Sacrifice of Buntings Read online

  Were they going out on the field trip, or did they plan to venture into the swamp alone?

  The last case that Anderson stowed looked long and padded. A rifle case?

  Rachel’s heart beat faster. “Did you see that?” she Lark asked.

  “See what?”

  “Nevin Anderson just loaded a gun into that canoe.”

  CHAPTER 16

  A gun?” echoed Lark. “Maybe it was fishing gear.”

  “In a gun case?”

  “Let’s go, ladies,” interrupted Kearns, shepherding them toward the convenience store. “We haven’t got time for you to stand around and yak. Make sure you have everything you need before heading to the boats—bottled water, snacks, and wet bags.”

  Lark, Cecilia, and Dorothy did his bidding. Rachel hung back and watched Anderson and Wolcott push off from shore. Wolcott sat in the middle, hunched over, his portly physique covered in khaki. A fishing hat covered his head, shielding his nose from the hot sun. Anderson, on the other hand, looked like he was headed off for a round of golf. He wore a collared short-sleeved shirt and shorts. A Hyde Island Club Hotel visor shaded the angles of his face.

  Steering them into open water, Anderson looked up, smiled, and waved.

  Rachel scampered to catch up to the others. Perhaps they’d see them out on the water. She was curious to know where they were headed.

  The four of them bought four waters, a box of granola bars, and what amounted to four giant Ziploc baggies. Rachel bought a map. After stuffing their belongings into the bags, they stopped and used the bathrooms and then headed for the canoes. By the time they arrived at the boats, Wolcott and Anderson were out of sight.

  “Is hunting allowed in the swamp?” she Dwayne asked while he and Dwight measured their party for oar lengths and handed out orange life preservers.

  Dwayne’s head snapped up. “No. Why?”

  “Ah, I…” She wrestled with her answer and then chose the truth. “I just thought I saw someone loading a gun into one of the canoes.”

  Dwight and Dwayne exchanged glances. Dwayne made a slight gesture with his head, and Dwight took off toward the store.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” said Dwayne, bending back over the life preserver ties. “Hunting is restricted to private property and special shoots. The deer population can get out of hand. But we’re not in deer season. And this ain’t private property.” He smiled his dazzling smile and gestured toward a canoe. “Now, let’s get you seated.”

  Dorothy and Cecilia were assigned to one canoe, Lark and Rachel to another. The rest broke into pairs.

  “This is how it works,” Dwayne said, with a wink at Rachel.

  Either he had an eye condition, or he was a flirt. She made a mental note to tell him about Kirk.

  “Stay seated in the canoes. The person in front steers, the person in back paddles. Together you’ll find your rhythm. You first.” Dwayne pointed at Lark and Rachel.

  “You steer,” Lark said.

  Rachel stepped forward.

  Dwayne grabbed hold of her elbow and helped her into the canoe. “The long, narrow construction makes the canoe a little tippy. The person steering sits near the front.” Once Rachel was settled, he pointed at Lark. “The paddler is going to push off and jump in. You need to get your fanny on that seat there.” He pointed to the seat behind Rachel. “Put your oar in the boat, and steady yourself by keeping two hands on either side.”

  Lark shoved off and missed getting in the canoe. Rachel floated out a ways and struggled to paddle back on her own. On the second try, they both managed to get into the boat, but the canoe tipped side to side and threatened to take on water.

  “Sit down,” Dwayne ordered.

  Lark sat. It took a moment for the boat to steady itself, and then they were floating free. The canoe drifted and bumped into one of the powerboats tied up at the docks.

  “Push off,” Dwayne said. “Now turn around slowly. That’s right.”

  Rachel and Lark found their rhythm quickly. Paddling and steering was easier than mounting and dismounting. The biggest challenge was not running into another member of their small flotilla. Cecilia and Dorothy hit the water like old pros.

  There were sixteen canoes in all, plus one for each of the Carters joining the group on the water. Dwight Carter had never come back. Dwayne took up the middle, and Fancy Carter—in skintight khakis, a white tank top, and a safari hat—acted as their tour guide.

