Altar of Eden (12 page)

Jack watched the helicopter plummet out of the sky.

Below its undercarriage, a figure swung in a rescue harness. From the flag of blond hair, Jack knew it was Lorna. The helicopter fought to slow its descent, wobbling wildly, rotors faltering. The pilot had the wherewithal to aim the craft away from the encampment, avoiding the gathered children.

Banking to the west, the chopper swung toward the bayou, dragging Lorna with it. She hung thirty feet below its floats. As the aircraft dropped, she struck the boardwalk hard and skidded across the planks on her back, dragged by the crashing helicopter.

But she wasn’t hauled far.

The chopper crashed into the forest just beyond the farm’s border. Spinning rotors sheared treetops, then the blades broke away and catapulted deeper in the bayou. Jack waited for an explosion, but only a thick cloud of smoke rolled into the sky. The hard-fought descent and cushion of the swampy bower must have blunted the impact.

“Bolton! Reese!” Jack turned to his teammates, bellowing to be heard above the cries and screams from the camp. “Check on the pilot!”

As they took off Jack sprinted toward the nearest bridge, followed at his heels by Randy. He’d lost sight of Lorna.

Across the farm, a man staggered to his feet, backlit by flames. He stumbled forward, heading in Lorna’s direction, too. He carried a military-grade shotgun. It looked like an AA-12, a combat auto-assault weapon used in urban warfare, capable of chewing apart a steel oil barrel at thirty yards or blasting through walls.

Jack had seen the man fall, followed by the accidental burst from his gun. Must’ve been running with his finger on the trigger. Goddamn yokel had more firepower than he could handle. He’d seen it often enough in the backwaters.

The bigger the gun, the bigger the ego.

Jack dismissed the jackass and searched for Lorna.

Was she still alive?

LORNA LAY ON
her back, dazed, ears ringing. She must have blacked out for a moment. She rose up on an elbow and heard screaming nearby. As if she were waking from a nightmare, it took her half a breath to remember where she was. She remembered twisting on her back as she hit, protecting herself as best she could as she was dragged. Still, her entire backside felt as if someone had taken a belt sander to it.

A shadow fell over her and growled. “Jeezus H. Christ! Are you all right?” The nasal in his voice pitched higher. “I didn’t mean to shoot. It was an accident, I swear. If you hadn’t gone off and kept flying away . . . I mean, didn’t you goddamn see me?”

His words were harsh, graveled, more accusation than concern, as if what had happened were all her fault. But there was something else about the voice. Maybe it was the situation: on her back, dazed, woken into a nightmare.

Past and present blurred around her.

The shadowy shaped dropped next to her, loomed over her. His face was sculpted out of darkness. He reached for her.

“Don’t move.” It sounded like a threat. “You’re all tangled up.”

Still, she pulled away.

Something about that voice . . .

All of a sudden it struck her like a blow to the gut. The voice, even the shape of the silhouette leaning over her. She knew this man. Gasping in shock, she scrambled back, as if trying to escape a past that had haunted her for over a decade. She became further snarled in the helicopter’s cable and her harness.

“What’s wrong with you?” The speaker stepped forward, turning slightly to face the approach of pounding boots, his face lit by the fires.

She stared, shell-shocked. She recognized that man’s features: the crooked nose, the fat lips, the piggish eyes. Memory crushed her. An empty space filled inside her with color and noise. In her ears, she heard her own sobbing, her cries to stop, felt again the humiliation and terror. She must’ve blocked it all away, pushed it deep down with everything else. Traumatized, she had somehow convinced herself that she’d not gotten a good look at her attacker.

She was wrong.

Here was the man who’d tried to rape her ten years ago, whose attack led to Tom’s death. “Lorna!”

She jumped at the call of her name. It was Jack, running toward her, coming to the rescue like before, blurring past and present even further.

Still, Lorna didn’t take her eyes off the bastard in front of her. He seemed to shrink and drop back into the shadows as Jack came running up with his brother.

Jack hurried to her side, not even giving the monster a second glance. He dropped hard to his knees. “Lorna, don’t move!”

