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“What’re ya talkin’ . . . oh, man, oh, man, oh, man.”
She felt big hands at her throat and she struggled, trying to get away.
“Hell-fire, girl, you’re just makin’ it worse.”
She swung up at him and he pulled back, staring her straight in the eyes. His hands went up to his sides. “Hey—look it. We’re just here to help you. Get you to a doc. Now, come on. Bobby, you got your cell phone? Call nine-one-one.”
“No signal,” Bobby said, his voice a crackle.
“Oh, shit man, there’s a gator!” the big man said. “You got your gun?”
What? An alligator?
In the water?
Next to her?
Oh. God.
She froze.
A scream died in her throat.
Frantically she searched the dark water and she saw it, small eyes catching the flashlight’s beam.
The little man scrambled back to the boat.
She felt something move against her leg and screamed, just as Bobby-Dean pulled a long gun from the boat and took aim.
The light played over the water, swinging in an arc.
The swamp went silent.
Something moved.
Inches from her.
The water swirled. A snout appeared.
“Got him!” Bobby-Dean said.
“No!” she yelled, seeing the double-barrel. “Noooo!”
Blam!
The blast echoed through the swamp and Luna sank gratefully back into oblivion.
* * *
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
By the dimmed light of the lantern, he nursed his wounds, and even the bayou beneath his cabin didn’t soothe him. Tonight there would be no calm. No serenity. No satisfaction that he’d eluded the authorities for all this time. No pleasure in the anticipation of what he’d do to that sick, fake radio psychologist when he was ready.
He’d been an idiot.
Not waiting.
Not keeping to his plan.
