Sheriff's Office; 5:27 a.m., Monday

Jim and Blair had barely time to climb in the Chevy before Mary had taken off for town. Blair still had the hunting photograph clutched in his hand. She had offered no explanation, only stared straight out the windshield, her face a hard mask of worry. The fog was less thick than yesterday, but still present. Dawn barely peeked over the horizon as Mary's car ground to a stop in front of the Sheriff's Office.

Mary shoved the gear into park before dashing out of the car and up onto the porch. Jim and Blair were on her heels, no one bothering to turn the motor off.

The front door was unlocked. She turned the knob and stumbled inside.

The office was a mess. Filing cabinets were open and papers strewn about. Every drawer in both desks had been emptied onto the floor. Paper piles on the desks were scattered around, creating an image of a violent windstorm.

Jim looked around in astonishment. The first thing that hit him was that scent from Pam's bedroom and the cabin. It had to be cologne

"Over here," Blair said.

He was kneeling behind one of the desks, the top of his head barely visible over the mess. Jim and Mary picked their way over.

Harry Gabelle lay crumpled on the floor by his overturned chair, bleeding from a cut above his right temple. His breathing was shallow and labored. A purple bruise had already begun to spread from his hairline to his cheekbone.

"Oh, God," Mary muttered.

"He needs to get to the hospital," Jim said.

"An ambulance out here would take forever," Mary said.

"You drive him," Jim said. "Sandburg, go with her."

"What?" Blair asked.

Jim fixed him with an intense stare. "Whoever killed Pam Leary was here tonight," he said. "I can smell their aftershave."

Blair nodded. "What are you gonna do?"

"Call Donnelly," Jim said. "And Lt. Gordon. This is not a coincidence."

With a bit of careful effort, Jim and Blair carried Gabelle out to Mary's car. He groaned once, but did not regain consciousness. They gently placed him in the back seat.

It was at that moment that everyone realized they were still in their pajamas. While Jim and Blair looked halfway normal in T-shirts and shorts, Mary wore a white, cotton nightgown. Jim was thankful he'd at least thought to grab shoes on the way out the door.

Modesty issues aside, Blair climbed into the front seat. Mary sat in the back, gently cradling Gabelle's head in her lap.

"Be careful," Blair said to Jim.

Jim nodded. "You, too."

He watched them drive off, silently praying for the best. Once the Chevy was out of sight, Jim went back inside. He made two quick phone calls, then moved to the center of the ransacked room. Jim slowly let his sense of smell wander, trying to pick up anything else unusual.

He smelled lantern oil. A decorative lamp lay smashed to pieces by Donnelly's desk. Jim walked over and bent down. The brown oil hadn't had much time to soak into the wood floor. And it had been smeared by a shoe... or by several shoes. Jim looked up. A trail of smudged footprints led toward the back room.

Jim followed the trail past the holding cells and toward a back door. The door was partly open, spilling in a bit of morning sunshine. He pushed open the door and was greeted by a thin stretch of grass that came up short against the bayou. Wisps of fog hovered above the water. A dark line cut through the dew on the grass, heading straight for the bog.

They came and left in a boat. By now the perp could be anywhere in the swamp.

Whoever he was.

14 Miles Outside Backstone; 5:41 a.m.

Blair's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as he negotiated another curve in the dusty back road that led away from town. The sudden move elicited a soft squeal from the back seat as Mary was jostled against the door.

"Sorry," Blair muttered.

A deep moan drifted up from the back.

"Sheriff?" Mary whispered.

"Is he awake?" Blair asked, angling the rearview mirror down so he could see.

"He's waking up," Mary said. "Sheriff Gabelle?"

"Where...?" Gabelle mumbled.

"We're taking you to the hospital," Mary explained. "Do you know what happened?"

"Fell asleep," he said, his voice slurred. "Woke up'n somethin' hit me. Fell down."

"Did you see someone?" Blair asked.