  “Indian tribes used to live in the swamp,” she explained. “The last being the Seminoles, who were driven into Florida around 1850. In 1891, the land was purchased by the Suwannee Canal Company. Their intent was to drain the land for logging and to grow crops. Their leader, Captain Henry Jackson, and his crew spent three years digging the Suwannee Canal. When economic recession led the company to bankruptcy, the land was sold to the Hebard Cypress Company, and a railroad was built into the west edge of the swamp. In just under thirty years, over four hundred thirty-one million board feet of cypress was removed from the Okefenokee.

  “Nowadays, we work to preserve the natural wonders of the swamp. Research has been done on everything from bacteria to black bears. Prescribed burns help maintain a natural vegetation process, and trees are being replanted.”

  “What about endangered species?” asked a woman sharing a canoe with her young daughter.

  Dwayne looked perturbed.

  “Special emphasis is placed on the two known species in the swamp,” Fancy said. “The red-cockaded woodpeckers and the indigo snakes.”

  “Snakes?” Lark said.

  “Indigos are large blue-black snakes that grow up to nine feet long,” Dwayne said. “They’re not dangerous. It’s the other snakes you need to watch out for.” He seemed to take pleasure in Lark’s obvious distress. Rachel felt a little squeamish herself.

  “What kinds of other snakes?” Lark asked.

  “Coral snakes, copperheads, rattlers. Cottonmouths are the ones you’re most likely to see from the water. Some grow to be eight feet long. In fact, we should have warned you to stay away from the banks. The snakes like to climb into the trees, and they have been known to drop into the boats at times.”

  Lark looked pale.

  “That happened once, Dwayne,” Fancy said. “He’s just trying to scare you. Though, if it happens, abandon your canoe. Cottonmouths don’t like people, but they get aggressive if they feel trapped.”

  “Of course, in the water, the alligators can be a problem,” said Dwayne. “Especially in the spring.” He pointed at a five-foot alligator on the bank of the canal. The gator opened its jaws and hissed. “If you stay in the canoes and away from the mounds, you’ll be fine.”

  Rachel pointed to a tree and pretended to read, “Please Do Not Swim.”

  Lark took her paddle and sent a shower of brackish water into the canoe.

  “Hey.”

  Dorothy shot them both a stern look. “How large is the refuge?”

  “At present?” Fancy swiveled around in her seat. “Three hundred ninety-six thousand acres, ninety percent of which are protected federal lands. The Okefenokee is one of the most well-preserved freshwater areas in America.”

  She sounds proud of that, thought Rachel.

  “The Indians used to call this place the ’land of the trembling earth.’ Peat deposits up to fifteen feet thick cover much of the swamp floor, and these deposits are so unstable in areas that if you stomp on the earth, you can cause the trees and bushes to tremble. The waters are slow moving and tea colored from the tannic acid released from decaying plants. You can swim in it, and you can drink it, though we don’t recommend it. It’s about as acidic as a cola drink.”

  They paddled about three miles out, moving from the main canal onto the Chesser Prairie, an open-water area with white and yellow water lilies, blue irises, and miles of floating chunks of peat.

  “These floating islands are called ’batteries,’” explained Fancy. “They start as peat blowups, small clumps of peat dislodged by
the alligators and snapping turtles, and they provide a surface for seeds to germinate. Fast-growing herbs and grasses such as spike rush, beak rush, wiry bladderwort, sundews, and others move in, forming a firm surface that can support larger herbs and grasses such as chain fern, bur-marigold, yellow-eyed grass, redroot, maiden cane, and others.”

  Rachel didn’t recognize the names of any of the ferns and grasses, but they sounded exotic.

  “Eventually, some of the batteries grow firm enough to support shrubs like bay and blackgum trees. When a battery becomes rooted to the bottom of the swamp they’re called ’houses.’ Cypress trees will eventually grow on houses, and that changes the face of the swamp.”

  Dwayne stood up in his canoe and pushed on the side of a peat battery. The edge bobbed into the water. “Alligators sometimes wait for an animal, like a wild pig, to fall into the water and get trapped under the lip of one of these batteries, and then they feed on it.”

