sodium hydroxide was a chemical found on both the amputated feet and shoes.”

Constance looked at the satellite view on her phone. The plant itself seemed old enough — but on closer inspection, she was able to make out what appeared to be freshly cleared areas around the building, and a new surrounding wall.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s where they were taken.”

“Damn right,” Coldmoon said.

Over the phone, she heard the sound of a slamming door.

“So where are you, Agent Coldmoon?” she asked.

“I’m getting in my rental now.”

“Forget the car. Get a helicopter.”

“Not possible, not on such short notice. My GPS says I’m only an hour and a half away by car.”

“Call your FBI contacts and get one.”

“Look, nothing’s flying in this weather. And if I call the FBI, you know what’s going to happen? They do everything by the book, including launching a Critical Incidence Response Group assault. Six hours to authorize and plan it, six hours to equip and brief the guys, and then they go in big. That will get my partner killed for sure.”

“Your partner? My guardian . So we do this together — now.”

“We? There’s no ‘we’ in this scenario.”

“But there must be. You’ll fail if you go in alone.”

She heard Coldmoon take a deep breath. “You’ve got to be crazy. You — come with me?”

“Of course.”

“That’s not going to happen. Do I really have to go over the reasons why? First, you’re five hours south by car. Second, there’s a big storm coming and all flights are grounded. Third, you’re a civilian with no business being on a mission like this.”

Constance felt herself consumed with a growing rage. “Going in by yourself is madness! You’ve got to wait for me. If you refuse to arrange for my transport, then I’ll simply arrange for it myself—”

“Absolutely not. Now, inila yaki ye. End of conversation.”

Suddenly, Constance felt all her emotions — her fury, anxiety, self-recrimination — gather together, targeting themselves with white heat at this truculent voice on the phone. “If you go in there without me... one way or another, you’re going to regret it — regret it severely.”

There was a silence on the other end of the line. And then, the call disconnected with an audible click.

Constance stared at the dead phone. Then she looked up again. She needed to get there, now. But the Uber driver was long gone — he’d never return for her. It was a five-hour drive, at least — and the airports were closed.

But Pendergast was up there, held captive, his life in danger. There had to be a way to get up there. There had to be a way .

She waited in the dark driveway for the white heat of her anger to dissipate. But it refused to do so.

She took in a deep breath; let it out; drew in another. And then — suddenly — she raised her face to the night and let out a terrible, unearthly, unending scream of sheer feral frustration.

Chief Perelman drove past Buck Key, half-drowned and completely disgusted. He’d planned on spending the last ninety minutes in his study, warm and dry, trying to master Doc Watson’s break from the ’72 recording of “Way Downtown.” Instead, he’d been roused from his house and sent out into the rain because some idiot tourist decided this would be the perfect weather to take a dip off Redfish Pass. By the time a hastily assembled rescue squad had located the youth, hauled him ashore, pumped the salt water out of his lungs, and finished explaining to him the difference between one-digit and two-digit IQs, Perelman didn’t want to play the guitar or do anything else but go back home, wring himself dry, and crawl into bed. Tropical storms were a fact of life on the barrier islands, and Perelman was used to dealing with them. But he’d had more than his fill of bullshit lately, with all the extra hours and bureaucratic wranglings dealing with the task force. This little stunt by a jackass from Skokie was one too many.