Gabelle tried to turn his head toward Blair's voice and groaned. "Saw boots... kicked me. Silver."

"Silver?" Mary repeated. "Silver what?"

Gabelle blinked hard, trying to focus. "Dunno," he managed, his eyes sliding shut. "Buckle, maybe."

"Hold on, Harry," Blair said. "We'll be there soon."

"He's unconscious again," Mary said.

Blair sent out a silent request for protection and speed. He fixed his attention on the road as the dirt quickly gave way to a paved street.

County Hospital, Louisiana; 6:14 a.m.

It was a severe concussion.

At least, that's what Dr. Aubrey told them fifteen minutes after Blair and Mary brought Harry Gabelle into the ER. He would require several days of bed rest and would be admitted for the night.

That was good news.

Blair automatically reached for his cell phone, but it wasn't there. Again, he was reminded of how quickly they'd left the house this morning. During their wait, a nurse had given Mary a pair of jeans and T-shirt from Lost & Found. She'd also delivered a flannel shirt to give Blair's outfit some semblance of day-wear.

Before he could go to the nurse's station, the duty nurse came and got him. He had a phone call. Blair followed her to the main desk.

"Sandburg?" Jim's voice asked. He sounded out of breath.

"Yeah," Blair said. "Harry's got a concussion. They're keeping him overnight, but he'll be fine."

"Good news."

"What have you found?" Blair was aware of Mary at his elbow, listening to his end of the conversation.

"Not much. The State Police are out searching in boats. It looks like whoever did it fled into the swamp, but there's not much to track."

He leaned against the counter and heard a crinkling sound in his pocket. Blair pulled out the photograph of Winston Derkins and Frank. He looked closely at the photo.

"Blair?"

"One second, Jim," he said.

Mary's eyes seemed to gravitate toward what Blair was looking at. "My God," she muttered.

"What is it?"

"Jim," Blair said. "Harry was awake for a minute and said someone kicked him. Someone wearing boots with silver buckles."

"Yeah?"

"I'm looking at that old photograph of Winston Derkins's hunting buddy. He's wearing black boots with what looks like big silver buckles. They look kind of like Confederate flags."

"I'm on it," Jim said.

"We're gonna wait until Harry is settled, then come back," Blair said. "See you in about an hour."

Blair hung up, still studying the photograph. If this Frank person was still alive, they may have found their killer.

Outside Backstone, Louisiana; 6:51 a.m.

Mary dozed in the front seat on the way back to Backstone. Blair searched the local stations, but couldn't come up with anything other than country and a Spanish station.

He didn't swerve far enough to miss a rut in the road. The bump jolted Mary awake. She sat up straight in the seat, her hands clutching the dashboard.

"Sorry," Blair said.

She shook her head. "It wasn't you. I had a strange dream."

"What was it?" he asked, able to miss the next pothole.

"I was back at the Homestead," Mary said. "Standing on the back porch. I looked through the window into the kitchen and saw a panther and wolf. They were staring at each other and were chained to the wall."

Blair kept his eyes fixed on the road in front of him. "Then?"

"I woke up," she said. "I don't know what to make of it."

"Me, either," Blair replied.

Sheriff's Office, Backstone

Ten minutes later, Blair and Mary walked into the office. The State Police wandered in and out, coordinating the search of the swamp. Others were making rounds about town, talking to the locals.

Jim was inside, staring at a couple stacks of papers, deep in thought.

"Anything?" Blair asked as they walked over.

Jim looked up and nodded. He held up one of the papers he was reading. "I found our mystery man. Frances Simms died of liver failure last December."

"Simms?" Mary repeated. "I grew up with a Patrick Simms. Frank would have to be his grandfather."

"Frank owned a small cabin on the edge of Potter's Bog," Jim said. "He left it to his son, Gary Simms. Frank also had a daughter named Sharon, but she died eight years ago."

"How about Gary?" Blair asked.

Jim shook his head. "I have one of the state officers looking into him."

"Where's Mike?" Blair asked.

