Page 12 of Rowe

“They’ll need a guide to the cavity.”

Patrick stared at the water. Christopher shook his head before anyone could ask.

Cowboy lifted the slate and wiped it clean with his thumb. He drew the standing slab, the open space behind it, and the path Alvin had taken. Then he added the chain lines, one after another, until the diagram looked like the roots of a dead tree.

“No people under there,” Gator said. “Not until the slab is secured.” Patrick nodded.

“Alvin can run the camera again from the other side.”

The alligator sank without warning. His eyes vanished and the water smoothed over him.

“He heard his name,” Cowboy said. Gator watched the place where Alvin had been.

“He heard the crane.”

The upright slab trembled in the distance. One exposed rod bent, held, and bent again. Everyone on the boat saw it. Gator started the engine but left it in neutral, ready to move. The sirens grew louder. The sun burned through the last of the mist and shone on the bayou with a brightness that felt indecent.

Under that clean light, the water gave up nothing. It reflected sky, cypress, boat, and four silent men. Beneath the reflection, chains crossed the dark. The victims waited in the chamber, more than a dozen and perhaps many more, while the ruined concrete shifted above them and the first recovery crews hurried down the bank.

Cowboy picked up the rosary. He looped it once around the cleat beside the guideline, not as a prayer exactly, and not as a promise, but as a marker that someone on the surface knew they were there.

Then Alvin surfaced beside the tilted slab.

His harness light glowed faintly under the water. Something trailed from his back, caught on the strap. At first Patrick thought it was weeds. Gator throttled forward until the guideline tightened and the object lifted clear of the silt.

It was a second rosary.

The beads had been wound around a small brass key. Christopher looked from the key to the loose padlock lying in the evidence tray. The key was too small for it.

Patrick turned toward the dark cavity behind the slab, understanding before any of them said it: another lock, another enclosure, another place the camera had not reached.

Gator shut off the engine. The approaching crews called from shore, but their voices seemed to come from very far away.

The four men stared at the key swinging from the beads. Alvin held still below it, ancient and patient in the muddy water.

This time, even Cowboy had nothing to say.

CHAPTER SIX

Gator, Cowboy, Patrick, and Christopher returned to Belle Fleur, showered, changed their clothes, and met everyone for dinner. When they walked in, their somber expressions told everyone it would not be good news.

“More than fourteen,” said Cowboy. “At least.”

“Damn,” muttered Ham. “Does anyone else feel like that many bodies and concrete slabs lead us to believe organized crime is involved?”

“Definitely,” said Gator. “The whole thing wreaks of it. Who else could set concrete slabs that far out in the bayou? Other than us.”

Rowe walked in looking exhausted. There were big purple circles beneath his eyes, his face covered in facial hair. He was a big man but today he looked smaller somehow.

“Let me grab him,” said Rush. He walked to Rowe who started to shake his head. Rush took one step closer and Rowe nodded with a grim expression.

Rowe had the most amazing hazel eyes, always leaning toward gold instead of brown or green. His wide shoulders and narrow waist made him look like a model stepping off the runway. Most days anyway. Not today.

“Brother, sit down and eat. You need to sleep in a decent bed and get some rest,” said Christopher.

“Hard to do,” he said shaking his head. “She just lies there staring at the ceiling and then she breaks out in tears again. How does anyone recover from something like this?”

“I assume that’s rhetorical,” said Ham. “It’s not something you ever recover from, brother. You learn to let your life move forward. You have to help her do that.”