Deadly Catch, page 11
An hour later I was still treading on dry ground. I’d seen what could’ve passed for a side trail a few minutes back. I remembered Sara not being certain which trail they’d taken after parking the illegal four-wheelers and setting out on foot. I kept going, thinking that if I didn’t hit water or find another side trail soon, I’d double back and try that one. I wished now I’d invested in a GPS.
Another half hour, and the trail began to squish under my feet. A couple of hundred yards farther, and I was ankle-deep in water. That’s when I spotted a small clearing of higher ground just off to the left. There was evidence of low brush having been tramped down, and I noticed several broken branches. If the water level had been higher when Sara had been here, this would’ve been a good place to park and hide the four-wheelers.
I fished the compass from a pocket, aligned it on my map, and took a reading. The trail was heading more or less due north at this point. Grand Gator Lake lay more to the northwest, and Little Gator Lake a half mile farther on. Little Gator was where Sara said they’d made camp. From the distance I estimated I’d already walked, there would have to be a trail heading in that direction not too much farther ahead. If not, I’d have to backtrack and try the side trail I’d passed.
I pressed on, keeping my eyes peeled for snakes. I didn’t think gators would be a problem along the trail, but cottonmouths were a definite possibility. An occasional squirrel barked in the distance, and birds chattered and flitted in the thick brush on either side of the trail but mostly kept out of sight. So far, mosquitoes and gnats hadn’t pestered me enough to break out the bug juice.
Ten minutes later I stopped in my tracks and listened. Voices ahead. I didn’t want company. No telling who I might run into out here, so I eased off the trail about twenty yards and squatted behind a clump of saw palmettos that offered good concealment. The chatter grew louder, and in a couple of minutes three hikers came into view. They looked to be college age, walking single-file, a girl with a ponytail sandwiched between two guys. All were humping backpacks. The girl was holding a cell phone to her ear, nodding and laughing at whatever was being said. Each wore shorts, T-shirts, and ball caps. The guy walking tail-end-Charlie and the girl carried walking sticks; the point man had a walking stick in one hand and a machete clutched in the other. I watched them pass out of sight, gave them another two or three minutes, and then eased back onto the trail.
There hadn’t been any other vehicles where I’d left my truck. Maybe they’d come in by a different route or had arranged for someone to pick them up. Never too proud to learn a lesson, I unsheathed the machete, cut and trimmed a sapling suitable for a walking stick, and slogged on up the trail. A minute later a large blackish snake slithered across the surface a few feet ahead and disappeared into the brush and trees. It might’ve been a harmless water snake, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to chase after it to find out.
The water was knee-deep when a few minutes later I spotted what looked to be a game trail to my left. I sheathed the machete, grabbed a small tree for support, and scrambled up the two-foot embankment. I leaned my walking stick against a tree, grabbed my map and compass, and shot a reading. The trail led roughly northwest. I checked my watch. I’d been hiking about three hours and figured I’d covered around five or six miles. Odds were good that this was the trail I’d been seeking.
The trail was narrow but less than ankle-deep in most places, with canopy overhanging so low in areas that I was forced to walk bent over. I craned my neck, eyeballing the overhead brush. I damn sure didn’t want to wind up wearing a water moccasin as a necktie.
My back was aching when the trail finally gave way to a view of a beautiful lake ringed by magnificent cypress trees growing in the shallows. Grand Gator. The lake was roughly oval, maybe a half mile across from where I stood, and a mile wide end to end. A couple of ospreys circled above, their keen eyes searching the obsidian water for lunch. A dozen or more herons and egrets stalked among cypress knees, ready to spear a meal of their own.
I checked the grass around me for unwanted critters, shed my pack and other gear, and sat down for a rest. I grabbed a water bottle and a two granola bars from my pack and feasted while I studied the nearby surroundings. There were signs of a few old campfires here and there and a frayed clothesline strung between two trees. The sun reflected off a couple of discarded beer cans. So much for the hiker’s creed of leaving nothing behind but footprints. According to Sara, she, Maddie, and Brett had walked left—west—to the far end of the lake, and then taken a trail that lay hidden behind twin live oaks on the north side that led to Little Gator Lake.