"Still out in the swamps," Jim said. He looked down at his clothes, then back up at Mary. "Why don't we head back to the Homestead and change? I want to take a look at the rest of the stuff in that tin."

Blair's stomach growled. "Breakfast couldn't hurt, either."

The Homestead; 7:26 a.m.

The second they walked inside, Jim smelled the cologne. The exact same scent. It made him freeze in his tracks. Blair recognized the reaction and stilled Mary. A quick sweep found only three heartbeats.

"They were here," Jim said.

The trio rushed to the attic and charged up the stairs. The bare bulb had been left on. The Essex tin still lay on its side with photos and papers scattered around it.

"Guess we scared them off," Blair said.

He picked up another photograph. This one was of Frank, Winston and Merry. Merry stood between the two men, but did not smile like they did. Frank and Winston each proudly held a hunting rifle.

"Daddy's gone a-hunting," Jim murmured.

"What?" Mary asked, staring at the face of an aunt she'd never met. Her own face.

"Last year," Jim said. "Merry told me her father was hunting. And if he came back and found me there he'd be angry. Do you think that's what she told Daniel the day of the fire?"

"Could be," Blair said. "Sometimes spirits are trapped in the day they died and relive it over and over. You could have been drawn into it somehow. I mean, it makes sense."

"What if he wasn't hunting alone?" Jim asked.

"Huh?" Blair looked up curiously.

"Work with me a second," Jim said. "Mr. Tibalt said there was no way Daniel could have killed Merry. And you--" he pointed at Mary "--said Winston couldn't have done it. What if Frank was out hunting with Winston that day."

"But what would Frank gain from killing them all?" Blair asked.

~CRASH~

Everyone jumped. A framed picture that must have been precariously perched had fallen to the floor, shattering the glass.

Mary walked over and picked it up. The broken glass fell away from the picture. It was a nicely matted black-and-white of the Homestead. Behind it was a piece of yellowed paper.

"What's that?" Blair asked.

She peeled it off the backing and carefully unfolded it. The typing was faded, but still completely legible.

"It's a land deed," Mary said. "March 2, 1955." As she read the fine print her eyes grew wider and wider. "It was all the original Homestead land."

Jim moved to read over her shoulder. "Issued from Francis Simms to Winston Derkins. Two hundred acres. For the price of one dollar?"

"That doesn't make sense," Blair said. "Why would Frank sell so much land for a buck?"

"I don't know, Chief," Jim replied. "It was twenty years before the fire. But the same year as these missing tourist articles."

"Okay, now I'm confused," Blair said.

Jim snorted. "Get in line. Mary, do you have a map of the land around here? I want to get an idea of what I'm looking at."

"Downstairs," she replied.

They gathered up everything that had come out of the tin and trouped downstairs. Mary found an old map in her desk and spread it out on the kitchen table. A bean-shaped section of land was marked with a pen and shaded yellow. Smaller pieces had since been sectioned out of that large piece.

"We're here," Mary said, pointing to a dot on the concave side of the 'bean.' "Potter's Bog is out there. And Frank Simms's house would be over here." It was the far southern border of the land.

"That's Pam's house," Blair said. His finger was on a large section at the opposite end.

Mary nodded. "It looks like the first piece of land to be sold," she said.

Jim pointed to a few of the unmarked sections of land. "Who owns these pieces?"

Mary shook her head. "I'm not sure who my dad sold them to."

"We should find out," Jim said.

"Jim?" Blair asked.

"I'm not saying anything yet," Jim said. "But I'm getting a good idea."

Jim's cell phone rang. "Ellison." He listened for a few moments. "Thanks, officer," he said and snapped the phone shut.

"What'd they find?" Blair asked.

"Gary Simms died in a car accident two months ago," Jim said. "He had two sons, Patrick and Donald. They own the cabin now, but apparently don't live there anymore. All anyone seems to know about Sharon Simms is she moved to New Orleans, got married, and died there. They're still tracking down her husband."