  “It would make a great place to dump a body,” Cecilia said.

  With that image in mind, the group pushed deeper onto the prairie. Far in the distance, Rachel caught sight of Wolcott and Anderson paddling in a northwesterly direction.

  They must be headed for Swamper’s Island, she thought, which made sense. The Carters had barred them access across their land.

  She watched the men paddling as Fancy explained how fire was important to the swamp—the cypress were fire-resistant, but the understory burned, creating the old cypress forests. By the time she had moved on to talking about old-growth cypress forests, Wolcott and Anderson were out of sight.

  Rachel turned around to look at Lark. She seemed to have noticed them too.

  The men had made much better time than the group, which had stopped to birdwatch along the way. Prothonotary warblers, commonly known as the swamp canary, had flitted in the cypress knees along the canal. Bright yellow with blue wings, its sweet, sweet, sweet call had announced its presence at every turn. Yellow-rumped warblers, commonly known as butter butts, northern parula, and Carolina wrens had joined in to entertain them as well.

  Now, sandhill cranes demanded their attention. The large, graceful birds trumpeted their movements. Osprey flew overhead. Anihingas, cormorants, herons, and egrets adorned the lush green grasses of the swamp.

  “Can you walk on the batteries?” asked the young girl with her mother.

  “It’s not advised,” Fancy said. “The tangle of roots creates a porous surface, sort of like a scouring pad. It will hold you, but only if you keep moving. The trees swing and sway.” She tipped her canoe side to side, and the young girl’s eyes widened. “Remember, that’s why it’s called the ’trembling earth.’”

  Before long, talk turned to issues of conservation, then Dorothy said, “Tell us some more swamp legends.”

  This time Fancy deferred to Dwayne.

  “Okay. There used to be a form of communication between swamp dwellers known as ’hollerin’.’ It’s a form of yodeling that traveled for miles.” Dwayne spread his arms wide. “When someone got lost in the swamp, hollerin’ helped others figure out their position. During the bootlegging years…” He looked at the young girl. “You know what those are, don’t you?”

  She scrunched up her face and shook her head.

  “Those were the years when drinkin’ was outlawed by the government, and people made illegal whiskey to sell.”

  The girl looked to her mother for confirmation. Her mother nodded.

  “Anyway, there was this one bootlegger who had a big still set up on Bugscratch Island. It was a great island for bootlegging because it sits right off the Suwannee Canal.” He went on to describe the island and the still and a craggy old man named Henry MacNair. “According to legend, old Henry made a lot of money selling his whiskey, and he buried it all on Bugscratch Island.”

  “Is it still there?” Dorothy asked.

  “You’re jumping ahead of the story.” He waited a beat and then continued. “One night, the police came out to arrest him. But old Henry, he was smart. He set up an ambush. A shoot-out ensued, and when the powder settled, old Henry was nowhere to be found. Neither was his money. The police dug so many holes in Bugscratch Island that it sank to the bottom of the swamp. People claim that the ghost of old Henry MacNair still travels these waters, and that if you listen real close, sometimes you can still hear him hollerin’. Some folks say he’s trying to tell people where the treasure is buried. Others think he’s trying to lead folks deep into the swamp where they’ll never be heard from again.”

  The silence of the group was punctuated by the noise of the swamp. Birds called in the background, an alligator bellowed, and flies buzzed.

  “Have you heard him?” the young girl asked.

  “You bet,” said Dwayne asked.

  A murmur ran through the boaters, then he looked at his watch.

  “That does it for us,” he said, paddling his canoe in a circle. “Our arrangement with the festival is that you can keep the canoes until five p.m. That’s closing time, and we don’t want any of you out here after dark. It’s eleven o’clock now. We’ve taken our time getting out here, but plan on it taking you at least an hour to get back from this point. You’re free to wander. Keep in hollerin’ distance of each other. Anyone who wants to head back now can come with us.”

