Under the Cajun Moon (43 page)

Unless I had veered off at an angle, I should reach the water soon. Unfortunately, the closer I got to it, the softer the ground grew and the thicker the foliage. I was ready to give up, not sure whether I was more frightened of getting sucked into the muck or being eaten by an alligator. But then I heard the familiar plops and I realized I was nearly there. In front of me, I could even see the moon sparkling on the black water of the bayou. In order to see up the waterway and catch a glimpse of the dock, I briefly considered slipping into that water and swimming out, but that was just too dangerous and terrifying a prospect, so instead I stepped up on a large cypress knee, balanced myself, and then moved forward to another one. After doing that several times, I was finally able to look up the waterway and see the dock. I leaned forward, clinging to the trunk of the tree and squinting in the darkness as I tried to make out the scene there.

As I had hoped, the airboat was still sitting there, though now it had been joined by a second one. And as I had feared, people were there as well—several people—all of them dressed in black, though it looked as though their ski masks were off for the time being. I wished I had a pair of binoculars so I could get a better look at their faces. From where I was I couldn’t ascertain much more than that they were Caucasian and they had what looked like brown hair. As that described almost everyone around these parts—or at least the Indians and the Cajuns—that knowledge didn’t do me much good.

My heart sinking in frustration, I realized I would have to retrace my steps, pass behind the house yet again, and move in the opposite direction. I had less hopes of finding some means of escape on the other side of the island, but at this point it was the only real choice I had.

My movements were faster and more sure on the return. As I scooted myself back along the branch that served as my bridge, I was startled by my first real sign of wildlife: It was some sort of small, furry mammal, and at the sound of my movements it suddenly darted out from under the brush and scampered away into the dark.

Most terrifying was the moment that I had to pass behind the house. It had been at least ten minutes since I turned on the shower, so there was a good chance that my mother had already investigated and realized I had given her the slip. In a very real sense, though, I was cornered and had no choice. There was no way to get from where I was to where I needed to be without taking that chance.

Holding my breath, I moved quickly, dashing across the overgrown weeds, skirting the back of the house, and not even bothering to look before continuing on at the other side. There was an expanse of lawn there, and I ran across it as fast as I could in flip-flops. At least I heard no telltale sounds, no yells or gunshots that might tell me they knew that I was gone.

When I finally reached the cover of some trees, I was relieved to see that there were paths there. Choosing one that seemed to angle in the general direction of the river, I made fast work of it, jumping over fallen logs, splashing through puddles, and ducking under low-hanging vines. It was dark there under the thick canopy of trees that blocked the moonlight, but I did the best I could at staying on the trail and pressing onward as fast as possible.

More than once, I crashed headfirst through sticky spider webs, but I kept going, running my hands over my face and hair as I did. Trying not to think of the massive spiders that lived in the swamps, I increased my speed, though soon my legs were covered in mud, my arms in mosquito bites, and I swore I could feel a hundred crawling insects along my back, under my shirt.

I almost made it to the river.

I could see it there in the distance, the water sparkling at the river’s edge. But then there was a log across the path and so I leapt over it. Had I not landed in mud on the other side, I would have kept going.

As it was, though, the angle that I hit the mud caused my foot to slide out from under me. The next thing I knew, I was smack on the ground, flat on my back, the wind knocked from my lungs.

It took what felt like a full minute before I could breathe again. Gasping for air, I sat up, and when that didn’t help I flipped around onto my hands and knees. Getting the wind knocked out of me was a horrible sensation, and as I regained my breathing I had no choice but to remain there on the ground, heart pounding, and pray that I wouldn’t be discovered before I could get moving again. After a few moments I steadied myself so that I could stand. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the snake there, the one that was hidden in the shadow of the fallen log.

I didn’t see it, that is, until its fangs were buried deep into the flesh on the back of my hand.

I’m not sure how I had the presence of mind not to scream. The moment I understood what was happening, I jumped up and flung my arm outward. With that, the snake let go, flying through the night air and landing with a thunk somewhere in the brush. Between my panic and the darkness, I realized I hadn’t noticed its colors or markings. All I had seen were its beady eyes and its teeth, burying themselves into my hand, the hand that was now bleeding.

At that point, my entire snake education consisted of being able to recognize exactly two kinds: water moccasins, which were long, dark, and poisonous, and milk snakes, which had rings of red, white, and black and were nonpoisonous. I don’t think this snake was either of those, though I wasn’t sure what it had been.

I stood, waiting to see what would happen next. I didn’t know anything about what I should do, and every bit of snake advice I had ever heard contradicted every other bit of snake advice I had ever heard. Suck out the venom, don’t suck out the venom; make a tourniquet, don’t make a tourniquet; hold the wound above my heart, hold it below my heart. Whatever my inclination was, I was afraid it might be wrong. Most of all, I could only hope that if indeed the snake had been poisonous that my death would come quickly and not as painfully as I feared.

I felt woozy, but I didn’t know if that was the snake venom or my own
hysteria. Steadying myself, I moved from the path on toward the water, thinking how ironic it would be if I made it to safety only to drop dead at the last moment because of a snakebite.