"We should check out the Simms cabin," Blair said. "See if Patrick or Donald have been around recently."

"Yeah," Jim said. "But real clothes, first. I can't take myself seriously running around in my underwear."

Mary stood on the front porch, watching Jim and Blair drive down the lane. She hadn't argued when they asked her to stay home. In fact, she was relieved. The dream about the panther and wolf was still bugging her. There seemed to be no meaning behind it. At least she would have some time to try and sort it out.

She turned and walked back inside. Mary paused in the living room. A chill ran down her spine, and goose bumps appeared up and down her arms. Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen. She once again thought of the dream, about how she was standing outside looking in.

Mary walked into the kitchen and straight to the back door. It was slightly ajar. Then she smelled it -- the strong odor of too much aftershave.

She turned to run, but a strong hand clamped over her mouth and twisted her right arm behind her back. She tried to struggle, but was pressed back against someone's chest.

"Long time no see, Mary," a male voice said.

Mary was bodily turned around to face the hallway. Two young men walked in holding shotguns and grinning like bandits. Both had silver flag buckles on their boots. The younger of the two she recognized immediately.

"Patrick," she tried to say, but it came out more like, "P-tck"

"You're right, Pat," the other one said. "She is a pretty one."

Mary tried to speak again, but was still muffled by the strange hand. The hand moved away and she licked her lips.

"Who are you?" she asked, but somehow already knew the answer.

"Forgive my little brother's rudeness," the older one said. "I'm Don. I believe you already know our other companion."

The man behind her laughed. Mary felt her stomach flip-flop. He let go of her arm and pushed her toward Pat. Mary fell against him and was turned around so she could see who had been holding her. Her jaw fell slack.

Mike Donnelly grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Morning," he said. "How's Harry's head?"

They were about a mile away from the Homestead when Jim felt a strange chill.

"Do you feel that?" he asked.

Blair shook his head. "Feel what? The heat? Hell yeah, it's almost eighty degrees."

"No, the cold."

"Huh?" Blair stared at him.

"The air is cold," Jim said.

Jim's eyes flickered up to the rearview mirror. He let out a strangled cry and slammed on the brakes. He heard Blair yell, but didn't raise his eyes from the mirror.

Merry sat in the back seat. Her expression was pensive and full of worry. She looked straight at Jim, then turned and pointed behind her. Back the way they had come.

"Jim?" Blair asked.

Jim twisted in his seat to look behind him. The back seat was empty. He looked at the rearview mirror. Merry still looked at the road behind them. She turned once more to look at Jim, then faded from sight.

"What's going on?" Blair asked again.

"Something's wrong," Jim replied.

He made a quick three-point turn on the narrow road and headed back toward the Homestead.

Mike Donnelly held his shotgun across his lap, letting his legs swing against the cabinet doors below his feet. From his spot on the kitchen counter, he could keep an eye on Mary and see through the living room to the front door. Don and Pat were searching the house and making a good ruckus doing it. Mike cringed when something glass broke down the hall.

"I don't understand what you're looking for," Mary said. She sat in a chair by the kitchen tables, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Her green eyes brimmed with tears, but so far she had refused to shed them. Mike admired her for that. Pam hadn't been nearly so calm.

"If it helps," Mike said. "This wasn't part of the plan. Of course, neither was those city cops showing up. Or you coming home. It all could have been so much easier."

Don came back into the kitchen, his face red from exertion. "It's not downstairs," he said. "Pat's rootin' around in the attic. She know where it is?"

"I haven't asked her yet," Mike said.

"What the hell you waitin' for, Mikey?" Don asked. "Gramps to come back from the dead and do it?"

Mary's eyes grew impossibly wider. She stared at Don, then at Mike. She didn't know how she knew or why she was so positive, but she did. Mary held Mike's gaze and said, "Sharon Simms was your mother."

Mike smiled. "Quite the little investigator. Yes, she was." He looked at Don. "Isn't that right, cousin?"