Though the words were the same as a moment ago, she heard no threat this time, only heartfelt concern in Jack’s voice.

“I’m okay,” she said to him, then repeated it for herself. “I’m okay.”

She grabbed his arm. He helped her up and out of the harness. Over his shoulder, she watched her attacker retreat away, heading across the farm.

“It’s him,” she said.

Jack noted where she stared—then stiffened next to her in recognition. His face became a thundercloud.

Randy swore sharply. “Shoulda known. Garland Chase. Sheriff Gumbo’s inbred bastard. Who else would go and shoot half-cocked like that?”

Lorna clutched Jack’s shoulder, finally putting a name to a nightmare.
Garland Chase.
Her voice rang with a mix of certainty and disbelief. “He’s the bastard who attacked me. The night Tommy died.”

Randy turned sharply toward her.

“I know,” Jack whispered.

Randy squinted. “What’re you two talking about?”

Jack’s brother knew nothing about that night. His family had grown to hate her, to blame her, the same family she’d once hoped would be her own. She began to tremble, perhaps still half in shock from the crash.

Jack took her in his arms and held her.

She didn’t resist. She felt the strength in his arms and something indefinable, a warmth and closeness long missing from her life. In his arms, she realized for the first time the true depth of her loss that horrible night—not just the loss of an unborn baby and a young lover, but also an entire family, a future full of love and warmth.

She’d lost it all that night.

Yet, with that recognition came no sorrow. Instead, anger, hot and bright, surged through her. Lorna was done with secrets, sick to the bone of them. She pushed out of Jack’s arms—and fully out of that old nightmare. This wasn’t the past. She wasn’t a scared half-drugged teenager any longer.

She looked around her and spotted her tranquilizer gun. She stalked over to the rifle, picked it up, and hurried ahead. Fire still blazed down her back with every step, but the pain helped focus her.

Jack came alongside her. “Lorna, what’re you thinking of doing? He’s not worth it.”

She burned him with a glare. “Of course he’s not worth it. I’ll deal with that bastard later. Right now we have bigger problems.”

She searched to either side of the boardwalk, backtracking along the path on which she’d been dragged. When she hit, she’d lost hold of the blanket and the cub. Both went flying out of her arms on impact. But where had they gone?

She rounded another pond—a breeding pond from the looks of it—and spotted a flash of crimson below, near the water’s edge. Beyond the rail, a grassy bank ringed the pond. The fire blanket and its cargo had rolled halfway into the water.

Lorna set down her rifle, ducked under the rail, and dropped below.

Ahead, the blanket squirmed. A plaintive mewl sounded. The motion sent ripples across the pond’s mirror. Out on the water, black logs drifted closer, drawn by the motion. A scaly-ridged pair of eyes rose like a submarine’s periscope from the water.

A pair of boots struck the grassy mud behind her.

Jack.

She kept her focus on the pond, on the blanket, and rushed forward. She reached the bank in four steps. The blanket shook as the trapped cub struggled to escape the water.

If it got loose . . . ran off . . .

A hem of the blanket lifted. She spotted a tiny white muzzle, whiskers. Lorna lunged forward, sliding on her knees in the mud. She grabbed the blanket and scooped up the cub.

“Gotcha . . .”

She leaned back, pulling the cub to her chest. She rolled to her feet and straightened—when water exploded from the pond’s edge. An alligator burst out, jaws wide, fish-belly—white maw and yellow teeth flashing in the dark.

Lorna jerked back, but she was too slow.

The jaws snapped with enough force to shatter bone. Teeth caught the trailing edge of the blanket and ripped it out of her grip. The beast surged back and tossed its leathery head. The blanket went flying, and the cub got hurled along with it. The small cat hit the grass, rolled, then pounced back to its tiny paws. It took off like a flash of lightning away from the pond.

No . . .

Lorna knew she’d never be quick enough to catch it again. If it reached the open bayou—

—but Jack dove across its path. Like a tight end catching a fumbled football, he snatched the panicked cub in midflight. He rolled with the cat clutched to his belly. As he came to a stop, shadows stirred under the boardwalk behind him.

