Линкольн Чайлд - Verses for the Dead

It was obvious they’d walked into a trap. But how was that possible? Who had known they were coming here? They hadn’t even known of this location until that morning. Pendergast’s mind raced. The shooter had arranged this ambush in advance. That meant they hadn’t been followed: it could only be a person who knew they’d be examining the file on the Vance suicide/murder. That person would know they’d see Vance’s address. From there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to guess they’d want to interview the man.

There was another possibility, of course: that John Vance was, in fact, Mister Brokenhearts — and they had surprised him in his lair. But in that case, who was the elderly man lying dead on the porch?

Pendergast understood that he had only seconds to decide on a course of action. Movement in any direction would expose him to fire. The shooter was roughly a hundred yards away, which meant he was out of reach of Pendergast’s 1911 save for the luckiest of shots. And in an exchange of gunfire, he would be dead before he got lucky.

To equalize the contest, Pendergast had to get closer, get the shooter within range of his own firearm. And he had to do it fast.

He burst from the cover of the tree, heading toward the house. Another shot rang out and he threw himself down behind another tree. Between him and the house there was now only open ground. He’d have to circle the lodge and come in from the back, where the cover was denser.

But this was what the shooter would expect.

Drawing on his past experience as a hunter of big game, Pendergast decided he should follow the example of the Cape buffalo: flee, drawing the shooter out of the house in pursuit, then circle back around and take him from behind.

The island was quite narrow. In order to circle to the back, he would have to enter the water.

Moving fast, he rolled out from cover and, aiming a suppressing shot at the dormer window, zigzagged back down the path, ducking from tree to tree. Shots rang out; he returned fire even as he felt a hard tug at his thigh just before making the final turn toward the dock. The airboat was burning, sending up a plume of black smoke that had the advantage of forming a field of cover. He took a second to examine his wound — flesh only, no bone or arteries involved. Sliding into the water — feeling its sting where the bullet had nicked his thigh — he kept low. The water was shallow, and the bottom mud too thick to allow him to move fast. Another shot rang through the trees as he worked his way to the end of the dock, the mud sucking at his feet, almost fatally slowing him down.

At the far end of the dock, he took cover behind the furiously burning boat. Keeping it between him and the house, he waded farther out into the swamp to where the water was deep enough to immerse himself. He moved laterally, sinking deeper, using cypress roots as cover, staying low, his head just out of water.

Movement; a swirl of water; and then, with a sharp glance to the right, Pendergast caught a glimpse of the nostrils and eyes of an alligator, sinking out of sight. The surface still rippled with underwater movement, however, and the ripples were coming straight at him.

Pendergast kicked up and away from the mucky bottom and lashed out with his foot, making contact with the creature. It erupted from the water with terrifying speed, reptilian eyes fixed on him, long uneven lines of teeth gleaming as its mouth gaped wide, and Pendergast fired directly into the gullet, the round blowing off the back of its head. It fell backward into the water, thrashing in frantic death throes.

Another shot came from the house, a gout of water spurting up to his left.

Pendergast sank back down into the water and moved as quickly as he could, holding his breath and crawling along the bottom, eyes open, another round zipping past him and leaving a trail of bubbles. He took cover behind a cypress. At two hundred yards, the lodge did not have a direct view of the dock, but Pendergast’s thrashings would have been clearly heard and it was sheer luck he hadn’t been hit. His only choice was to move in a straight line, keeping the trees between him and the house, and increase his distance from the shooter.

As he looked around, he saw another pair of eyes peek up from the brown water, and then another. A commotion began near the end of the dock: it was the gator he’d shot, being torn apart by its compatriots.

The water got deeper, and soon he could swim freely underneath the surface. Grabbing the extra clip from his jacket and then letting the jacket go, he took a bearing toward the next tree, held his breath, and ducked under, swimming hard, eyes open in the muddy water. More distance, more intervening trees.

The shots had now ceased; he was finally too deep in the trees and too far away for the shooter to waste rounds. But even as he caught his breath, he saw the ripple of another alligator coming at him, moving fast below the surface. He braced himself, thrust the muzzle of the gun underwater — and when he felt it make contact, pulled the trigger. The kick of the underwater shot almost tore the gun out of his hands, but it did the job: the reptile jerked sideways, coming up out of the water, its lower jaw partially torn away, and then it fell back, sinking in a cloud of blood.

Keeping to the water, Pendergast began working his way around the island, circling at a distance. On the far side, a tongue of land extended out into the swamp, forming a sort of lagoon, at the head of which was a small cluster of ruined buildings. The peninsula was covered with slash pines, cattails, and strangler figs — thick brush that made for excellent cover. He worked his way toward the spit of land, keeping his head barely above water, alert for not only alligators but Florida panthers as well — common in the Everglades. No shots came: the shooter must have lost track of his location.

He crawled to a muddy embankment thick with mangroves. Keeping low, he made his way along the edge of the water until he reached the tongue of land. He had to keep moving; keep his adversary guessing. Leaving the water, he scurried through the understory at a crouch, staying in the thickest areas, careful not to make any noise or disturb the vegetation more than absolutely necessary. He could just glimpse the ancient lodge from time to time through the cypress trees. Finally, the ruined structures came into view — metal sheds on stilts over the water; a corrugated boathouse; a mudbank covered with rotting fifty-five-gallon drums and abandoned equipment; a pair of decaying hoists; and the hull of an old wooden barge. And lying everywhere on the mudbank were dozens and dozens of fat alligators, crowded into the patches of sun, their armored backs glistening. They seemed to be asleep, but Pendergast knew that was merely a hunting strategy: they were alert and waiting for prey.

His silvery eyes took it all in, along with the lines of posts in the water and rotten metal mesh that had once served as breeding cages. It was clearly an abandoned alligator farm. The ruins offered numerous hiding places and ambush points: an ideal spot for a man with a handgun facing off against one with a rifle. He paused in a cattail thicket, taking stock. If he could reach the cover of those sheds, he could change the rules of engagement. Everything depended on whether or not the shooter had truly lost track of his location — or was biding his time.

Bursting from cover, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg, he sprinted across the open area toward the closest shed. Instantly, flashes of gunfire erupted from one of the ruined structures ahead, and Pendergast threw himself down, rounds thudding into the earth on all sides. Crawling frantically, he retreated to a muddy ditch, bullets humming, then worked his way back to the embankment and slid into the water, pausing just long enough to take a quick shot at the dark maw of the shed where the rounds had come from.