It wasn’t noon yet, so I pulled off my boots and pointed the openings toward the sun to dry. I aired my feet for a while and then fished a dry pair of socks from my pack. In a few minutes I heard the droning of a small airplane. When it came into view there were no visible markings on the wings or fuselage. I watched as it flew over the lake and disappeared to the west. Was someone out for a joyride this beautiful summer day? A student taking lessons maybe, or the law searching the wilderness for marijuana plots?
After spending the better part of an hour resting and watching osprey hover and dive for fish, I put my nearly dry boots back on, saddled up my gear, and headed for the western end of Grand Gator. Reaching the north side, I had no trouble finding the twin live oaks whose sprawling, moss-covered branches spanned a good forty yards combined. A few minutes of searching revealed a narrow trail leading north. The entrance was concealed by a saw palmetto thicket, but the trail was a hell of an upgrade to the one I’d used to reach Grand Gator Lake.
The footpath was only a couple of feet wide and led through a forest of virgin pines towering above an undergrowth of palmetto and other low-growing brush. This was prime diamondback rattlesnake country, so I eyeballed the trail ahead and to both sides for any sign of movement or “branches” that might have fangs at one end and rattles on the other. I was beginning to wish I’d taken the salesman’s advice at Redmond’s Sporting Goods and bought those snake boots he’d recommended.
Little Gator Lake was a sight to behold. Maybe a third the size of Grand Gator, the water was a clear, pristine blue with a white sandy bottom, a sure indication of being spring-fed. Almost circular, most of the southern half was clear of trees and grass, with a narrow strip of sugar-white sand rivaling what I’d seen of the beach along Five-Mile Island. Tall stands of cypress and grasses dominated the northern end, providing good cover for fish and other amphibious critters. Any gators living in this lake would be drawn naturally to that side for their food source. I could see why Maddie Harper had been so fond of this place; Brett Barfield, too, but I still suspected there was more than the scenery that drew him here so often.
I followed the shore westward until I came to a cleared area not far off the lake. Near the middle was a fire pit circled with several limestone rocks the size of unabridged dictionaries. Where there are springs, there’s limestone. Someone had most likely plucked these from the lake bottom. I thought of the autopsy report. Had someone bashed Maddie Harper in the head with one of these very rocks?
The clearing would be a fine location to make camp, but this was no joy trip. No sense inviting trouble, so I decided to pitch my tent where it would be harder to see if other hikers or pot farmers happened to be in the area. I moved away from the lake and searched the edge of the surrounding woods. I soon found a small natural clearing with enough brush around that would make it difficult to spot unless a person just happened to stumble onto it. I unloaded my gear and used the machete to clear away enough brush so that the tent would easily fit with room to spare on all sides.
Twenty minutes later the tent was pitched. I walked down to the lake and looked back toward my bivouac. I’d chosen well; the brushy area looked natural with no sign of the tent. I wouldn’t be making a fire, so I didn’t bother gathering wood. I’d packed light: jerky, granola, and a couple of candy bars. I had plenty of water and a flask of good scotch. Home sweet home.
A little before three that afternoon I was hoofing it around to the north shore of Little Gator Lake. I left the walking stick back at camp. I had the machete on my belt, and my shotgun slung upside down over my right shoulder. A quick flip up, and it would be in position to fire from the hip. There were still about four hours of daylight left, but I’d brought along a pocket-size flashlight just in case.
Finding the titi thicket was a breeze, but it took nearly fifteen minutes of tramping up and down and sticking my head into the thick brush before I finally spotted the trail. I worked my way into the titi looking for an occasional branch or limb that had been cut and tossed aside, making just enough room to squeeze through the dense tangle. Making matters worse was the thick canopy, turning bright afternoon into twilight. The ground was wet and spongy, over my ankles in places, but the dry spell spared me from wading through any knee-deep swamp. I did my best to not think about snakes.
