The Edge of Dawn (22 page)

He shrugged. “Maybe take some time off—hang out with Portia and the dogs, then head off to the next job.”

Narice thought back on the dead bodies that had been left in their wake. “Are all of your jobs this dangerous?”

“Truthfully, this one hasn't been that bad. I'm not sleeping on the ground, eating bad food, or keeping an eye out for stuff that might eat me, like big cats or Great Whites.” He walked over to her and stood close enough behind her to smell the faint notes of her perfume. He then reached out and turned her chin so he
could drown in her eyes. “My sidekick ain't half bad either.”

Her answering grin soon faded beneath the sweetness of the soul-stirring kiss he placed on her lips. He brushed his mouth over hers, hating the idea that these might be some of the last kisses they'd ever share. That distressing thought made him pull her closer so he could show her just how much she'd come to mean to him and how much he was going to ache for her when she was gone.

He held her against his chest and Narice could hear the sure, steady beat of his heart. Before now it had never occurred to her that being held this way could make her feel so good. Leaving him was going to be one of the hardest things she'd ever had to do in life, but leave him she would; she had no choice.

He whispered, “I meant what I said about being there for you if you ever need help.”

She nodded. “I know you did. I don't envision any cockroach encounters in the future, however.”

He kissed the top of her hair. “Hey, you never know.”

She leaned back a bit so she could look into his shaded eyes. “Lord, I hope not.”

Saint forced away thoughts of where Ridley and the others might show up next, because all he wanted to concentrate on at the moment was Narice.

He picked up her hand and led her over to a nearby park bench. They sat. He said, “I need to talk to you about something.”

Narice noted how serious he seemed. “Go ahead,” she said softly.

“Sometimes in my line of work, folks get terminated.”

“I know.”

He studied her eyes. “This might get real ugly before it's all over, and I want you to be prepared.”

She replied honestly, “Do whatever you need to do to keep us alive. If it comes down to them or us, I want us to be the ones walking away.”

He stroked her slightly red cheek, then leaned over and kissed her softly. “Thanks.”

“Don't worry about me. I'll be fine.”

And deep down inside, Saint knew she would be.

To their delight Mr. Bewick was waiting for them on a bench in front of the hospital. When Narice pulled up, he got up and walked over. Narice hit the button for the window and it rolled down silently.

He said, “Now, if the rangers catch us, you and your friend pay the fine.”

“We will.”

So, he got in. “We have to go by my place first. I need my boat.”

Saint turned his shaded eyes on the old man. “We have a four-man inflatable on board. Anything else we need?”

Mr. Bewick squirmed visibly under Saint's pointed stare. “No.”

As if Saint were deaf, Bewick whispered to Narice, “Is he from the government?”

She held back her smile. “Sometimes.”

Mr. Bewick looked wary. “Boat and some food maybe is all we need.”

Saint said, “Then we're straight. Which way?”

Bewick gave him directions and they were once again underway.

Thirty minutes later, they were in the middle of nowhere as far as Narice could tell. They'd taken a series of dirt roads around the park's outer perimeter that seemed to take them farther and farther away from civilization. They saw no other cars or people, just miles and miles of undeveloped land harboring grass, tall pine trees, and the occasional abandoned and decaying house. They were now parked near a tranquil body of water that snaked off into the distance.

Mr. Bewick said, “This here's the spot.”

Narice cut the engine and they all got out. Saint looked around at the towering trees and grass filling the surroundings like a landscape painting. “Where are we?”

“Near the Suwannee River.”

Saint took out his handheld. After punching in a few codes the GPS screen came on. He fed it some coordinates and a map of the area appeared. That done, he reached in his coat and pulled out a small phone.

Mr. Bewick said, “Pretty fancy phone you got there fella.”

“It's a Sat phone.”

Mr. Bewick looked confused.

Saint said, “Satellite phone.”

Mr. Bewick appeared impressed. Narice knew she was. She'd heard of satellite phones, but had never seen one or knew anyone who had one. Of course, he would have one. Narice listened as he said, “Portia we're going in at…”

The series of numbers he reeled off made no sense to Narice, so she assumed they were part of a code.

He closed by saying, “I'll check in in a couple hours.”

He clicked off, then said to Narice. “Portia's not there, so I left a message. She's probably on her way to us since I didn't contact her after we left the hotel. That's good, though, because we may need her.”

Narice noticed that Mr. Bewick seemed to be watching Saint's every move. Her ex in-law looked very wary of her sunglasses-wearing companion.

Saint sensed the old man's curious eyes but was more concerned with unloading the supplies they'd need on the journey to find Camille Jordan. With that in mind, he opened the back hatch and went to work.