  Fancy and Dwayne headed back with three of the canoes in their wake. Most of the others headed off toward the south, in the direction of the sandhill cranes. Rachel turned north.

  “Where are you going?” Cecilia called. “Everyone else is going—”

  “Shhhhh.” Rachel exaggerated her whisper. “I know where they’re going.” Rachel told them what she had witnessed: the loading of what looked like a gun case into the canoe and their disappearance to the north.

  “I saw them too,” Lark confirmed.

  “They were headed northeast,” Rachel said.

  “Are you sure that’s north?” Cecilia asked. “It think that’s west.”

  Dorothy adjusted her sun visor. “The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Trust me, Ceese, Rae’s right. That’s north.”

  “What do you think they were doing with a gun?” Cecilia asked.

  Dorothy looked at her sister askance. “Hiding the weapon that killed Becker and Knapp.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Why bring it this far into the swamp, or risk someone seeing them with it? No, I think they’re hunting.”

  Cecilia turned around and stared at Rachel. “Hunting for what?”

  “What do they both want dead?”

  The others stared at Rachel, and then, one by one, understanding bloomed on their faces.

  “Oh my.”

  Rachel nodded. “I think they’re planning on shooting the ivory-billed woodpecker. With both Becker and Knapp dead and the film destroyed, if the bird was gone, life reverts back to normal. The land trade will go through. Everyone gets their money.” Rachel remembered the two of them talking with Fancy and wondered if she was in on it.

  “But everyone heard them talking about the bird,” Dorothy said. “Someone would check it out.”

  “Maybe. But if no one finds anything…” Rachel paused to let her words sink in. “The deal might be delayed, but it wouldn’t be dead.”

  With that, Lark started paddling faster. Rachel worked to keep the canoe headed in the right direction, and Dorothy and Cecilia fell in behind, working hard to keep pace. After better than an hour of steady paddling, Dorothy yelled, “Can we stop and rest for a minute?”

  Rachel gladly shipped her oar. She wanted a chance to look at the map of the swamp she had bought.

  The laminated map opened up to about the size of an eight-by-eleven sheet of paper. Judging from where they started and where they were now, she placed them halfway between the Mizell Prairie and the Christie Prairie.

  Lark leaned to look over her shoulder. “How much farther do we have to go?”

  “We should be able to turn east somewhere in here.” Rachel pointed to the map and h
eld her hand up to shield her face from the sun, looking for an opening along the edge at the prairie. “Swamper’s Island isn’t on this map.”

  “What?” Dorothy exclaimed. “You mean to tell me we have been pushing through the floating peat and lilies, and we don’t even know where we’re headed?” She took a swig off her water bottle. “It’s already getting close to twelve thirty.”

  Based on Dwayne’s instructions, that meant, at a stiff clip, they were two hours from camp. That gave them two and a half hours to play with.

  “We need to head east.” Rachel pointed to the map. “I say we paddle another hour. Then, if we don’t find any sign of them, we turn back.”

  “What are we going to do if we find them?” Lark asked.

  That part of her plan was hazy. “Stop them from shooting the bird.”

  “How?” Lark asked, pulling her braids through a hole in the back of her cap and wiggling her fanny on the wide seat. The canoe rocked gently side to side. “By letting them shoot us?”

  “Let’s find them first,” Dorothy said, sounding more like her old self than Rachel had heard her all week. “Then we’ll think of something. Right, Rae?”

  Rachel smiled, hoping she exuded more confidence than she felt. “Right.”

  “Oh my, here we go again,” Cecilia said.

  They paddled a short distance farther, and then Lark discovered a path to the east. The peat bogs closed in tighter, and Rachel had a more difficult time shoving the clumps out of the way.

  “We’re never going to get turned around in here,” Lark said.

  “Stop worrying.” Rachel wasn’t about to admit she was thinking the same thing. “Keep paddling.”

  A few more strokes brought them into more open water, and the landscape in front of them changed from floating peat to actual land. Tall cypress trees anchored the banks, with blackgum filling the understory.

  “Look.” Rachel pointed with her oar to a green canoe tied up a short way upstream.