The bugs that had left me alone most of the day finally rang the dinner bell. I swatted at swarms of mosquitoes buzzing around my head. That only seemed to draw more to the feast, so I pulled out the bug juice and slathered it on every bare inch of skin I had except my eyeballs. Dripping sweat soon took care of that.
I kept following the trail, made harder now by my stinging eyes. It seemed like I’d been humping the titi swamp all day before I finally saw sunlight filtering through the thicket ahead. In a few more minutes I was out of the swamp and standing at the edge of a forest of huge pines.
I pulled a paper towel from the stuffed baggie I’d brought along for nature’s call, tore off a strip, and stuck it onto a branch where I’d come out of the titi. I wiped my burning eyes with the rest of the towel and checked my watch. Ten to four. It had taken a half-hour to get through the thicket. I walked along the brush line edging the pine forest looking for any obvious pathways into it. After a few minutes I found what looked to be a game trail and started in. I’d taken maybe ten or twelve steps when my boot froze in midair.
Tripwire!
I’d seen plenty of them during the fight for Fallujah. The mujahedeen were experts at booby-trapping buildings using tripwires attached to IEDs. Too many good Marines had been blown away by them.
I eased my foot down and stepped back, then took a knee to get a closer look. It was thin stainless wire, light gauge. I’d seen the same type before, and recently. Unless I was mistaken, this was leader wire, used mostly for king and Spanish mackerel fishing. I’d watched Lamar make several leaders from a large roll for the Gillmans’ store. That didn’t implicate Lamar, but Brett Barfield’s family was in the fishing business, and I damn well knew he’d been here.
The wire ran across the trail about ankle high and disappeared into the brush on either side. I eased parallel along the wire to see what it was attached to. It might be bad news or maybe just some tin cans with rocks inside to act as a warning that someone was approaching. The wire ended next to a small tree about ten feet off the trail. Being as careful as I could, I pulled the brush away. The hair on the back of my neck rose up when I spotted what was either a flare or a stick of dynamite. I wasn’t risking my ass to find out which. I pulled my cell phone out of the plastic bag and snapped a few pictures. Then I tore a strip of paper towel to mark the wire where it crossed the trail and moved on.
I was on high alert now, my adrenaline kicking in like I was on a combat patrol back in Iraq. Somebody was up to no good around here, or had been. I eased along, eyeballs peeled, sweeping the trail closely for wires or other danger. Forty yards ahead I spotted another wire. I moved over carefully, this time testing the ground first for solid footing. Some of the old salts I’d served with who’d been in the Corps during Vietnam had mentioned how the Viet Cong would often dig punji pits just past their tripwired booby traps. If a soldier or Marine spotted the wire and stepped over it, the next step might find his foot plunging into a camouflaged pit filled with sharp, poison-coated stakes.
The ground held. I marked the wire, took a deep breath, and kept going. I considered getting off the trail and working my way through the underbrush but decided I’d rather watch out for wires than rattlers. Every few yards I stopped and scanned the area for signs of marijuana plants. I’d read on the Internet how growers will often hide their crop between rows of pines; enough sunlight filters through for good growth while offering excellent concealment from aerial surveillance. These mammoth pines were old growth. Loggers had likely never laid eyes on them, but it looked like an ideal place to hide a pot plot.
I spent a good hour searching the area. I didn’t come across any more tripwires or punji pits, but I didn’t find any marijuana plants either. I was just about ready to give up the search and head back when a burlap bag lying behind some bushes just off the trail caught my eye. I gave the area a good visual going over and then worked my way around a bush to the bag. It was the same type used by oystermen, and it wasn’t empty.
I nudged it with my boot and then flipped it over with the shotgun barrel. No movement or buzzing, so I figured it didn’t contain a nest of diamondbacks. I reached down, grabbed the bag by the bottom corners, and lifted it. Stacks of small black plastic containers spilled onto the forest floor, the kind tomato and pepper and other seedlings come in. I took a quick count; there were around four dozen. A few similar bagfuls, and you could have one hell of a profitable marijuana crop.
