He muttered something unintelligible but undoubtedly profane. “Okay. Go back. Get your purse. Your suitcase is in the car. Call Uber. Have a nice return flight to New York.”
“I—”
“One more thing. If you don’t come with me now, don’t ever contact me again.”
“Wait. If—”
“No, not waiting.”
“You’re being unreasonable. If you would just tell me why we’re… fleeing.”
“I will, but not now. If you’re coming with me, it’s gotta be right now.” He placed his hands on his hips.
She wanted to stand her ground, but one glance back toward his house changed her mind. Everything was cloaked in a darkness that was more than simply an absence of light. It was ominous in character.
Coming back around, she said, “When we get wherever we’re going, I demand a full explanation.”
He dropped his hands from his hips, reached for her hand, and struck off in the direction Mutt had taken. She either had to fall into step behind his long strides or be dragged.
They walked on for another five minutes before he stopped. “Wait here.” Mutt started after him. In a soft but imperative voice, John told him to stay. Mutt sat and looked back at Beth as though to say, That means you, too. She watched John’s retreating figure for as long as she could see it.
Since moving to Manhattan, she had walked the sidewalks of the city alone and after dark, always cautious but without fear. Now she looked back in the direction from which they’d come with uneasiness.
She couldn’t see John’s house, the shed, or any other structure. Interspersed with tall pines, the live oak trees appeared as solid as monoliths, ancient and mystical. Their drapery of Spanish moss looked like shredding winding cloths. She strained to see or hear any indication that they were being pursued, but nothing moved until John reappeared from out of the deep shadows. “Over here,” he said.
She followed him and Mutt through tall weeds and over ground that became increasingly spongy, but she didn’t see the channel of water until they were steps away from it. The bayou was wide. In the darkness, she could barely make out the opposite shore. She didn’t detect a current. The water seemed not to be moving at all.
Mutt was already standing in a boat, tongue out, panting happily, as though declaring that this was the most fun he’d ever had. The craft was small—very small—and looked as though it would tip over if someone nudged the shallow hull with a feather.
John stepped into it, and, as she’d predicted, it rocked violently. He balanced with seemingly no effort, and extended her his hand. “Easy does it.” She just looked at him. “Beth.”
“Why are we leaving, John? What are we running from? We are running, aren’t we? Give me an inkling, at least.”
He hesitated, cut a glance past her in the direction of his house, then looked at her directly. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because of me.”
“Bad like what?”
“Like the Mellin girl.”
Surprised by that, she expelled a short breath. “What are you talking about? You didn’t cause that.”
“I didn’t prevent it, either. She was disposed of God knows where. Now get in the damn boat.” As an afterthought, he said, “Please.”
It was a nameless bayou, but to Beth it felt like the Rubicon as she reached out and took his hand.
She’d grown up near swamps, had gone into them on school field trips, had even ventured into them on a date or two. But those excursions had always been in the daytime. With sunlight filtering through the cypresses, the swamps were beautiful and, so long as one was careful, benign.
It was a different story at night when the swamp was wrapped in darkness.
Of the three in the boat, she appeared to be the only one bothered by the skeletal silhouettes of the trees, the sudden screech of a small animal captured by a nocturnal predator, the startling flap of great wings when an owl took flight.
Curled up in the bow of the boat, Mutt had gone to sleep. After his oblique statements in reference to Crissy Mellin’s sad end, John had said nothing more. Sensing that he wouldn’t welcome her asking what more he could have done to prevent Crissy’s fate, she hadn’t engaged him in further conversation—which was awkward since they sat facing each other in a vessel smaller than an average size sofa.
He’d helped her into the boat and made sure she was seated as securely as possible on the wood bench that spanned the hull. He’d then moved to the stern and used one of the oars to shove them off into the channel. He rowed without vigor, but with sure and steady hands.
If he had a destination, Beth couldn’t fathom how he would be able to locate it. The bayou was one of a countless number of identical waterways that formed an aquatic labyrinth studded with islands of various sizes. Some could be crossed with one giant step. Others were much more sizable.
John navigated around all of them smoothly, somehow avoiding collisions with the knotty knees of cypress trees that jutted out of the water. It was obviously an acquired skill that he’d practiced often.
After being on the water for half an hour, she broke the silence. “How can you tell where you’re going? It all looks the same.”
“Not if you know where you’re going.”
“And you do?”
“Um-huh.”
She tried to read her wristwatch, but it was too dark to see the hands. “What time is it?”
“Does it matter?”
“If I’d been on that flight this afternoon, I’d have been home long before now. If Max doesn’t hear from me, he’ll be worried sick.”
“You can call him when we get there.”