“Jack!”

An alligator surged out of the darkness, barreling on four legs toward the man on the ground. Jack would never gain his feet in time. The gator lunged toward him.

“No, you don’t, leatherface!”

A dark shape dropped down from above and landed on the alligator’s back. Randy whooped and used his weight to pin the creature down, sprawling on top. The alligator twisted and rolled, but Randy kept hold. Lorna dodged out of the way as the pair came wrestling past. Before they hit the water, Randy rabbit-kicked with both legs into the gator’s belly. The armored creature went flying, tail whipping, and splashed far out into the pond.

Lorna hurried and helped Randy up. More leathery logs floated toward them. It was time to get out of here.

She grabbed the sodden blanket from the water. And it was a good thing she did.

Jack was on his feet and struggling with the feral cub. Panicked and as large as a medium-size dog, it clawed and ripped at him, shredding his uniform’s sleeves. But he refused to let go, his face clenched in pain.

She rushed to him with the blanket held wide. “Give him to me!”

Jack gladly shoved the squirming mass of claws and needle-sharp saber teeth at her. She wrapped the cub again and bundled it up. The three of them hurried back to the boardwalk and climbed up onto the planks.

“Why is that little monster so important?” Jack asked as he stood. Blood rolled down his arms and dripped from his fingertips.

Lorna started to answer—then the words died in her throat. While turning to explain, she happened to glance down the boardwalk toward the forest’s edge.

The answer to Jack’s question crouched at the end of the boardwalk. It was a mountain of muscle, claws, and fangs, far larger than she had expected. It practically filled the boardwalk. The jaguar stared straight at Lorna.

A primal fear gripped her chest, making it hard to breathe.

How long had she been there?

Moonlight and firelight washed over the cat’s snowy fur. From its snarling jaws hung a small boy, limp and lifeless, caught by his scouting vest. According to Jack’s radio message, the boy’s name was Tyler.

Was he dead?

Then the boy’s arm lifted weakly.

Still alive . . . thank God . . . but plainly in shock . . .

Jack swung around. He raised his rifle, but hesitated. Tyler still lived, but a shot that failed to drop the big cat immediately would likely result in the boy being mauled to death.

“Don’t,” Lorna warned.

She stepped ahead of Jack. She parted the blanket to reveal the cub, hiking the little fellow higher.

C’mon, you know what you really want . . .

Still staring at her, the jaguar lowered the boy to the planks, but kept one paw on his chest, pinning Tyler down.

“Lorna . . .”

She kept her gaze fixed forward, recognizing the preternatural intelligence in those eyes. “I know what I’m doing,” she whispered back to Jack.

At least, she hoped she did.

Gar lay flat on his stomach, trying his best not to be seen. His shotgun was trapped under him, but he feared shifting to free it.

Ten seconds ago, he’d been trotting back toward the safety of the radio shack. He and his buddies had stashed a case of Budweiser in there and had been taking turns during the day to slip inside and wet their whistles. What could it hurt? Gar had never really believed the story of a monster cat loose in the bayou. Christ, how many tall tales had he heard about the swamps over the years, many coming from his own mouth?

Figuring it was easy money, Gar had been more than happy to lounge around the farm, drink a few beers. He even emptied a couple of the campers’ wallets, pilfered from unsupervised backpacks.

All in a day’s work.

But now everything had changed.

While fleeing across the farm, he’d spotted a flash of white out in the forest, flowing straight at him. Reacting instinctively, he had turned and hopped over the boardwalk gate and onto the plank on the far side. The timber stuck out like a diving board over a pond. He had dropped flat to the board—and just in time.

The huge cat had bounded over the border fence and landed on the boardwalk twenty yards from him.

He continued to hold his breath, stifling a cry of terror. Under his bulging gut, he felt every nail head and knot in the wood. His bladder quivered, threatening to let loose. But he didn’t move.

It would be death to be seen.