Narice watched him shift some of the boxes and duffels tossed in the back by Green and Jacobs, then unearth what appeared to be a large deflated beach ball the color of camouflage clothing. He tossed it on the ground, then rummaged around some more until he found a small box holding a black pump similar to the one Narice had at home for the inflatable guest bed she'd purchased a few months back from one of the television shopping channels.

A curious Narice and an even more curious Mr. Bewick watched silently.

Mr. Bewick asked in another whisper, “He some kind of army man?”

Narice gave him her standard, “Sometimes.”

Mr. Bewick shook his head in what looked to be wonder.

With the pump now attached, the rubberized material slowly took shape. A few minutes later it was ready to rock and roll.

Narice said, “Not bad, Cyclops.”

“Anything to impress the lady.”

They shared a grin, then while he went back to rummaging around she asked Mr. Bewick, “How far away does my aunt live?”

“Couple hours or so—if you know where you're going. If not, could take all day.”

Narice didn't like the sound of that. “But you know where we're going, right?”

“Sure do.”

The next item to be unloaded was the rocket launcher. Saint set the long tube on the ground next to the boat.

Narice was glad to see it was going with them. Mr. Bewick asked warily, “What's that?”

Saint opened up another small box packed with small brown rockets. “Shoulder-mount rocket launcher,” he answered truthfully.

Eyes wide, Bewick looked to Narice then back to
Saint, then down at the rocket launcher. He then reached into the pocket of his faded black pants and dug out the fifty-dollar bill Saint had given him earlier as down payment. He forced the bill into Narice's hand. “Here. I don't want no parts of whatever this is. You all are on your own.”

To her surprise he stalked back to the road and set off on foot. “Mr. Bewick?”

He didn't break stride.

“Saint, do something.”

Saint paused in his unpacking to watch the old man progress, then called to him. “At least tell us how to get there.”

Bewick stopped and looked back. “Once you see the old turpentine plantation, she lives ten miles east.”

And that was it. He walked on.

Narice said, “What kind of directions were those supposed to be? He's going to have a stroke walking in all this heat.”

And it was hot. It was Georgia in late July hot, and it was only going to get worse. Narice called out, “At least let us take you back to the main road.”

Saint gave her a sharp look.

Narice ignored it.

Bewick yelled back, “No thanks. Got a cousin lives up the way. He'll see me home.”

A few steps later he rounded a bend in the dusty road and disappeared from sight.

Saint said, “Guess that's that.”

“Why did you look at me like that when I offered him a ride?”

“Because we don't have time to play good Samaritan to an old man who just screwed us.”

She supposed he was right.

“Here,” he said, “take these shovels. We need to get moving.”

Narice put Bewick out of her mind and helped Saint load the boat.

Traveling the channel turned out to be slow, hard work. Narice had always thought of herself as being in good physical shape but after the first hour of paddling her arms were ready to drop off. The surroundings were eerily beautiful though. With Saint paddling from the front and Narice from the back, they steered the camouflaged boat past towering forests of moss-draped cypress growing on thick moving islands of peat, and across open water-logged plains that were in reality marshes. They were crossing once such marsh now, and no matter how hard they paddled they didn't seem to be making much progress.

“Water's getting too shallow,” Saint determined grimly. “We're going to have to get out and push.”

Narice could think of a hundred things she'd rather
do, but Saint had already gone into the water so she followed suit. She was glad she'd had the good sense to change into jeans and hikers before they left the parked and locked Lily behind. The heavy clothing made her hot as hell, but the protection it offered outweighed the discomfort. She'd brought along her capris just in case she needed a change of clothing. Saint had shed his coat too, and it lay at the ready on the boat's recessed rubber deck

The water she stepped into was barely ankle high. He went to one side of the boat and she the other and together they tried to push the stuck boat ahead. It was weighed down with all the supplies and tools. Attempting to move it over rocks, tree roots, and dead vegetation wasn't easy.

Saint waded to the front of the inflatable and told her, “You push, I'll pull.”

Narice leaned on the inflated rubber and braced her legs to push, only to loose her footing on the wet moss covered rocks and go down. The shallowness of the water kept it from being too ugly but she got up wet and covered with muck just the same.

Saint thought she looked like Swamp Thing, but knew if he said that she'd kill him on the spot. “You okay?”

“No,” she said, wiping at her face and clothing. The front of her yellow T-shirt and jeans was covered with mud and gunk, and there was wet black plant material in her hair. “And if you laugh, I will kill you.”

“Who me?”

Narice could only imagine how she must look. The water was the color of dark tea due to the tannic acid released by all the decaying vegetation, and now, thanks to her fall, so was everything she had on. “Let's go.”

So, he pulled and she, making sure her footing was sound, pushed. Ten minutes later the water levels were once again high enough to support the boat. An exhausted Narice climbed in and fell out on the deck with her arms outstretched. “Can we go home now?” she asked wearily, mockingly.

