“Like Rip van Winkle,” Dupree commented. They all turned toward him. “Same as in Washington Irving’s story.”
“There!” Johnson exclaimed. “You see? It’s just a made-up story!”
“But,” Dupree told them, “Irving took it from mountain legends. People believed it. Folks in different places have different ways of describing the same fears.” He glanced at Amaia but saw she wasn’t paying attention to their discussion. She was staring distractedly into the distance.
She was remembering thunder from another place and time.
The shrimpers refused to be moved. “All that thunder say we got to stop. We thought we knew where you going, but with that zombie for a guide—”
“She’s a woman, and suffering!” the traiteur cut him off. “A victim, abducted and held prisoner for ten years. She’s still a prisoner. Pay her some respect!”
The Cajuns looked down but didn’t budge.
The traiteur left and went to Médora’s side.
Dupree surveyed the shrimpers and clicked his tongue in frustration. “I don’t care. Go back if you want and wait in the Zodiac. We can’t waste any more time. The lives of two little girls depend on us.”
“No way are we letting these scared hicks go back to the Zodiac!” exclaimed Charbou, who hadn’t said a word before this. “As soon as they hear more thunder, they’ll take off and leave us stuck here.”
Dupree gave the two a questioning look, but neither would meet his gaze.
Bull ended the discussion. “Sorry, friends, but you’re going to have to come along. It’s too late to turn back now.”
“So now you gonna arrest us?” asked Clive. “Or something like that?”
“No,” Charbou replied. “But if you two insist on staying here, I’ll handcuff you both to one of those trees full of fire ants, and you can wait there till we get back.”
That did it. The Cajuns followed the team, though obviously against their will.
The open space ended abruptly at a line of thick bushes that formed a natural barrier about twice a man’s height. Another thunderclap sounded overhead just as they reached the thicket. The shrimpers exchanged a pained glance. Médora pushed through the thorny bushes and the others followed. Just beyond the brush, a chain link fence along a berm surrounded a vast property.
“And here you have it,” Dupree whispered. “Ancient and venerable, Le Grand Bayou Plantation.”
They followed Médora along the perimeter fence. Bull motioned to Dupree, pointing to the security cameras, but on closer inspection, it became evident they’d been out of commission for a long time. They were covered with lichen and obscured by leafy growth. There were gaps in the chain link fence at various points, and the main gate had been mostly wrenched off its hinges. Bushes had been planted on either side of the entrance. The two sections of the gate were chained together and secured with a new padlock.
Médora ignored the gate and instead crawled through the bushes on one side where the fence was torn and there was a low gap wide enough to pass through. Fragile as she was, Médora went to the muddy ground and pulled herself under, dragging her splinted leg behind her. Inside the plantation, the water was knee deep. Water stood stagnating in a broad natural basin. Amaia was sure the area had been planted with marshland cultivars.
It occurred to her that the bayou had been the proprietor before the intrusion of human beings and now had reclaimed its territory. The immobile, dark, and threatening surface of the water was a great black mirror. In the distance, the main house stood on a rise, the only area that hadn’t been assaulted by the flood. Dispersed around it and still standing in floodwaters were at least five outbuildings. The first was a single-story rectangle, perhaps an old stable, inside which they could see metal and plastic drums of various sizes and colors piled high. It seemed deserted.
The farther they went, the more evident it became that the property had been abandoned in a hurry. The only vehicle in sight was a jeep with its hood up. They approached cautiously and found the motor covered in mud.
Keeping their guard up, they filed along the berm inside the perimeter, where tall, thick hedges offered concealment from anyone at the plantation manor. Médora stopped there; Dupree and the traiteur stood on either side of her. The rest of the team circled behind the outbuildings, then Bill and Bull headed for the main house, dragging one of the reluctant shrimpers along with them.
Johnson and Amaia took the other Cajun to the stables, where there was no sign of recent human presence. They returned, but before they could report, Médora set off again.
A ramshackle structure, perhaps a caretaker’s residence, stood awash at the far end of the property. Médora hobbled toward it. Amaia, the traiteur, Johnson, the Cajun, and Dupree trailed behind. It was slow going. With every step, their boots sunk into the yielding mess beneath the water. Amaia tried to ignore the sensation that someone or something was clutching at her feet, drawing her down and claiming her as its own.
Another thunderclap burst overhead, generating a shock wave and a rush of air.
She fought against the panic.
The Lady is coming, chanted the faceless chorus in her head.
They finally reached the bizarre building, which had obviously been uninhabited for years. It was an unusually elongated structure. The ground floor had been inundated. Residue left by the flood showed the waters had crested high on the windowless roof.
Thunder roared. Huge raindrops showered down from a sky that was misted and yet still as brilliant as before; the lukewarm water drenched them to the bone in less than thirty seconds.
She’s coming. She’s here.
61
FATALITY
Elizondo
Amaia Salazar was twelve years old when she went missing in the forest for sixteen hours. They found her in the early morning, eighteen miles north of the place she’d wandered off the path. When they questioned her, she insisted she remembered almost nothing of what she’d gone through. But even so, she could describe in detail all the emotions and sensations, all the feelings and fears that had assailed her as she traversed the forest: the initial panic when she realized that she couldn’t find the path, her reasoning that surely she’d be able to find it again, later, having to admit that she’d gotten as lost as one of the little girls in a menacing tale by the brothers Grimm. She clearly recalled the thunderclap that tore through the ether of a gray sky of whipped fog where there was no trace of dark. She remembered the tree, the storm, an eerie presence lurking out of sight, the house, and the man.
The cool late-winter morning could have been like that of any other day on the calendar—but it wasn’t. Dense mists spilled down the mountainsides like soapy water dumped from a bathtub. Hiking-club members parked their cars along the sides of the road near their meeting place. People greeted one another heartily as they arrived, as if much more time than just a week had passed since their last outing.
There was something sacred about hiking in the mountains. Those damp, cold days left glistening drops of moisture clinging to her wool clothing, festooning her like tiny jewels.
During the first hour of their march, the hikers spoke very little. They focused on establishing a rhythm and maintaining their pace. They inhaled the chilly Baztán air through their nostrils and exhaled visible clouds through scarf-covered mouths. Trudging forward mechanically meant she had no need to think. Sometimes she would forge ahead, hearing the steps of the group behind her; other times, she would lag and let the others get far enough ahead for her to enjoy the sensation of being alone. The excursions were always similar but never the same. She hadn’t known she would enjoy them so much. Nor had she known the day would ever come when she’d have to give them up forever. The forest lulled her, rocked her on its breast, and relieved her of any notion of fear, of shame, of the need for vigilance. More than anything, it banished the thoughts and anxieties boiling in her mind day and night that never allowed her to rest. Only out here did those fears retreat to the obscure realm from which they’d come, making her feel in charge at last.