Voices drew his attention to the other side of the boardwalk. He watched the woman from the helicopter cautiously ease toward the cat. She held a bundle of blankets up in her arms. Behind her, he recognized the Menard brothers—Jack and Randy. Even through his terror, a twinge of hatred burned in his chest. Jack had once broken his nose, knocked out his two front teeth. Gar had wanted him dead at the time. But instead his daddy got the bastard shipped off to Iraq.

Now Jack was back.

At the moment Gar was plenty happy about that. Jack had an assault rifle pinned at his shoulder, aimed toward the cat.

Kill the fucker,
Gar silently cursed at him.

But Jack didn’t shoot.

And Gar could guess why. He’d also spotted the boy. The cat crouched lower over the little snot-eater.

Shoot already, damn it!

The blond woman stopped a few paces past Gar’s hiding spot. She dropped to one knee and placed the blanketed bundle on the planks. With her back to him, he couldn’t make out what she was doing.

Something with the blanket . . . and under the blanket.

Why didn’t the monster attack her?

She finally straightened and retreated back toward Jack and his brother. “Go on,” she mumbled under her breath as she passed Gar’s hiding spot again. “Come get your baby.”

On the other side of the boardwalk, a low growl flowed from the cat—felt more in the gut than heard with the ears. It took one pace forward, then another, abandoning the unconscious boy. It slinked forward, low to the ground. Its tail swished in clear agitation, whipping side to side. Muscles bunched and trembled. Its lips pulled back into a silent snarl, baring huge-ass fangs.

As it came closer Gar tried to press harder against the planks. His bowels churned with a slippery queasiness. Cold sweat soaked his clothes.

Why wasn’t the bastard shooting?

LORNA HELD A
hand up, urging Jack to hold his fire. Jaguar skulls were the thickest of all large cats, necessary to support the strength of their powerful jaw muscles. Even at close range, a shot to the head might only glance away, and a nonfatal shot would turn their standoff into a bloodbath. She had to trust that the cat wanted to protect her last child, to make this trade.

Her cub in exchange for the boy.

Lorna gambled all her hopes—and their lives—on the fact that the cat hadn’t slain the child.

The jaguar crept forward. Its eyes shone a tawny gold. Most felines had slitted pupils, but not jaguars. She watched the cat’s pupils stretch wider, thrumming with adrenaline.

Lorna shifted from foot to foot, keeping the cat focused on her. Steps away, the jaguar reached the blanket, close enough for Lorna to catch a whiff of the muskiness of its wet pelt. It massed before her, a wall of savage intent, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Large eyes shone with that preternatural intelligence again, studying her. The cat shifted closer, muscles bunching and rolling under the fur like a tidal prehistoric force.

If Lorna reached out a hand now, she could almost touch it.

A part of her wanted to—to prove it existed, to commune even for a moment with something that did not belong in this world. In the shine of those eyes, she sensed a bottomless depth, something more than
cat
staring out at her.

Then the moment broke.

Until now, the cub at her feet had been silent, but it caught a whiff of its mother. The cub scrabbled in the snarl of blankets, trying to wrestle itself free.

The mother glanced down.

Not good.

Lorna needed the mother’s attention focused on her. She stamped her foot. The jaguar hissed and crouched lower, eyes darting back up to Lorna.

That’s right. Keep looking at me.

The cat swatted out a huge splayed paw. Yellow nails caught the edge of the blanket. Then just as quickly the cat jerked her paw back. A black dart flew from the paw’s pad and spun away into the night.

A moment ago, while setting down the cub, Lorna had jammed two tranquilizing darts between the planks of the boardwalk, the needles pointed up. She had hoped that the big cat might step on one of them, stabbing and injecting herself. Without being accompanied by a gunshot or a stinging impact, the needle prick might be ignored.

Or so she prayed.

The cat growled low and harsh. Before Lorna could even step back, the jaguar lunged forward. Panicked, shocked at its speed, Lorna tripped backward and fell hard onto her backside. But the cat ignored her. The mother grabbed both the blanket and her cub in her teeth, then spun around in a blur of fur and muscle and bounded back toward the cover of the forest.