Saint leaned down and placed a kiss on her very dirty forehead. “Hang in there.” Were it up to him they'd call this off because it was obvious she was beat, but circumstances were beyond their combined control. The only choice was to go on.

Back in the boat, they continued to paddle. It was just past noon and temperatures were in the blistering high eighties. Narice could smell herself beginning to stink as her clothing began to dry. The oppressive humid heat made sweat pour down their backs and faces with each push of the oars, but they pressed on.

They still hadn't seen another soul, but there were many wading birds, like egrets and herons, feeding amongst multicolored lily pads. At the approach of the humans and their fat rubber boat, the birds took flight. The vast silent openness of the swamp could easily make a person believe herself the only person in the world.

Narice told him, “According to one of the websites, there are alligators out here somewhere, and maybe even a Bigfoot or two.”

Saint laughed softly. “Bigfoot?”

“Yep. There's been a few sightings over the years. The Cherokee have legends of giant men being in this area.”

“Really?”

“The site also mentioned UFO sightings, and a park ranger supposedly abducted by aliens.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Now wait, listen. When the ranger first went missing the park service did a massive search. Nothing. A few days after the search was called off, he was found wandering and disoriented in the swamp days. The aliens turned him loose, I guess. This place has a lot of spooky legends tied to it.”

Saint wasn't worried about running into Bigfoot or aliens, but he did keep a sharp eye out for alligators.

It was three in the afternoon before they saw the old turpentine plantation. Had it not been for the battered sign dangling from the front of one of the ramshackle buildings that read
PETERSON
's
TURPENTINE
, they might have floated on past thinking it just another of the many abandoned farms they'd seen.

Narice looked around. Many of the buildings were underwater. She thought it odd to base a business in the middle of the swamp, then remembered reading that weather, time, and people had changed the flow and levels of the waters here, thus placing some areas be
low water that previously hadn't been, and vice versa. She hoped her daddy's homestead hadn't been affected this way, otherwise they were going to need diving equipment to find the Eye's hiding place.

Saint checked out their surroundings, too. So far he hadn't seen anything remotely related to an occupied living space. “Did Bewick say east?”

Narice nodded.

Saint checked the compass he'd brought along, then pointed. “East is that way.”

Heading east took them off the main waterway and into a series of vegetation-choked channels. Once again there was no evidence of human life, but the warning calls of birds seemed to be everywhere. There were large ferns and moss trailing from trees. Beautiful lily pads floated like ballerinas on the brownish red water. A fish jumped out of the water after an insect and scared Narice half to death. Once she realized what it was she regrouped.

To Narice, it seemed like the journey through the plant-choked water was taking forever. She was sure she couldn't paddle an inch more when Saint said, “You think that's it?”

A house or what was left of it stood on a large open piece of land near the shoreline. It and the tumble-down barn close by were in terrible disrepair. The wood on the house had faded so much the building was a weathered silver. There was no glass in the two windows that she could see, and the doorway had no door. Rusted farm equipment lay piled on one side of the
listing barn. Narice was convinced they'd come to the wrong place because surely no one lived there, but changed her mind when she saw the garden. It was to the right of the house and fenced off with tall green wire. Unlike the house the fencing looked new.

Saint turned to look her way and asked, “Well?”

Narice had no idea. As they maneuvered the boat toward the shoreline, she was able to see that there were clothes, woman's clothes, hanging on a line strung between the house and a large cypress. Apparently someone did live in the place, but would it turn out to be Aunt Camille was the question. Narice hoped so, because she was too tired to go anywhere else today.

Saint hopped out of the boat and tied the mooring line to the fat trunk of a tree. Narice splashed over to the shore, then stood there for a moment to look at the house. She slapped at a deerfly trying to make her arm lunch when a short old woman came from around back. Just as Mr. Bewick predicted, she was toting a shotgun. “Hold it right there,” she demanded.

Neither Narice nor Saint moved.

“If you lost, there's a ranger station about six miles east. Head out now and you can make it back before gator time.”

Narice noted how much Aunt Camille's eyes favored Simon's. “When's gator time?”

“Dark.”

“Oh. Well, I'm—”

“Don't care who you are, missy. Get off my land.” Aunt Camille was dressed in an old once-white, now
gray, Run-DMC Adidas sweat suit. Her salt-and-pepper hair was thin and pulled back, and on her feet were beat up combat boots with no laces. One would expect a woman her age to be wearing glasses as well, but she wasn't. Her eyes looked sharp and bright over the raised gun. “Giving you ten seconds to get back in that boat.”

Saint tried a more direct approach, “Are you Camille Jordan, sister of Simon Jordan?”

She eyed him for a moment before confessing in a hard voice. “I am.”

