Into the Guns (15 page)

Sloan learned the answer about fifteen minutes later when a man and a hound dog emerged from the trees adjacent to the houseboat. The swamper's head was bald, but he had a bushy beard to make up for it and was naked except for khaki shorts and rubber boots. He'd been fishing, judging from the pole that he carried in one hand and the bucket that dangled from the other.

The dog was dashing to and fro, sniffing the ground, and pausing to pee every now and then. The plank bounced as the pair made their way aboard the houseboat and disappeared inside.
The dog is a problem,
Sloan decided,
but darkness will fall in a few hours. Maybe I can steal the boat without making any noise.

It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all he had. So with at least four hours of daylight left, Sloan had no choice but to lie on the
raft, let the mosquitoes have their way with him, and drift in and out of consciousness.

Eventually, he woke to discover that it was dark. Sloan eyed the Rolex. It was five to ten, and he could see a square of buttery light through a window, which suggested that the owner was up and about. With that in mind, Sloan resolved to paddle in closer, but not
too
close, and wait for the light to go out. Once the man was asleep, he'd make his move.

Water gurgled as it swept along both sides of the raft, and Sloan gave thanks for the chorus of swamp sounds. Taken together, they were more than enough to cover his approach.

When Sloan was about fifty feet away from his objective, he brought the raft to a halt with some stealthy back-paddling. At that point, he could hear country-western music emanating from what he assumed to be a battery-powered radio.

Sloan felt a stab of fear as a door opened, and the man emerged. Because the swamper was backlit, all Sloan could see was a silhouette. There was the distinctive rasp of a zipper followed by the unmistakable sound of water hitting water as the man emptied his bladder into the lagoon. That was followed by a throaty growl as the dog emerged to test the night air. “Whatcha smell, boy?” the animal's owner inquired. “You got a coon?”

The dog yawned and went inside. Sloan released a long, shallow breath and was surprised to learn that he'd been holding it.

The door slammed, the light went out shortly thereafter, and Sloan had the darkness to himself. After counting to five thousand, Sloan paddled in next to the skiff. It would have been impossible to enter the boat from the water without making a commotion. But with the raft for support, he managed to enter the boat with a minimum of fuss.

The next step was to free the skiff from the houseboat and,
thanks to Short Guy's knife, Sloan had the means to cut the painter. The houseboat was so close that he could reach out and touch it. So Sloan put both hands on the hull and gave a push. The boat slid out into the lagoon stern first and coasted to a stop.

At that point Sloan had a fresh set of problems to deal with. Which way to go? And how to proceed? Would the motor start easily? And, even if it did, would he run aground in the darkness? Sloan feared that he would, and set about the process of deploying the oars. The oarlocks rattled but couldn't be heard over the racket being made by the creatures of the night.

Sloan had the oars out and was pulling away when the dog began to bark. Because of
him
? Or in response to something else? There was no way to know. A light appeared inside the houseboat, the door opened, and a powerful beam shot out to probe the lagoon. It missed the skiff at first but soon came back to pin the boat in its glare!

Sloan was momentarily grateful for the light because it told him which way to go. The man shouted at him and waved a fist before ducking into the cabin. Then he was back with a rifle. But, because the swamper had to hold the weapon
and
the big flashlight, his aim was off. Geysers of water jumped up around the skiff as Sloan pulled with all his might.

Then the houseboat was gone as the skiff entered the main channel. Sloan permitted himself a whoop of joy. The rifle shots, plus his celebratory shout, were enough to silence the denizens of the darkness for a moment. But they were in full cry seconds later. Sloan laughed out loud. He was alive . . . And he was free!

As Sloan pulled on the oars, darkness ruled the swamp, and ominous noises could be heard from all around. He couldn't see. So it wasn't long before the skiff ran into what proved to be a tangle of mangrove roots—and Sloan decided that it would be foolish
to continue on. After securing the boat to a branch, he searched it for food. That was difficult in the dark, but the cooler produced two cans of beer, one of which went down straightaway.