Whether my veins were coursing with venom or not, I still needed to staunch the bleeding. Trying not to think about infection—and knowing that if the snake really was poisonous then the venom would kill me long before infection ever had time to set in—I placed one filthy, muddy hand on top of the other and applied pressure to the wound.

I was closer to the river now, and again I tried to decide what to do. Plunge my wounded hand into the water or not plunge my wounded hand into the water? Doing so might wash away some of the germs and debris, but it could also introduce bacteria.

Was I delirious yet? Was I dying? I didn’t know.

“My name is Chloe Ledet,” I whispered out loud, just to see if my speech was slurred. It wasn’t, which I took as a good sign.

Finally, as I stumbled from the wooded path onto the open riverbank, I realized I had come to the end of myself. The whole world was against me. No matter what I did right, it turned out wrong. Now even nature itself had reared its ugly head and taken a bite that would possibly end my life. For a moment, I almost felt like laughing. Stumbling toward the water, I knelt there on the riverbank, trying to decide how I should spend what might be my last few minutes on earth. I uttered a single, awkward prayer for help and hoped that God was listening.

The bleeding had stopped, for the most part, so I scrambled around for a stick, and there in the mud I gouged out block letters: CHLOE WAS INNOCENT. Looking down at my handiwork, I added OF ALL CHARGES and underlined the word ALL.

If I knew who was behind everything, I would have written their name there instead, as the killer or at least the mastermind of the killings. I knew my mother was involved, and I strongly suspected Travis was as well, but I still wasn’t sure who was actually calling the shots, orchestrating my demise, and plunging me into what had probably turned out to be the final nightmare of my life.

I dropped the stick and thought about all Travis had said just a few
hours earlier in his cabin as he read to me from the Bible. At the time, his words had been so inspiring and so instinctively needed that I had latched on to them with a kind of joy I hadn’t experienced in years. Now that I knew he probably wasn’t the man I thought he was, I decided that the God he had described wasn’t the Being I thought He was either. Much like my own father, my heavenly Father had far better things to do than worry about someone like me. Vast and distant and uninvolved, He hadn’t even sent me deliverance in my darkest hour.

I looked up at the sky, at a million twinkling stars, and thought about the power of something so mighty it could have created them in the first place. Travis had read a verse to me earlier, one that said God knew how many hairs were on my head. I knew now that was a lie. God didn’t even know I had a snakebite. He didn’t even know I needed Him.

Maybe He didn’t even know that I existed.

I had nowhere else to turn. I was still waiting for the venom to set in, to do its job in stopping my heart or closing my airways or whatever it was that venom did. From where I sat, I couldn’t see the dock that should have been somewhere along here on the river side of Paradise. Perhaps I should try to get to the dock after all, on the small chance that my death was not imminent.

Getting back to my feet, I dropped the stick I had written with and moved down the river bank some more, not caring whether I was about to stumble upon another snake or even an alligator. I decided that the sun would be up soon, so maybe even if there were no vessels at this dock, I could find a place nearby to hide and wait. Surely, come sunrise, there would be some activity on the river and perhaps I could wave down a passing boat.

It sounded like a plan, assuming I didn’t drop dead from the snakebite first or get caught by my kidnappers.

As I got closer, I realized some sort of noise was coming from up ahead. Ducking behind a clump of trees, I moved toward the sound as silently as possible. Judging by the clinking and clanging, it sounded as though someone was working on an engine or a motor.

Moving closer, I could see something white bobbing in the water. A
boat. It wasn’t an airboat like the ones on the other side of Paradise. Again inching forward, I squinted and tried to make out the name of the boat that was painted on the side,
Miss Demeanor,
which didn’t make a lot of sense unless it was owned by a cop—or a criminal.

I could only hope it was the former.

The old Chloe would have jumped out of hiding at that point, run toward the man who I could now see was hunched over the boat’s engine, working away. I would have thrown myself at his mercy, trusting in the goodness and purity and devotion of an honored civil servant, confident that he would save me.

The new Chloe, however, understood that no one could be trusted. Sheriff or not, I still thought my best bet was to make sure he was alone and then attempt to ambush him and steal his boat.

Repositioning myself, it crossed my mind that for the very first time since this whole nightmare began, I was about to commit an actual crime. Assaulting a police officer had to be a serious offense. My only hope was that I wouldn’t really have to hurt him so much as just knock him off the boat and into the water. Then I could make my escape and hope that an alligator or something didn’t get him before he could climb back onto dry land.

At least he was in the right position to make my plan feasible. He was paying no attention to me, he was definitely alone, and I saw no telltale bulge under his clothing where a gun might be. Summoning my nerve, I grabbed a big, solid stick from the ground, emerged from the tree line, stepped onto the dock, and crept toward him. I could see that in the man’s hand was a long wrench, and that concerned me, because I knew it could be used as a weapon and was likely to be more effective than my stick. I needed something even bigger. That’s when I noticed the oar sitting on the side of the boat within easy reach.