"Damn straight," Don said, stalking toward Mary. "Now where's the damn deed?"

"What deed?" Mary asked. The tears had dried from her eyes and a familiar blank haze was settling over them.

"The deed to the land your granddaddy stole from ours," Don said. His dark eyes blazed with anger. "Ain't nothin' worse than losin' yer best property to a man who can't mind his own business to start with. Some old friend, threatenin' to call the cops on 'im."

"One dollar," Mary said in a hollow voice. Puzzle pieces were falling into place. "Those missing girls. Frank was involved and Winston found out. He sold it for one dollar to shut him up." Frank had to sell it for something to make it a legal exchange.

Don fixed her with a dangerous glare. "That's our rightful land, missy. And you have seen the deed or you wouldn't know it went for a buck." He grasped Mary by the shoulders. "Where is it?"

Mary's eyes went to the table, but only the area map was there. She looked around as if not sure where it had, in fact, gotten to. "I don't know," she said.

Don's hands tightened on her shoulders and Mary yelped softly. "Don't lie to me, dammit!" Don yelled. "It weren't at Pam's house, we looked already. It has to be here!"

"Don, we'll find it," Mike said, reaching out to grab his cousin's arm.

"You killed her for the deed," Mary whispered.

Don shrugged Mike off. He raised his fist to hit her. Mary's head snapped up and she stared right into his eyes. Don froze. He screamed as though stung and let Mary go. He backpedaled so fast he slammed into the opposite wall.

Mike leapt off the counter and ran over to him. "What, dammit? What's wrong?"

Don stared at Mary with wild eyes, his jaw moving but no words coming out. Mary simply stared right back, her own eyes blank.

Jim parked the car at the entrance to the driveway, just behind the curve that hid the house from view of the road. He and Blair climbed out quickly and crept along the right side of the road near the bushes. Blair still didn't know what was going on, but he followed Jim out of instinct, ready to react at a moment's notice.

A muffled scream came from the house. It was distinctly male.

They glanced at each other briefly, then took off toward the house being careful to stay near the brush.

Mike shook Don hard, trying to get the babbling man to calm down. Don kept muttering about "her burnt face." Mike slapped him and he seemed to calm a bit, but kept darting fearful glances at Mary.

For her part, Mary sat in her chair, staring blankly at the wall above their heads.

Mike stood up and stalked over to Mary. "Where's the damn deed?" he bellowed. When Mary didn't reply, he struck her across the face with a closed fist. Her head snapped sideways, the corner of her lower lip split open. But she didn't speak.

Feet pounded on stairs. In seconds Pat raced into the kitchen. He took in the scene and stopped dead.

"What?" Mike asked.

"I found the deed," Pat said. "It was hidden in a tin upstairs. And somebody's comin'."

Jim and Blair dashed across the yard and crouched behind a row of bushes that lined the porch. Blair tried to calm the pounding in his chest. His gun was still in his luggage, but Jim held his against his thigh as he took a moment to listen.

"Four heartbeats in the kitchen," Jim whispered. "No, moving out of it. They aren't talking."

"They know we're here," Blair hissed.

Jim nodded. He pointed to the left of the house, then at Blair. Blair nodded.

With a silent look of "good luck," they split up.

Blair tiptoed along the edge of the porch, poking his head up every few feet to see if anyone was watching. He followed the porch around to the left side of the house. Halfway to the back, land abruptly ended and gave way to the bayou. Blair was about to climb up onto the porch when he felt the cold barrel of a shotgun against the side of his throat.

Jim had also reached the end of land on the other side of the house. He heard soft footsteps on the porch above him and crouched down. The footsteps moved steadily closer. The familiar scent of that cologne tickled his nostrils.

The footsteps passed him, moving slowly toward the front of the house.

He carefully climbed onto the porch. A young man with dark hair crept along the porch, a shotgun clutched awkwardly in one hand. Jim tiptoed up behind him. With the butt of his gun, he clocked the kid on the back of the head. He slumped forward, but Jim grabbed him before he could crash to the porch.

