"Get up," Benton says to Winn. "Slowly."
"I'm hurt." He looks up as Benton stands on the top step, shutting the door behind him, while he keeps the pistol pointed at Winn's chest.
"I don't give a goddamn if you're hurt. Get up."
Benton takes off his baseball cap and tosses it on top of Winn. Recognition is slow, then Winn's face blanches and his lips part as he lies twisted on the floor, tangled in his own raincoat, staring in horror.
"It can't be you," he says in awe. "It can't be!"
All the while this is going on, Benton listens for footsteps, for whoever escaped. He hears no one.
The small, windowless space has a cobweb-covered naked lightbulb overhead and a small, very old cypress table, covered with dark rings left by the countless bottles of wine that were tasted in here. Walls are damp stone, and attached to the one on the left of Benton are four iron rings in eyebolts. They are very old, but most of the rust is worn off. Nearby on the floor are coils of yellow nylon rope and an electrical receptacle.
"Get up," Benton says again. "Who else is down here? Who were you just talking to?"
The injured Weldon Winn moves with surprising agility as he suddenly rolls on the floor and pulls out a gun from under his coat.
Benton shoots him twice, once in the chest, once in the head, before Winn can even get his finger on the trigger. Gunshots are muffled by stone.
122
MARINO'S PERSONAL PAYLOAD is enough to slow the helicopter by five knots.
Lucy isn't concerned. In this weather, she wouldn't push her machine up to maximum speed. There is no point in rushing to run into an antenna, and antennas are all over the place, rising out of swirling fog that makes the hairline obstacles and their strobes almost impossible to see in the distance. Lucy flies at five hundred feet, the conditions worse than they were when they took off in Baton Rouge twenty minutes ago.
"I don't like this," Marino's nervous voice sounds in Lucy's headset.
"You're not the one flying. Relax. Enjoy the flight. Can I get you anything, sir?"
"How 'bout a fucking parachute?"
Lucy smiles as both she and Rudy keep up their scan outside the cockpit.
"You mind if I let go of the controls for a minute?" she says to Rudy for Marino's benefit.
"You're shitting me!" Marino yells.
"Ouch." Lucy turns down the volume in her headset while Rudy takes the controls. "It's your ship." She repeats the standard line, ensuring that the other pilot knows for a fact that he's supposed to be flying at that precise moment.
Turning a small knob on her emergency watch, she changes the upper display to chronograph mode.
Nic has never been up in a helicopter, and she tells Marino to stop making matters worse.
"If we aren't safe with them," Nic says, "we aren't safe with anyone. Besides, you're more likely to get hit by a car than crash in this weather."
"That's a bunch of shit. There ain't no cars up here. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use the crash word."
"Concentrate," Lucy tells everyone, and she's not smiling now as she glances at the GPS.
Yesterday, when she and Marino flew here and found the northwesternmost edge of the lake, she entered the coordinates into the GPS.
"We're exactly on track."
Descending to three hundred feet and slowing to eighty knots, she catches a glimpse of Lake Maurepas between rolling fog. The water is almost below them. Thank God. No fear of antennas over a lake or its creeks and bayous. She slows down more as Rudy leans forward, staring hard, trying to make out the shoreline.
"Nic?" Lucy asks. "You hearing me?"
"Yes," her voice comes back.
"Recognize anything down there?"
Lucy slows to sixty knots. If she reduces her airspeed more than that, she'll go ahead and hover, but she prefers not to do so out of ground effect with such poor visibility.
"Can you go back a little ways so we can find Blind River?" she asks. "Dutch Bayou branches off it right at the edge of the lake."
"Which direction?" Lucy slowly banks the helicopter around, not thrilled about returning to land at this altitude, grateful that yesterday she was fastidious about noting the locations of any obstacles.
Nic pauses, then her voice returns. "Well, if you follow the river toward the lake, Dutch Bayou would be at about three o'clock. To your right," she tells Lucy.
Swooping back around and getting on track, Lucy flies over water again.
"That's it," Nic says. "That's the river. See how it bends to the left. Well, we could see it better if we were higher."
"Forget it," Rudy says.
"I think… yes!" Nic is getting excited. "There it is, that very narrow creek. See it on your right. Dutch Bayou. My father's fishing shack isn't even a mile up it, on the left."
Nerves are suddenly on edge. Rudy pulls his pistol out of his shoulder holster. Lucy takes a deep breath, tenser and more apprehensive than she lets on, as she descends to a hundred feet, directly over a narrow bayou thick with cypress trees that appear ominous in the fog.
"At this altitude especially, they can already hear us," Lucy says calmly, focusing, thinking, trying not to react to what is quickly becoming a very dangerous situation.
Suddenly, a dilapidated gray shack materializes. Tied to a warped pier is a white boat that is completely incongruous with its surroundings.
Lucy swoops around the shack. "You sure, you sure?" She can't help it, her adrenaline is raising her voice.
"Yes! I recognize the roof! Papa used blue metal. I can still see some of the blue! And the same porch and screen door!"
Lucy drops to fifty feet, in a hover, and turns to the left, Rudy's window lined up with the boat.
"Shoot it!" Lucy yells at him.
Rudy slides open his window. He rapidly fires seventeen rounds into the bottom of the boat as the front door of the shack flies open and Bev Kiffin runs out with a shotgun. Lucy pushes the cyclic forward to push up her airspeed.
"Duck! But stay in your seats!"
Rudy has already slapped a new magazine into his gun. Although the seats in back are directly over the fuel ceJJ, this isn't Lucy's concern. Jet-A is by no means as flammable as gasoline, and the most damage shotgun pellets might do is cause leaks. On the floor, there is Jess of the aircraft's skin to penetrate.
Rudy arms the floats.
The shotgun is pump-action with a magazine extender. Bev fires seven rounds, one right after another. Pellets shatter windows, smacking the composite skin, and hit the main rotor blade and engine cowling. If the burn can is penetrated, there's going to be a fire, and Lucy immediately cuts off the throttle and lowers the collective. Alarms go off in desperate warnings as she lowers the collective, presses the right pedal and turns into the wind, where there is no place to set down but an area of tall saw grass. Nitrogen explodes like another gunshot, and floats on the skids instantly inflate like rubber rafts. The helicopter lurches out of trim, and Lucy fights to stabilize it, realizing that at least one of the six floats has been penetrated by shotgun pellets.
The landing is hard enough to set off the ELT, or emergency locator transmitter, and the helicopter rocks in dense grass and dark, muddy water, and lists hard to the right. Opening her door, Lucy looks down. Two of the three floats were penetrated and didn't inflate. Rudy shuts off the battery and the generator and everyone sits for a moment, stunned and listening to the abrupt silence outside as the helicopter lists to the right, sinking into the muck. Not more than three hundred feet away, they can see the boat taking on water, its bow rising as it sinks.