Douglas Preston - Crimson Shore

The dog handler was a big man with a red beard, wearing a Red Sox cap and bundled in a slicker. His name was Mike Kenney and he seemed to know what he was doing. The dogs, too, looked like they meant business. Kenney had them both on long leashes and was firmly in control. The dogs were following the trail without hesitation, charging ahead confidently and pulling Kenney along.

Rivera continued following the SWAT team, Silas at his side. He had a waterproof GPS that promised to show them exactly where they were.

“Any idea where he’s headed?” Rivera asked Silas.

“He seems to be making a beeline across the marshes. Which would bring him out on Crow Island.”

“And what’s out there?”

“Nothing but scrub pines, sand dunes, some ruins, and a beach. Most of the island’s a wildlife refuge.”

“So what’s ahead I ought to know about?” He was staring at his GPS, but he couldn’t seem to translate the neat green-and-yellow map to the howling wilderness they were in. Kenney and the dogs had disappeared into a sea of salt grass, followed by the SWAT team, and he could hear the dogs baying up ahead. As they proceeded, the baying of the dogs seemed to ratchet up a notch.

“Well,” said Silas, “if he keeps up this line, he’s heading for the Stackyard Channel.”

“Which is?”

“That’s the main tidal channel of the marsh. The tide runs through there pretty hard. We’re at three-quarter incoming tide, which is when the current peaks. It’ll be running five, six knots.”

“Can we wade it?”

Silas gave a snort. “At this tide you can’t even swim it.”

“So he’ll be stopped? Turned aside?”

“If the killer came through an hour or two ago, say, the tide would’ve been a lot lower. So he maybe swam it. We’ll need a boat.”

Rivera cursed himself for not thinking of this before. He unhooked his radio and called the command center.

“Barber, I want you to get the two Zodiacs into the water, ASAP. Send them into the Stackyard Channel. You’ll find it on the survey map.”

He described what he wanted and, using his GPS, emailed waypoints to the command center showing exactly where they would need the boats. At least the team had brought a trailer with the two Zodiacs. They could be put in at the town landing in a matter of minutes, and — with their powerful engines and the tide in their favor — Rivera figured it would take less than ten minutes for them to reach the rendezvous point.

“Channel’s up ahead,” said Silas.

A moment later, Rivera and his men emerged onto the channel bank. He looked ahead across fifty feet of powerful, black, swift-moving current, its surface swirling with nasty eddies and upwellings. The wind howled across the water, lashing the cattails and bringing with it a gust of stinging rain. The beacon light pierced the gloom and illuminated the far embankment, where he could make out tracks in the mud.

“Looks like he swam,” said Silas.

“It’s going to be a bitch landing a boat along this embankment.”

Silas nodded.

“You got any idea why he’s heading out here? Seems he knows where he’s going.”

Silas shook his head.

Rivera gestured at the channel. “Any more like this?”

“Just a lot more marsh grass and a couple mudflats before you reach the scrub.”

Kenney was struggling with the dogs now, trying to pull them back from the edge. The dogs sounded almost insane with frustration at not being allowed to leap into the water. Kenney, who until now had been speaking to them in a low calm voice, was starting to lose his cool.

Rivera went over. “We have two boats coming. Zodiacs.”

“I hope to hell they get here soon,” the handler replied. “I’ve never seen the dogs so excited.”

More full-throated baying came from the dogs, who were pulling hard on the leashes. Kenney spoke to them sharply. The tide bore along, deep and powerful, between the banks; woe to any dog or man who was caught in it.

Rivera’s radio crackled. “About half a mile from your waypoint,” said the dispatcher. Rivera looked upstream and after a moment was able to glimpse, through the rain, a white light, flanked by green and red.

“Kenney,” he said, “you and the dogs get in the first boat. We’ll take the other.”

“Right.”

“Be careful. This is going to be a little hairy.”

The lead Zodiac came into the beam of the beacon, the pilot bringing the boat past their position and then pushing the tiller to the right, turning the boat upcurrent and coming into the embankment at a slower pace, the engine raised slightly and churning the water.

“Dogs first!” Rivera shouted.

The boat moved parallel to shore, slipping closer. The dogs, still frenziedly pulling at their leashes, did not look like they knew what to do. Kenney reined the leashes in tight and ordered: “Jump in! Jump in!” For a moment, it looked like both animals were going to leap over the rubber gunnels at the same time, but then — at the last instant — one pulled back. With a shout, Kenney and the dog were thrown into the boiling water.

“Life ring!” Rivera cried. “Throw him the life ring!” By the harsh light of the beacon, Rivera could see Kenney’s pale face sweeping along with the current. Not far away, the coonhound was paddling furiously and aimlessly, eyes bulging, screeching in terror, paws thumping the water. The dog, dragging its leash, was being spun around in a powerful eddy, its dangling tongue whipsawing, while Kenney tried to swim toward it. The dog’s screech turned into a hideous gargle as the Zodiac pilot gunned the engine and headed toward Kenney, the other dog still in the boat, barking frantically and looking as if it would jump out at any moment. In seconds the Zodiac had closed in on Kenney and the life ring was tossed; Kenney seized it and was pulled close, then bodily hauled over the gunnel by the pilot and mate together.

“Get the dog!” he screamed.

The pilot swung the boat around, aiming for the churning, eddying white water. But even before they reached it the dog went under; the last thing Rivera saw were floppy ears and a lolling tongue, glistening in the beacon’s brilliance; then, finally, two rotating paws that were quickly sucked beneath the gray, roiling surface.

Kenney let out a wail of despair and had to be restrained from jumping into the water after it; the boat circled and circled, but the dog did not reappear.

Rivera got on the radio. “Bring them to the other side,” he told the pilot. “We’ve got to keep going, even with the one dog.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring the second boat in.”

The second Zodiac, which had been too far away to assist, came in now and turned upcurrent, easing into shore. The men jumped in, Rivera last, and they set out across the channel. A moment later they buried their nose in the mud of the far embankment, next to the first Zodiac, and in another moment were back on land.

“My dog!” Kenney was screaming. “We’ve got to go back out and look for my dog!”

Rivera grabbed him by the arm and shook him. “Your dog’s gone. We’ve got a job to do.”

The man, his cap dripping wet, his clothes sodden, stared back at him uncomprehendingly. No way was he in any shape to continue. Rivera turned to one of the men. “Okay, take Mr. Kenney back to the command center. We’re keeping the dog.”

“No, no!” Kenney protested. “Only I handle the dogs!”

“Take Kenney back!” Rivera seized the leash. “Let’s go.”

They set off through the salt grass, Rivera leaving Kenney behind, protesting loudly. Silas, swift and silent, continued at his side. The remaining dog had picked up the trail again and was surging forward with a fresh frenzy of baying, his powerful stride practically eating up the ground as they moved along.