Blair swore at himself for the tenth time in a minute. His captor led him through the house toward the kitchen. The man appeared a bit shaken and his shotgun trembled in his hands ever so slightly.

"It's one of the cops," the man said as he pushed Blair into the kitchen.

Blair stumbled inside. He saw Mary first, sitting quietly in a chair.

"Good job, Don," a familiar voice said.

Blair slowly turned his head toward the voice, his jaw going slack. Mike Donnelly leaned against the wall by the half-ajar back door, half of his attention on the porch outside.

"Where's Pat?" Mike asked.

Don shrugged. "Outside."

"What...?" Blair muttered, absolutely flabbergasted. "Why...?"

"Both very good questions, Blair," Mike said. He walked toward Blair, his gaze deadly serious. "But I'm afraid they'll have to wait. Where's your partner?"

"We saved your life," was the only reply Blair could manage.

"True," Mike said. "And thank you for that." He lifted his shotgun and pointed it at Blair. "But my question first. Where's your partner?"

"Right here."

Jim had slipped inside through the partly open back door and had his gun trained on Mike's head. "Drop it," Jim said.

No one moved.

Footsteps scraped on the back porch. That distracted Don, whom Blair promptly tackled, knocking the shotgun out of his hands. Pat appeared behind Jim and hit him hard with a rock. Jim fell down hard. Mike turned and trained his gun on Jim.

With a fierce yell, Mary sprang to life and tackled Mike. They both went tumbling through the door and out onto the porch.

Blair scrambled for Don's shotgun, but Pat grabbed it first. Blair looked up in time to see the butt of the shotgun rushing toward his face. Stars exploded in his vision. He heard a single shotgun blast an instant before darkness overcame him.

Icy darkness surrounded her. The water should have been warm, but all she felt was cold. She tried to move her arms, her legs; she tried desperately to swim. She could not. She could only drift as her body sank down.

There was no sensation beyond the cold, no sight beyond the dark. And yet she was not afraid.

Comfortable warmth instantly replaced the cold. She strained to see into the murky depths of the water. A hand very much like her own reached out through the water. It stretched toward her, beckoning her.

She took it gratefully.

Mike fastened the last rope into a secure knot, then stood back to admire his handiwork. Jim and Blair were tied back-to-back in kitchen chairs, arms secured to their sides and ankles to the chair legs. He tested the bonds and they held tight.

"Sorry, guys," Mike said. "But I can't have you following us."

Pat and Don came inside from the back porch.

"Boat's ready," Don said.

Mike looked down at the two men he'd once called friends. Funny how life changed in an instant.

"We got what we came for," Pat said. "Now let's go, man."

"We're going," Mike said.

Don marched over to the kitchen stove. It was an old gas range. With a wide grin, he reached behind and tugged the gas line loose.

"What are you doing?" Pat asked.

"Getting rid of witnesses," Don said. With a pocket lighter, he lit a pile of old newspapers in the far corner of the kitchen.

"Wait a minute--" Mike protested.

Don marched over, waving his shotgun. "What? You want to leave them to identify us? We got all the evidence set to burn and I bet those state idiots don't know how to find their handcuffs, let alone who we are."

Mike swallowed, afraid he was going to be ill. But he pushed it aside and met Don's angry grin with one of his own.

"Fine," Mike said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Jim struggled to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. His head pounded. It seemed to weigh fifty pounds. He managed to peel his eyelids apart a bit. Glaring sunlight forced them closed again, sending shards of pain through his skull. He tried to move and found himself tied down. Behind him he heard Blair's steady breathing. Jim tested his sight again, but found the kitchen blurry, the light too bright.

He wondered just how hard he'd been hit from behind. He barely remembered it.

Then he smelled the gas. Jim tried to focus on the oven, but his vision would not stop blurring. He could also smell fire, burning paper; gun powder and blood somewhere nearby.