The alcohol entered his bloodstream quickly, and Sloan was feeling light-headed when he found a large ziplock bag. It contained a Bic lighter, a Hershey bar, and a grimy map. Sloan didn't fully appreciate the find at the time, however, because he was too busy consuming the candy bar. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

After that, all he could do was stretch out on the middle seat with his feet sticking out over the side. A rain poncho served to protect his upper body from insects and conserve heat. What followed was a long, uncomfortable night spent drifting in and out of sleep as the night creatures conspired to keep him awake. And those moments were spent worrying.

What if the swamper had
another
boat hidden away? Or possessed the means to summon help? Sloan hadn't rowed far . . . No more than half a mile. So was the man closing in? Preparing to shoot him? And who could blame the swamper if he did?

Sloan wished there was some way he could compensate the man for the boat but couldn't think of one. As soon as there was enough light to see by, Sloan consulted the map. And he was sitting there, wishing for a compass, when the sun appeared! Not for long . . . But the brief glimpse was enough to get oriented.

The motor had its own integral gas tank, which was half-full. Sloan hoped that it, plus the fuel in the two-and-a-half-gallon auxiliary tank, would get him to neighboring Louisiana.

The motor started with a single pull of the rope and ran smoothly as Sloan followed pole markers to what he thought was an eastbound channel. It was a dead end. Fifteen minutes had been wasted going in, and fifteen minutes had been wasted coming out, not to mention some precious fuel.

Thus began a frustrating day. But by the time the light began to fade, Sloan had found his way into Stark's North Canal and entered Black Lake. During the journey, he had seen vehicles driving along the tops of dikes and spotted boats in the distance. That's why he was wearing the poncho over the jumpsuit. Not only was it an obnoxious shade of orange; it had the word
PRISONER
printed across the back and would leave no doubt as to his status. Sloan needed to find clothes and food. His stomach growled in agreement.

As the sun set, Sloan beached the boat in a hidden cove and built a fire for warmth. Ironically, given the fact that he had a fishing boat, there wasn't any gear in it.

In hopes of finding something edible along the shoreline, Sloan removed his shoes and began to wade through the mud. A long shot, or so he thought, until he stepped on what felt like a rock. But the rock
wasn't
a rock! It was a fine specimen of
Corbicula fluminea
!

Sloan knew that because the so-called Asian clams had a propensity to clog intake pipes and were the bane of power plants. As Secretary of Energy, he'd been in charge of the effort to eliminate them.

Sloan was tempted to eat the clams raw . . . But, rather than risk it, he resolved to steam them instead. He brought double handfuls of the bivalves over to the fire he had started using the Bic, placed carefully chosen stones in among the coals, and went out to gather additional driftwood. Fifteen minutes later, Sloan placed six shells on top of the improvised cooking surface and waited for them to open.

It didn't take long. As soon as a clam was ready Sloan was there to grab the shell with a pair of rusty pliers and remove it from the fire. As he ate, Sloan washed the clams down with sips of lukewarm beer. It was one of the best meals he'd ever had. And for the first time in days, he went to sleep feeling full, mostly warm, and free from fear.

When Sloan rose the next morning, he was hungry but filled with hope as he launched the boat. Fuel had started to run low by then . . . So Sloan kept an eye out for a boat or fishing camp that might yield what he needed.

He hugged the south end of Black Lake because, according to the map, that would allow him to reach the Intracoastal Waterway through a connecting channel. There was an industrial complex on the right. Sloan gave it a wide berth, knowing that there would be people around.

Channels ran every which way at the southeast corner of the lake, and Sloan lost the better part of an hour making wrong turns. Finally, after starting over, he fell into company with a small tug. It had a barge in tow and was headed east. To the Intracoastal? Probably. So Sloan followed along behind. The tug entered the larger waterway an hour later, and that was Sloan's cue to turn left, knowing that the Intracoastal would take him north to the city of Lake Charles, Louisiana.

