Coldmoon retreated into the darkness, submerged himself in the water, and waited.

Sure enough: about ten minutes later, he heard the whir of an airboat and saw a spotlight pierce the murk. Two guards. They came to the leaning tree and illuminated it with their spotlight, accompanied by muttered cursing and the hiss of the radios. One of the men, wearing hip waders, got out and, using a hooked pole, pulled the rotten trunk free and shoved it over into the water.

After they left, Coldmoon continued walking alongside the fence, soon coming across another rotten candidate, this time on the far side of the fence. The wind was now blowing harder, along with gusts of rain, so the guards were unlikely to question why two trees fell onto the fence in quick succession.

Taking a piece of nylon parachute cord from his pack, Coldmoon climbed partway up the fence, looped the cord over the wires, then climbed back down. He then gave the cord a mighty pull, popping the wires out of their plastic clips, sparks flying in several directions. This time, he quickly climbed over the fence, avoiding the dangling live wires, then dropped down on the other side and gave the rotten tree a shove toward the fence. But this one wasn’t as rotten as the first, and he had a moment of panic when it refused to topple over. He laid his shoulder into it and, abruptly, the rotten upper portion broke off and came crashing down on the fence. He leapt aside, just missing getting clobbered.

The trunk ended up tangled in the wires. Coldmoon almost laughed—he couldn’t have asked for a better setup.

He headed on, slogging through the blackness as fast as he could move. In the distance, he heard the whine of the airboat returning to investigate. He wondered when he would encounter the next perimeter—and how hard it would be to penetrate that one.

He sure hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anybody.

57

THE BOAT LUNGED and bucked as the waves got steeper, the offshore wind rising near the coast of the Panhandle. The wind and tide were producing a steep chop, and it began to rain harder: big, heavy drops that felt like hail.

Perelman had the VHF turned to the weather channel, which had been regularly broadcasting ever more dire small-craft warnings, but now it announced general tornado warnings. He’d been forced to drop his speed even further, much to his passenger’s displeasure. It was pitch dark on the water, and Perelman’s boat had no radar. He just hoped the small-craft warnings had cleared the coast of boats. Only a crazy person would be out in this weather. If they could get into the protection of the river before the main force of the storm hit…he recited a quick Baruch HaShem in his head, and then another, thanking God for having gotten them this far. Just a little bit farther, please?

The booming of the water against the hull and the whine of the engine, combined with the hammering of drops on the windscreen and the howling of the wind, created an almost deafening noise in the cockpit. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. He glanced at the chartplotter. They were about six miles from Dog Island. Constance was still standing to his left, staring into the darkness with an implacable expression on her face, a real-life Joan of Arc.

Four more miles to go. The wind was really getting crazy. He throttled down again. At least this time Constance didn’t respond. To his immense relief he started to see a few faint lights from Dog Island, appearing and disappearing in the murk. The sea got worse as they headed toward the northern end of the island. Now the lights of Carrabelle came into view, smeared and blurry in the tempest. And then, rising to the west of the town, he saw the powerful beacon of the Crooked River Lighthouse, strong and clear, which flooded him with relief. They were almost there.

Entering Saint George Sound, he took a bearing off the light, heading to a point of land east of the lighthouse where his charts indicated the mouth of the Carrabelle River debouched into the gulf. God, it was a relief to see that lighthouse blinking away, steady as a rock, through the howling murk. But with the change of heading the sea was now almost broadside, pitching the boat from side to side and occasionally shoving it askew, the gray water sweeping across the enclosed bows and slopping over the gunwales. The cockpit floor was awash in seawater on its way out the scuppers. The VHF was still broadcasting tornado warnings to the north. If they could only get in the damn river and out of this brutal sea, they’d be safe. Or safer, at least.

Finally, he espied what looked like the broad mouth of the river, the lights of the town casting an eerie glow through the shifting rainsqualls. Squinting and peering, he made out the blinking lights of the channel buoys. As they entered the mouth of the river, the steep swells vanished into windblown chop and spume, easily cut through by the big boat. He wondered what people on shore must think as they watched the running lights of his speedboat heading up the river. Then he realized he didn’t need to wonder: they’d surely think he was crazy. And maybe he was crazy. He should never have let this woman talk him into something so insane.

As if responding to his thoughts, Constance spoke: “Speed up.”

He throttled up a little, ignoring the “no wake” zone. The wind was lashing the water so hard that it was all foamy and white, with no distinct surface. But no more awful swell, at least. He pushed on, the lights of the town passing on either side of him now. Going under the Davis Island bridge, he went through the great S-curve to where the water divided into the New River and the Crooked River.

Now the VHF channel went from general tornado warnings to the specific: an emergency broadcast of probable tornadoes spotted by radar in the region of Tate’s Hell State Forest—precisely where they were headed.

“Did you hear that?” Constance asked.

“Yes,” said Perelman. “There’s nothing we can do now—except turn around, of course.”

“We’re not turning around.”

“Then we pray that we don’t run into it.”

“I don’t pray,” she said.

“Well,” he replied, annoyed, “I sure as hell do, and I hope you won’t mind if I indulge.”

She said nothing, just stared straight ahead, her face illuminated from beneath by the red light of the chartplotter.

They had now left the town behind and were winding their way up the Crooked River, which quickly lived up to its name, carrying them around one deep horseshoe bend after another. The channel markers disappeared and he continued to navigate by chartplotter, glad the boat drew only twenty-four inches. Despite the storm, they were not making bad time up the channel, but Perelman’s relief was starting to be overshadowed by the thought of what would happen when they reached the facility. Fighting the sea for the past few hours had pushed that out of his mind.

“When we get there,” he said, “we’re just going to scope out the situation and call in the cavalry. We can’t handle this by ourselves.”

“I’ve already explained why that is a poor idea. We can’t trust anyone. The investigation has been compromised…and we don’t know how, why, or by whom. It would take too long to collect, organize, and mount your charge of the light brigade. Pendergast may be at risk of death already, but he will surely die if they see that coming.”

Perelman felt a rising exasperation. “So what’s the plan?”

“I don’t know what your plan is,” she said. “My plan is to go in there, neutralize the people who kidnapped Pendergast, and bring him out.”