"Blair?" Jim croaked. He tried to tap the back of Blair's neck with his head. "Blair, wake up. We have to get out of here."

"Jim?"

Jim blinked, but it wasn't Blair. It was Mary. Her voice was everywhere, as if they were inside a bubble. Jim gazed around the kitchen, but the sunlight hurt his eyes. A shadow moved toward him.

"Mary," Jim said. "Can you get us loose?"

"Yes."

Jim closed his eyes for a minute, so he could just listen. A swishing sound like gentle footsteps on wood. Soft crackling as flames consumed the newspapers. Blair's even breathing behind him.

Jim felt the ropes that bound him fall away. Pushing away the stark pain in his head, Jim opened his eyes and stood up. He thought he saw Mary move in the corner of his eye, heading toward the back door. Jim lifted Blair from the other chair and slung him over his shoulder. He dashed out onto the porch, each step a bit of agony.

Jim looked around the porch for Mary, still unable to completely focus. "Mary?"

The kitchen blew up, blasting Jim and Blair off the porch and into the water.

Edge of Potter's Bog; 8:45 a.m.

The explosion echoed through the bayou. The little boat had not gotten too far. They felt a bit of the aftershock. The water all around them rippled and vibrated.

Mike craned his neck to look behind him. He could see smoke rising from the trees in the direction they had come. He felt sick inside. The land was important to him, but not at this cost.

They were still a mile from where they had hidden a larger boat to escape in. The roar of the explosion faded to an eerie silence, occasionally broken by the soft whirring of their motor. The bayou became darker the deeper they went. Cypress trees grew closer together, canopied by thick carpets of moss. The water was stagnant and gray. Insects flew in black clumps.

Pat and Don traded nervous glances, but they pressed onward. Just a little further.

A chilly breeze picked up. Mike looked out and saw three crocodiles watching them from a log ten feet away. He clutched his shotgun. Something bumped the side of the boat. Mike hazarded a look. Dozens of snakes curled and writhed in the water next to the boat.

"Sweet Jesus," Don muttered, looking at the snakes.

Pat squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make them go away. When he opened his eyes again, he glanced into the water. A burned, bloated corpse looked up at him from just under the surface. Charred eyelids flew open and a scorched hand reached up for him.

Pat shrieked and leapt backward, shaking the boat. He shrieked again and pointed his shotgun at it.

"Pat, what's wrong?" Don asked. At the same time Mike shouted, "Don't!"

"Stay away!" Pat yelled. He fired at the corpse, but his shot was low. It blew a hole in the side of the boat, letting in water.

"Dammit!" Don said. "What'd you do that for?"

But Pat was incoherent. Using their guns as paddles, Mike and Don tried to get to a cluster of trees before they sank. Pat tried to stand up. The boat rocked and Pat went flying into the water.

"Patrick!" Don shouted.

Two more splashes followed. Don watched in horror as two crocodiles converged on his screaming brother. Pat was pulled under before he could cry out.

"Pat!" Don shouted again.

Mike reached out and snagged a low tree branch. He managed to haul himself up onto it.

Don still stood in the half-sunken boat, staring at the water where Pat had been. He saw bubbles, then something rising to the surface. Don was terrified it would be Pat, but didn't look away. Something grasped his ankle and Don looked down. The burned face of a young woman grinned up at him, her equally scorched hand holding his foot. Don screamed and tried to pull away. The boat tipped. Don fell into the water, still screaming.

"Don!" Mike shouted.

Don floundered in the water, trying desperately to escape something that Mike couldn't see. He heard a splash and saw another crocodile swimming toward Don.

"Look out!" Mike shouted.

A soft hiss made Mike freeze. His entire body felt cold. Very slowly, Mike looked upward. On a branch just above his head, two water moccasins watched him with nearly human eyes. Green eyes. They hissed again.

"No," Mike said.

Below him, Don shouted in agony. The snakes struck.

Their dying screams echoed loudly through the bayou.