Lorna knew that in another ten minutes the tranquilizer would melt away the cat’s consciousness, sending her into a catatonic state. After that, it would be safe to track the jaguar and collect her unconscious body.

Lorna allowed herself a moment of relief, letting out a long-held breath. They’d done it—

—then the
crack
of a gun made her jump and flinch. Ahead, a flash of crimson exploded from the jaguar’s left haunch. The impact caught the cat in mid-leap. Knocked around, the jaguar landed on her side and slid right next to the boy’s slack body.

Lorna swung to Jack and his brother, but they looked just as startled.

“Take that, you motherfucker!” a harsh call shouted in triumph.

She twisted around to see a figure rise from beyond the boardwalk, seeming to hover in midair over the neighboring pond. It was that bastard Garland Chase. He had his shotgun up. He fired again and again.

The cat writhed with the impacts. But this was no bobcat. She was bloodied, but far from incapacitated. To the side, Lorna spotted a pile of white fur on the wood. The cub. Knocked loose by the fall and crushed under its mother’s bulk, it lay limp and lifeless, its neck twisted wrong.

The shotgun blasts grew wilder as the man realized the cat was not down. A section of the wood railing exploded beside the jaguar. The cat burst toward them. In a blood rage, confused by the blasts and the pain, the cat attacked the closest targets. It leaped straight at Lorna, Jack, and Randy.

The sharp retort of a rifle blast deafened her left ear.

She ducked instinctively but noted the right orbit of the cat’s eye shatter away into a cloud of blood and gore. The jaguar’s attack halted in mid-lunge, as if hitting a wall. Her massive bulk dropped to the boards, legs splayed out.

Lorna started to straighten, but Jack grabbed her shoulder with one hand. He stepped past her, the muzzle of his rifle smoking. He approached the cat warily, his gun still up. Randy covered him.

But the cat was clearly dead.

Both mother and child.

A cry drew her attention over the rail of the boardwalk. A gate led out to a plank extending over the neighboring pond. It was the hiding spot from which Garland Chase had shot at the cat, endangering everyone. But the man was gone—no, not gone.

“Help me!”

She gained her feet and spotted Garland hanging from the plank’s end by his fingertips. In his panic, he must have lost his footing.

To the side, Randy hurried past the cat to check on the boy. The gunshots had stirred Tyler out of his stupor. The boy pushed up groggily.

Lorna unlatched the gate. “Jack, I need a hand over here.”

He turned—just as water erupted out of the black pond below.

A scaly shape lunged upward, jaws wide. Yellow teeth clamped onto one of Garland’s kicking legs. He wailed as the bulk of the giant alligator ripped him from his perch. Flailing, Garland and the alligator crashed back into the water.

Lorna rushed down the plank. Below, the water churned as the gator rolled and shredded its prey. A pale hand swept into view then vanished again.

Jack joined her. He pointed his rifle, but there was no clear shot. The black water hid the fight below.

Across the pond, a voice called out. “Elvis! No!”

A young woman stood atop an observation deck on the far side. She dove over the railing and into the water.

“What is she doing?” Jack asked. He lunged forward, clearly intending to dive in after her.

Lorna clutched his arm. “Wait.”

The woman clearly worked here. She had called the gator by name. Lorna knew some alligators learned to recognize their handlers, even coming when called. Other trainers sometimes swam with their gators.

As the woman disappeared, the waters grew calmer. The frenzy died away. Moments later, she reappeared, dragging a slack figure by the collar. A greasy crimson sheen followed in their wake.

Blood.

“Help!” the young woman hollered.

Behind her, the alligator surfaced in the pond. The specimen had to be over fifteen feet long. From its jaws, a pale limb protruded, a leg torn away at the knee. Content with its prize, the alligator drifted away.

Lorna turned and hurried toward a set of steps that led down to the pond’s bank. Below, the girl struggled to haul the victim’s body out of the water.

Jack followed at Lorna’s heels.

“I need your belt!” she called back to him.

As much as she hated to do it, she had to save the bastard’s life.