“Then this is your niece, Narice, Simon's daughter.”

She didn't blink. “Means nothing to me.”

“Daddy's dead, Aunt Camille. I thought you might want to know.”

“You came all this way just to tell me that?”

“Yes and to ask you some questions about something he might have hidden away after he came back from the War.”

“Don't know nothing about it, so go on back to your boat.”

“Please, we only need a few moments of your time.”

Aunt Camille's lips tightened. “You've already used it.”

That said, she lowered the gun, turned and walked back to the house. She disappeared inside.

Saint cracked, “At least we know it's her.”

“Short of truth serum, that's probably all we'll know.”

He chuckled and walked with her up to the house.

Up close the house was in even worse condition. The roof had a hole large enough for a UFO to land in and the sitting porch that had at one time encircled the front looked to have collapsed a long time ago. It pained Narice knowing her aunt was living in such poverty, especially since Narice had the means to make life easier and more secure. Getting Camille to accept such an offer, however, was going to be harder than crossing the Sahara in a swimsuit, so Narice set that issue aside for the time being. Right now there were other fish to fry. Narice knocked on the door-jamb.

“Go away,” Camille called out from somewhere in the dark interior.

Peering into the gloom Narice could see a dirt floor and a few pieces of furniture. “We need to talk to you.”

“You gave me the news. Now git!”

Narice sighed with frustration. “I need your help so the police can get the man who killed my father. The fire was arson.”

“I don't care. The po-lice can't bring Simon back. Neither can you.”

“But if you would just let me—”

“GO AWAY!!!”

Jaws tight, Narice looked to Saint. He shrugged.

Narice had had it, so she hollered, “I'm not leaving. If I have to sit out here until Christmas, this is where I'll be.”

That said, Narice sat down on the porch to wait; it
was all she had. Saint found himself a spot under one of the immense moss-draped cypress trees and settled in with his back against the trunk. The way he figured, neither Jordan women had ever run into anyone as stubborn as themselves, so this was a new experience for both. He made himself comfortable; this was going to take a while.

He was right. Aunt Camille spent the next hour going about her business: she took down her wash, tended her garden for a bit, then took a trip out into the swamp to collect the grasses she used in the baskets she took to the Fargo market once a month. Through it all, she ignored the stubborn-faced woman seated on her porch.

Saint grew hungry as time passed. Since he and Narice had had a long, hard day and it didn't look to be getting any easier anytime soon, he decided to go fishing. He couldn't make Narice's aunt speak but he could keep Narice from starving. He stood, then walked over to where his sidekick was sitting. “How you doing, babe?”

“I'm hot, I stink, and I'm about to be real pissed at that old woman.”

“Well, hold off on that last part. She might come around. How about I get us something to eat?”

Narice wanted to kiss him for being so thoughtful. “That would be wonderful, but from where?”

“Place called, Mother McNature's.”

She smiled; he was her ever-resourceful Cyclops.

He gave her a soft kiss. “Be back soon as I can.”

Narice smiled and watched him go.

Down at the shoreline, Saint took a moment to pull the boat out of the water and to push it up the bank as far as he could. Next, he opened the big waterproof bag holding his odds and ends and extracted his fishing trident. He'd learned to fish with a spear in Madagascar many years ago from some local brothers he met while working on a mission there. Upon his return to the states he'd had a stainless-steel trident custom made. For him, the three laser-sharp prongs were far more efficient than the single point of a spear. Having used it worldwide, Saint knew that no matter the circumstances, as long as he had the trident and a body of water holding fish, he could eat.

From her seat on the porch Narice could hear her aunt moving around inside the house. Until meeting Mr. Bewick, the thought that Camille Jordan might not be interested in a family reunion had never crossed Narice's mind; she'd been so sure she'd be greeted with open arms, but now here she sat waiting for her father's sister to part her lips and give up the information only Camille had. Without the location of the old homestead, the Eye would remain hidden forever; The Majesty's kingdom would fall into the hands of the thug generals; and Ridley would get whatever reward he was after instead of being locked up for murder. Realizing Ridley might get off scot-free only solidified Narice's determination to sit there until hell froze over if she had to; the memories of
her father and her mother demanded she do no less.

“How long you planning on squatting on my porch?”

The cross-sounding voice of her aunt made Narice turn around. “Until you let me tell you why I've come.”

Camille had been beautiful at one time in her life, and looking at her now, Narice realized Camille was the striking woman standing next to Simon in the picture that Narice had seen in Toledo at Uncle Willie's.

“But I don't want you here. How many times I got to say that?”

“As soon as you and I talk, my friend and I will leave. I promise.” Narice prayed the woman would relent; if just for five minutes.

She folded her arms. “Usually folks scat when I tell them to.”