There was a lot of boat and barge traffic on the waterway and, much to his surprise, some of it was clearly recreational. What about fuel? Why did everything look so normal? It didn't make sense. Most of the traffic was commercial, however, so he ran the boat along the eastern shoreline, where there was less chance of being hit. Even so, some of the larger vessels produced wakes so powerful that Sloan had to turn into them. That was a worrisome waste of both fuel and time.

Meanwhile, the little five-horse was about to run out of gas because all of the fuel in the auxiliary tank had been transferred to the motor by that time. So when a pontoon boat appeared up ahead, Sloan took notice. It was a yacht in all truth but riding on pontoons rather than a conventional hull, which created a lot of deck space. The boat was moored to a pair of trees and seemed to
be deserted. But maybe the owner was inside taking a nap. With that in mind, Sloan gave a shout. “Ahoy there! Is anyone home?”

Having heard no response, Sloan pulled over in front of the larger craft, tied the skiff to a sapling, and called out again. After a minute or so, he jumped the gap. The door to the cabin was in front of him and a handwritten sign was posted in the window:
MECHANICAL PROBLEMS . . . BACK SOON.

That meant the owner could return at any moment. Sloan felt his heart beat faster as he took a rock out from under his poncho and broke the window. After knocking the remaining shards of glass loose, he reached in to open the door.
Be quick,
Sloan told himself.
Get in and get out.

Broken glass crunched underfoot as Sloan entered and went straight to a nicely equipped galley. A canvas tote was stored in a cubbyhole, and after dumping half a dozen cans into it, Sloan remembered to grab a pot, plus a pair of salt and pepper shakers. The bottle of Riesling was an afterthought.

Then he went forward. A closet was located next to the head—and Sloan had lots of clothes to choose from. He appropriated a pair of jeans, two tee shirts, and a Tommy Bahama jacket. They went into a nylon knapsack along with two pairs of boxers and some black socks.
Hurry,
Sloan told himself,
don't screw around.

Blood was pounding in Sloan's ears as he grabbed a box of Kleenex to use as toilet paper and returned to the galley. Then with a bag in each hand, he went outside and jumped over to the riverbank. After placing the loot in the skiff, Sloan grabbed the auxiliary gas tank and returned to the yacht.

The pontoon boat was equipped with a pair of humongous four-cycle outboard motors. That meant they, unlike the five-horse, could use straight gas. But if Sloan could find a quart of oil, he could add some to the fuel—and use it in the little motor.

Sloan went to the stern, where he opened storage lockers until he found part of what he needed. That included a well-equipped toolbox and half a quart of Honda Marine engine oil. The next step was to open a deck hatch and access the plastic tubing that ran every which way. The last thing Sloan wanted to do was cut a fuel line.

Sloan spent three minutes isolating a water line, clamped it off, and cut a section free. After dividing the hose in two, he set about the process of siphoning gas into the auxiliary tank. A skill perfected on the family farm. The process seemed to take forever, and Sloan felt jumpy. Was the distant speedboat turning his way? No, thank God, but the next one might.

Finally, the auxiliary tank was full. Sloan removed the tubes, screwed the cap onto the tank, and lugged it over to the side of the boat. After heaving the heavy container across the narrow strip of open water, he followed. Then he carried the container to the skiff, put it in, and cast off. No way in hell was he going to sit there and refuel the motor when the pontoon boat's owner could arrive at any minute.

Sloan felt guilty as he got under way—and refused to make excuses for himself. He knew what his father would say: “Stealing is wrong regardless of the circumstances, son . . . You need to make it right.” But Sloan
couldn't
make it right . . . And he could feel the weight of his father's disapproval as he motored north.

Sloan glanced back over his shoulder from time to time, fearful that a vengeful yacht owner was after him. When a side channel opened up on the right, he took it. The bottom came up quickly, but the skiff drew very little water and entered without difficulty.

As the waterway curved to the left, Sloan realized that he was circling a small island. That was good since there were lots of trees on it, and they would screen him from the Intracoastal.

The moment a small cove appeared, Sloan cut power, pulled the
outboard up out of the water, and rowed to shore. The hull made a scraping sound as the bow ran up onto a gravelly beach. Then it was a simple matter to ship the oars, get out, and wade ashore.