Page 145 of The List

He was still searching the shoreline, thinking hard, when it hit him. Frantically, he scanned the darkness, wishing for lightning, which seemed foolish given his unprotected location on open water. He was rewarded with a long bolt that gave him an instant to pinpoint the location.

There. Damned if it wasn’t. Just ahead to the left.

He studied the skiff and the tiny outboard. Hard to know for sure, but they just might fit.

“Get down,” he yelled.

Hank gave him a strange look.

“And don’t rise up.”

For once, Hank did as he was told but said, “What are you going to do?”

“Even the odds.”

He focused ahead on the shoreline, now less than a hundred yards away. At some point he was going to have to slow down. He’d set the bow on the last lightning strike. Another bright crackle and he refined his course.

There it was.

The opening for Brooks Creek.

Less than twenty yards away and closing.

He released his grip on the throttle and the outboard died. Seconds later the skiff shot into the blackness and slowed. He knew the gate of oak limbs was just ahead and couldn’t take the chance that the top of the outboard might strike the limbs, so he popped the retaining clamp and shoved the motor off the transom into the water. He then lunged forward next to Hank, stretching himself out as low as possible. Just as he hit the bottom of the boat the limbs raked across its top close enough for him to feel their graze.

Out the other side, he said, “Into the water.”

They both dove out and he kept the gun dry above. From the depth he knew they were in the pool. About shoulder-deep. He led the way toward the far bank and the tiny beach he remembered.

They emerged.

“Those limbs should slow ’em long enough for us to disappear in the woods.”

Hank was catching his breath. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Brent pushed through the thickets.

Rain pounded down.

He heard the drone of an engine.

Approaching.

He stopped and looked back.

JON SAW THE SKIFF DISAPPEAR INTO THE DARK SHORELINE.

He slowed and cautiously approached the point where it was last seen, then followed, realizing he was in one of the creeks. He switched on the forward spotlight and saw limbs out over the water.

Approaching fast.

He rammed the throttle to neutral, then reverse. He veered the helm hard to starboard and forced the boat’s port side against the water, using the hull to stop his forward momentum. The wind helped too, sweeping out of the north directly into his bow. He stopped just as the port-side hull gently kissed the oak branches spanning the creek.

That was close.

He reoriented the boat forward and searched the darkness ahead with the floodlight. He found the empty skiff, then rotated the light trying to locate its two occupants. No one was visible.

But he knew they were there.