Page 180 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Another hiss.

A deputy curses when a dart catches his sleeve. He tears it free before it reaches skin.

The tip glistens.

Sweetness cuts through the swamp air. GatorX.

“They’re dosing the path,” I say.

Wes draws his weapon, and movement flashes beyond the trees.

A motorcycle engine starts somewhere farther south.

Wes starts forward, then stops himself before I can reach for him. His eyes find mine. He chooses us first. “Stay close.”

Wes covers his face while keeping his body between me and the direction of the darts.

The wounded deputy is clean. The dart caught only fabric. No one has been exposed. Yet.

Tom sends two officers after the shooter while the rest tighten around us.

I look at the thread ahead. It no longer reads as a marker. It’s bait. “They know we found the route.”

Roman’s eyes narrow. “Or they expected someone eventually would.”

Wes scans the trees. “Can we reach the site another way?”

The water beside us moves against the natural current. There is a slight pull beneath the floating petals. I remember the older survey. The ceremonial path stayed above floodwater, but the release site sat where two channels met.

I turn toward the deeper water. “The route is not the trail.”

Wes looks at me. “What does that mean?”

“My grandmother marked where people entered, not where they walked.”

I point past the decoy thread toward a narrow break between the cypress trees. “The old channel curves behind this ridge. The site should be on the other side.”

Tom checks the map. “There is no road.”

“There wasn’t supposed to be.”

The distant motorcycle fades. Then another sound replaces it. A low mechanical hum rolls through the swamp. A generator. It’s close enough that I feel its vibration through the water.

Roman reaches for my hand. “Someone is still there.”

Wes’s alpha pushes against the air around us, fierce enough to cut through the contaminated sweetness. He looks toward the hidden channel, then at me. “We stop here until the second team reaches the water side.”

The command is reasonable. My instincts still scream that time is running out.

Before I can answer, Tom lifts his radio. “Water team, status?”

Static answers. One deputy checks his phone. Another tries hers.

Roman pulls out his own. “No signal,” he says.

Wes looks toward the trees. “Radios too.”

The generator hum deepens. Lights flare between the trees ahead, too white and bright for the swamp.