I grabbed my phone again and snapped a few more pictures, then headed back to camp.
I made it back to my bivouac before dark. Nobody was around, so I stripped down and took a quick dip in Little Gator Lake to wash off the sweat and bug juice. Inside the tent, I put on a fresh set of utilities, ate a pack of jerky, and washed it down with scotch. Not a bad combo after a long trek through the wilderness. I tried calling Kate to let her know I was still among the living, but I couldn’t pick up a signal from my campsite. I was bushed, and sleep came easy.
The first day of July dawned hot and muggy. I broke camp before the sun topped the trees, saddled up, and hit the trail. The hike back was uneventful except for a three-foot water moccasin I spotted about a mile from trail’s end that posed no threat. It was still a relief when I got back to my truck and found it safe. I stopped in Crawfordton again for breakfast and was back in St. George just past one.
Inside my trailer, I showered and put on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. I started to shave but then decided what the hell. I liked the look of the two-days’ growth and let it go.
The parking lot at Gillman’s was damn near full when I pulled in at two-thirty. The store was buzzing with tourists in town for the big weekend. Kate was behind the counter working the register for a long line of customers, too busy to notice me when I’d come in. Sara was manning a table in front of a large banner announcing registration for the fishing tournament. I walked over and stood in line.
“Oh, Mr. Mac,” she said, breaking eye contact when she saw it was me at the head of the line. “What categories are you entering?” The usual smile and perkiness in her voice were missing. I guess I was fairly high on her poop list at the moment.
I flashed a smile, hoping to break the icicles loose. “Just speckled trout, single boater.”
“That’ll be fifty-five dollars, please.” I was surprised I couldn’t see the frostiness in Sara’s breath as she jotted down my entry on the proper sign-up sheet.
I counted out the correct cash and laid it on the table in front of her. “There you go.”
“Thank you,” she said and handed me a flyer with the contest rules without looking up. “The weigh-in deadline is seven o’clock, Friday and Saturday evening.”
I idled down the aisle where the lures were located and picked up a silver MirrOlure and a blue and silver Rapala, then moved to the end of the line Kate was working. I hoped I’d get a warmer welcome from her.
When I was a few customers away Kate glanced over and smiled. At least I’d managed to avoid stepping in her piss pot. When I got to the register I handed her the lures. “Movie and dinner tonight, O’Malley’s?”
“Can’t, Mac. I don’t get off until seven.” She did a double-take. “Are you growing a beard?”
“Maybe. You like it?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“The movie’s not until nine. Pick you up at eight-fifteen?”
She took my money and gave me the change, my bagged lures, and a smile. “Okay, see you then.”
O’Malley’s wasn’t your ordinary movie theater. Instead of rows upon rows of seats, there were tables and chairs where couples or small groups could sit together and enjoy a dinner menu or regular movie fare while watching classic films from yesteryear. Tonight’s feature was Casablanca, which I’m sure Kate had probably seen as many times as I had. But hell, can you ever get too much Bogie?
During the drive to Parkersville I filled Kate in on what I’d found during my little excursion to Grand Gator Bay and showed her the photos I’d taken.
“That’s not the Brett Barfield I know,” she said after looking at the tripwires strung across the trail. “Okay, maybe he was growing marijuana, and maybe he dragged Maddie into that mess, but I still can’t imagine him blowing people up.”
“They could’ve been dummy wires just to scare people away,” I said, “but I wasn’t about to risk my butt to find out.”
We agreed to put off any further discussion about the case for the time being and enjoy our dinner and movie. The roast beef sandwich platters and pitcher of beer hit the spot, and the company couldn’t be beat. By the time Rick Blaine and Captain Renault walked off into the fog, to paraphrase Rick’s closing line, I was sure Kate and I were beginning a beautiful friendship.
After the movie Kate took my arm in hers as we strolled back to the truck. Things were beginning to look promising. I turned onto Main Street and headed for the highway, hoping tonight might just be the night for Kate and me to move our relationship a step farther. We’d just passed the Commerce Bank when something caught my eye. I took the first right and turned right again at the next block.
